STORM ROLL: a Canadian murder mystery series

by KATHY GARTHWAITE

  Gibson closed in to caress her face with the back of his hand. He swept his lips along the smooth curves of her neck and moved inward for a kiss.

  “What have you been up to?” Katherine asked playfully as she kept him at arm’s distance.

  “It was a long day.” Gibson sank into a chair. His anxiety showed in the way he plucked at his lips and gnawed inside his mouth.

  “What’s wrong?” Katherine sat in a chair opposite. Suddenly, her hand flew to the small of her back.

  Gibson arched an eyebrow questioningly.

  “It’s nothing. A twinge.” She pushed her hair away from her face. “But you?”

  He was suffocating in his half-truths. No, his lies. Once he spoke there would be no turning back. He had to tell her about Anatoe. Or did he? If he didn’t, and it slipped out one day that he was the father, then...? It had happened long ago. Long before they had even met. But that wasn’t the problem. The pickle was he had kept it from her. And then, the other thing. What happened in Ontario was just last month. Would his marriage survive his betrayal? He could keep that part to himself.

  Katherine stared at her husband, watching his eyes flicker. His hands clasped and unclasped.

  “Just tell me the part that I actually need to know.”

  “I went to The Grill today. To meet someone.”

  Katherine sat completely still.

  “Anatoe. From Ontario.” With a sigh, the tension in his neck loosened up. It was just a first step. A faint uplift of her lips gave him the resolve to carry on. “Anatoe Sinclair. He’s my son.”

  Katherine’s face washed blank with bewilderment. The rosy colour drained away until only a paleness was left. Her neck muscles, soft and willing only moments before, tensed into a stringy mass. Her shoulders sagged a little.

  “This isn’t your first.” She put a hand on her belly.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know about Anatoe until this summer.”

  Her hand met his for a second, smooth and tender.

  “We’re okay.”

  They talked late into the night, all cuddled under the blankets. His wife had always found it hard to forgive herself for her failures, but she possessed the power to forgive others unequivocally. For the first time, Katherine was content with her lot. She had a real crack at being happy. Without any preamble, she opened up about her fears of motherhood, and at the same time, the excitement of a new life. She prattled on about baby showers, pushing a buggy down the lane on crisp early spring days and watching her child fall asleep in his crib.

  Gibson felt relief that he didn’t have to drag up the past. Things he did, or worse, should have done. He was supposed to be the strong one, but when he looked at Katherine, he realized he was the weak one. He had taken the easy road. Now he felt as if he stood still, unable to find his direction while everyone around him was moving forward. He had so many doubts. Gibson pushed that away and shared Anatoe’s dreams and aspirations with her. He talked about the program for young boys that Anatoe was going to be a part of. And how much he had accomplished already. There was pride in his voice when he spoke.

  “You’re a good father.”

  Gibson grimaced and pressed her hand.

  “I know people that may be able to help with funding,” she said. “In particular, there is a man I met while volunteering at the community centre in Sidney. I’ll call him later. Jackson.”

  Gibson’s ears pricked up at the name. “Parker?”

  Katherine turned back to face him. “You know him?”

  “Yes.” Gibson said. “But not in good circumstances.”

  “Oh.”

  “It was the loans manager at his branch who was murdered.”

  “Oh, my God.” Katherine shook her head.

  “You leave that stuff to me.” He lifted her chin and gave her a slow kiss. “Are you feeling sleepy?”

  She giggled and pulled the cover up tight.

  Chapter 16

  It was a really good morning. Gibson hadn’t gotten a great deal of rest, but he felt freer after unburdening his bottled-up secrets. Well, some of them, at least. It was enough to put a spring in his step. He bounded up the stairs to his office, leaving the elevator for the undisciplined people. It wasn’t until he plopped himself down in his chair that he noticed he wasn’t alone. Scottie was standing by the window and had turned to face him when he entered the room. The expression on her face spelled trouble. The folder by her side told Gibson it was big trouble.

