The phone rang, and Ray fumbled out blindly. "What," he groaned, then sat up abruptly.
"Turnbull?" For a confused moment he thought he'd lived this moment before, and almost asked how Fraser was.
"Detective Vecchio," the man sounded even more flustered than usual. "I think you'd better get over here... there's a..." he stuttered, "there's an urgent situation."
This was sounding more and more like the day Fraser lost it. "Why do you need me?" Dammit, even the blasted headache had come back. "What's going on?"
"Uhm... it's difficult to explain. You'll have to see for yourself."
"Alright," Ray sighed, dragging his hand over his face, as though washing it. Wake up man, he thought. "I'm coming."
"Ray?" Fraser was standing at the kitchen door, a look of concern on his face. "Is there anything wrong?"
"I don't know. That was Turnbull. He was probably blithering about nothing, but I'd better go see."
Fraser nodded. "I should go with you."
Ray almost told him not to, then realised that to do so would make Fraser feel like an invalid. Besides, it might be good for him to go back after all the indignities of the last few days. The longer he left it the more hardened the embarrassment would become. Even if the doctor was right, and Fraser never did return to work at the Consulate it would still be good to face it. Besides, he wasn't sure he should leave him alone just yet.
"Yeah, yeah, come along. I'll need someone to save me from Turnbull anyway."
...
"Oh, Constable Fraser..." Turnbull smiled, then frowned, then couldn't decide where to look. The man looked good. Turnbull blushed. Even in scruffs the man looked good. "I see you're back to normal," he said, and blushed harder. "I'm sorry... I don't mean to imply that you weren't normal, that is to say..." he closed his eyes for a moment, mortified. "I mean to say, I'm glad you're better."
"Thank you kindly," Fraser smiled, "I know what you mean."
"So, what's so important that you drag us all the way down here?"
"Well," Turnbull leaned in close to Ray, and whispered "it's Inspector Thatcher. She's been acting a little strangely..."
"Really? A Canadian acting strangely?" Ray tried to move out of Turnbull's proximity, but the man was nothing if not incredibly intrusive, and stepped back into Ray's bubble. "Look, could you stop that," he said, "I'm not your date." Turnbull blinked, looked even more embarrassed, and gave Ray some space. For a moment the detective almost felt sorry for him.
"I'm sorry, I just mean to say..." Turnbull glanced at Fraser, then back at Ray. "She really isn't herself. It's as though she's..." he paused, then raised a finger to his temple, and twisted.
"What do you mean?" Ray and Fraser spoke at the same time, looking at each other.
"She's been taping wrapping paper to the windows," Turnbull confided, "and stuffing any cracks with tissue paper."
Fraser was rubbing his eyebrow thoughtfully.
"You realise it's very unlikely that two people working in the same building would develop such unique symptoms by accident ," he said. "I realise that I might not be the best judge, but is there a possibility that we're being somehow sabotaged?"
"What," Ray said incredulously, "someone's sabotaging the Consulate? Why?"
"It could be espionage," Turnbull said, "or the Americans seeking revenge for the war of 1812."
"It would appear unlikely," Fraser answered gravely, "most Americans have never heard of the war of 1812."
"Look, earth to Mounties, enough with the history lesson. We need to get a forensic team in here, and see if someone's been tampering with anything... the water maybe."
Turnbull put his hand to his mouth, and swallowed. "I'm next, aren't I? I'm the next on the hit list, I just know it... I can feel myself going as we speak..."
"Turnbull," Ray assured him, "nobody would even notice if you went mad." Then, taking pity on the man, he patted him clumsily on the shoulder, regretting it instantly. "And besides, now that we know something is up we can get someone to check you out. Don't worry."
"Thank you. Uhm... I think we should approach Inspector Thatcher carefully."
A crash came from Thatcher's office, and the three men looked at the door apprehensively. She was singing in French. Fraser cringed. Her accent was way off.
Turnbull tried to put off the moment, and clarified his statement. "I think we should approach Inspector Thatcher carefully... in a little while, when she's stopped singing." Brightly he suggested, "perhaps while we're waiting you would like some tea?"
"Is that wise," Fraser asked. "After all, as Ray has already pointed out, someone may have contaminated the drinking water."
Turnbull went white as a sheet. "I've been drinking the water."
"I said don't worry about it." Ray tried to sound as brisk and efficient as possible, hoping to calm the man before he became completely hysterical. "I'll phone it in to the station, get forensics out here."
There was another crash, and a cry that sounded to Ray like "vatoo tonfooey".
"Oh my," Turnbull wrung his hands.
"I'm sure she didn't mean that," Fraser tried to reassure him.
"Why... what did she say?" Ray was confused.
The Canadians looked at each other, shuffled their feet and said nothing. After an embarrassed silence Fraser squared his jaw, and straightened. He might not be wearing the uniform, but he looked every inch the Mountie.
"Gentlemen, shall we?"
Ray nodded, and again feeling like he was stuck as an extra in Groundhog's Day pushed open an office door and stepped through.
...
Meg had arranged the office to her satisfaction, pushing all the furniture to the far wall to clear some space, and covering the windows so that the Americans couldn't look in. She had chewed up paper to stuff the cracks, and having finished with that assignment was now sitting cross legged on the floor trying to find the right head on the screwdriver with which to take the telephone apart.
"Damned thing," she muttered, then swore obscenely in French.
"Inspector," came a voice from behind the door. "We're coming in."
She looked up. "Constable Fraser," she said, in clipped tones. "You're out of uniform."
"Yes Sir. I'm sorry Sir."
"No excuses Constable." She glared at the figure standing next to him. "Why have you brought an American into the consulate? You do know that we're at war don't you?"
"No sir, I was not aware of that fact."
"I see. Has nobody been getting the memos?"
