Chapter One

It was ten degrees below freezing in the middle of nowhere. Sergeant Bob Fraser, however, didn't notice the nip in the air: in a country where temperatures could plunge by a further forty degrees, the day seemed positively balmy. The sky was blue, the sun was shining and the snow was blindingly white. It was, for the beginning of spring in Canada's Northwest Territories, a perfect day.

Or at least it should have been.

Bob Fraser had devoted his entire career to the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and this, the fourteen thousand six hundred and first day of that career, was proving to be one of the worst. It was also to prove the last. But Bob Fraser wouldn't know that for another few minutes.

As he scrunched through the vast, majestic, empty wilderness, his mind was on deaths other than his own. He couldn't stand what was happening in this beautiful, remote area. He couldn't bear the way that man was encroaching on nature - and with such devastating results. It wasn't right. Worse, it was criminal.

Sighing, the fifty-eight-year-old man, fantastically fit for his age, trudged deeper into the ravine between the towering outcrops of rock. He knew what he would find; and with the tracking abilities he had honed to perfection over the years, he found it a few moments later. It was almost completely buried in the deep snow. Bending down. Bob began to scratch at the hard flakes resting on the telltale mound. Seconds later he revealed a huge, beautiful brown eye - wide open in death, revealing the panic it had expressed in its last moment of life. He scratched further, revealing the whole head. He didn't need to reveal any more. The head, he knew, belonged to a body: the elegant, lithe body of a young caribou.

Bob sighed and stood up. Another unlamented tragedy; another unmourned death. He felt like crying. Instead, he began to walk away. There would be more, he reckoned, nearby. More dead creatures lying half buried in the snow.

The only sound that broke the eerie, almost deafening ening silence was that of his own heavy footsteps But something, some innate sixth sense, caused Bob to stop suddenly and look around. There was, he knew, nobody and nothing for miles around. Yet he turned, surveying the miles of emptiness and the vast, sheer rocks that punctuated the desolation. Then he heard it: the clear, unmistakable sound of a rifle being cocked. It echoed throughout the ravine, as loud and sharp as the sound of a single shot being fired.

Bob knew, now, what was going to happen - but because of the echo he didn't know where the shot was going to come from. He cast around and upward, turning a full circle as he did so. He saw nothing. No one was there.

But Bob knew better. He should, he supposed, have felt fear - but anger was the prime emotion that gripped him. He threw his head back and called out to his invisible assassin. 'You're going to shoot a Mountie?' A near-smile creased his features. 'They'll hunt you to the ends of the earth.' Then the killer fired. An expert marksman, he needed only one bullet. As Bob Fraser tumbled to the ground his last thought was not for his own life but for that of his son. 'They' would not hunt the killer to the ends of the earth - but Benton would.

At the same time as Bob Fraser fell to his death, other people, hundreds of miles away, were also thinking of Bob's son. Their thoughts were of a different nature. They were incredulous ones. Three of Benton Eraser's colleagues, in the local RCMP office, were discussing Benton's latest venture. 'I told him,' said Constable Neagle, 'that the snowmobiles were frozen dead.'

'Uh huh,' said Constable Jane Anderson, whose interest in Benton Fraser was totally unconnected with snowmobiles. It was purely sexual. Unfortunately, it was also unreciprocated. Still, she was hoping. 'He said,' continued John Neagle, 'that he'd take a dog-sled. I mean, a dog-sled? Is the guy living in this century or what?'

Oh I do hope so, thought Jane.

John, however, thought Jane was not treating his conversation with the seriousness it merited. He leant over her desk. 'I heard he was going over the pass.'

Now he had Jane's undivided, wide-eyed attention. 'Oh no! No ... you've got to be kidding. Nobody makes it over the pass.'

'Fraser,' insisted John, 'went over the pass.' He tried, and failed, to look worried. He liked Benton Fraser, but if the madman insisted on going over the most dangerous pass in the Northwest Territories with a sled and a team of huskies, well ... at least the competition for Jane would be out of the way.

Jane was appalled. 'It's fifty below out there!'

'I know. The guy's certifiable.'

Jane looked in disgust at her fellow officer. 'Someone's got to tell the chief,' she said. Then her mind turned to thoughts of heroic rescue missions, headed, of course, by herself.

John crossed his arms over his chest. 'That's the sergeant's job.'

'Then tell the sergeant.'

'Oh. OK.'

Sergeant Roberts was aghast. 'Why?' he asked, incredulity written all over his face. 'Who's he gone after? It better be,' he finished darkly, 'a great big fish.'

John Neagle couldn't help smiling. 'You wouldn't believe me if I told you.'

'I think that's for me to decide.'

'Oh. Well, OK. He's gone after -'

But John didn't finish his sentence. He was interrupted - loudly and impressively - by the door being booted open and the arrival of a tall, darkly handsome, arresting figure wearing a thick fur-lined anorak and a Mountie Stetson. He stood still for a moment, was covered in snowflakes and framed by the door lintel. Benton Fraser, by dint of his extraordinarily good looks, always turned heads. But this time heads were turned for a different reason. He was carrying a comatose body over his shoulders.

'Hello,' he said.

Everyone else just stared.

Benton wanted to shrug but couldn't because of the man on his shoulders. Instead, he walked through the room and into the adjoining holding cell that housed, occasionally, a criminal or two. In one elegant movement, he tossed the man off his shoulders and on to the bed. Then he shut the cell door and turned to his colleagues. 'That,' he said as he pointed through the bars at his victim, 'is thelast time he'll fish over the limit.'

A stunned silence greeted his remark. Jane Anderson was stunned because lately she had become hot under the collar with notions of Benton braving blizzards on a momentous mission to save mankind. Instead he had arrested a fisherman. Romantic this was not. Sergeant Roberts was just stunned. John Neagle, on the other hand, was impressed -- although he was damned if he was going to admit it -- that Benton had managed to find anyone in such conditions. And that he had survived the pass.

It was Superintendent Charles Meers, emerging from his office, who broke the silence. He looked at his speechless staff. Then he looked at the way three of them were looking at the fourth He knew that look. Benton had done something extraodinary. Exhaling deeply, and with resignation rather than enthusiasm, he turned to Benton and asked him to accompany him into his office. It was always necessary, with Benton, to determine the nature of that extraordinary thing. Benton was either very bright or very stupid. Meers had never been able to work out which.

'So,' he said as he motioned for Benton to close the door behind him. 'Who is he. Constable?'

'Who is who, sir?'

The man in the cell. Surely you haven't forgotten him?'

'No sir.' Benton stood, ramrod straight and impeccably attired, facing his boss.

Doesn't he ever, wondered Meers, look even remotely ruffled? Most people would look a tad dishevelled having spent two days tracking criminals with a dog-sled in a near-whiteout in sub-zero conditions. Then he sighed. Benton, of course, wasn't most people.

'The man,' continued Benton,' is a fisherman.'

'What?'

'A fisherman, sir.'

Meers scratched his head. He made it a policy never to lose his temper. It was, he felt, a surefire way to lose staff, and losing staff was not a good idea. On the other hand . . . but no. He couldn't. Overcoming this instinct, he took a deep breath and addressed the impassive constable again. 'I see. And you felt it necessary to go out there and get him now? In the middle of some of the worse storms we've had this year?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Fraser. Let me get this straight: you just tracked a man three hundred kilometres because he caught too many fish.'

'He exceeded the limit by quite a bit, sir.'

Meers exhaled again. 'But, Fraser, how much could a man fish over the limit that would justify you recklesslessly endangering your life - and the reputation of this police force?'

Benton Fraser didn't bat an eyelid. Instead, he delved into his breast pocket and extracted the journal in which he kept the facts of his cases. 'He exceeded the limit' he read, 'by four and a half tons, sir.'

Meers's eyes nearly popped out of his head. 'Of fish? Four and a half tons of fish?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Er - how on earth did one man manage that?'

'He was dynamiting the rivers. He scooped the salmon off the surface with a back hoe. So I destroyed the plastic explosives, the nitroglycerine and the fragmentary mines.' Impassive as ever, Benton related his extraordinary activities in a completely deadpan tone. Meers stared, open-mouthed, as he continued. 'And then I donated the three and a half truckloads of fish to a local Inuit village. The tribal elder said that he would call you with his thanks as soon as their local phone lines were restored.'

'Restored?' Meers was not yet capable of more than one word.

Benton nodded. 'Yes, sir. They were blown down in the blizzards.'

'Ah. I see.' Meers stared at the man who had single-handedly braved those blizzards - and the freezing temperatures - to tackle the self-appointed tasks he had just recounted without the slightest trace of complacency. The man was extraordinary.

Never again, thought Meers, will I consider this man stupid. Eccentric, maybe. Stupid, no. As Mounties went, he was shaping up to be even more dedicated than his father. And they didn't come much more dedicated than Bob Fraser.

Before Meers could think of a suitable reply - 'thanks' would have seemed a trifle churlish - the door opened and Constable John Neagle walked in. Uncharacteristically subdued, he didn't acknowledge Benton but went straight up to Meers. 'Sir,' he said, 'there's a tribal elder on the phone for you and, er' - awkwardly, he handed a fax to the superintendent - 'this just came over by fax.' Still without looking at Benton, Neagle exited and closed the door.

Still reeling, Meers decided the tribal elder would have to wait. He smiled at Benton and started reading the fax. Its contents wiped the smile off his face in less than five seconds. If, a minute earlier, he thought he had been stuck for something to say to Benton, he was at a complete loss now. He looked up. Benton, politely curious, looked back.

The words stuck in Meers's throat. Stepping forward, he handed the fax to Benton. 'It's your father,' he croaked.

Chapter Two

Benton's colleagues wondered, that day and for many days thereafter, how Benton managed to cope. His father, they knew, had been the only surviving member of his family. The agony of losing him must be exacerbated by the bitter knowledge that there was no one else to turn to - no comforting clan to help him shoulder the burden of grief.

But Benton's colleagues didn't know him very well. Nobody did. Even his father - an intensely private and highly unemotional man - had not known him well. The only person who had a genuine insight into Benton's psyche was Diefenbaker - and he, strictly speaking, wasn't even a real person. He was a wolf. Benton, however, saw him as a friend, a boon companion - and as a confidant. Two years before, the big white wolf had rescued Benton when he had been in danger of dying of hypothermia on an ice floe - and since then they had been inseparable. At first, Benton had wondered why the wolf didn't return to the bosom of his family. It took a few days and some fairly one-sided conversation for him to determine the reason: the animal was deaf and, being so, was considered an outcast in lupine society. Wolves, evidently, were strangers to the concept of political correctness; of being nice to others less fortunate than themselves; of talking about them in caring ways so that they didn't actually have to talk to them.

When he realized he had acquired a pet, whether or not he wanted one, Benton christened the animal Diefenbaker. While the name didn't exactly trip off the tongue, it was, given the animal's nationality and appearance, very apt. John Diefenbaker, a nineteenth-century Canadian prime minister, had been, as Benton knew from his history books, a singularly whiskery man. He had also had sharp features and inquisitive eyes which made you, if not exactly see him as a dead ringer for a wolf, at least bring one to mind. And Benton, being patriotic, liked the connection.

In time, Diefenbaker's name was abbreviated to Dief and, in slightly less time, Benton realized that the wolf wasn't deaf in the strict sense of the word. He was selectively deaf.

Dief regarded his affliction differently: he had it that sometimes he just forgot to hear. It was an omission, he figured, that anybody could make. And if he made that omission - more often than not, when Benton asked him to do something that didn't greatly appeal to him - well... that was just coincidence, wasn't it?

So it was with Dief, his greatest friend and, latterly, partner in solving crime, whom Benton shared his sorrow over his father's death. The sorrow was not as great as others might have expected and was, anyway, more of a regret. Benton and his father had not known each other very well. For a start, they had never lived together: after his mother's untimely death, Benton had been raised by his maternal grandparents. They had insisted - and his father had had to agree - than Benton would probably grow up to be all peculiar if he Spent most of his childhood in a log cabin in the middle of nowhere. 'He will,' they had pleaded, 'turn out to be an eccentric loner. He must come and live with us. In a civilized place. In Tuktoyaktuk.' His grandparents had been well-meaning, yet they had had little influence on the young Benton. His father had already bequeathed to him an unusual degree of self-sufficiency and a remarkably self-contained personality. And, later, there was something else Bob Fraser passed on to his son: an overwhelming desire to see justice done.

So, a day after he had heard the news of his father's demise, Benton flew north with two objects in mind. One was to pay his last respects and organize the funeral; the other was to find out who had shot his father. The information on the fax sent by Chief Superintendent Gerrard, the senior Mountie on his father's patch, had been vague in the extreme.

The flight north in the small, propeller-driven Cessna was, while bumpy, uneventful. Diefenbaker spent most of it lying on the back seat, groaning and trying not to be sick. At times like this he rather regretted his impulsive actions of two years before: rescuing Mounties from ice floes was not normal, wolfish behaviour. He still couldn't figure out what had made him do it - far less why he had then abandoned normal wolfish pursuits to become, of all things, a pet. Very strange. No wonder the Diefenbaker clan hadn't wanted him back. Still, he reflected as he lay groaning in the back seat of the plane, most of the time life with Benton was pretty good. For one thing, he was served regular meals. Living in the wild had been all very well and decidedly macho, but going out to search for food every day had been such a bore. Then, as quickly as notions of food had entered his mind, he sought to banish them again. It wasn't quite the thing, when feeling nauseous, to contemplate nourishment.

Unaware that Diefenbaker was enduring all manner of turmoils, Benton chatted to the pilot about the innovations and new businesses that were, almost as they looked, altering the serene landscape below. Bert Jenkins, the pilot, was deeply pessimistic about what was happening. That dam,' he said in tones of deep disapproval as they flew over a colossal structure, 'some damned government power project or something. Used to see thousands of geese flying over that river there. Beavers, too.'

