few weeks ago Grant had launched a campaign to, in his words, “expose a campaign of calculated discrimination against the English minority in Quebec.”
“Great for the ratings,” the superintendent had grumped grimly to his wife one night, “but a long way from the truth.” As far as Charron was concerned, the English in Quebec were still the most pampered minority to be found in any jurisdiction in the world. “The English sure as hell get a lot less discrimination here in Quebec than the French do in Ontario!” he had shouted at his radio one night, as a particularly bigoted caller began ranting and raving about Quebec’s sign laws.
Charron’s sentiment was shared by many who lived in Quebec, including some whose mother tongue was English.
Tonight though, the superintendent was in an especially good mood. The Canadiens had pounded the Buffalo Sabres and he’d tuned in to the last part of the Grant Henry show just in time to hear an obviously very well educated separatist present his case very skillfully, refusing to back down from the host’s biting, satirical wit.
“It’s not often,” Charron told his wife, “that anyone beats up on that son-of–a-bitch Henry the way that caller did tonight. Hot damn! I’d sure like to know who he was.” Charron was still chuckling about it when he fell asleep.
It would be a long time before Superintendent Marcel Charron felt like laughing again.
His sleep, and although he had no way of knowing it, his life, were interrupted by the phone. It was the desk sergeant speaking rapidly in French.
“Sorry to wake you Superintendent, but the shit is in the fan. Looks like someone’s kidnapped that radio broadcaster Grant Henry’s daughter up in Poisson Blanc. The housekeeper, Therese Gratton, she’s missing too. There’s apparently been some shots fired. I’ve already dispatched Charlebois and Larose. They should be halfway up there by now. Pichè just pulled out of the yard here. I sent Ryde with him. Do you want me to call in some off-duties?”
Charron, with a spryness belying his fifty-six years, sprang to his feet beside the bed.
“Who kidnapped his daughter? Who’s shooting? What the hell is going on here?”
There was a pause as the sergeant checked his notes. “Sir, we received the call at 1:03 this morning from Mr. Henry himself. He told us that when he returned home from work early this morning, someone had broken into his house, his daughter and their housekeeper were missing and he’d heard shots only a moment before he called us. He said he believed someone was shooting at him, or possibly at Constable Jack Barr of the Ottawa City Police, a friend he’d called for help. He started to say something else but the phone went dead. The operator says a wire must be down.”
“Did he say if he knew who was shooting? Does he have any idea how many there are? What were they shooting at? Why are the Ottawa Police involved? This isn’t their jurisdiction.”
“No sir. I didn’t have time to ask him anything. All he said was that his daughter and Madame Gratton were snatched and someone was shooting. Constable Barr is a friend of his sir,” said the Sergeant. “I’ve played a couple old timers games against their hockey team.” He couldn’t resist adding, “neither one of them can play worth a shit.”
The superintendent’s mind was racing.
“Do any of our off duty men live in that area?”
“Stapley, sir. He’s at Ste Rose de Peche, maybe ten minutes to the north of the Henry residence.”
“Get him to set up a roadblock at Ste Marie right away,” instructed Charron. “Get another one up immediately at Domville too, that will cover us to the north. Down here to the south, let’s see, set one up at the Meech Road. Tell them to be very careful. We don’t know what we’re dealing with. Everybody gets checked at the roadblocks you understand? No driver’s licence, no identification, anything strange, they don’t get through. Be sure to tell them to search all the trunks. No one with a young girl gets through without checking with me first. Got it? And tell all our men to be very, very careful. Don’t take any chances. We have no idea what we’ve got going here, but we must assume we are dealing with armed and very dangerous people.
“Call in all off duty officers and have them assemble at the Chelsea intersection and await further orders. And sergeant, tell your men not to be taking pot shots in the dark unless someone’s shooting at them and they have a damn good look at who’s doing it.
“Oh yes, be sure to tell them to make sure Henry knows who they are when they approach his house. He may be scared shitless but I understand he’s no pattycake and living in the country he probably has a gun and may be spooked enough to shoot at anything. Let’s not be having any stupid accidents. I’m on my way right now; should be there in less than half an hour.”
Charron was about to hang up when another thought struck him. “Sergeant?” “Yes sir.” “The media doesn’t get this. Not a peep, do you hear me?” “Absolutely, sir. Not a peep!”
1:22 AM • DAY ONE
Charron was just climbing into his car when Sergeant Albert Larose and Constable Eugene Charlebois skidded their cruiser into the Henry laneway, almost ploughing into the rear of the car blocking their way. Suspecting an ambush, both men dropped down behind the reinforced metal doors of their vehicle and pulled their weapons. Hearing and seeing nothing suspicious, they cautiously climbed out and carefully examined the abandoned car, its engine still running.
“Hey,” said Larose, “this thing belongs to the Ottawa Police Department. What the hell is going on?”
A moment later two more cruisers, sirens blaring, lights flashing, spilled into the laneway.
4:12 AM • DAY ONE
Aside from two men parked in a cruiser at the end of the laneway, they were all gathered in the Henry garage, which had been hurriedly converted, into a temporary command post. Charron had used his cell to make several calls to his office in Hull and to Montreal. The missing girl’s mother had been tracked down in Toronto and hoped to catch the first flight to Ottawa. Thus far no one had been able to locate Therese Gratton’s only relative, a son living in Windsor.
For several minutes they sat in silence, except for Grant, who grimly paced back and forth across the garage entrance, staring at the black outline of his home a few metres away. A rooster began to crow from the small chicken coop at the rear of the garage, then another. Golden Pencilled Hamburgs, colourful, exotic chickens raised from eggs by Lee. It would soon be dawn.
Charron glanced at his watch then turned to look closely at Grant who had stopped his pacing for a moment and stood slumped against the garage doorframe. Earlier, he had raged at the superintendent. “Why the hell aren’t you out looking for my daughter? Why are we just sitting around?”
Charron gently explained that he’d called Montreal for assistance. Two detectives, including the province’s leading criminal investigator were already on their way and he didn’t want his men trampling around in the dark, destroying God knows what evidence. Bell Telephone was already repairing the phone-line that had been cut at the end of the laneway and someone was on his way from Hull to put a tap on Grant’s phone. An APB had been issued with the descriptions of both his daughter and Madame Gratton to all police forces in Quebec. Both the RCMP and the Ontario Provincial Police had been notified along with Ottawa City police.
Stepping forward, Charron touched Grant lightly on the shoulder.
“It’s almost 4:30,” he said kindly, “can I have one of my men get you a coffee or anything?”
Grant shook his head and said grimly, “Look, sorry for the blowup, but are you certain there isn’t something else we could be doing? I just can’t stand this sitting around waiting. It doesn’t make any sense when...”
“But we aren’t just sitting around,” insisted Charron. “Our people will