  “What is it?” He moaned. There was enough to do as it was. The pressure in his head started to build into a headache almost immediately.

  “There was another stabbing.” Scottie moved over to the empty chair in front of his desk and flopped the file on top. “It took place late last night. After the pubs had closed.”

  “Was it fatal?”

  “The young girl is in intensive care. A Carol Barton.”

  “Okay.” He hoped the girl would be all right.

  Scottie flipped open the file. There were only a couple of pages. “It’s being handled as a robbery at this level. So it’s not ours.”

  “That’s good,” he said.

  “Unless she dies. Then it’s ours.”

  Gibson folded his arms and frowned.

  “Do you think they’re connected?”

  “I have no idea.” Gibson shrugged. “I hope we get the forensics soon. Are you—” His cell rang. “Just a sec.” He peeped at the screen and answered, “Gibson.” After a few shakes and grunts, he hung up. “That was Na. The hospital won’t give us Dianne’s medical files without a warrant, but they will let me speak to the doctor there. Apparently, she went to a few different doctors. That in itself seems suspicious.”

  “Guess that will keep you busy today,” Scottie said.

  “What about you?”

  “I was going to hit the hostel. Try to track down Ryder.”

  “Okay.”

  Scottie got up and started to leave. “We’re on the same team, Gibson.”

  “I know.” He listened to her footsteps as she headed down the stairs. With his finger ready on the speed dial button, he got another call. “Gibson.” It was Na again.

  “I got a heads up from a lady in HR at the ferry corporation. Kevin will be back at work tomorrow.”

  “All right. Are you and Gunner set to take that night shift and watch the guy?”

  “You bet,” Na said.

  “Good. What about the timetable for the maintenance crew?”

  “She said we would have to call the crewing scheduler for that.”

  “Get on it.” Gibson hung up.

  Chapter 17

  There were several hospitals in the area. Gibson had guessed that the one out on the peninsula would most likely be where Dianne would go for treatment. It was the closest to her house. Na had called two other hospitals further afield, in case she had been trying to hide her injuries from the authorities—there had been so many incidents. But luckily for them, Dianne never thought that far ahead. Maybe she should have thought about getting help. Mind you, Gibson was assuming domestic violence was involved. With these thoughts occupying his mind, he failed to stop at a yellow light and was confronted with the blare of a horn. He sped up and flew down the highway.

  The Saanich Peninsula Hospital was a squat building spread out in every direction except up. At the front desk, he inquired about the administration area. The cheerful, plump lady who greeted him pulled a map from a pile beside her right arm and with a Sharpie drew a line that wiggled across the paper, end to end. She marked his destination with a star.

  “Just follow the line.” She looked behind him to the next person.

  Gibson turned toward the first hallway and with his head down as he walked, he managed to bump into several people scurrying down the corridors before reaching the administration office across the aisle from the dispensary.

  “Hello. I’m Detective Gibson.” He yanked out his badge and flipped it open. “Dr. Hawthorn is expecting me.” />
  “One moment, please.” She pushed a button and muttered a few words before she hung up.

  “Take a seat. He’s on his way.” She pointed to a bench along the far wall.

  “Thank you.” Before Gibson could sit, a doctor with a well-fitted suit and brogue shoes approached him.

  “Hello. I’m Dr. Hawthorn. This way.”

  His office was two doors down. A polished nickel plate with the doctor’s name and rank was screwed on the side of the frame. Gibson almost laughed at the absurdity of it all. So typical of government facilities—many layers to get to the top dog. And this man was the top dog. He had so many initials after his name, it made Gibson’s eyes blur. The doctor gestured to the leather sofa beside a window that overlooked lush gardens.

  Dr. Hawthorn sat in an armchair and faced his guest. “How may I help you, detective?”

  “We’re looking into the injuries of Mrs. Meadows. We want to know if she was a victim of domestic abuse.”

  Gibson waited, but nothing was forthcoming.

  “The pathologist found bruising and several poorly healed broken bones. They hold no bearing on the attack that claimed her life.”