'Beavers?' Benton knew that Bert was obsessed by flying, but surely even he must be aware that beavers couldn't fly.

'Yeah. Runnin' around like a bunch of hairy little ants in the valley.'

'Ah.' Well, that was all right, then. Not everything had changed.

After they landed, Benton and Diefenbaker went straight to the mortuary. Still feeling queasy. Dief declined to enter the building. It simply wasn't fair, he felt, to add death to nausea. Shrugging at the wolf's recalcitrance, Benton went into the building alone. He had better things to do than worry about Dief: things like identifying the body and meeting Gerrard.

The older man seemed uneasy and embarrassed. Benton couldn't blame him: he was in the unenviable position of escorting a young man he had known as a toddler to view the body of his father. And at the same time he was saying farewell to a friend.

But Gerrard was not given to emotional outpourings. 'Still don't know what the hell he was doing out there,' he said as they stared at the body on the mortuary slab. Ten degrees below zero in the middle of nowhere.'

Benton remained silent for a moment and then turned away from the body. 'His log book?' he enquired.

Gerrard shrugged. 'He finished his last case over a week ago. Should have been catching up with paperwork.' Then he grinned and patted Benton on the shoulder. 'But you know your dad: he'd rather freeze his rump off than hug a desk. Here,' he added as they moved towards the exit. 'I've got the bullet for you.'

In the next room, Gerrard produced the bullet that had killed Bob Fraser. It was, as he said, 'standard hunting ammo'. As Benton twirled it between his fingers, Gerrard sighed and added, 'It's the first week of the season. Suddenly every damn idiot wants to kill something. Near as we can tell, he must have caught a stray bullet. A useless damn way to die,' he finished, as much in anger as in sorrow. Then he turned to Benton. He suspected he knew exactly what the young man was thinking. 'Son,' he said, 'every officer in this post has spent the last three days combing that gorge. If there was any evidence of foul play we would have found it.'

But Benton, still fiddling with the bullet, was staring into the middle distance.

Gerrard frowned. 'When was the last time you talked to him?'

'Christmas.'

'Oh. Well, I guess the more you know someone, the less that needs to be said.'

'Ye-es,' said Benton.

Benton's next port of call was the scene of death. Except that he didn't think of it as such: he preferred to call it the murder site. While he had a problem finding fault with his fellow Mounties, he also found it hard to believe that there was no evidence of foul play. His father, after all, had been found with a bullet in his heart. That didn't seem particularly fair. Nor, for that matter, did Gerrard's unspoken yet implied decision not to pursue the case any further. It was all very well to assume that his father had been shot by a stray bullet - but whose bullet? Surely it wouldn't be that difficult to find out. Someone, somewhere, must have records of the hunters who had been in the area in the past few days. Admittedly, the area was half the size of Europe, but even so ...

What Benton found, miles away in the remote gorge where his rather had met his death, was a dead caribou. Bending down beside the animal was a local Inuit hunter, a young, ponytailed man with the curiously slavic features of his race - and a knife in his hand.

'Hello,' said Benton.

The Inuit, who had already sensed Benton approach, whirled round and glared at him. This,' he said as he pointed to the caribou, 'is mine. You want meat, Mountie,' he said as he curled his lip, 'you go to a supermarket.'

Benton forbore from mentioning that, having spent all his life in the remotest regions of Canada he found stalking, killing, skinning and dismembering animals a great deal less daunting than going to a supermarket. Benton hated supermarkets. And shopping malls. And - although he was far too polite to mention the fact - the people south of the border who had invented them.

Benton smiled at the Inuit. 'You killed him?' he asked.

'Nope.'

Benton didn't think he had. 'You seen any hunters come through here?'

'Yeah.'

Benton tried another smile. This conversation wasn't exactly zipping along. 'Did they kill him?'

'No.'

'Then who did?'

The young Inuit shrugged and bent down, ready to drag the animal over to his snowmobile. Nobody killed him. He just drank too much.'

Benton watched in silence as the Inuit picked up the animal's legs and lugged him over to the nearby vehicle. Inuits, in his experience, didn't make many jokes - at least not to outsiders. They didn't have very much to joke about. So why, then, had he made such a peculiar remark?

Shrugging, Benton turned away and continued his search. He spent the next two hours wandering through the gulch and up among the great, dra matic outcrops of rock. A now fully recovered Diefenbaker gambolled happily at his heels. This, drought the wolf, was fun. Nice, clear sky and lots of sun. Dief hated bad weather.

Benton's search was not wasted. While his find was not great, it was, nevertheless, an indication that people other than his father had recently visited the area. Six of them. At first it was difficult to tell from the barely visible imprints in the snow.

But then, dusting them with the black powder he always carried in snow-covered terrain, he was able to examine each and every print. Afterwards, he made two more discoveries: a scorch mark on one of the nearby conifers and, slightly further away, the tyre tracks of a heavy vehicle.

Gerrard, Benton knew, would be dismissive of his findings. He could imagine the older man shrugging in a 'so what?' sort of way, and telling him that six anonymous imprints in an area visited by hundreds did not make grounds for a murder hunt. But Benton did not intend that the prints remain anonymous.

Bert Jenkins, the morose pilot, was the man who could help him. It was Bert who flew parties of hunters in and out of the area - hunters who generally came from America. Canadians usually had better things to do with their money than to pay through the nose to trudge about in icy wastes trying to locate shy caribou and then blast them out of existence. Americans, however, seemed to find this sort of activity essential. They were prone to spending vast sums of money on clothes, guns, equipment, flights and jeeps as proof - Benton had been told years before - of their manhood. Then they usually decided that it was too cold in the Northwest Territories and that there were, anyway, no caribou to shoot. Canadians knew otherwise. They knew that the caribou, being sensitive and perceptive creatures, could scent Americans a mile away - mostly because of their aftershave - and generally scarpered after they had done so. Being shot by someone from south of the border was, in the reindeer community, the ultimate indignity.

When Benton phoned him, Bert Jenkins had no immediate recollection of flying in a party of six Americans. 'Last week sometime?' prompted Benton.

'Ah! Yes. I brought some nuns up on a retreat Does that help?' Bert grinned as he remembered the black-clad ladies. A feisty lot, they had been.

'Er ... not unless they were carrying firearms.'

'Oh.' Bert thought again. 'You sure they were Americans?'

'Well, they were all wearing new boots. They were driving a Wrangler jeep and they carried big gus.'

'0h. Americans it is, then.' After another spell of racking his brain, Bert remembered a party of six dentists from Chicago. A nervous-looking lot, he recalled. Obviously on a manhood-proving kick. 'They killed their limit,' he informed Benton, 'and went home early.' Privately, he suspected that they had found it too cold.

Benton's heart beat faster. 'Do you have a passenger list, Bert? Could you give me their names?'

'Sure. You want them now?'

'No. I'll call in tomorrow - before my father's funeral.'

Benton was relieved when the funeral was over. The first such occasion he had ever attended (he had been deemed, at four years old, too young to attend his mother's), it was short, ceremonial and full of Mounties with square jaws and determinedly bright eyes. Benton's jaw was the squarest of them all, but it did, as he watched the coffin slide through the curtain after the address, quiver slightly. It was the end of an era - a farewell to a man who, as legend had it, could track a ghost across sheer ice. Benton smiled as he remembered that legend. His father, the most pragmatic of men, had never held much truck with ghosts. Nor did Benton believe in them: a fact that, did he but know it, would make life rather awkward in the future.

But the present was the present, and presently all the mourners adjourned to a nearby bar to toast the memory of Robert Fraser; to smile in the upbeat way people smile after funerals; and to recall and recount their fond memories of the deceased.

Benton was alarmed to discover that his father's colleagues had many more memories than he did. Perhaps he hadn't been the most attentive of sons But then Bob, he reflected, had not been the most solicitous of fathers.

Yet Bob Fraser's greatest legacy to his son - his desire for truth and justice - was foremost in Benton's mind as he sat beside Gerrard at the bar. He had, that morning, given the names of Bert Jenkins's passengers to Gerrard with the request that he forward them to Chicago.

'What,' he asked the chief superintendent, 'did Chicago have to say?'

Gerrard shrugged. 'Said they'd check them out' Benton sighed. 'With respect, sir, the Chicago PD is not going to make this a high-priority case.'

'I know that Benton - and I'm sorry. But there's really not a great deal I can do about it.'

Benton had expected a reply along those lines.

There was, in truth, not a great deal Gerrard could do to influence an investigation south of the border. There was, however, something that Benton himself could try to do. He took a deep breath and turned to Gerrard. 'I understand, sir, that there's an opening at the Chicago Consulate.'

Gerrard had most certainly not expected a reply along those lines. He looked at the man beside him. Benton in Chicago? No. Impossible. 'Benton,' he sighed, 'I can't let you go charging across the border. Really, I can't.' He forbore from saying that, while Benton was more capable than most of surviving adverse weather, wild animals and all manner of deprivation, he wouldn't last a minute in the human jungle of America. Benton had a major flaw; he trusted people. 'Look Ben,' he continued. 'Man to man. If this really was a murder I'd like to find whoever did it and show them the view from the end of a rope.' Coming over all avuncular, he patted Benton on the shoulder. 'But I can't do that - and neither can you. There were,' he explained, 'a hundred hunters out that day - most of them from God knows where.' He fixed Benton with a steely gaze. 'You found six of them. Chicago will check them out. Let them do their job, Benton.'

But Benton was nothing if not persistent. 'I realize I wouldn't be allowed to work the case, sir. But if I'm in the same city, I can at least check on their progress.

Gerrard wasn't entirely convinced about that. It was time to remind Benton of a few facts. 'Tell me, how many years have you been in the force now?'

'Thirteen.'

'And what was the biggest city you ever worked

'Er. .. Moosejaw.'

'Yeah.' Moosejaw, as Gerrard recalled, had a population of ten thousand. Teeming metropolis it was not. 'And,' he continued, 'you were transferred out after five weeks because you couldn't adapt to such an urban lifestyle.' He sighed and sipped his drink. You're like your father, Benton. Up there in no man's land there isn't a better cop in the world But in Chicago they'd eat you alive in five minutes '

Benton looked more than a little hurt.

But Gerrard was adamant 'Sorry,' he said. 'But no.'

Benton remained still and silent for a minute Then, in a move that both surprised and shocked Gerrard he removed his Mountie badge from his lapel and laid it on the bar counter. The implication was abundantly clear. Then, Benton fixed Gerrard with a steely look. 'I understand,' he said bluntly But you must understand that nothing is going to stop me from finding my father's killer. And,' he finished with a particularly penetrating glare bringing him to justice.' Then he stood up and walked away.

Gerrard was left in a quandary. On the one hand, he couldn't have Benton poking his nose into other people's business. You never knew what he might come up with. On the other hand, he couldn't let Benton resign because he felt that his father's colleagues weren't doing enough to find his killer. That would look bad. Very bad indeed.

But what was even worse was that Gerrard was not at liberty to make a decision on the matter. Where resignations were concerned, he was required to inform Commissioner Charlie Underhill - and he suspected he knew what Underhill would say.

He was right. When, the next day, Gerrard informed the commissioner about Benton's ultimatum, Underhill, who didn't like Gerrard, had no problem reaching a decision. 'This was Bob Fraser,' he said. 'And Benton is Bob's son.' He looked the other man in the eye. 'Give him the transfer.'

Chapter Three

Chicago was not Moosejaw. The gateway to America's mid-West, it boasts some of the nation's tallest buildings and one of its biggest crime rates. It also has an area called the Magnificent Mile, a short stretch of lakeside apartments housing the world's highest concentration of multi-millionaire divorcees. In time, many of them would throw themselves at Benton.

But Benton knew none of this when he arrived. All he knew was that the city's O'Hare Airport was considerably larger than the one at Moosejaw, and that an awful lot of people seemed to hang around there. He didn't like it and couldn't wait to get out into the fresh air.

Carrying his sleeping bag and a few essential provisions, he was almost out of the terminal building when he was accosted by two nuns. They smiled and thrust their collecting tins in his face. 'Help feed the hungry,' they cried in unison. 'Food for the hungry.'

Oh dear, thought Benton. Smiling, he reached into the breast pocket of his tunic and extracted a long, thin brown thing that looked not unlike tree bark. With another smile and a nod he dropped it into one of the tins.

The nun whose tin it was looked horrified. With a delicate thumb and forefinger, she pulled it out again and looked questioningly at the Mountie. 'Er ... what...?'

'Pemmican,' explained Benton.

'Pemmican?'

'Yes. Dried meat.' Poor women, thought Benton. He smiled in a compassionate sort of way. 'Now, if you're still hungry when you've finished it, then you must drink water. The pemmican, you see, will then expand in your stomach.' Then, secure in the knowledge that he had done his good deed for the day, he marched off towards the escalator that led to the taxi rank. The wide-eyed nuns were speechless and just stared after him. Then the one to whom he had given his donation shrugged and popped the pemmican into her mouth. Come to think of it, she was hungry.

Reflecting that America must be in a very bad way if even its nuns were starving, Benton stepped on to the escalator.

So, at the same time, did another man. In direct contrast to Benton, the other man was scruffily dressed and shifty-looking. He eyed Benton appraisingly and then, having decided he looked like a soft touch, moved in beside him. 'Say,' he said, 'you wouldn't wanna help a good cause?'

Benton turned round and smiled at the stranger. 'And what cause would that be?'

The man looked suddenly upset. 'My daughter. She's gravely ill. She, uh . . . she needs an operation.

'Oh.' Benton, too, looked upset. This man, he reckoned, didn't look as if he could afford to pay for an operation. 'I'm sorry to hear that.'

'Yeah. Me too. I can't afford to pay for the operation.'

'Oh dear.' Benton looked concerned. 'They won't operate on the little girl unless you pay them in advance, you know.'

