The Dead of Winter by Peter Kirby Read Free Book Online Page B

a scale model of St. Peter’s in Rome, but along its mantle it’s not 13 statues of Jesus and his apostles but the patron saints of Montreal’s 13 parishes keeping a close watch on the faithful. Behind the Cathedral, two long three-story buildings house the offices and apartments of the soldiers of the Church.
    The snow banks had been cleared outside the Cathedral, and Vanier parked in front. He followed a pathway that had been shoveled from the street up to the main doors, and tried each without success. He followed the cleared snow-track back to the street and walked around the building until he found a shoveled path to a door with a light over it, like a stage door behind a theatre, the only way in after the show was over. He rang the bell. After a few minutes, the door opened a crack, and a frail old priest in a cassock looked at him, his bony, pink hand holding the door, ready to slam it shut it as soon as he could get rid of the visitor.
    â€œGood evening, Father. Merry Christmas.”
    â€œCan I help you?”
    â€œI’m Inspector Vanier, Montreal Police. I’d like to see Father Henri Drouin.”
    â€œWell, I’m afraid he’s not here at the moment. Perhaps you can come back tomorrow?”
    â€œDo you know where he is?”
    â€œNo. As I recall, he left after lunch, and I expect to see him when he returns.”
    â€œAnd when might that be?”
    â€œPlease, Inspector. This is the priesthood, not the army. He doesn’t have to return at any particular time. I expect if you return tomorrow he will probably be here.”
    â€œDoes he have a cell phone?”
    â€œI’m afraid not. Perhaps I could take a message. He will see it as soon as he returns.”
    Vanier fished out a card. He wrote his cell phone on the card and handed it to the old priest. “Ask him to call me as soon as he gets back. Any time. Tell him it’s important that I speak to him.”
    â€œThank you, Inspector. I will see that he gets the message.”
    The priest closed the door without waiting for Vanier to turn and leave.
    Vanier walked slowly back to his car, wondering where the authority of the police had gone. When he started, a uniform would always get attention and an Inspector would have people jumping to give him whatever he wanted. Now, civilians wanted nothing to do with them. They were tolerated when they were catching criminals, but they were as disconnected from the rest of society as the criminals.
    The inside of the Volvo was cold, and Vanier cursed as it took three turns of the ignition for the engine to turn over. His breath was visible and clouding the windscreen as he pulled out of the parking space. He was hungry, and there were only empty cupboards at home; a curry would be just the thing. Pakistanis don’t celebrate Christmas, do they?
    He turned left onto Sherbrooke and continued west to Notre Dame de Grâce. Lights from the Ganges restaurant reflected on the snow outside. The street was deserted except for two cars parked in front of the restaurant, and he parked behind them. As he walked through the door, he was greeted by a small dark man in a white shirt, hand out and grinning at his arrival. He reached out for the soft hand, as the awesome, comforting smell of an Indian kitchen went to work on his stomach.
    â€œLuc. Wonderful to see you again. Can I wish you a Merry Christmas?” Midhat Mahmud welcomed his first non-Asian guest of the night.
    â€œMidhat, it’s great to see you.” The restaurant was empty except for members of an extended family from the sub-continent who were close to finishing their meal.
    â€œWe are a little quiet tonight, so you can sit wherever you like. Can I get you something from the bar?”
    â€œA pint of Bass, Midhat.”
    The Bass came with a plate of pappadum, and Vanier drank and began to relax. He munched on the pappadum and inhaled the aromas. Sitar music played in the background, and