STORM ROLL: a Canadian murder mystery series
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STORM ROLL
A Canadian murder mystery series
Kathy Garthwaite
Published by
THE BOOK FOLKS
London, 2021
© Kathy Garthwaite
Polite note to the reader
This book is written in Canadian English except where fidelity to other languages or accents is appropriate.
You are invited to visit www.thebookfolks.com and sign up to our mailing list to hear about new releases, free book promotions and other special offers.
We hope you enjoy the book.
This volume comprises all three books in a trilogy of murder mysteries featuring Inspector William Gibson of the Vancouver Island Integrated Major Crime Unit by Kathy Garthwaite: MURDER ON VANCOUVER ISLAND, MURDER AT LAKE ONTARIO and MURDER ON THE SAANICH PENINSULA.
Each of the novels in this series can also be enjoyed as a standalone. All three books are FREE with Kindle Unlimited and available in paperback. Full details about the other formats for the books in this series can be found at the end of this one.
MURDER ON VANCOUVER ISLAND
Inspector Gibson cuts short a jaunt in his beloved kayak to attend a murder inquiry. The investigation soon meets a brick wall, but he suspects the victim’s co-workers are involved. He must act quickly before the case, like the weather, goes cold.
MURDER AT LAKE ONTARIO
The veteran detective is flown out to the east of the country to help set up a major crimes task force. He soon has a murder on his hands when a local shopkeeper is found dead on the beach. Estranged from his melancholic wife, Gibson’s loyalties become divided.
MURDER ON THE SAANICH PENINSULA
When a woman is found murdered near Sidney Pier, Inspector William Gibson immediately suspects her husband is responsible. His junior partner is not so sure. But as the truth emerges it has a knock-on effect that will change the detective’s life forever. And not in a good way.
Table of Contents
MURDER ON VANCOUVER ISLAND
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
MURDER AT LAKE ONTARIO
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
MURDER ON THE SAANICH PENINSULA
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Other formats for the Inspector William Gibson series
Kathy Garthwaite’s new series
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MURDER ON VANCOUVER ISLAND
Hatred, prejudice, or a heinous crime without motive?
Kathy Garthwaite
Chapter 1
It surprised David Hunter to see all the doors were closed. Was he the first one here today? It rarely happened that way. He threw his knapsack on the ground and fumbled about for a key; it was hiding out near the bottom, he was sure. A loud thump sounded somewhere out on the street, distracting him momentarily. When he reached for the handle, the door swung inward a few inches. He pushed on it, but something blocked the motion. A peek inside showed a dark lump on the ground. With every bit of his weight he pressed harder, but the obstruction wouldn’t budge. He reached through the gap searching for the light switch with his fingertips. The lone bulb that dangled from the cracked ceiling came on slowly, leaving shadows in the corners. The next glimpse sent him reeling back in horror. A hand, baby soft and smooth with dainty long fingers, was resting on the bottom tread as if the person was trying to clamber up the stairs. Tiny tracks of glistening blood trailed across a body and up the lifeless walls. Blow flies charged around the pokey landing with a nasty buzzing.
“Oh my God,” David cried out and twisted away. For a moment his breathing ceased. He peered back inside and recognized the tight bike shorts. As he tried to squeeze through the opening, someone nudged him from behind. He braced himself so as not to step forward onto the body and spun to confront the idiot.
“What the hell!” David scowled and flexed his fists, barely able to restrain himself from decking the fool. He propelled Tim Sanderson away from the door, but not before the guy stole a look.
“Holy shit. Is that who I think it is?”
“Yeah.” David pulled out his cell and dialed 911.
“Do something,” Tim shouted.
“Like what?”
The sirens started whirring like a ceiling fan on a hot summer day. David looked around as the ambulance closed in speedily down the empty streets of Victoria, BC toward the university. The firepit still glowed from last night, an occasional wisp of smoke escaping the coals. In the distance, the peaks of the Olympic Mountains dusted with an early snowfall glistened. The din grew louder, blasting his eardrums with intermittent pandemonium.
“What are you guys doing?” Jason Marsden, the foreman, demanded as he came round the corner of the building. “Let’s get moving.”
He placed his palm against David’s back to force him forward. But David dug his heels in and remained rooted to the spot like the saplings on the boulevard.
“There’s been an accident,” he stammered, his nerves jangling. “If you call getting your skull caved in an accident.”
“Out of my way,” Jason insisted and barged through to the now half-opened door. He turned away quickly and stumbled backward, his tanned complexion blanched a green sickly glow. “Did he fa
ll?” The tremor in his voice rang out.
“Are you kidding?”
The crushing of gravel announced another person racing towards them.
“Hey, what’s up?” Nick Jones asked. “Am I late?”