'Man,' replied the other with a shake of his head. 'Unless they see the cash, they won't even give you an aspirin.' He looked at Benton out of the corner of his eye. The Mountie, he thought, looked like the sort of guy who couldn't tell the difference between aspirin and Ecstasy. Under the circumstances, that was probably just as well. 'So,' he continued, 'that's why I'm wondering if you'd lend me some cash to contribute to the ... uh, operation.'

Benton looked pensive. 'You promise,' he replied after a moment, 'to pay me back within a week?'

'As God is my witness.'

Nodding, Benton reached into his inside pocket. 'I'm afraid all I can give you is a hundred dollars.'

The other man's eyes nearly popped out of his lead. And his aghast reply popped out of his mouth before he could help himself. 'You are going to give a perfect stranger a hundred dollars? You're kidding?'

Benton looked affronted. 'I never,' he said icily 'kid about a child's life.' With that, he held out a single, hundred-dollar bill.

The other man looked at him for a moment. Then he took the money. For the first time in his life he was racked with guilt. The Mountie's expression was so open, so honest, so trusting. Why couldn't he have given him a dollar like other People did? Better still, why hadn't he just ignored him or sworn at him like - like, if truth be told, most people did. Unable to find any words beyond thanks, he nodded and walked ahead down the escalator. He had never, he reckoned, been so embarrassed in his life.

Behind him Benton wondered why, of the three Americans he had met since his arrival in Chicago, all of them were greatly in need. Something was obviously deeply wrong with the state of the nation.

He was still mulling over that one when ten minutes later, he reached the front of the taxi queue. He had noted, when joining the queue, that everyone looked sullen and depressed Even the smartly dressed ones - the ones who weren't needy nuns or impoverished fathers, looked either suicidal or annoyed. And they were all so rude.

Benton had watched with amazement as he stood in line, noting that the young people in the queue failed to let the elderly go before them. Americans, he knew, thought only of themselves. He also knew that he was going to have to think the amee way if he was going to get anywhere in Chicago. Gerrard's words about failing to adapt to urban areas were still ringing in his ears.

But, once he reached the front of the queue, Benton couldn't help himself. The woman behind him had to be at least eighty - he simply couldn't let her wait any longer. With a small sigh and a broad smile, he stepped aside when the taxi approached. The old lady's smile of thanks as he helped her into the vehicle was a reward in itself.

The rewards, however, began to pall after he had stepped aside fifteen times. As the youngest, the most able and the only polite person in the queue, his need for a taxi was lesser than other people's. It need, anyway, that remained unfulfilled. Benton decided that it would, in the long run, be quicker to walk into town. Anyway, the exercise would do him good.

Benton reached the central police station two hours later, feeling refreshed and still blissfully oblivious of the fact that he had narrowly escaped arrest. Several policemen, safe inside their armoured vehicles, had seen him walking down the freeway.

Anyone who did that, they knew, had to be an extremely dodgy character. A murderer, at the very least. A drug-crazed serial killer, most probably. Undoubtedly a very weird character. The fancy-dress uniform was indication enough. As they peered at him, some of them had contemplated questioning him but had, on second thoughts, abandoned the idea. They were all too scared to get out of their cars.

The station, Benton noted as he walked inside, was far busier than the one in Moosejaw. A lot of people were milling around shouting at each other and looking harassed. None of them, however, were actually doing anything.

He went up to the front desk. 'I'm Constable Fraser ,' he said to the sergeant on duty, 'of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.' To prove the point, he showed his ID to the other man.

'Hey!' The desk sergeant was impressed. He'd never seen a Mountie before. 'No kidding.' Then he leant forward. 'You got a dog?'

'Er . . . yes.' Explanations about wolves, he decided, could probably wait. 'He's in quarantine.' 'Shame.' The desk sergeant looked depressed. Then, suddenly, his eyes lit up again. 'Say, d'you like pigeons?'

Startled, Benton looked up. The sergeant appeared to be completely serious, which meant, Benton knew, that he was insane. Mad people often looked normal. 'I don't have much experience with them,' he said tactfully.

'Mmm.'

Then had been the right reply. The sergeant refrained from wielding an axe or doing anything else that disturbed people were in the habit of doing.

'lt's not that they're dirty,' the desk sergeant con- led to Benton, 'it's just that I'm starting to questioning their loyalty.'

'Ah. Yes. I see.' Benton sought to change the line of conversation or, preferably, to end it. He delved into his pocket. 'I'm looking for an officer,' he said as he produced a piece of paper, 'assigned to this case.'

The desk sergeant peered at the number of the case and, rather to Benton's surprise, started to laugh. 'Oh, yeah,' he said, 'you're gonna like this guy. Drop your stuff here,' he added as he looked, strangely, at Benton's sleeping bag and rucksack, 'and go through those doors. He's in the third hold- ing cell on your right.'

'His name?' asked Benton as he deposited his belongings.

The desk sergeant laughed again. 'You can't miss him. Just look for Armani.'

'Oh. Thank you kindly.' Benton made his way, as instructed, through the doors and to the third holding cell. It was, like the other cells along the corridor, extremely crowded. There must have been some sort of demonstration in Chicago, he mused - one that involved wearing fancy dress. Most of the men in the third cell were wearing extremely strange clothes. One of them, clad from head to toe in leopardskin, was even dressed as a woman. Not a very convincing woman.

Two of the other occupants of the cell were engaged in what looked like a business transaction.

One of them, who looked to be around Benton's age but with receding hair and a bigger nose thanwas currently fashionable, was talking in urgent undertones and gesticulating wildly to his companion. 'Can you read that?' he asked as he pointed to the shirt he was holding. 'Does the label not say "Armani"?' He glared, affronted, at his companion. 'Of course it's original merchandise.' But the other man was still Suspicious. 'Isn't this kind of a strange place to do business?' he asked.

'Hey!' Again the wild gesticulations. 'At least here you know who you're dealing with, right?'

At that point Benton, having heard only the odd word of their conversation, called out from the other side of the bars. 'Excuse me,' he said. 'I'm looking for a detective named . .. er, Armani?'

His words had an immediate and dramatic effect. The man with the shirt looked at once aghast, wary, angry and scared. All the other men other cell, after a moment of stunned inertia, converged on him. They all, it seemed, wanted him dead. He leapt towards the door of the cell. 'Guard!' he screamed. 'Get me outta here!'

The guard acted with alacrity. It was never a good idea, in his opinion, for detectives to pose as criminals to entrap other ones. It rarely worked. But then, as his opinion was never sought, he rarely gave it.

The detective, whose name was Ray Vecchio, shot out of the cell, gave Benton the benefit of a truly murderous look and stormed up the corridor. 'OK,' he yelled as he burst through the swing doors, 'who let the Mountie through here?'

Every single cop in the room held up a hand.

Snarling, Ray stomped up to his desk and sat down. His day had not started well; nor was it continuing well. He suspected it would end badly.

'I'm sorry,' said a voice behind him, 'that I blew this. An unfortunate confusion.'

Ray whirled round, eyes blazing. He had never seen a Mountie before. He never wanted to do so again. 'What the confusion was,' he snarled through gritted teeth, 'was that down here we don't bust in on some guy when he's about to take down the biggest operator in the business for buying stole merchandise.'

Suddenly Benton clicked. Armani was a brand of clothes: this cop had been posing as a criminal in order to catch the other guy red-handed. There was a name for that. 'So you were attempting,' he said, 'to sell that man illegally obtained men's clothing?'

'Yeah. That's right.'

Benton raised an eyebrow. 'Isn't that entrapment?'

Ray glared at the Mountie through narrowed eyes. There was a word for what he wanted to do to this man. 'What,' he sighed as he tried to divert his mind from thoughts of murder, 'do you want from me?'

'I was told,' replied Benton as he pulled a piece of paper out of the breast pocket of his tunic, 'that you were in charge of this case.'

Ray took the proffered note. Comprehension dawned. 'Ah, yes. The dead Mountie thing.' Then he looked back at Benton with a sardonic smile.

'Like I couldn't have guessed.'

Benton did not smile back.

'Look,' continued Ray, gesturing towards an overflowing in-tray on his desk. 'I've got your list of names in my basket here. The moment I get a chance I'm going to go to the computer, pick up the phone and call you with the information so you can go get your boy scout points.' He looked at Benton as one might look at a small, irritating child. 'Now, is there anything else?'

'Yes. The dead Mountie was my father.'

'Oh. I... er ...'

'And I would appreciate it,' continued Benton in a voice that could have cut ice, 'if you would check the names while there's still a chance of catching the man who killed him.' Then, as he turned on his heel, he remembered something. 'Oh, and by the way, he's not in the garment business.'

'What?' Ray was still reeling from the shock of his own tactlessness. The feeling was not unfamiliar to him, occurring, as it did, on a regular basis.

'The man in the cell,' enlightened Benton. 'He had a hole in his shoe. I'm not familiar with your city, but I would assume that a big garment buyer wouldn't be caught dead with a hole in his shoes. So,' he finished brightly, 'like you, he's pretending to be someone he's not.' Then, leaving Ray with a horrible suspicion that the Mountie had been looking straight into his soul, he turned away from the detective, picked up his belongings, and headed towards the exit.

Ray remained motionless long after Benton had left the room. He was wondering whether he ought to be revising his opinion of Mounties. Not, when he came to think of it, that it was an opinion. More of an assumption. A bias, perhaps. Or indeed a prejudice. But who would have thought that a Mountie would be intelligent? No doubt slick, street-smart Chicago was already rubbing off on him.

Benton arrived at the Canadian Consulate twenty minutes after leaving the police station. He walked. Taxis, in his thus far limited experience, were not a convenient mode of transport. Anyway, judging by the way the yellow vehicles were rushing through the city in a frantic, lost fashion, he felt he was better off with his map and his two legs. He also had his ever-present compass should things get sticky.

As he walked, he reflected on his encounter with the odd, rather manic Chicago policeman. It had not, he was the first to admit, been a roaring success. But nor had it all been his fault. How was he supposed to know that policemen in the city employed questionable practices like entrapment? And were they all quite so insensitive? He looked forward to hearing the Canadian consul's opinion of Chicago's law enforcers.

He was shown up to the consul's office the minute he arrived at the building. The consul,' an aide whispered, 'does not like to be kept waiting.' That one puzzled Benton. He was - because he had walked - half an hour early for his appointment.

The consul, one George Moffat, had an office that was large, bright and imposing. Moffat himself was none of these things. A bespectacled man, he carried with him an air of permanent bemusement, as if he wasn't quite sure what to do next - or even now.

'Hah!' he said as Benton walked through the door. 'Constable Fraser?'

'Yes, sir.'

Moffat walked towards Benton, smiled in a slightly furtive manner and shook hands with him. 'So,' he said with great gavitas, 'you want to be a deputy liaison officer, eh?'

'Eh... I was under the impression that I already had the position, sir.'

'Oh.'

Moffat waved an admonitory finger at the new arrival and then sat down behind his desk. 'No, Constable. You're the acting deputy liaison officer. You're on probation.'

'0h.'

Moffat looked vaguely around his desk. 'I've read your reports,' he said, wondering if he was telling the truth. He had, he recalled, read some sort of report recently. 'Nobody,' he continued, 'is questioning your abilities as a police officer, but this is, um ... big-city USA, and a ... a consulate office is an entirely different kettle of.. . uh .. .'

'Fish?' volunteered Benton. Perhaps, he mused, the consul was having an off day. Little did he know.

'Yes! Fish. Now' - Moffat lowered his voice to indicate that he was switching to an important and possibly confidential mode - 'as deputy liaison officer you work closely with the local police and the various arms of the American criminal justice systems and the intelligence community on matters or mutual interest.'

Benton nodded.

Moffat, however, looked suddenly doubtful. 'Well, basically that's the case. But,' he added his voice rising with excitement, 'the FBI and CIA types are very picky about who they cosy up to You've got to earn their respect. You've got to gain their trust. Then he rose to his feet and prodded his chest. And, at the same time, you've got to show them you're nobody's lap dog.'

'Lap dog, sir?'

Moffat shot him a warning look. These are Americans, Fraser. If they think they can walk all over you, they will. It's a delicate balance.' Moffat paused and nodded to himself. This interview was going well. Very well. 'You've got to be just as shrewd, just as cunning and just as ruthless as they I are. And, being Canadians, we've got to be polite.'

'Polite sir?' Benton didn't quite follow Moffat's train of thought.

'Yes.' Moffat stepped closer. 'What's the one thing you hear Americans say about Canadians, over and over again?'

'Er...'

'That we're such nice, polite people.'

'Yes, sir.' Well, that seemed fair enough

But not to the consul. He turned back to his desk and sat down again. 'So we use that against them.'

Benton was beginning to wonder if the consul had perhaps spent too much time in America. He certainly seemed to know how to complicate issues. and now he was talking about using good manners as a weapon? 'Er, I'm not exactly clear as to how we do that, sir.'

Moffat lowered his voice again. 'We let them underestimate us. You'd be surprised at the number of people,' he added with a pitying smile, 'who underestimate me, Fraser.'

'I don't think so, sir.'

But Moffat wasn't listening. 'I can't tell you how many times,' he continued, 'I've been at some diplomatic cocktail party when people start to say something and then stop when they realize I'm within hearing distance. Then they say,' he added, with an even broader smile, '"Oh, it's just the Canadian." It always works, Fraser.'

Benton smiled. Politely.

'So.' Moffat squared his shoulders. 'It's a big job with a lot of ground to cover. Do you think you're up to it?'

Benton looked grave. 'I'll do my best, sir. Er .. .

'Yes?'

'What exactly are my duties?'

'Oh.' Moffat waved a dismissive hand - mainly because he hadn't a clue what those duties were. 'Lee-Anne will give you a full briefing. She takes care of all that, um, all that stuff. You, er, you haven't met Lee-Anne?'

'No, sir.'

'Oh. Well, she'll be at her desk now.' Moffat sat down again. 'She's my assistant. My right arm.'

'Oh. Er .. . where does she sit, sir?'

'At her desk. Constable. At her desk.'

