“I talked to the other person,” Gunner said. He spread out his notebook and read verbatim.
Gibson marvelled how Gunner could read the scrawl. It made him think of the tidy handwriting in the letter he had received. His mind trailed off to his problem.
“She said...”
“What was that?” Gibson snapped back to the conversation.
“What?” Gunner asked.
“Could you say that again?”
“Mrs. Lambert lives on the second floor in a corner suite. She has a good view right onto the sidewalk and over to the crime scene. She turned off her television when she heard a scream. She pushed her sliding door open, just a crack so her cat couldn’t escape, and listened. But there was nothing more. She thought it was probably a seagull.” He paused as he referred to the page. “As she was sliding the door closed, she heard someone running along the sidewalk.” Gunner placed his finger on his notebook and peered at his writing. “The person was coming from the south. That’s from the direction of the crime scene.”
“That sounds promising,” Scottie said.
“What time was that?” Gibson asked.
“Around nine forty-five.”
“All right. Go on.”
“Mrs. Lambert received a notice from the strata council about everybody keeping their doors secured. There had been a few burglaries in the area. So she didn’t want to linger around outside. But she did have a good view of the person, if only for a moment.”
Scottie had remained quiet until now. “Do you think she is a competent eyewitness?”
Gunner thought for a minute before he replied. “Yes, I believe so. She gave details. She said it was an adolescent boy, a teenager. He had long stringy hair. His clothes seemed unkempt. He wore a dark bomber jacket.” He grinned once more. “She said he didn’t appear to be a jogger. What do you think?”
“It sounds like we should go to the youth hostel. A lot of the street kids use it as a meet up. It’s just across the park from the crime scene,” Scottie said.
“Okay. Scottie can check that out later. The kid could be a witness.”
“Or something more,” Scottie said.
“Anything else?” Gibson asked, ignoring her comment. “What about anybody on the pier?”
“That didn’t pan out,” Na said.
Gibson provided a briefing of the post-mortem to the constables. There were so many things to undertake and a lack of personnel. He felt frustrated. It didn’t help that his home life was a little crazy right now and promised to get crazier. Sometimes, he wondered if he could cope with all the changes.
“Go knock on some more doors. Widen your circle to the adjacent street,” Gibson said. “And check for cameras. Both private and at the stores nearby.”
“You bet,” Na said and stood up. Gunner followed him out the door.
“Should we go to Kevin’s workplace first?” Scottie asked.
She had been watching Gibson all morning. He was definitely distracted. She wanted to ask him what was troubling him, but she would find a better time to broach the subject. In the meantime, she thought it would be prudent to go along with him. He was the boss, so she didn’t really have much choice. All she could do was follow orders and throw in her two cents’ worth.
Chapter 10
“Do you want to grab a coffee on the way to the ferry?” Gibson asked. “I’m buying.”
He realized there was some tension between them, but he wasn’t totally sure why. Usually Scottie toed the line. Sure, she had her opinions on things, but this was something more. Almost a rebellion. Or was it all in his head?
“Sure. But real coffee, not the canteen crap.”
“Okay. You decide on the place.”
“And a scone.”
They headed downstairs, out the door and across the street to the new bistro. It had opened last month for visitors from the cruise ships that docked there every day. It wasn’t busy, so they got what they wanted and left.
“The ferry company’s head office is closed on Saturdays, but I want to go to Kevin’s actual workplace. We’ll get the real scoop there,” Gibson said.
“I agree.” Scottie drove with one hand. Her other hand alternated between the steaming coffee and the warmed-up scone. She brushed the crumbs falling on her lap onto the floor.
The BC Ferry Corporation employed thousands of people throughout British Columbia. Swartz Bay was one of the major terminals, ferrying people from Vancouver Island to Vancouver and points onward on the mainland. The detectives had travelled by ferry many times but were unsure where to find the work sheds.
At the ticket booth they flashed their badges. The attendant directed them through the terminal and down a lane on the right. They drove through an iron gate and stopped in front of a large metal structure tucked behind a row of trees. Several trucks bearing the ferry logo were parked outside the garage. One door was open, showing a workshop with three hoists and five or six large standing toolboxes. The lone mechanic had his head stuck in an engine compartment, throwing a wrench around. At the sound of their footfall on the crushed rock, he stood up straight and rubbed his neck.
“Can I help you?” He scrutinized their appearance and added, “Officers.”
“Is this where Kevin Meadows works?”
“Yeah, maybe.” He leaned back over the motor and continued with his task.
“What does that mean?” Gibson asked.
“He works here, but not in this department.”
“All right. Could you steer us in the right direction?”
“On the other side of the building. He works in maintenance. I think Ronny’s there.”
“Thanks.”
The detectives tramped their way along a covered walkway. They came to a door clearly marked for employees only. Gibson grabbed the knob and pulled, but the entry was secured. He gave Scottie a disgruntled glare and banged hard on the metal surface. Nobody came, so he knocked on it harder. The staircase groaned under a pair of weighty footsteps pounding down the stairs. The door swung outwards. A paunchy, balding older man gawked at them. His coveralls were smeared with grease and dirt. Frayed shirt sleeves pushed back to his elbows looked like they had seen better days.