"It would appear not Sir."
"They've probably been intercepted," she muttered darkly.
"I can vouch for Detective Vecchio," Fraser said. "He bears no malice toward Canada."
The American grumbled under his breath and Meg squinted, wishing that she hadn't trodden on her glasses while shifting the desk. "Well," she said dubiously, "if you trust him I suppose I can stretch a point."
"Thank you Sir. May I ask what you are doing?"
"Ah yes, Constable, I'm tracking down surveillance devices. Do you think you could help me with the telephone?"
"Certainly Sir," Fraser sat down opposite her, and nimbly fixed on the correct head to the screw driver. "Do you want me to take it apart?"
"That is correct Constable." At last, someone else was taking the situation seriously.
Fraser glanced across at his American friend, and gestured with his eyes. "What's that, Constable?" She narrowed her gaze suspiciously.
"Nothing Sir. Let me help you with this."
And she was engrossed in the inner organs of the telephone when the men in white coats came to take her away.
...
"This is unacceptable."
Simmons is standing in front of his employer, looking at his feet, while behind the desk the man is getting angrier and angrier.
"You told me that you could handle this without complications."
"I'm sorry sir. I don't know how it happened, I thought the method of delivery was fool proof."
"Fool proof? He's getting better, and his boss is in the hospital. Don't you think that will tip the cops off that there's something going on?"
"Perhaps... they might think it's a coincidence."
"I'm not interested in excuses. I told you that I wanted his life to fall apart, and so far he seems to be holding up remarkably well."
"Don't worry sir, I will try to find a more reliable method of delivery. His current recovery is a temporary glitch."
"See to it then."
Simmons bobs his head, and steps out of his boss's presence. His mouth is dry. He's just realised that he can't really think of another method of delivery. The target is notorious for tasting and smelling out all sorts of strange things. If he tries to put it in his food the man will notice. If he tries to put it in the water not only will he probably sniff it out, his whole building will go down with it, and the scam will definitely be uncovered.
Simmons knows that if he doesn't think of something soon he's going to get himself killed. He walks quickly with his head down, turning possibilities over in his head, discarding them one by one. He looks up at the boss's window, and sees him staring down implacably.
Simmons feels cold dread curling in his stomach like food poisoning. He has no idea what he's going to do.
...
They finally untie Sally's wrists and ankles. At first it's excruciating, and she thinks that her hands and feet will never stop burning. She can't walk, and she's weeping with the pain when the man comes in.
She's only seen him once, when she was first taken, and she uttered not a word, head held high, for all his faults her father's daughter. She realises now that she's had some of the stuffing knocked out of her. She's tired, cold, aching. She's had no more than three bowls of water in three days, maybe four, and precious little else. She's stale with urine, in pain, light headed, and she doesn't know if she can withstand another interrogation.
"So," the man says. "I hope you've enjoyed our accommodations."
Oh for crying out loud, she thinks, he sounds like a Bond villain.
"Where's the white cat?"
It's the first time she's spoken to him, and even as she does so she knows it was a mistake. She's broken a precedent.
He raises an eyebrow at her, and starts to pace speculatively, getting closer and closer. She inches back, unable to hide her fear despite her best efforts.
"So, I will ask you again. Your father's ... how shall I put it... 'other assets,' where exactly does he keep them?"
"I don't know," she lies, "and even if I did I wouldn't tell you."
"So you would protect a criminal?"
She says nothing. She knows that he has a point.
"Now, really think my dear." He smiles at her blandly. "Are you certain, absolutely certain that you have no idea where your father keeps his less legitimate fortune?"
How could he possibly know about this, she wonders. Who could have told him? Nobody even knows that she knows... nobody but...
She blanches. For days now she's been skirting round the realisation. She has only told one person about the conversation she had overheard between her father and his accountant.
Harry. How could he?
Then she remembers the look on his face when they broke up. The silent phone calls.
"Harry," she says through parched lips, and has the satisfaction of seeing the man's eyebrows shoot up, startled. "Harry did this."
The man recollects himself, and says smoothly, "it doesn't matter who did this dear. The question remains the same."
"I won't tell you anything."
"I thought as much. Ah well. What a shame. It appears that I'll have to introduce you to our guest in the next room."
Oh God, no...
The man claps his hands and calls out. The door opens, and Bao is dragged in, legs trailing, head drooping, supported between two men, who fling him to the floor once he's inside.
"I believe you two are friends. Well, I'll leave you for a while to become reacquainted. And when I return, Miss Cooper, I expect an answer."
The door slams, and Sally crawls over to her lover, puts her arms around him. He groans, and turns towards her, murmuring her name.
Oh God, oh God, she thinks, don't let this be happening, don't let this be real...
It's real. She bends towards him, and covers his face with her hair.
...
The forensics team were baffled. The head of the team, a bear like man with a red beard, sat on Turnbull's chair and spread his hands out in a gesture of bewilderment.
"There's still a lot of tests that we have to do, but quite frankly we can't think what it could be. There are plenty of people who visit here regularly, it's hard to think of anything which would affect Constable Fraser and Inspector Thatcher so violently but leave others unaffected."
"I knew it," Turnbull moaned. "I'm next."
"Will you stop whining," Ray snapped, "you spend more time here than either Thatcher or Fraser, and you're in the clear, so shut up already." He realised that he wasn't being entirely sympathetic to the man's anxiety, but what could he do? Turnbull had a God-given talent for rubbing people up the wrong way.
Turnbull bit his lip and sniffed.
"Well," the forensics guy continued, "I don't think you have anything to worry about, but we have to try and ascertain what environmental factor Inspector Thatcher and Constable Fraser may have had in common."
Astonishingly it was Turnbull who got if first.
"Dry cleaning."