'Yes, sir, but where?'

Moffat raised his right arm. 'Out there, Constable!'

'Ah. Yes, sir.' Benton smiled, turned and walked to the door. He supposed it had been a stupid question, but the answer, he felt, was even more stupid. Why couldn't the consul say what he meant?

Opening the door, Benton went 'out there' in search of Moffat's right arm.

Moffat remained at his desk. What to do, he wondered? Which piece of urgent business to tackle? He looked around the surface of his desk, hoping for a clue. There was none: the desk was bereft of paperwork. 'Ah,' he muttered to himself. 'Perhaps I'll just. . . no.' Then, for the umpteenth time that day, he stood up, and reached - for the first time that day - a decision. 'Lunch,' he said. Feeling very pleased with himself, he reached for his coat.

Benton had little difficulty locating Lee-Anne. She was sitting quietly at the desk outside the consul's office, filing her nails.

Benton approached. 'Uh, Lee-Anne?'

'Yes?' snapped the young woman. She was, thought Benton, attractive in an American sort of way. She had long dark hair and a strong, fine-boned face. He assumed that she had even, sparkling teeth to go with the rest of her, but as her mouth was set in a tight-lipped, angry line, he couldn't tell. Perhaps Lee-Anne was having a bad day. It seemed to be a regular occurrence in Chicago.

'I'm Benton Fraser, the new deputy liaison officer,' said Benton with an encouraging smile. Lead by example, his father had always said. Perhaps Lee-Anne would now try a little grin.

But it was not to be. Still tight-lipped, she jumped to her feet and marched down the corridor. 'I'll show you,' she spat over her shoulder, 'to your office.'

Shrugging, Benton followed the irate young woman into what was more of a cubicle than an office. Diefenbaker, he thought with a sinking heart, would not like it here. But then poor old Dief was in quarantine, and even a cubicle in Chicago had to be better than that. Evidently a lady who believed in getting straight to the point, Lee-Anne grabbed a cardboard box from the shelf behind the bare desk. Without even looking at Benton, she began to pull items out of it. 'This,' she said somewhat unnecessarily, pointing at the desk, 'is your desk.' Then she indicated the first item from the box. This is your phone.' With a brute force surprising for one so slim, she slammed it down on the desk. This is your rolodex.' Another slam. Then she delved into the box again. This is your tape dispenser. And this,' she added with distinctly threatening undertones, 'is your stapler.'

More than a little stunned by Lee-Anne's irate vehemence, Benton stammered a polite 'thank you' each time an itemized object hit the desk. If their battered appearance was anything to go by, they had encountered Lee-Anne before.

But Lee-Anne ignored Benton. Reaching for another box, she repeated her performance - this time with even more vehemence. This is your pencil-sharpener,' she snarled.

Benton nodded. Trying to look on the positive side of the situation, he reflected that it was just as well Lee-Anne was the consul's right hand rather than, say, a teacher of small children.

This is your appointment calendar.' Slam. Then Lee-Anne, visibly quivering with rage, scrabbled about in the bottom of the box. Emerging with triumphant rage, she brandished two more objects in Benton's face. 'This; she said of the object in her right hand, 'is your combination pencil cup. And this,' she continued as she held up her left hand, 'is your pencil.'

'Er ...'

But Lee-Anne was revving up for her finale. She turned back to the shelf and, using both hands, pounced on an innocent, though wary-looking, ivy. 'And this,' she finished as she banged it down on the desk, 'is your pot plant.' The leaves of the plant shook as they tried to recover from Lee-Anne's violent and unprovoked assault. After a few seconds most of them gave up and fell into the combination pencil cup.

Benton looked at Lee-Anne. Lee-Anne glared back. Benton tried another smile and then gestured towards his desk. 'You know,' he began, 'I can do this if-'

Lee-Anne's glare became positively, dangerously gleeful. 'Do you want some help with your computer?' she threatened.

'No!' Benton recoiled in horror. 'No. I don't want to -'

'Well, then I'll leave you to it.' Brushing past him, Lee-Anne went back into the corridor, slamming the door as hard as she could. The remaining leaves of the ivy fell to the desk.

Benton stood, scratching his head, wondering how to deal with the situation. This was not good, he thought. Not good at all. Perhaps he ought to buy Lee-Anne a gift of some sort to try to bring her out of what was bugging her. A pot plant, perhaps. Then again, he mused as he eyed the sad twigs of the deceased ivy, perhaps not.

Lee-Anne, however, was back within a minute. To Benton's relief, she was now looking distinctly sheepish. She closed the door behind her and stood with her hands crossed demurely behind her back. She looked from Benton to the floor and then back again.

'I want to apologize,' she said. Then she gritted her teeth and smiled. The teeth, Benton noted, were indeed perfect. Lee-Anne gestured towards the desk. That was uncalled for.'

Thank goodness, thought Benton. He smiled again. 'Well, I was a little curious.'

'You see,' interrupted Lee-Anne, 'this was supposed to be my job.'

Oh dear, thought Benton.

'I put in four years behind that desk out there,' the young woman continued. Her eyes, Benton noted, were beginning to glint. Her voice rose, ominously, as she continued. 'I got coffee, I ran errands, I organized every detail of his life. I paid my dues.' She looked Benton in the eye; then at the hapless combination pencil cup. 'I'm a cop, Fraser. Picking up dry-cleaning just doesn't come naturally.'

Benton bowed his head. 'Well, I didn't -'

'And then this job opens up.' Lee-Anne was back in dangerous mode. 'And I'm finally going to get to do something other than show my legs. But oh no ... it's like "We're sorry, but we don't think you're quite ready for the job. We need someone with kyacking experience."'

'Kyacking experience?'

Lee-Anne waved a hand in exasperation. 'Oh they didn't say that, Fraser. They didn't have to.' She stepped closer to him and stared into his eyes. 'They hired you, didn't they?'

'Well, yes, but...'

'Can I be frank?'

Benton nodded.

'Ihave nothing against you, personally. I'm sure you're a very nice person. I'm sure you're very good at wrestling fur-bearing animals. But,' she added as her eyes took on an even wilder, more manic glint, "I'm going to do everything in my power to have you fired because this is my job!' With one hand pressed theatrically against her chest, she gave Benton one last, lingering, loathing look and turned towards the door.

Then she turned back. 'I don't mean to sound like a bitch.'

Thoroughly confused, Benton merely shrugged.

I'm not usually like this,' protested Lee-Anne.

"Er, no ... I can see that.' Perhaps it would be best, he thought, to change the subject. He indicated his desk. 'Perhaps you could tell me . . . uh . . . I'm a little unclear as to what my duties ... that is to say your, em ... as to what the job actually entails.'

Lee-Anne was, finally, smiling from ear to ear. She really is, thought Benton, extremely attractive.

'Well,' she replied. "Thant's one good thing about this menial job of mine. I hold the duty roster. Which means that your job is pretty much whatever I tell you it is.'

Oh dear, thought Benton. 'Um . . . where do I start?'

Still smiling, Lee-Anne contemplated the Mountie in the sort of way that other people contemplate lunch.

Chapter Four

Well, thought Benton as he stood outside the consulate in his dress uniform, you have to start somewhere. He deliberately tried to stop himself considering the fact that this new beginning was not a step forward but a giant leap backward. Then he told himself to stop thinking about anything at all. Brain activity, he knew of old, registered in the face and this present task demanded that he register nothing at all. He was, as the senior instructor at college had admonished all those years ago, supposed to act as if he were dead. Benton had always thought that extremely stupid advice. How could you possibly stand to attention when you were dead? Then, acknowledging the thought, he tried to dismiss it. On the other hand, didn't the effort to dismiss one thought require another thought? Benton thought about that for a moment.

Perhaps it was because none of his musings concerned Lee-Anne that he was able to remain still and expressionless. Had he considered her, even briefly, he would probably have frowned. As it was, he made a model sentry. The passers-by made faces at him, small children blew raspberries and two tourists even took photographs of themselves standing next to him. Benton didn't move a muscle. His patience, however, was sorely tried by the next person to enter his field of vision. This person was Ray Vecchio.

Normally a stranger to the concept of embarrassment - he was, after all, American - Ray had nevertheless decided that he owed the Mountie an apology. But the last thing he expected, as he walked towards the front door of the Canadian Consulate, was to find him standing outside. At first he didn't even recognize him in his dress uniform, wide-brimmed Mountie Stetson, and with his total lack of expression.

'Hey!' Doing a double take. Ray burst out laughing. 'Hey! It's you!'

This piece of exceedingly obvious information elicited no response from Benton. Misinterpreting his silence. Ray stepped closer. 'Look, I'm sorry. I know I acted like a real jerk. I'm sorry,' he added with a shrug. 'I didn't know it was your father. I should have checked into it earlier.'

Benton didn't move a muscle.

Ray tried another tack. 'Hey,' he said. 'You know something? You were right about the guy in the cell. See, I dug around and found out that the guy is actually from Internal Affairs. You know what he was doing? No? Well, I'll tell ya. He was trying to nail my butt for illegal entrapment. Can you believe that?' Ray peered at the face under the Stetson. It was utterly impassive. 'The guy's trying to entrap me,' he continued, 'for trying to entrap him.' Ray let out a deep, disillusioned sigh. 'Cops.'

But Benton, apparently, was still sulking.

Ray tried again. 'In any case, I figured I owe you one, so ... uh, here it is.' With a supreme effort, Ray extended a hand. 'Thanks,' he said as he proffered.

Benton's arms remained rigidly at his sides.

'Look',' said Ray with a slight edge to his voice. 'I'm apologizing-here. What else do you want from me?'

Stepping back. Ray eyed the Mountie with a critical expression. Taking umbrage was one thing - and understandable under the circumstances - but surely there was no need to take it this far. Then, belatedly, it dawned on Ray that Benton's complete immobility might be due to duty, not choice. He suppressed a giggle and gestured at the uniform, imitating, as he did so, Benton's perfectly upright stance. 'You're kidding, right?'

Still no response. Ray stepped closer and prodded Benton's chest. 'This is your job? This is like your real job? Hey!' Grinning from ear to ear, Rav turned to the pedestrians behind him. 'Can you believe this? This is his job! They actually pay people to do this in Canada!'

The pedestrians, suddenly alarmed, gave Ray a wide berth. They knew all about people like him: there were far too many of them littering the streets of Chicago.

Realizing he had again insulted the Mountie, Ray turned back to face him. 'Uh, sorry. Got a bit carried away there. Look, I ... uh, I checked into that list of names for you, and I came up with something that might be useful. So, I figured we should talk.' Serious now, he looked Benton in the eye. But Benton looked straight through him.

Ray was now thoroughly disconcerted. He, a detective in the Chicago Police Department, was being ignored by a mere Mountie. Worse, he was being ignored for perfectly legitimate reasons. He sighed. Any more of this and he would start to lose his cool. And that would carry with it the ultimate indignity: he would begin to look a little foolish in the eyes of his fellow Americans. 'Look,' he said to the impassive Benton, 'I'm going to go in there and ask them when you get off duty, OK? Then I'll come back and we can talk. This,' he finished with an exasperated sigh, 'is like talking to a corpse.'

With that Ray strode off, a little huffily, into the consulate.

Benton had difficulty - real difficulty - in keeping a straight face. Had this Vecchio guy any idea of how ridiculous he had looked, hopping about and exclaiming to himself? Obviously not. Still, it was decent of him to have offered an apology. And it would be interesting to hear about this 'something that might be useful'.

Having discovered from a triumphantly sadistic Lee-Anne that Benton would be on doorman duty for the rest of the day. Ray decided to spend the remainder of his own day pursuing the dentists on Benton's list. He felt he owed it to Benton. After all, not only had the poor guy lost his father, but now he was togged up in a red tunic, blue trousers and a serious Stetson, making himself the laughing stock of Chicago. In his position. Ray would have been mortified. Ray hated the idea of making an exhibition of himself.

On the following day Ray and Benton teamed up again. Ray was wearing one of his customary bilious, attention-grabbing designer shirts. Benton, once again, was in his dress uniform. 'We're going,' said Ray without preamble, 'to Dr Weingarten's.'

'Dr Who?'

'No. Dr Weingarten.'

'Who's he?' Benton thought it most peculiar that Ray Vecchio's attempts to build bridges involved taking him to a doctor. Perhaps the man was Ray's psychiatrist. Americans, Benton knew, were fond of psychiatrists.

'Dr. Weingarten,' Ray explained, as they made their way into the foyer of a downtown tower block, 'is a dentist.'

'Oh. So why's he called Doctor?'

Ray looked at Benton. Yesterday he had been talking to a corpse. There was something to be said, he now realized, for talking to corpses. He sighed.

'I don't know. Constable, why he's called Doctor. All I know is that he's a dentist and went on that shooting trip you asked me to investigate.'

'Ah. Good. And what else did you find out?'

Ray looked pleased with himself. 'Well, I called the American Dental Association. Everyone on your list is a member. But,' he continued in an alarmingly Lee-Annish way, 'one of them - a Lawrence Medley - isn't current with his dues. So I called the last number they have on the guy and - get this - the nurse says he can't come to the phone.'

Benton looked at Ray. The detective appeared to think this highly significant. Benton begged to differ, but, being Benton, was too polite to say so. 'Er . . . why couldn't he come to the phone?'

'Because,' said Ray, 'he's been dead for twelve years.'

'Ah.' Benton nodded. 'That seems like a pretty good reason for not being able to chat.'

'Exactly.' Ray wagged a finger. 'This makes me curious.'

It also aroused Dr Weingarten's curiosity. 'Dead, you say?' he said after they arrived at his surgery and explained their mission. Benton noticed that he didn't seem too upset. Perhaps, being a doctor - or even a dentist - he was used to people dying on him. His patients, Benton noted as they were ushered through the waiting room, looked as if they were expecting - even welcoming - the prospect of their imminent demise.

'Yes,' said Ray as they entered the consulting room. 'He died twelve years ago.''