“What can I do for you?” A genuine grin spread across his ruddy face.
“Are you Ronny?”
“Sure am.”
“We’re searching for Kevin Meadows’ workplace? Is this it?”
“Yes, it is. But he’s not here today. He took some bereavement time. You know, because of what happened to his wife.” His eyes twinkled. “But I guess you already know that because you’re the police.”
“Yes, that’s right. Do you know if he was working on Thursday night?”
The man rubbed his chin in thought. “I’m not sure. Let’s have a looky-loo at his timecard.”
“Isn’t there a schedule on a board somewhere?” Gibson asked.
“No. All employees log onto the company website to get their schedule.”
Ronny walked back up the stairs with a heavy tread. The steps were weathered. The banister was worn smooth from umpteen palms that had run over it. The floor on the landing was scuffed and littered with dirt brought in from outside.
“Okay, let me see.” The man stood in front of the time clock and picked out a card among the fifty or so in the metal slots. He plucked out a pair of glasses from his pocket and peered at the times marked in black ink. “Thursday. Kevin worked from 8pm to 6am. A ten-hour shift. That’s about right.” He handed the card to the detective.
Gibson handled the card, checking front and back. He took a picture of it with his cell phone. “What do these initials signify here?” He pointed to ‘SBC’.
“That means the Spirit of British Columbia. It’s the vessel Kevin would have been working on. Some of the guys do that.”
“I see. Do you know who Kevin was working with?”
“Couldn’t say. The cards don’t have that kind of info.” Ronny stared at the detectives. “Yo
u know we have quite a large crew working here on the night shift. We keep the ships in good order. There’s lots to do. Safety and all that.”
“Of course. I didn’t mean to imply otherwise. Is there a supervisor we could talk to?” Gibson asked.
“No, he’s on holidays. Kevin is the acting supervisor. Does that help you?” The man snorted. “But he still has to work his shift, not just sit on his ass like the regular guy does.”
Gibson glanced at his partner.
“You could always go to head office and they could tell you everything you want to know. Schedules, partners, the whole kit and caboodle,” Ronny said.
“Thanks for your help.”
The detectives made their way out of the building to their vehicle.
“Well, I guess that lets Kevin off the hook,” Scottie said.
“I don’t think so.”
“What? It’s right there on his timecard.”
“Really, Scottie. How naïve are you? That’s an easy thing to fake, especially since he was the acting supervisor that week.”
“I suppose.”
“We need an actual person to verify that Kevin was at work all night. There’s no security here. No guards. I didn’t see any cameras. Kind of slack, if you ask me. He could have slipped away for a few hours if he had a strong enough motive to get rid of his wife.”
“You have such a suspicious mind.”
That’s because I have my secrets. Gibson didn’t say that out loud.
Chapter 11
The smell of smoke drifted in the window on the gentle ocean breeze. The scorched aroma could have come from a wildfire in the northerly regions of Vancouver Island. If the blaze was massive enough, the smoke could find its way from the mainland. It was late August. Typically, the fire season began earlier in the summer. But it had rained more than usual, keeping the forest floor damp.
Gibson stood in the living room facing away over the water with his coffee mug clutched in his hand. Beyond the upper side of the hills, a wispy haze blurred the blue of the sky. It had taken on a pinkish, orange glow. Gibson had hoped they would escape the miserable air quality this year. He was concerned about Katherine, in her condition. She would have to stay indoors and avoid inhaling the contaminants.
“I can smell the smoke.”
Gibson turned around slowly.
Katherine’s white nightie hugged her body showing her curves of softness. Her flowing brunette curls touched her slim shoulders.
“I better close all the windows.”
“I’ll brew some fresh Java. Are you sticking around at home today?” Katherine asked.
“I think I—” His cell phone pinged. He scanned the screen and read the text. “Perhaps not.”
Katherine headed to the kitchen while Gibson made a call.
“What’s up, Scottie?”
“My friend at the Royal Canadian Mounted Police heard about the murder and wants us to come by with a photo of the victim.”
“Why’s that?”
“He may have some information about her. If it’s the same woman that came into his station a few weeks ago.”
“All right. Pick me up.” There goes my kayaking for the day, Gibson thought.
“On my way.” Scottie hung up abruptly.
“Coffee’s ready,” Katherine shouted from the back.
“Be right there.” He peeked into the newly painted room at the front of the house. No need for a baby reveal here—the powder blue walls said it all. Everything was in its place. The white crib was decorated with blue trim. Clothing and blankets in varying shades of blue were piled on a chest of drawers with the same embroidery. A rocking chair was tucked in the nook. Gibson moved down the hallway. He was dressed in a lightweight seersucker suit with a navy tie. From the lockbox, he grabbed his 40 calibre Smith & Wesson semi-automatic handgun. He clipped his badge onto his belt and headed to the kitchen.
“I’ll take that coffee to go.” He wrapped his arms around his wife and gathered her close. “That was Scottie. You need to stay inside. Promise?”
Katherine pursed her lip in a feigned pout.