A bitterness crept up David’s throat, leaving a sour taste behind his tongue. He faltered and felt the blood flee his face and a chill stalk down the back of his neck. Jason’s appearance had mottled into a grey pastiness that matched his flat hair and dull eyes. Tim’s normal blow and bluster was replaced with lips puffing in chaotic gasps, although he tried desperately to hide his fear by greeting his buddy with daring.
“Take a look.”
Nick reached for the door, but the squawk of a siren stopped him. He peered over his shoulder as a vehicle pulled into the yard. The howling sound ended, but the blue and red lights continued to rebound between the two maintenance buildings.
“Oh, Oh. Trouble,” Nick mumbled, glancing at his buddy.
“Wasn’t me!” Tim said.
A door slammed, and then another. Two detectives dressed in civilian clothes emerged.
“What’s the problem here?” Detective Constable Danny Na asked as he approached the men. His open-neck shirt and pressed pants hung loosely on his svelte frame. If this made him look like someone who could be pushed around, his sharp, brown eyes belied this illusion. He was all business. His partner, Detective Constable Blake Gunner, leaned against the front fender of the police car, his gun hanging idly at his hip. The thin scar on the side of his fleshy face was not something that could be discounted. His lopsided grin was more of a sneer.
“I think Robbie’s dead. At the bottom of the stairs.” David pointed at the entrance, his hand shaking. He pulled it back to his side embarrassed by his fear.
“What? Spencer?” Nick’s eyebrows shot up.
Na seized the handle and opened the door as far as he could. He peered in, swinging his torch around the landing. “Oh boy.” With a hint of a frown, he tilted his chin to his partner. “Looks like the guy is dead all right.”
Gunner leaned into the vehicle and grabbed the radio phone. “We have a homicide. Get the crime scene unit here.”
He listened for a moment, and then replied, “Yes, the inspector. He’s on call.” The grim twist to his mouth made him look clown-like. “I know. This will choke him. What can do you?”
Chapter 2
Inspector William Gibson had started out early before the indigo skies had warmed to a cyan blue. He had sauntered across the street from his home and wandered down the ramp to a dock that jutted out a hundred yards into the cove. High on the right, a ferry terminal to Mill Bay loomed over him. A quarter-way down, a kayak shop occupied a dazzlingly coloured shack—mustard, plum and fuchsia. The young man who ran the storage and rentals raised his eyebrows as Gibson ambled past toward a triple-layered rack adjoining the shed. He stored his kayak on the middle platform, double-locked and effortlessly accessed. It took ten minutes to set his gear into place, ready for a relaxing tour of the bay.
Soft water caressed the wooden surface as he dipped the paddles from side to side. The kayak glided through the calm. The cry of gulls and the splashing of kingfishers diving for illusive fare were melodious against the background of movement. Boats with their colourful unfurled sails and intricate manoeuvres raced the length of the inlet, putting on a show for spectators on the shore or lounging in the bars and cafés. His muscles worked hard to sustain a constant pace, but the effort kept him warm in the chilly fall air. The day was still early, and he wasn’t in a hurry—no work today and his wife, Katherine, was occupied in the greenhouse.
His cell phone buzzed, shattering both tempo and peace. He ceased paddling and looked in the waterproof pack clipped around his midriff for the annoying squeal. Compressing his lips, he grumbled, “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming.”
Gibson clenched his jaw, exasperated by the interruption. Dire thoughts invaded his mind. Another day spoiled, but he was uncertain by whom. The job or Katherine? Damn. The office meant disaster had befallen someone—can’t be helped—and Katherine meant compromised calm at home, giving him palpitations already. He wasn’t positive which scenario was worse, being on call and getting the call or having to soothe his wife. He glanced at the number on the screen.
“Gibson.”
“Hi, Inspector. There’s been a murder at the university,” the dispatcher said, his deadpan voice flat down the line. “Sorry. You need to come in right away.”
The news stunned the inspector. “Wow! We were at a party there last night. Do you know who the victim is?”
“Robbie Spencer.” Fritz rustled the paperwork.
“Has the crime scene unit gone out?” he asked. The name wasn’t ringing any bells.
“Yes.”
“And Scottie?”
“Yes, Sergeant Cruickshank is on her way.”
“Thanks.” He hung up, glad his partner was already headed out. For just a moment he tilted his head backward, letting the sunlight fall on his face. Then he dipped the paddles into the water, swung the kayak round and doubled his speed to scoot to the wharf. Katherine would demand an explanation for his hasty departure although she knew the drill. Each time he was on standby and had to take off, her abandonment issues resurfaced. He shivered at the imminent showdown.