Dr Weingarten shook his head. 'No. I think there's been some mistake. Lawrence Medley was alive and well in Canada last week.'

Ray, however, knew better. 'No. Someone masquerading as Lawrence Medley was alive and well in Canada last week.'

'Really?' The good doctor seemed only mildly interested. But then, being a doctor masquerading as a dentist, pretence was no doubt second nature to him.

Ray looked keenly at the white-coated man. 'So you'd never met him before?'

'No. He called and said he'd heard about our annual hunting trip and asked if he could come along. Harry Prentiss - he's an orthodontist - usually comes along but what with that accident and everything he . . . uh . . .' Dr. Weingarten, evidently not too keen on elaborating on the nature of the accident, lapsed into silence. Neither Ray nor Benton, both suddenly beset by cinematic memories of the Marathon Man variety, pressed him to explain.

'Uh, do you have a photograph of the impostor?' asked Ray after a moment.

'Oh, yes. That's why you came, isn't it?' The doctor scratched his head. 'Now, where did I put them? Oh, yeah.' Opening a drawer that contained some particularly lethal-looking implements, he delved into its deepest recesses and extracted a few photographs. He sifted through them for a moment, grinning at the memory of what had obviously been a satisfactory trip. Then he showed one of the photos to Benton and Ray. It was of two men. One was thin and happy looking. The other appeared to be fat and miserable, thereby giving the lie to one of society's oldest myths. 'That's him,' he said pointing to the man on the left. 'The fat and miserable one. Larry Medley.' Then he frowned.

'Y'know, that's the only one I've got of him. For some reason, he was never around when we were taking pictures.'

Shaking his head, the doctor added that Medley hadn't been much of a hunter. 'In fact,' he said, 'Medley didn't shoot a damn thing. I, on the other hand, came home with that big fella right there.'

Turning, beaming with pride, he gestured towards the object in the far corner of the room. Both his visitors looked, dutifully, at the 'big fella'.

Crouching on a table, evidently still startled that anyone could have mistaken it for a caribou and shot it dead, was a stuffed though distinctly emaciated-looking beaver. Ray looked at Benton. Benton looked at Ray. Then they thanked Dr Weingarten and took their leave. Neither was keen to overstay his welcome at the dentist's surgery - especially a surgery belonging to this dentist.

'Well,' said Benton after he had irritated Ray by insisting that they let others into the lift before themselves, 'at least we've seen a photograph of the impostor. Maybe someone will recognize him.'

'Someone already has.' Ray was looking particularly pleased with himself. Benton was impressed. 'YOU recognized the face?'

'No. Well, not really the face.' Ray turned to Benton and tapped his nose. Benton had already noticed that Ray had a propensity for nose-tapping. Then again, he did have a very big nose. It was his most prominent, if not exactly his best, feature. 'It was more his nose that I recognized.'

'His nose?'

'Yeah- It's like I have this ability.'

Benton already knew that.

'Everyone's nose,' continued Ray, 'is distinctive. No two people have exactly the same nose. I just have this thing where I never forget a nose.' He shrugged and smiled again. 'Call it a gift, I don't know.'

Nor did Benton. Still, it was encouraging that Ray had made progress on the case - even if that progress was only in the shape of a nose. A distinctive nose.

'It was a few years back. June,' explained Ray as they left the elevator and made their way through the foyer. 'I was walking the beat and I get a call on this domestic violence case.' He turned to Benton. 'Very, very messy. A guy has his wife's arm in a car door and he's slamming it and slamming it.' Ray paused to hold the door open for Benton.

Grimacing, Benton hurried out into the street, keeping his arms closely by his sides. 'So,' continued Ray, 'when I see that guy's nose in the doctor's office I think, yeah, I've seen that nose before.'

'Where?'

'I'll show you.' Ray fished for his car keys. 'Can you type?' he added.

Benton frowned. Non sequiturs in the shape of penguins - and now keyboards - flashed before him. What was it with these Chicago policemen?

'Yes,' he replied. 'A hundred words a minute . . . why?'

Back at the police station twenty minutes later, Benton found out why. Ray sat him down in front of a computer and fired data at him - data concerning the nose that had first appeared in the car-door-slamming scenario and had now returned in the dentist's photograph. Benton typed Ray's information into the computer and, after five minutes - and five hundred words - a face appeared on the screen before them.

Ray let out a triumphant whoop. 'Frankie Drake,' he said, pointing at the image on the screen. 'What d'you think?'

Benton wrinkled his small, perfectly formed nose. 'Yes,' he said after a moment. 'That's exactly the same nose.'

'What did I tell you?' Leaning forward over the keyboard. Ray pressed the print button. 'See,' he said as he went over to the printer, 'it stuck in my mind because Homicide's been trying to nail the guy for a mob hit.'

Benton's eyes widened in surprise. 'He's a hired killer?'

Jesus, thought Ray. Where has this man been all his life? Then he remembered. Canada. 'Well,' he said, 'I don't think he hunts for relaxation, Fraser.' Benton ignored the barb. Sarcasm, he felt, didn't get you anywhere. And it certainly couldn't teach you to type.

'Now,' continued Ray as he picked up the computer printout, 'someone wants your dad away enough to import a professional. You have any idea why?'

'No,' This, thought Benton, was escalating into something way beyond his initial suspicions. A contract killer from Chicago? To kill a Mountie who had never been out of Canada in his life? Except, Benton corrected himself, for one time, and anyway, that had been a mistake. Crossed wires, he seemed to recall. Or crossed borders. Something like that. His father had tended to be rather cagey about it. Benton brought his mind back to the present and turned to Ray. 'You got an address for this Frankie Drake?'

'Yeah - but it's not even worth the cab fare to check. He'd have been long gone by now.'

Yet something in Ray's bearing told Benton the trail hadn't quite gone cold. 'But you have an ideal?' he prompted.

Despite himself. Ray was impressed by the Mountie's perspicacity. Still, they probably didn't have much else to do in Canada apart from reading people's faces. 'Yeah,' he said as he sat down opposite Benton. He held up a finger, not, Benton was glad to see, to his nose. 'One lead. I'm gonna follow one lead and that's it.' He leant closer to Benton. 'I don't have time to make a career of this case - and getting my name in some Yukon Gazette ain't going" to do buttkiss for my career, you understand?'

Benton nodded. 'I understand,' he said.

'Good.' Ray stood up and patted Benton's shoulder. 'That's real good. Now "mush . . . yee-ha", or whatever you Canadians say.'

Benton mushed and yee-ha'd, omitting to mention - because of Ray's great strides towards friendliness - that Canadians usually said things like goodbye.

Benton and Ray said hello again later that afternoon. Their rendezvous was the street where Ray had parked his car - a splendid vintage Mercedes of which he was inordinately proud.

'Where are we going?' asked Benton as they walked towards the car.

Ray touched his nose. 'There's this place I know where a lot of heavyweights hang out. The kind of people who can reach out and touch somebody like Frankie. You see,' he added as they walked down the street, 'I've been hanging out there for months, fitting in, y'know, gaining a reputation and all that - hey!' Suddenly he stopped and looked around.

'Where the hell did I leave my car?'

Benton took out his compass. 'Thirty-two degrees south.'

Ray just looked. A compass. A compass. In Chicago. 'Er. Fraser, why are you carrying a compass?'

Benton shrugged. 'It helps me find my way around. Essential in the Northwest Territories.''

'Yeah, but we're in Chicago.' Ray gesticulated wildly at the tall buildings. 'We have maps. Street signs. People to ask directions from.' He shook his head. This Mountie really was too much. Still, he seemed like a nice guy, if a little simple.

Benton stared at Ray. He wondered if he should point out that the compass... no. It would be more than a little tactless. And he didn't want to offend Ray. He seemed like a nice guy - if a little simple.

'Hey,' said Ray as they headed on a bearing of thirty-two degrees south, 'what's your first name anyway? I mean, I can't keep calling you Fraser.'

'Benton,' replied Benton.

'Benton?'

'Yes. Benton.'

'Oh.'

'Uh, Ray?'

'Yes ... Benton?'

'Can we make a stop on the way?'

'Sure. Where?'

'Oh.' This time it was Benton who shrugged. 'I just have to pick up something.' Perhaps it would be best, he thought, not to explain in advance. People tended to have strange preconceptions about wolves.

Diefenbaker was delighted to be reunited with his master. He hadn't enjoyed his time in quarantine. Not at all. For a start he had been the only wolf and, while nothing had been said, he knew that people tended to have strange preconceptions about wolves. He had, he felt, been rather ignored. Furthermore, there had been very little to do in quarantine. And to cap it all, he was going to have to live in Chicago - albeit temporarily - when he was released. The thought didn't exactly set his pulse racing.

The sight of Benton, however, cheered him up no end. When Benton explained about Ray, Diefenbaker looked gloomy for a moment. A Chicago cop? He didn't quite like it. Then he shrugged and bounded out of the customs service area towards the car. He shouldn't harbour strange preconceptions about Chicago cops. There were probably some very nice cops in Chicago. He was, he decided, prepared to give this Ray person the benefit of the doubt.

Ray didn't know what had hit him. One minute he was sitting patiently behind the wheel of his car; the next he was being attacked by a wild animal. This sort of thing didn't happen in Chicago: it belonged to the world of compasses and all things untamed and uncivilized. 'Help!' he screamed as Diefenbaker said an enthusiastic hello. The animal was half on the passenger seat and half on Ray's lap. The half that Ray was dealing with was the dangerous half - the bit with the huge mouth and vicious teeth. Those teeth were only inches from his face. 'Help!' he shouted again as he saw Benton appearing. 'It's attacking me!'

Benton bent down and looked through the window. He supposed it was his fault: he somehow hadn't quite got round to explaining to Ray that they were going to pick up his pet. 'Dief!' he yelled through the open window.

'He's on me!'

'Dief!' Benton's voice was louder this time - much more commanding. But Diefenbaker had his back to him and, being deaf, couldn't hear. Evidently not good with animals and therefore probably a bit sticky with small children. Ray was trying to fend off the attack. Diefenbaker, however, mistook Ray's excitability for friendliness and tried to lick his face.

'Help!' Then Ray clicked that Benton had been calling the animal by what appeared to be its name - and a pretty peculiar name at that. Hands covering his face, he turned towards Benton. 'This,' he said, gesturing with distaste, 'is yours'!'

'If you mean is Diefenbaker mine then, yes. Ray, he is.'

'He's the something you had to pick up? Hey!' Again Ray's attention was distracted by the wolf. 'He's getting intimate with me! Did you see him? He was getting intimate with me!'

Benton grimaced. 'I'm sorry. He's . . . usually much better behaved. He's just excited to be out of that quarantine cage.'

'Jesus!' Ray's eyes widened in fear as the animal, obviously tired of being excited, opened its mouth and yawned. Suddenly, Ray knew how Little Red Riding Hood had felt on that fateful night. 'You wanna tell him to get off a me!'

'Diefenbaker!' admonished Benton.

Diefenbaker ignored him.

'Oh, yeah,' scoffed Ray. 'Very well trained.'

'Well, he is actually,' explained Benton. 'He's just deaf.'

'Ah.' Ray laughed. It was a high, nervous, scared, strangled laugh rather than a humorous one.

'And,' continued Benton, 'he's facing the wrong way, so you just tell him yourself.'

Ray looked the animal in the face. Diefenbaker opened his mouth again. 'I'm ... I'm not,' stammered Ray, 'I'm not real good with dogs.'

'Actually, he's more of a wolf.'

'Wolf?'

Diefenbaker, hearing Ray's cry, wagged his enormous tail.

'Just try,' urged his master, 'to enunciate.'

'GET,' articulated Ray through gritted teeth, 'OFF ME!'

Diefenbaker hopped into the back seat.

Ray was still shaking when Benton eased himself into the passenger seat. 'Sorry,' said the Mountie.

But Ray was in shock. 'There's a deaf wolf in the back seat of my car,' he said in a deadpan, disbelieving voice.

'Yes.' Benton smiled. Then, remembering the deafness, he frowned. Two years ago he jumped off an ice floe in the Prince Rupert Sound and pulled me out. His ear drums got damaged in the cold.' Benton didn't think it the right time yet to explain about the selective hearing. He himself hadn't so far quite understood it.

'Really?' said Ray. 'I didn't know wolves saved lives.'

As usual, Benton ignored the sarcasm. 'Well, he doesn't always. I mean,' he added as Ray turned the ignition with a shaking hand, 'he'll save you if he sees you.'

'Oh well that's just great, isn't it? That makes me feel a lot better.'

Good,' said Benton as he leant back to pat the wolf. 'I knew you two would get on.'

Ray pursed his lips and stamped his foot down on the accelerator.

Silence - punctuated only by the odd whine or yelp of joy from Diefenbaker - reigned for the next twenty minutes. Ray's silence was due to his trying to think of a crushing remark to make about Diefenbaker. Or indeed about Benton. He failed on both counts. 'Why,' he asked at length, 'is your wolf called Diefenbaker?'

'Oh. After a Canadian prime minister. John Diefenbaker. He was hairy, you see.'

'And deaf?'

'Not to my knowledge, no.'

'Oh.'

Behind them, Diefenbaker looked around and whined with excitement. Ray laughed. 'Guess he knows where we are.'

'Who?'

'Diefenbaker.'

'Oh I don't think so Ray. He's never been to Chicago before.' Puzzled Benton looked over to the policeman. 'Where are we anyway?'

The red-light district.' Ray gestured at the tawdry, luridly illuminated buildings around them.

'You won't find this on most of your tourist maps.

And,' he added as he turned off the main drag, 'I wouldn't go walking around here by yourself.'

'Really?' Benton looked around. The area looked, to him, much like the rest of Chicago.

'Just trust me on this one, will ya? Right,' added Ray as he pulled over, 'there's the joint.'

Behind them, sensing imminent action, Diefenbaker began to get agitated. Ray opened the driver's door and shot Benton a warning look.