  “I see.” The doctor moved around and folded his hands into his lap. “Even so, I am not at liberty to hand over any medical files without a warrant. But I have read over everything we have on Mrs. Meadows and I’m prepared to discuss these with you. Will that do?”

  “Yes. It would help steer us in the right direction.”

  “Do you think this is a domestic violence case?” the doctor asked.

  “Yes, I do.” He locked eyes with the man.

  “I was afraid of that.” He tapped the folder with the pencil he had been spinning in his fingers. “I must say that I agree with you. Unfortunately, Mrs. Meadows saw numerous doctors over the years. Our turnover of staff is quite high, and all the reports were paper not digital like they are now.” He broke off and lowered his gaze. “I’m not making excuses, but I had to gather this lot from several different areas of the hospital.” He tapped the folder again.

  “Then the police were never involved?”

  “No. We failed her.”

  Gibson got up and shook the doctor’s hand. “Thank you for your time.”

  He left the room, turned the map about and found his way backwards to the main entrance. With a wave of his hand, he thanked the lady at the front and headed to his truck. He sat quietly, trying to think who it was he had been planning to ring earlier in the day. And then it came to him, the baby shower. He dialled the number he had been given by Chelsea, but nobody answered so he left a message. Before he could start his vehicle, his cell rang.

  “Gibson.”

  “This is Linda Miller. Is this the detective?”

  “Yes. I just tried calling you.”

  “Sorry. I heard the phone ring as I was unlocking the door.” Her voice was low and husky. “Is it about Dianne? I heard what happened. It’s terrible.”

  “Yes. Were you and Dianne friends?”

  “Not what I would call a close friend or anything. I met her at the bank when I was getting a loan last year. We got along nicely and would go for a coffee and chat occasionally. I didn’t know her well, but I liked her.”

  “Okay. Could you tell me what time she left the baby shower?”

  “Oh, dear. Dianne never made it to the party.”

  “I see,” Gibson said. “Did she phone to cancel?”

  “No. She just didn’t come. By nine o’clock, everyone was leaving. I was going to call her the next day to see if she was okay, and then I heard...” She faltered, a quick intake of air finishing her sentence.

  “No problem. Thank you for your help.”

  “I wish I could have helped.” Linda let out a sob before she hung up.

  Gibson wasn’t sure what he thought about that. Where had Dianne gone that evening if she hadn’t gone to the shower? There were several hours unaccounted for. And why had she lied to her husband as to her whereabouts? Was it just an excuse to get away from Kevin? From the beatings? It was beginning to look like he was on the right track.

  Chapter 18

  It didn’t feel like Gibson was on the same team. He said yin, when she said yang. There was absolutely no evidence to suggest that Kevin was the killer. He had an alibi. She couldn’t see any motive. Maybe Kevin had beaten his wife, but that didn’t always lead to murder. And sure, the spouse was always a possibility, but the weapon of choice was normally a gun.

  Gibson was wasting their meagre resources on a fishing expedition. What was the thing about staking out Kevin’s workplace? Scottie didn’t want to kick up too much fuss, but really, that was a stupid idea. Especially because there was too much to do and not enough bodies. Although the police chief said it was on the books to increase personnel, nothing materialized from his promises. And so, with her mission in hand, she stomped down the pavement to the hostel, determined to find Ryder.

  The old clapboard structure had stood on the same spot for forty years. In spite of the storms that blew in from the southeast, spraying saltwater into the air, the building was presentable with a fresh coat of paint. All the windows had bars inserted into the frame. Not to keep people in, but to keep thieves out. There was an expanse of grass with large borders of shrubbery between the hostel and the skateboard park. Lots of places to hide and attack innocent pedestrians. An invitation to take what wasn’t yours.

  Scottie tugged on the front door and entered a narrow, dimly lit hallway. On the right, a young boy with an earring looped through his nose sat on a stool reading a magazine. At the sound of footsteps, he lifted his head and gave a once over to the intruder.

  “No women allowed in the hostel.”