Gibson commanded the Vancouver Island Integrated Major Crimes Unit, VIIMCU. He had transferred from Ontario for this much-coveted promotion. Hunting the lowest, the most vile, was his passion. Justice for the victims of hideous crimes drove him forward. He petitioned to be the champion of the underdog, of the sufferer and their families. A rising rage gnawed at his psyche, boiled his blood and threatened to unleash his fury against each despot. And behind all of that, there was a personal reason that he rarely spoke of, not even to his wife.
The kayak bumped the quay—thwack—a little too hard. He hopped out of the boat and whipped a rope around a cleat so he could clear out his gear. With expert deftness, he lifted the boat into its cradle and fastened it with the sturdy straps.
“Until next week,” Gibson whispered and tapped the hull. The surface was smooth, reassuring and granted him a modicum of pleasure. He strode up the ramp, past the Seaside Café at the top and crossed the street to his house. Katherine wasn’t about, so he stole a hurried glimpse out the kitchen window. She was still in the greenhouse. Her gardens bedded for the winter were barren, but he could see the green of herbs through the glass. She appeared jaunty in the vivid red top and stylish jeans, her hair pulled into a loose ponytail. The lightness of her movements reflected her inner calm—this was her safe zone.
Gibson headed to the bedroom and changed into his official attire. Not a uniform, always a suit. Today he favoured a worsted wool blue suit with a striped blue and white tie. He liked to set a solid precedent for the officers who worked with him. Coming across as professional and acting professionally was imperative both for morale and their public image. He unfastened a lockbox to retrieve the 40 calibre Smith & Wesson semi-automatic pistol and snatched his badge off the dresser.
The door banged, and Katherine glanced toward the disturbance. Gibson knew his suit would tip her off about his intentions. He watched her pleasant countenance draw into a pout, the lines racing from her mouth setting into a sulk. She twisted to stand facing the other way.
“Turning aside doesn’t mean I’m not leaving,” Gibson said as he opened the greenhouse door, and the sweet fragrance of basil came tumbling out. He slipped into the heady warmth. “Katherine, you realize I have to go when on call.” He spoke in a soothing, placating tone. She remained quiet.
“It has to be something awful for the dispatcher to contact me.” Gibson paused. This scenario never got easier. “I know today was special. Andrew and Heather will be there. They’ll keep you company.” Andrew Thompson was Katherine’s brother, and Heather Clark was her best friend. Would that persuade her that all would be well? He waited to see which way her mood would swing.
Katherine edged
toward the far corner, somewhat aloof. But with the mention of Heather, her expression had relaxed somewhat. A more or less imperceptible smile passed over her lips. Her mouth opened into a heart-shape, then drew into a straight line as she bit her bottom lip. He felt the weight upon his shoulders lift a tiny bit but kept up the chatter, struggling to get intimate, to caress her, to set her mind at rest.
“Don’t worry. I’m not deserting you. Text me. I’ll call as soon as possible,” he pleaded, covering all the bases. Today’s lunch was to mark a significant milestone for his wife—the one-year anniversary of her sister’s death.
There was a slight uplifting of her mouth. Resignation. She wiped tears from her sad brown eyes with the back of her hand.
“Okay.” Her sweetness shone through. Gibson brushed velvet lips across her salty cheek and escaped.
Chapter 3
David’s eyes flickered, but Robbie lying dead on the cold cement floor had burned onto his retinas. Every ropey muscle on his buttock and every bump of his spine were accentuated by the skimpiness of his outfit. His cleated shoes faced upwards with one ankle bent sideways at an awkward angle. David blinked and glanced over to the rack where Robbie’s street bike was locked, ready for the ride home. A streamlined helmet was placed casually over the seat. His mind skipped back to Robbie’s prone figure, his limbs contorted and hands grasping for safety. Blood splotches on his clothes and pooled underneath him shone glossy in the dull light. Bits of dirty blonde hair were glued to the tip of a bat that had rolled against the wall. Pinkish stuff, maybe brain matter forced out of the wound, glistened in the pall of death. The images had found a place to harbour in David’s mind, hard as he might try to shake them. Someone was speaking to him. He nodded, uncertain what they were saying. Bile caught in his throat. Don’t be sick, he thought, and stood panicked on wobbly legs.
The four men huddled together in shock as a dozen vehicles slipped down the boulevard that ran through the campus and crammed into the small space between the buildings. Soon there was hardly room to move. A low rumble settled to a gradual hum as the crime scene officers set up their stations. From an unmarked vehicle that had slid into the commotion mostly unnoticed, a tall black woman emerged. She marched straight to the constables standing by the landing. Her steel-blue eyes held a wariness as she scanned the scene. Shortly after, a large cube van drove in, snaking its course through the packed courtyard toward the parking lot. Four black-clad officers exited the vehicle, each one larger than the last. David watched their movements as they opened the rollup rear door and tossed out its cargo onto the ground. It looked like tents, poles and lots of rope.