'Now, just tell him to stay here, OK? And,' he added, glaring at the wolf, 'not to eat anything with an emblem on it.'

Benton nodded. He didn't want Diefenbaker prowling around in dangerous areas anyway. He looked into the back seat. 'Stay!' he commanded. 'Here!'

Diefenbaker glared at him. Out of one cage, he thought, straight into another. He wasn't terribly keen on cars. Still, they weren't nearly as bad as planes.

Ray, however, was amazed that the wolf seemed to understand what Benton was saying. 'He reads lips?' he asked.

'I've never been quite sure,' replied Benton as he closed his door and joined Ray on the pavement. 'If he can, he's entirely self-taught.'

'Ah.' Ray turned back to face the car and pressed his remote locking device. Here they were, he thought. In a Mercedes. In Chicago's red-light district. With a Mountie. And a wolf. Life could surely not get more bizarre.

But it did. Suddenly, as they walked towards the nightclub, Benton approached a gang of disreputable, dangerous-looking youths, loitering with intent and smoking joints. 'Good evening,' he said with a smile. Then he stopped in front of the tallest, most threatening of the bunch and doffed his hat.

'Excuse me. My friend here tells me that this isn't a very good neighbourhood. So, I wonder,' he said as he gestured towards the gleaming, expensive Mercedes, 'if you would mind watching that car for us?'

It took the leader of the gang several stunned seconds before he found his voice. 'Absolutely,' he said. 'Sure.' Then he grinned at his soon-to-be partners-in-crime. He wouldn't have been grinning so broadly had he known about the wolf sulking in the back seat of the car.

'Thank you,' said Benton as the gang walked off.

Benton turned back to the incredulous Ray. 'I just asked them,' he explained, 'to watch the car.'

Ray rolled his eyes. 'I think, Benton, they were already watching the car.'

They walked in silence to the front door of the club. Polite as ever, Benton reached to hold the door open for his friend.

'Hey! Whoa, whoa, whoa!' cautioned Ray.

Benton raised an eyebrow.

'You can't,' explained Ray, 'just go marching in there. I have a history with these people. They think,' he added with a smile, 'that I'm one of them. D'you understand?'

Benton understood. 'Ah! So you want me to blend in with the crowd.'

Ray just looked. Benton was still wearing his dress uniform: a bright red tunic, blue jodhpurs, brown boots and a Stetson - and the guy wanted to blend m? Life, he suddenly realized, had become a great deal more bizarre.

Benton, however, was with Ray on that one.

'Ah!' he said again as he reached for his hat. He took it off and then placed it under his arm.

So this, thought Ray, is blending in. 'You have a hat-line,' he said through gritted teeth, 'embedded in your forehead. You have a hat under your arm. You have a red tunic. You have -'

'Well,' interrupted Benton, seeing that Ray had a point, 'perhaps if we identified ourselves and then questioned them directly, they'd cooperate.'

'Yeah?' Ray stared at Benton. For a cop - even a Canadian cop - he could be remarkably stupid. 'And what would make them do that?'

Benton stared at Ray. 'Their basic respect,' he said, 'for the law.'

Ray took a step back. The man, he thought, was not stupid. He was unreal. 'I think,' he said after a moment of quiet and pitying contemplation, 'that we're gonna do this my way. Now, why don't you just stand here and pretend you're a fire hydrant or something?'

Benton shrugged. It was, after all. Ray's patch. Still, he knew that Ray was prone to over-excitement - if the episode with Diefenbaker was anything to go by. He feared for the cop's safety. 'What will you do,' he asked as Ray opened the door of the club, 'if you get into trouble?'

'I'll do a moose call.' Then he was gone.

Inside, the club was dark and hot and smoky in the way that dark and smoky nightclubs often are. Ray made his way to the bar with a confident yet nonchalant swagger. He was known here: known as a real low-life no-hoper like most of the rest of the clientele. It had taken weeks of hard graft to make the customers form that impression of him.

After weaving his way through the throng he reached the counter and called out to the tattooed, muscle bound bartender with the killer eyes. 'Hey, Chuck! How's it goin'? You still single?' This was the sort of banter for which he was known and liked in here. He laughed. 'Life's a bitch, huh? Listen,' he added as he leant closer to the still-silent but definitely deadly-looking Chuck. 'Listen, do me a favour. I'm looking for a friend of mine -'

'Then you're in the wrong neighbourhood. Ray.' Chuck's smile was more oj a snarl. 'You've got no friends here.'

Ray laughed. Good old Chuck. 'Aw, come on, Chuck. I got nothing but friends. Everybody likes me.' He held out both hands. 'I do business with everybody.' Then he leant forward again and lowered his voice. 'I'd particularly like to do a little business with Frankie Drake.'

His voice was not low enough. Several of his 'friends' had heard his last remark. A few of the less friendly-looking ones flexed their fists and rolled up their sleeves.

Ray failed to register this display of warmth. 'You seen Frankie around?' he asked Chuck.

'You know, Ray?' replied the bartender with a glint in his eye. 'It's the strangest thing, but every time I introduce you to someone, the caps are here.'

Ray shrugged, 'I had some unreliable people working for me, Chuck. It happens. What can I say?'

'I don't know. Use your imagination.'

But Ray didn't have any time to do that. Instead, his friends used theirs. The two men nearest grabbed him, turned him round and pressed him up against the bar.

'Hey!' Ray tried a smile. 'What the hell's going on? Guys?'

Rather than waste words replying, the guys began to frisk him. It took precisely five seconds of searching for them to find his gun. Ray looked in horror as one of the men extracted it from his waistband, weighed it in his hand and then looked, not fondly, at its owner.

Realizing that he had seen happier times - meeting the wolf, for instance, now seemed like a polite social occasion - Ray looked from one face to the other. 'Hey, come on!' he protested with a forced smile. 'Just because I carry a gun, does that make me a cop?'

The answer - especially the one from the man who took a beer bottle and broke it on the counter next to Ray - was perfectly clear.

'OK, OK.' Ray held up both hands and tried another brave smile. He wasn't feeling at all brave. He was feeling, in fact, that he could really do with reinforcements. 'Now, maybe I offended some of you guys but -1 know, I know!' Suddenly, his eyes lit up. 'I'll give five hundred dollars to anybody who knows what a moose sounds like.'

The moose call, however, was not needed. The cavalry, in the form of Benton booting the door down, arrived on cue. The Mountie made, even for him, a very impressive entrance. Diefenbaker was with him. The fact that the wolf had managed to emerge from a locked car was due to the gang of youths who were, at that moment, running screaming down the street, swearing to abandon a life of crime.

Everyone in the club turned and stared, open-mouthed, at the apparition in front of them. A Mountie. In Chicago? Most of them had only ever seen pictures of Mounties before: impossibly square-jawed young men with impassive faces and an innate air of authority. Now, standing before them, was a real-live square-jawed young man with an impassive face and an innate air of authority. He seemed completely unruffled.

Only one man standing in the shadows at the back of the room, was alarmed rather than worried. That man was Frankie Drake. He had dealt with Mounties before: dealt with them in his own inimitable fashion. He hadn't, however, expected any repercussions from those dealings. He slunk further into the corner.

'Excuse me,' said Benton. 'Can I have your attention, please?'

The question was unnecessary: all eyes were still trained on him. Ray's eyes were the only ones that betrayed relief as well as astonishment. Never again, he swore to himself, would he liken Benton to a fire hydrant.

'Thank you,' continued Benton to the assembled thugs. 'Now, anyone carrying illegal weapons - if you would place them on the bar. You are,' he added as he stepped forward, 'under arrest.'

His audience, however, had other ideas. In unison, every man in the bar pulled out a weapon and aimed it at Benton. Uzis, Smith and Wessons and even the odd Kalashnikov pointed their lethal barrels at the Mountie. One man - a bit squeamish when it came to carrying a gun - threw a knife at Benton. It flew, straight as a dart and extremely fast, across the room and embedded itself in the wall six inches from Benton's face.

Benton hardly moved a muscle. He looked at the knife, then at the man who had thrown it. 'You realize,' Benton said, in chilling imitation - the man thought - of his headmaster at school all those years ago, 'that I'm going to have to confiscate that?'

The guy, thought Ray, is completely unreal. He changed his mind about the fire hydrant. Why, in fact, did he find himself changing his mind so often about Benton?

'Hey, Dudley-Do-Right!' yelled a man in a black vest with muscles on his muscles. 'You got no jurisdiction here.'

Benton nodded. 'Now, that is true, sir.

However,' he added as he turned to Ray, 'this gentleman does.' Ray couldn't believe his ears. With all eyes fixed on Benton, he had, surreptitiously, been reaching for his own gun, now lying forgotten on the bar counter. Now, suddenly, he was the centre of attention again. Great, he thought. How long have I known Benton Fraser? And how many times has he blown my cover? Then he looked at the angry faces around him and remembered that the cover, never exactly all-enveloping in the first place, had been firmly and comprehensively blown away before Benton's arrival. He supposed, grudgingly, that he ought to be grateful to his friend.

'Ray?' Benton, too, was looking at him. 'Would you be so good as to show these gentlemen your ID?'

Ray sighed and reached into his breast pocket.

'And now,' continued Benton, 'if you would all just step back. Detective Ray Vecchio and I will collect your weapons.'

Ray could see that the majority of the men in the bar were thinking that this guy was unreal. A couple of the men blinked a few times, just to make sure they weren't imagining this whole scenario; just to make sure they hadn't been transported into a cartoon strip. One of their number finally found his voice. 'Would it be asking too much,' he said, 'to show us your gun?'

Benton smiled and reached into his holster. 'No not at all.'

Pulling out his gun, he held it up in the air. 'I carry a standard thirty-eight calibre Smith and Wesson service revolver.' He cocked the weapon.

The men in the bar began to look a lot less confident. Ray, however, perked up no end. Good old Benton, he thought. Catching them off guard.

Unnoticed by the men around him, he reached again for his own gun.

Benton smiled and waved the Smith and Wesson around. 'And without a local licence I am not permitted to use it. So that,' he finished, 'is why the gun is empty.'

But Ray's gun was loaded. He snatched it and lunged forward. So did one of the customers: forward at Benton. He had a beer bottle in his hand and, from the way he was holding it, had something other than drinking on his mind. But he had reckoned without Diefenbaker. The wolf, up till now as unruffled as his master, leapt forward and bit the man's wrist. Yelping with pain, he dropped the bottle - straight into Benton's outstretched hand.

'Thank you,' said Benton. Then, as Ray trained his gun on the room at large, he began to collect the weapons from the other men. Stunned by the Mountie's behaviour and by the presence of the terrifying wolf, they offered little resistance. Thank you,' said Benton again. And then, as he picked up an abandoned Uzi, 'You're a model citizen.' Its owner just stared. 'Thank you,' repeated the Mountie as he collected his booty.

'You!' yelled Ray suddenly, to a man who was reluctant to part with his weapon. 'You behind the bar!' He pointed his gun. 'Don't even think about it, Scarface.'

Benton carried on collecting. 'Thank you. Thank you.' He looked at a box of ammunition proffered by a man cowering in front of Diefenbaker.

The wolf wondered idly why he had such a startling effect on people in Chicago. He yawned and licked his lips, sending tremors down the man's spine. Perhaps, mused Dief, Chicagoans didn't keep pets. That would probably explain it. His master looked at the box of ammunition. 'I'll be back for those,' he said with a smile.

There was one person in the bar who had no intention of relinquishing his weapon. Still deep in the shadows, Frankie Drake cocked the rifle that was stashed handily about his person. Then he swung round and aimed it at Ray.

Ray registered the movement out of the corner of his eye. 'Yo!' he yelled. 'Lower the gun. Batman!'

But Batman didn't lower: he fired. The shot missed - but the point was made. Ray, Benton and Diefenbaker dived for cover. The other customers did likewise. Frankie Drake, they knew, wasn't too picky about who he fired at once he was annoyed.

And, judging by the bottles exploding everywhere as he continued to fire, it was clear that Frankie was none too pleased.

Crouching behind an overturned table. Ray popped up and fired a few rounds. More bottles were blown to bits. A stray bullet ripped through the baize of the pool table in the corner - and Drake kept firing. Realizing that he had used all his bullets. Ray popped down again. Scrabbling in his pocket for another round, he turned to Benton.

'Who the hell,' he seethed, 'carries an unloaded gun? Would I carry an unloaded gun? Would somebody I know carry an unloaded gun? Christ! What do they shoot people with in Canada? Serviettes?'

'Well, Ray, the thing is -'

But Ray wasn't interested in Benton's response. Ready for action again, he raised his head - just in time to see Frankie Drake running out of the door.

'Great,' he said as he sank to his knees.

'What's great. Ray?'

'Nothing's great!' Ray jumped to his feet again.Agitated - and not just from all that bobbing up and down - he surveyed the club. It was a wreck. Seemingly, every glass and bottle in the place was shattered. Most of the tables were broken. The wall clock, he noted, had taken a direct hit. And the chairs that hadn't been broken by the customers diving for cover had been damaged when they fled the club. The place was now empty.

Benton rose to his feet and surveyed the debris. 'Ah,' he said. Then he turned to Ray and smiled. 'Well, at least we're on the right track.'

"Whadya mean, "right track"?'

'Well, that was Drake, wasn't it? I recognized the nose. Although,' he added as he smoothed the creases in his uniform, 'I think I'd call him muscular rather than fat.'

'Oh would you now?'

'Yes. You see, before we found him -'

'Benton?'

'Yes?'

'We haven't found him. We've lost him.'

Benton looked at the deserted room. 'Ah. Yes. So we have. Well, at least we've found out something about him.'

'And what's that, Benton? That he's trigger happy with a rifle?'

'No. That he rides a motorbike. He was carrying a helmet, you see, when he ran out of the bar.'

'Well, ain't that just dandy?' Still seething, Ray marched towards what was left of the door. 'Nice to know our France's a law-abiding citizen.'