“All right. I have a superb book to read.” The kiss she placed on his lips was steeped in passion.
“That’s unfair,” Gibson said. He let go of her when a honk from a vehicle sounded in the lane. “My ride.”
* * *
“Hey, did you get a photo of Dianne?” Gibson asked as he slipped into the passenger seat.
“Yup, I had one from the autopsy.”
“Do you have any idea what this is about?”
“Not really, but Grant thought there may be a connection to our case.”
Scottie drove into Sidney on the main street and struck a left on Fourth. They located the RCMP detachment in a grey building behind the Municipal Hall. The unit consisted of thirty-one officers, support staff, and a contingent of volunteers. Although its policing area was vast, its personnel were small-town friendly.
Constable Oscar Grant, Scottie’s friend, greeted them in the lobby. He motioned them to a bench bolted to the wall. Scottie passed him the photograph.
“That’s the lady. Dianne Meadows.” He flicked the picture up and down on his hand. “Definitely.”
“Don’t keep us in suspense,” Scottie said. “Spit it out.”
“She came in about two weeks ago with some concerns. Her adolescent daughter”—he peered in his folder—“Virginia… At any rate, the mom discovered her daughter with this older boy. She thought he lived on the street by his general bedraggled appearance. You know the look I mean. Long, matted hair. Tattered jeans.”
“How old?” Gibson asked.
“I say older because Virginia is only thirteen. Mrs. Meadows figured the lad was going on sixteen with one thing on his mind. Although she wasn’t thrilled about that, what disturbed her more was the knife he had. Her daughter denied its existence, but Mrs. Meadows knew what she saw. She wanted to know if we could do something. Which we couldn’t. She was bothered about the armed robberies around town and suspected the lad was involved. Mrs. Meadows was in a frightful state, I tell you. But what was I supposed to do with that? The kid hadn’t threatened anyone. There’s no crime in owning a knife. We would have to catch him with it concealed on his person, and then prove he had intent to harm someone.” He shook his head, upset that he could have prevented the whole thing from happening.
“It’s a coincidence. If the kid even had a knife.” Gibson patted his arm. “And even if he did, we have no reason to believe that it’s the same knife.”
“I don’t know. The whole thing gives me a bad feeling,” the constable said.
“Can I see the file?” Scottie asked. She browsed through the slim report and said, “This could be our killer.”
“What are you saying?” Gibson asked. “You’re connecting dots that aren’t even there.”
“So what? Furthermore, Mrs. Lambert described the kid’s clothing exactly the same as Dianne did. The jeans. The bomber jacket.”
Gibson grabbed the folder from her hands.
“Street kids all dress the same.”
“We should explore this lead. Now that we pretty well know that the kid had a knife. Maybe our supposed witness is really the killer.”
“If they are even the same person. For Christ’s sake, Scottie,” Gibson said.
She gave him a hard stare.
“Fine. You were going to the hostel anyway. So why not check it out?” Gibson said.
Constable Grant sat back and crossed his arms. Their disagreement surprised him. As far as he was concerned, it was worth investigating further. That’s why he had called her.
“Thanks, buddy,” Scottie said to the constable and stood up to leave.
“No problem.”
Chapter 12
The detectives headed to the parking lot. The smoke had flowed into the peninsula, reducing the brightness. Gibson gazed at the blood-red sun.
“So, I guess you were right about one thing,” Scottie said.
“One thing? Thanks a lot.”
“Perhaps Virginia was holding back. Let’s go there now.”
“Okay.”
“And the bruises.”
“Right.” He turned to watch the poplar leaves quiver in the soft breeze.
Scottie traversed the back streets to the Meadows’ house. All the drapes were shut. They mounted the steps and rang the bell. There was no answer. Gibson pressed on the bell longer the second time. He saw the living room curtain flutter, as if someone had taken a peek.
Virginia opened the door a crack. “My dad is sleeping.” Her eyes were glacier blue and glassy.
“We want a word with him,” Gibson said.
“I told you he’s asleep. My mom just died, you moron.”
The approaching footsteps had the clicking sound of leather-soled slippers. Kevin swung the door open wider. “Come in. I’ll put on some coffee.” His face was creased from lack of sleep, or worry. It was hard to tell which it was. The two-day stubble was ragged and grew in clumps on his jaw. He turned and headed toward the kitchen, his back hunched.
The murder had altered everything. The room had a bad smell. Plates with leftover food littered the counter. Unwashed teacups lay abandoned in the sink. Virginia plunked down at the end of the table. Sadness had drained the colour from her face. The detectives sat down and waited for Kevin to settle into a chair.
“We’re sorry to bother you at a time like this, but we have several questions to ask,” Gibson said.
“We don’t know anything.”
“Do you have a boyfriend, Virginia?” He turned to the girl.
“She’s only thirteen,” Kevin said.
Virginia played with the rings on her fingers, avoiding both her father and the detective.
“We understand there’s a boy you hang out with sometimes. Isn’t that true?” Gibson insisted. “Are you embarrassed because he lives on the street?” He held up his palm to restrain Kevin from interrupting.
STORM ROLL: a Canadian murder mystery series Page 38
