Free The Dead of Winter by Peter Kirby Page A

him twice this morning.”
    â€œCan’t he let it go? It’s Christmas, for Christ’s sake.”
    â€œHe’s keen on the case. He wants to be up to speed when he gets back.”
    The phone on Laurent’s desk rang. He picked it up and listened.
    â€œOK. Thanks.”
    He replaced the receiver and looked up at Vanier.
    â€œFather Drouin is downstairs. He showed up at the front desk and said that you had been looking for him.”
    â€œHave them put him in Interview Room 2. I’ll talk to him. You watch from outside. Make sure that we get it all on tape. I want a transcript. Let’s go.”
    They took the elevator down to the basement. The building was quiet. Headquarters was on minimal staff, with officers taking a short break from the madness, trying to build family as kids laughed and friends told stories. Vanier wondered why Fletcher couldn’t let go. Why was he calling for updates?
    10.30 AM
    Interview Room 2 was designed to elicit the kind of communication that occurs between doomed miners trapped hundreds of feet below ground, intimate, and of no consequence to the outside world. It was a stark, windowless box, empty except for a table and two chairs, with a two-way mirror built into one wall. The mirror encouraged introspection. Father Henri Drouin sat on one of the flimsy plastic chairs, his shoulders sagging and his eyes staring at the floor. Vanier walked in carrying a yellow note-pad and a brown envelope, nodding at Drouin without saying anything. Drouin half rose from his seat and returned to his sitting position. Vanier reached out his hand, and Drouin stood again to shake it, looking like he hadn’t laughed in twenty years, like he was carrying an invisible weight.
    â€œI’m Detective Inspector Vanier, Major Crime Squad. I was looking for you last night at the Cathedral. The priest who answered the door said that you disappeared after lunch and nobody knew where you were.”
    â€œIt’s a problem that I have, Inspector. Every Christmas it’s the same thing. The priestly equivalent of post-partum depression, I suppose.”
    Vanier thought that was an attempt at humour, but checked himself. Drouin was serious. “Are you depressed?”
    Drouin sat up. “Advent is such a wonderful time in the Church, building up inexorably to that glorious moment when our Saviour is born. The churches gradually fill with the faithful until Christmas morning, when it’s standing room only for the flock adoring their Creator. And then, the next moment, it’s empty again. They’re only there for the show. When I look at the packed church at Christmas, I can’t help thinking how empty it will be after the last service, and how it will stay empty for most of the year.”
    â€œThe three Bs, I suppose,” said Vanier.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œBaptism, bondage and burial. Most people only want the church to be there for the baptism, the wedding and to see them off in style at the end.”
    â€œSomething like that, Inspector. It’s the church as theatre, and Christmas is a perennial favourite. It’s always a shock, and I’ve never learned to deal with it. I get angry. Then I get sad and question myself. Then I question the faithful. Then I question the church itself. With experience, I have found that the best thing to do is to just get away.”
    â€œSo where did you go yesterday?”
    â€œI went to my family, to my sister and her husband in Dorval. That was a mistake. They have their children and their Christmas is for the children, you know, presents first, video games and toys, then a feast and as little thought about Our Lord as they can manage. I’m an embarrassment to her.”
    â€œI’m sure that’s not true,” said Vanier.
    â€œOh, she loves me, in her own way, but she thinks that I’ve wasted my life.”
    â€œAnd what do you think?”
    The priest looked up at Vanier, but