At that moment, the 'law-abiding citizen' was, thanks to the motorbike, already miles away - in a phone booth. 'Francis Drake,' he said to the person who had answered his call. Then he rolled his eyes.

'Yeah, like the explorer - I've never heard that one before. Look, just put him on, will ya?' A moment later he was speaking to the person he never thought he'd see again. 'I thought,' he said through gritted teeth, 'you said there weren't going to be any complications?' A pause, as he listened. Then, 'Yeah, yeah, well,' he continued, 'there's a big one. And it's wearing a hat.' Something akin to a high-pitched squeak assailed his ears. 'No,' he said in response. 'I'll take care of him myself, but. . . uh, I'm afraid there'll be an additional charge. Oh yes, sir,' he added with a smile. 'My pleasure.'

Chapter Five

Benton's apartment in Chicago - found for him by Lee-Anne - was horrible. It was in the distinctly insalubrious west side of the city and boasted little in the way of creature comforts. Initially, Lee-Anne had been delighted with her efforts: now she rather regretted them. It wasn't, after all, Benton's fault she wasn't now deputy liaison officer. And it wasn't, she supposed, his fault that she was now attracted to him: all he had done was be polite to her. Considering her own, monstrous behaviour, that was no mean achievement. Furthermore, Lee-Anne had, belatedly, learnt of Benton's father's death. This made her feel especially awful. The poor man needed comfort, not criticism. He needed to be loved, not lampooned. He needed, in short, Lee-Anne. And he certainly didn't need such an armpit of an apartment.

Lee-Anne would have been surprised to know that Benton didn't care one way or the other about the apartment. Nothing in Chicago, he knew would compare to the log cabin somewhere in the middle of nowhere in the Northwest Territories.

So, when he had seen the armpit, it hadn't bothered him one bit. It was, anyway, only a temporary base.

Diefenbaker, of course, turned his nose up at the place, but then Diefenbaker was extremely choosy. Benton never dared say it to his face, but it often occurred to him that, for a wolf. Dief was a bit of a wimp. Increasingly, he was becoming fond of his creature comforts.

The morning after the debacle at the nightclub, he left Dief to the creature comforts of the sparsely furnished, dark, dank apartment and made his way to the police station to meet Ray.

The Chicago policeman's mood had, if anything, worsened overnight.

'Good morning. Ray,' said Benton.

'No,' replied Ray. 'It isn't. Not at all. There is nothing good about this morning.'

'Oh.' Concerned, Benton looked at his new friend. 'Bad night?'

Ray snorted. 'Well, you were there. It wasn't exactly what I'd call a roaring success.'

'No, but. ..'

'And now Walsh,' - Ray inclined his head towards the inner office - 'wants to see us.'

'Walsh?'

'Yes. Captain Walsh. Head honcho of this precinct.'

'Oh. What does he want to see us about?'

'Last night.'

'Ah.' Benton stood up. 'Perhaps,' he volunteered, 'he's got a lead on Frankie Drake?'

Perhaps you don't have a brain, thought Ray. Captain John Walsh was not in a good mood. Apart from the fact that he had had a bad night, he had also just received the news about Detective Ray Vecchio's activities of the previous evening. Vecchio, he knew, was prone to rushing in where even the Guardian Angels feared to tread. But surely there had been no need to create quite such an impression.

He was sitting behind his desk as Ray and Benton entered the room. He did not look up. Nor did he say hello. Instead, he picked up a piece of paper and started reading. 'One solid-oak bar,' he began. 'Sixteen tables. Twelve chairs.' Briefly, he looked up. Vecchio was expressionless. So was the Mountie. Walsh looked down and, with exquisite slowness, continued itemizing last night's casualties. 'One etched mirror - six by nine. One antique pool table. Two doors. Thirty-two bottles of liquor. One neon clock.' Then he put the list down and glared at Ray. 'Does this seem like a fairly accurate list of the damages. Detective Vecchio?'

Ray shook his head. 'I don't believe the pool table was antique, sir.'

Walsh paused before replying. Was the man being flippant? It was difficult to tell. He was never sure if Vecchio was intelligent enough to be flippant. The statement, anyway, was irrelevant.

Without taking his eyes off the detective, Walsh picked up a large plastic bag from his desk. 'Well, we'll never know about that, will we? Because, Detective Vecchio, this is all that's left of that table.' He dangled the bag in front of Ray. This bag of felt.'

'Ah.' Ray shuffled his feet. 'You see, sir, when the suspect pointed a gun in my direction and fired repeatedly I -'

'Ah,' echoed Walsh in a distinctly ominous tone.

'The suspect. I'm glad we've got around to that because I would hate to think that we're responsible for all this damage without a very good reason.'

'No, sir, we're not. The suspect -'

'And what made you decide there was a suspect, Detective?'

'His nose, sir.'

'His nose?'

'Yes, sir.'

'I see,' replied Walsh, who didn't see at all. Then, remembering that Ray Vecchio had a thing about noses, he leant forward. 'You didn't. Detective, say something about this man's nose, thereby causing him to fire repeatedly into the bar?'

'No, sir.'

'Oh, I see. You just felt that his nose was so offensive that you decided to pursue and arrest him.'

Ray shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. Why was it that Walsh always managed to make him look so stupid? 'Captain,' he said in an attempt at explanation, 'the suspect is a known felon, and, you see, I had this hunch that -'

'Ah! You had a hunch.' Walsh laughed. The sound had a high, slightly desperate edge to it. 'A hunch.' Walsh stood up and walked round his desk. 'And you coupled your hunch with your positive identification of his nose! And this was the basis for your investigation. An investigation,' he continued as he snatched another piece of paper, 'that resulted in the injury of seven people - three with gunshot wounds, two with broken limbs, one hospitalized with concussion and one' - he peered, disbelieving, at what he was reading - 'who claims to have been bitten by a wolf.'

Ray bit his lip. 'The wolf was just trying to help, sir.'

'Of course.' Walsh nodded. They usually are.'

Respectfully silent up till now, Benton sought to come to Ray's rescue. He held up a hand; 'If I could say something, sir?'

Walsh looked at Benton. He had deliberately tried to ignore him, hoping, perhaps, that he might disappear into thin air. Walsh's own sanity, after all, seemed to be in danger of doing just that. He smiled in a strained, tight-lipped fashion. 'Well, of course you can, young man. I'm not exactly sure how a Mountie fits into this case but - well, I like to keep an open mind.'

Benton nodded. 'It was at my urging that I Detective Vecchio went into the bar.'

Walsh considered his options. Waking up and ending this nightmare was the most appealing - but something told him that was unlikely to happen.

He took a deep breath. 'So,' he said as he exhaled, 'it wasn't just a hunch about a nose' - he turned back to Ray - 'You went there at the urging of a Mountie.'

Ray just smiled. There was, he knew, no point in replying. When Walsh was in one of his making-everything-sound-ridiculous moods, there was little that anyone could do.

Walsh sat down at his desk again. He felt more sane, somehow, the further he was from these two men. 'Detective,' he said to Ray. 'How many open, unsolved crimes are on your desk right now?'

'Er, forty-one.'

Walsh then addressed Benton. 'And what about you? How many open, unsolved cases are you working on right now?'

'One, sir.'

'One.' Walsh nodded. Why was this no surprise to him? 'Good.' Then he turned back to Ray. 'Then, as intrigued as I am by this case, let me suggest that you go back to your desk. And,' he continued in a chilling voice, 'you pick up any one of those open forty-one files, and you put your nose into it, and you keep it there until you have an epiphany. Got it?'

Ray got it. 'Yes, sir.'

'Yes.' The word was a dismissal. Walsh had had a bad day. A pity, he mused, that most of the day was yet to come.

Wisely deciding that there would be no point in hanging around in Walsh's office - they could become friends later - Benton followed Ray back to his desk. He felt in. no small way responsible for the present state of affairs. 'I'll write up a report,' he offered. 'I'm sure he'll see this was all my responsibility.'

'Yeah, thanks.' Ray smiled. He knew Benton meant well: it was just such a shame they had done so catastrophically badly so far. He looked gloomily at the pile of messages on his desk and started flicking through them. One, to his surprise, was for Benton. 'Hey,' he said as he read it. 'This is for you. From a Doctor somebody.'

'A telephone message?' Benton was intrigued. Wouldn't the sensible thing be for people to leave messages at the consulate? Then he recalled Moffat. And Lee-Anne. Perhaps not. He leant forward and took the piece of paper.

'So it says,' Ray replied. 'From Canada.'

Benton frowned. He recognized the name, but couldn't place it for a moment. Then he remembered. This doctor was a real doctor - nothing to do with dentists, real or fake. He was a coroner.

One of Benton's last acts before leaving Canada had been to return yet again to the scene of hiss father's death, to pick up one of the dead caribou and to take it to the mortuary. The Inuit's comment that the animals had died from drinking too much was just too odd for words. Benton needed to know exactly how they died - and if their deaths were in any way related to that of his father.

The coroner hadn't been quite as surprised by Benton's request as a coroner in, say, Chicago would have been. Deaths were few and far between in the Northwest Territories and he was happy to investigate any or all of them. And now it seemed he had established the real cause of the caribou's death. Benton's heart missed a beat. He leant over the desk and indicated Ray's phone. 'May I?'

'Be my guest.'

Benton was right. The number was indeed that of the coroner's office. 'Coroner's Office,' said the voice on the other end of the line. The voice, Benton recalled, of the coroner himself.

'It's Constable Fraser,' said Benton. 'Returning your call.''

'Oh yeah ... I was just about to put this thing in the mail for you: the lab report on the autopsy I did on that caribou you dropped off.' There was a pause while the coroner consulted his report. 'It drowned.'

Benton wasn't sure he had heard correctly. 'I'm sorry? What did you say?'

'I said it drowned. Lungs were full of water. That do anything for you?'

'Oh.' Yes, thought Benton, it did. What had the Inuit said? It 'just drank too much'? 'You mean,' he asked the coroner, 'that it drank too much?'

'Well... yeah ... that's another way of looking at it.' From the tone of the coroner's voice, it was clear he thought it an extremely peculiar way of looking at it. But then Benton Fraser, he recalled, was extremely peculiar. 'Look,' he added, 'you want me to mail you the report?'

'Yes. Yes I would. Thank you kindly.' Benton replaced the receiver and turned to Ray. 'How much do I owe you?'

'Uh ... for what?'

'The phone call.'

'Oh don't be so -' Ray checked himself in time. 'Nothing,' he said with a smile. 'Except an explanation.'

Looking pensive, Benton sat down on the chair opposite Ray's. 'A hundred yards from where my father died,' he explained, 'I found the carcasses of several dozen caribou. I took one of them to the coroner.' He frowned and looked at Ray. 'He did an autopsy. Says it drowned.'

'And there was I thinking they were such great swimmers.'

'They didn't have to be,' said Benton. 'They drowned on dry land.'

'Eh?' Ray didn't get this. Not at all.

Benton, however, was still miles away. In the Northwest Territories, beside a whole bunch of dead caribou. Only half aware that Ray was still there, he rose to his feet. Then he remembered something. Delving into his pocket, he extracted a dollar and dropped in on to Ray's desk. 'For the call,' he said. 'And I really appreciate you putting yourself out for me.'

Ray shook his head as he watched Benton make his way to the exit. What was it with this guy? he wondered. One minute you felt like killing him; the next you felt that he was your best friend. One thing was for sure - Benton Fraser was full of surprises.

Benton spent the rest of the day at the consulate. Lee-Anne, he was pleased to see, had completely abandoned her earlier hostility. She even - after she had recovered from her terror-tinged surprise - made a special effort with Diefenbaker. Dief returned the compliment. No fool he, he reckoned that if he got on the right side of Lee-Anne, his stay in Chicago would be all the more pleasant. He knew all about consulates: they were awash with all manner of expensive, diplomatic biscuits, canapes and sandwiches. Lee-Anne would, he was sure, soon take pity on a starving wolf.

But it was Benton who was the object of Lee- Anne's pity. He looked so miserable. Racked with guilt about the combination pencil holder and the pot plant, she sought to make amends with offers of tea, biscuits, sandwiches - anything to cheer him up. Dief pricked up his ears at every offer, yet Benton declined.

By the evening, Lee-Anne noted that even the poor wolf looked depressed. He had also begun to throw her some distinctly unfriendly looks. That made her feel even more guilty: she made a mental note to buy some dog food the next day.

Benton's depression was due to his resounding lack of success in tracking down his father's killer. Ray, he knew, had been trying his best - yet he also knew that, as far as the Chicago PD was concerned, this case was a very low priority indeed. What was the death of some old Mountie in Canada compared with forty-one unsolved crimes in Chicago? The deaths of the caribou also weighed heavily on Benton's mind. Was it a coincidence that his father had died in the same location? Were the two directly linked? And, if so, why? Benton wished, for perhaps the first time in his life, that his father was around to give him some advice.

Then he remembered. Throughout the entire forty years of his career in the RCMP, Bob Fraser had kept a journal. He had never let his son look at it: now he had little to say in the matter. Apprehensive about reading the notebooks, Benton had nevertheless taken a couple of them with him to Chicago.

He left the consulate that evening with one of them tucked under his arm. His plan was to go to the diner he had found near his apartment and read it. He could even, he mused, have something to eat while he was reading. Americans, he now knew, were very peculiar about their eating habits. If the magazines he had read were to be believed, they all spent inordinate amounts of money on state-of-the-art kitchens to go with their beautifully furnished, up-to-the-minute apartments. Then they went out to eat. They never, as far as Benton could work out, ate at home. Hence, he supposed, the endless numbers of diners, delis, trattorias, restaurants and tavernas all over the place. It was most odd.