  Scottie pulled out her badge and flipped it open inches from his nose ring. “I have a hall pass.”

  “Take a pisser. I don’t work here.” He glowered at her and took hold of the magazine from the counter as he stormed out the doorway.

  A stout middle-aged man swaggered into the reception area from a back room. It was apparent that neither his age nor his build would be a disadvantage when force was needed to curtail unruly behaviour. He was a tough looking bugger. Maybe a bouncer in another life. He greeted Scottie.

  “What can I do for you, officer?”

  “I take it you’re in charge.” Scottie flipped her badge anyway.

  “Tom.”

  “Is Ryder Simpson here?” she asked, assuming this would be his hangout.

  “I haven’t seen him since last week.”

  “Are there any bodies in the bunk area right now?” She pointed down the hall.

  “No. They’re out on the streets doing their hustle, I suppose.”

  “There was a boy at the counter when I got here. He took off.”

  “That’s a new kid,” Tom said. “Just got off the bus from Toronto. He wouldn’t know Ryder.”

  “Who works here?”

  “There’s four of us in all. Stud only does the nighttime shift.” The corner of his lip twitched with a held back smirk.

  Scottie narrowed her eyes.

  “Oh, hell. He has so many studs through his nose, his lips, his eyebrows, and...” Tom shrugged. “What else could we call him?”

  “I see.” Scottie wanted to say call him by his real name, but it was probably something inane like Mickey.

  Tom picked up the phone. “I’ll make a few inquiries. Hang on.”

  When he was on his second call, a young girl came in and sauntered past them to the rear. No girls, eh punk, Scottie thought.

  Tom hung up and cried out, “Hey, Cherie.”

  Was that the girl’s name or was he calling her darling? Scottie was really growing impatient. In the end, only Stud had anything to say. He had seen Ryder on Thursday night. Around midnight or so. He had scurried out quickly, even after Stud had called out to him. Yeah, he thought it was a bit weird, but he had only seen the kid at the hostel a few times.

  “I had things to do. Ryder wasn’t sta
ying, and it was time to lock up for the night,” Stud said over the speaker phone. “I can’t remember what he was wearing. You’re kidding me, right?”

  “Thanks, Stud,” Scottie said.

  Tom hung up the phone. “That’s the best I can do.”

  She left her card on the counter. “In case Ryder comes back. Give me a call anytime. I don’t care what time it is, just make sure he doesn’t know you’re calling me.”

  Scottie left the building feeling deflated because she wasn’t sure where to hunt for Ryder. Tom had given her a few places to check out. At the last moment, he had riffled through the folders in a steel cabinet and handed her a photo that had been taken upon Ryder’s arrival at the hostel. She was thankful for that, but unfortunately his head was lowered and a cap was pulled over his eyes. It would be hard to recognize Ryder from the image. Like Gibson said, they all looked the same. She needed his sealed records, and she needed them now. There was sure to be a proper photograph of Ryder in the documents. Scottie pulled her cell phone out to call about the file. Her finger wavered over the screen. Who else could she call?

  The RCMP Investigative Data Bank could only be accessed one way—through the Canadian Police Information Centre (CPIC). And, they had made it clear: ‘Don’t call us, we’ll call you’. Scottie didn’t want to piss them off. She pocketed the phone and hopped into her vehicle. Time to take to the streets and see what she could round up the old-fashioned way.

  Scottie cruised the back streets to the highway, did a U-turn and headed back toward the waterfront. Most of the street was one-way, so she did the loop a couple of times, taking it slow so she could search each side. There was a street musician with a guitar case at his feet, open for tossed coins. And with any luck, a few notes. A black and white mixed breed dog lay quietly by his side, its head resting on its paws.

  Scottie stopped her vehicle and hopped out.

  “Do you know this guy?” She showed him the mediocre photo of Ryder.

  “No, I don’t think so.” The musician squinted at the picture. “Try the mall at the top of the street. Lots of kids use that as their meet-up spot.”

  “Thanks.” She tossed a coin into his hat and left.