Lee-Anne left the building at the same time as Benton and Dief - a carefully planned coincidence on her part. She had spent years in Chicago and knew, as Benton did not, that dating was like everything else in the city. It had to be carefully engineered and minutely planned. Nothing could be left to accident. Then, as they stood on the doorstep, she saw the look on Benton's face. This was neither the time nor the place. Anyway, perhaps she was rushing things a bit: the episode over showing him his office was still fresh in her mind. She made a mental note to buy him a new pot plant.

'Which way are you going?' she said with a smile.

Wordlessly, Benton pointed in a downtown direction. Oh yes, thought Lee-Anne, I should have known that. I found him the apartment. More guilt pangs assailed her.

'I'm . . . er, I'm going in the opposite direction.' Embarrassed now, she held up a hand to hail a taxi. Benton, being Benton, shot forward as soon as the taxi came to a halt. For a moment Lee-Anne's heart pounded and her brain raced ahead into, perhaps, a bedroom. Then she realized that Benton was merely opening the taxi door for her. His face, as he did so, was still infinitely sad. Lee-Anne suppressed all the bad habits she had learnt since coming to America. She touched Benton on the arm and looked into his eyes. 'You know,' she said with great gentleness, 'we even heard about your father down here. He was ... quite a man.'

'Yes,' Benton gave her a sweet smile. 'He was a great man.'

Lee-Anne lowered herself into the taxi and gave the driver directions. Still smiling, Benton leant through the open passenger window. He felt a new and unexpected warmth towards Lee-Anne. Gone from his mind were his uncharitable thoughts about her being an adopted-American power-hungry hard-hearted harpy. He beckoned to the taxi driver with a crisp, folded note. 'Walk her to the door,' he said.

The taxi driver unfurled the note. 'This,' he said in a lofty voice, 'is Canadian.'

'Yes,' replied Benton. 'So is she.'

As the taxi moved off, Benton headed in the opposite direction. Diefenbaker, he knew, would not be allowed in the diner. He would have to be dropped off at the apartment to which he seemed to have taken such a dislike. He bent down to the wolf. Dief looked happily up at his master, little suspecting his fate. Benton, on the other hand, little suspected that Dief, in revenge for being abandoned, would spend the evening happily eating the sofa. It was the kind of relationship they had.

'I'm going to the diner,' explained Benton, 'to read through my father's journals. I'm hoping I might find some sort of clue that could lead me to his ... uh ... the cause of his death.'

Dief looked up again. When did Benton think he had been born? Yesterday? Come on, Benton, he felt like saying. You're going to look for a clue into your father's psyche - not his murder. Yet he didn't say it: it would be too cruel. Besides, he was a wolf and couldn't speak anyway.

In the diner, Benton ordered a coffee, sat down and opened his father's journal. The date of this one he noted, was 1969, and the first entry had been written on 10 January. He could, he fancied, almost hear his father's voice as he read his words:

I tracked him up to the pass half a mile fromaaa the border. How he got there I don't know -aaa but he was lying inches away from the sheeraaa drop. His ankle was broken and his ammum-aaa tion was spent. I took the gun off withwithouaaa any trouble. His only words were don t tellaaa my son'. Then he jumped.

He was falling to his death,' ran the well-remembered scrawl, -and all he cared about was how his son would remember him...' Benton bunked away something that suspiciously resembled a tear. Then he continued reading. The next words, unsurprisingly, concerned Benton himself:

The last time I saw Ben he was barely tallaaa enough to reach my belt. When I said goodbyeaaa he shook my hand - never a tear or a cornaaa plaint. Seven years old and he's already aaaa stronger man than I'll ever be. Someday I'llaaa tell him that.

Benton suspected he would have burst into tears if what had happened next had not happened. But happen it did. Ray Vecchio walked into the diner.

Benton sniffed, snapped the journal shut and forced a smile.

'Ray! How did you know I'd be here?'

Ray shrugged and sat down. 'Well, you were hardly likely to be eating at home, were you?'

'Er . .. well, no. But actually, I'm not eating.'

'You know,' said Ray, 'I started thinking when you left. . .'

Benton couldn't help grinning. 'You mean you've solved all those forty-one cases?'

Ray, too, grinned. 'Yeah, well, I got restless and made a couple of calls -' Suddenly he stopped mid-flow. 'You want the truth?' Sometimes playing the wise-cracking wise guy was just too much. Anyway, Benton's case really intrigued him.

Benton smiled and nodded. He was, Ray noted, looking uncharacteristically pale. Maybe it was the light in the diner.

'OK,' he said. 'I checked every snitch I ever knew. No one knows Drake. No one wants to know me.' He looked across the table at Benton. He owed the guy the truth. He owed it to this poor bereaved Canadian to tell him that the trail had gone cold. His father's unsolved murder would remain just that.

Benton didn't reply.

'Hey!' said Ray in an attempt to say something - anything - that would lighten the atmosphere.

'What's this?'

'What's what?'

'This.' Ray pointed to Bob Fraser's journal.

'Oh.' Benton smiled ruefully. 'My father's journal. I was just.. . just reading.'

'Looking for something you missed?'

'Uh .. . yeah. You could say that.'

Ray looked closely at the title page of the notebook. 'Hey - 1969. You've gone backwards.' He leant forward. 'Find anything?'

For the first time since Ray had known him, Benton looked really depressed. 'I don't know,' he said in a small voice.

Ray wasn't very used to this sort of genuine display of emotion from a Canadian. His fellow Americans, of course, displayed all sorts of emotions all the time. Yet most of the time they were crying wolf. He suppressed a grin: crying Diefenbaker?

'Look,' he said as he leant closer to Benton. 'I know how you must feel. If it was my old man, well ... I'd be the last person he'd want on the case. He pretty much thought I'd screwed up on everything I ever touched.' Am I really saying this? thought Ray. Am I really telling this guy the truth about something so personal? Yes, he realized, I am. 'Y'know,' he continued, 'he's been dead for five years now and I still feel I have to prove myself to him. Did, er . . . did your old man want you to be a cop?'

Benton shrugged. 'I don't know. All those years . . . and I can't remember him ever asking me one single thing.' He looked Ray in the eye. This is the only time he's ever needed my help.'

Ray had something in his eye. He needed to change the subject.

'You got other family, Benton?'

'No.'

Ray stood up. Suddenly he was wreathed in smiles. 'Come on. I'll show you why you're a lucky man.'

Ray wondered how Benton would cope with his family. If he found Chicago something of a culture shock, he would probably find that the Vecchios were in a league - and possibly on a planet - of their own. Furthermore, they tended to lapse into Italian when things became heated: and mealtimes in the Vecchio household were always heated affairs.

On the journey to Ray's home, Benton made a few polite enquiries about the family. Ray wondered how much to tell him.

'Well,' he said. 'There's my ma - she's the matriarchal one. Italians are a very matriarchal society, you see. She tries to keep the peace.'

'Oh?' Benton, a stranger to the concept of family warfare, looked round in surprise. 'You mean your family argue a lot?'

'Well . . . Maria and Francesca do. And, er . . . Giovanni and Paolo fight a bit. But Marco and Elena,' he added brightly, 'get on like a house on fire.' That, he mused, was only too true. Sparks flew when houses burnt, didn't they?

Benton was completely taken aback. 'You mean you've got six brothers and sisters?'

'Uh . . . seven, actually. I'm one of eight. But we're never all there at the same time.'

'Ah. So who'll be there this evening?'

'Just Maria and Francesca. And, er ... Tony.'

'Tony?'

'Maria's husband. And the kids'll be there as well.'

'Maria and Tony's kids?'

'Yeah. There's just the three of them.'

'Oh.' Benton paused for a moment, digesting the bloodlines.

'And Francesca? Is she married?'

Ray shook his head. 'Divorced. But,' he added with a glint in his eye, 'she's open to suggestion. Francesca isn't much of a once-bitten-twice-shy sort of girl.'

'Oh.'

'I guess,' said Ray as he turned into the street where the Vecchio clan lived, 'you'll find it kinda different from what you're used to. It can get a little noisy around mealtimes.'

Ray's mother greeted Benton like a long-lost son. Despite the fact that Ray had given her no warning of his arrival for dinner, she clasped him to her large, Italian bosom with cries of 'bellissimo ragazzo!' and then thrust him into the bosom of her large, Italian family. That family, already seated round the dinner table, eyed him with polite interest and then went back to their meal and their shouting. Sensing Benton's surprise. Ray whispered that to be treated as part of the furniture in the Vecchio family was a compliment and not an insult. Benton nodded uneasily and took his place at the table. He was sitting between Ray and a dark-haired man whose name he had already forgotten. It was, he thought, probably Enrico. On the other hand, it could have been Antonio. Or Guido. Or Carlo. No, Carlo was definitely the little boy opposite him. Or hadn't he been introduced as Bambino? Benton sighed and gave up. The next minute Mrs Vecchio deposited an overflowing plateful of pasta in front of him. At the same time she shouted something incomprehensible to one of her daughters at the other end of the table.

'Thank you kindly,' said Benton as he eyed the mountain of food. 'It's very kind of you to -'

'No,' shouted Mrs Vecchio. 'You are not getting an annulment.' Benton dropped his fork. 'Ma!' the daughter shouted back. 'How can you say that? The man is an animal.'

'You are among friends,' said Mrs Vecchio to Benton. 'You can use your fingers.'

'Oh. Thank you.' Benton looked down at his food. Pasta? Fingers?

But Mrs Vecchio was again engaged in shouting at her daughter.

'A man,' she said as she winked at the man who had just been described as an animal, 'who buys his wife a leopard-print housecoat is no beast, eh?'

The daughter - Benton thought she was probably Maria - snorted derisively and rammed a large chunk of bread into^the mouth of the screaming child on her lap. 'Huh! For our anniversary present. A housecoat.'

Benton busied himself with his pasta.

'Five years,' screeched Maria to the man - or animal - who was presumably her husband. 'Five years we've been together and all he can come up with is a used housecoat!'

The husband - Tony, remembered Benton - glared back. 'It was not used. A guy I know just happened to sell lingerie out of a truck.'

Maria picked up her fork and waved it at her husband. Then she screamed something in Italian. Ray turned to Benton. 'You make any sense out of the dead caribou?' A spot of normal conversation, he felt, was what Benton needed.

'Uh ... no.' Benton, however, was listening with only half an ear. The rest of his hearing apparatus was tuned into what was happening opposite him.

The girl two places down from Maria had entered the clamorous fray.

'Francesca!' boomed Mrs Vecchio. 'You stay out of this.'

'Ma!'

'Oh thank you,' spat Maria. Thank you very much, Ma.' Then she added something, sotto voce, that caused Francesca to flare up again.

Benton turned back to Ray. 'Is it always like this?'

'Yeah, but it's OK. They only attack the ones they love.'

'I'll tell you the problem, Ma,' began Tony the animal.

'Don't you call her Ma!' yelled his wife. Then she lunged into the middle of the table to retrieve the dish that Tony had just stolen from her. 'And get your own polenta.' She jerked a hand towards the kitchen.

Tony saw red. 'She's my mother-in-law and I'll call her what I like. You understand?'

'All right. Stop the arguing.' Mrs Vecchio held up a hand and smiled apologetically at Benton. 'I'll get the polenta.'

'No, Ma.' This from Francesca. 'Don't touch the polenta. He can get his own.'

This, however, did not please Maria. 'He's my husband,' she growled. 'I will tell him to get the polenta.'

Benton pushed back his chair and stood up. 'Uh . . . perhaps I could get the polenta.'

'Good idea,' replied Tony. 'Would you bring the whole pan please?'

'Sure.' Benton left the room. Easy solutions, he reflected, were evidently not the thing in the Vecchio family. Why make do with a molehill when you can have a mountain?

With a worried frown creasing her forehead, Mrs Vecchio turned to Ray. 'He's very nice,' she added. 'So polite, but...'

'He's Canadian, Ma.'

'Ah.' His mother nodded. 'I thought he might be sick or something.'

'Is he married?' asked Francesca.

'Ray?' asked Benton from the open door of the kitchen. 'Er ... polenta? What does it look like?'

'Uh ... sorta like yellow pemmican.'

'At least my husband,' said Francesca to Tony, 'never yelled at the dinner table.'

'Huh. Maybe that's because he wasn't around long enough to have a full meal.'

Francesca let fly with a torrent of Italian abuse. Temporarily forgetting that her husband was a beast and an animal, Maria rose to his defence.

Two of the children started screaming and Mrs Vecchio, determined not to be outshone, threw both hands in the air and sent up a loud prayer to the Almighty.

Ray, however, was deep in thought. Something in the conversation had triggered a memory - something about husbands and wives. What was it? Suddenly, Ray remembered. He jumped to his feet at the same time as Benton returned to the room. 'His wife!' he shouted in triumph.

'I've found the polenta,' said Benton.

'Huh?' The entire Vecchio family turned, mid-shout, and looked at Ray. Was there another, better argument brewing? The polenta could wait.

'Whose wife?' snarled Tony, a man experienced in the subject of other people's wives.

'His wife!' Ray turned to Benton. 'Don't you see?'

'No.'

Ray shook his head in exasperation. 'Frankie's, you fool.'

'Don't call me Frankie!' yelled Francesca.

'Who are you calling a fool?' thundered Tony.

'He broke her arm,' said Ray, grabbing Benton's arm.

Mrs Vecchio sent up another prayer.

'Who's arm. Ray?'

Ray took a deep breath. 'Frankie Drake broke his wife's arm.'

'Well of course he did,' spat Francesca. 'He's a man, isn't he?'

'Oh!' Maria pounced on that one with gleeful disdain. 'I see. All men are evil - just because you can't keep one. Is that it?'

'We've gotta go,' said Ray.

Benton thrust the polenta pan into Mrs Vecchio's ample bosom.

'I'll get my hat.'

'See,' said Ray. 'We find the ex-wife - we find Drake. This is a woman who'd love to see him behind bars.'

'Thank you very much for dinner,' said Benton as he returned from the hallway with his hat.

'But you hardly ate a thing.' Mrs Vecchio was horrified. How could a man do his j