The Quiet Man

by James Carol

  Winter navigated to the gallery page next. The order in which the sections were laid out gave a good indication of where Gifford’s business priorities lay. At the top was a link for families and children. That was his bread-and-butter work. Next were weddings, which would have been lucrative but not so regular. Beneath that was a link for corporate photography. At the bottom was a link for miscellaneous. Winter clicked on ‘Families and Children’, then opened the first photograph in a new window. This would be the starting point for any prospective customer. This was what Gifford had chosen to lure them in.

  The two little girls in the photograph were around three and five. There were enough similarities to conclude that they were sisters. Gifford had gone for a head-and-shoulders shot. The older girl had a silver butterfly in her hair and was cuddling her sister protectively. Both of them were looking to the right and focussing on something just out of shot. There were no cheesy smiles, no fake laughter. Gifford had caught the girls in a moment where they were absolutely fascinated by whatever they were looking at. It was a good photograph, cute without being cloying. There was plenty of evidence that Gifford had talent, and plenty of evidence that he had the technical know-how to make the most of that talent.

  ‘So what are you thinking?’ Anderton asked again.

  ‘I’m thinking that this is worth pursuing,’ Winter said carefully. ‘What are you thinking?’

  ‘I’m thinking that I’d concur with that,’ she replied just as carefully.

  ‘There’s a landline number on the contact page.’

  ‘Then let’s run a reverse phone lookup, see if we can find an address. You get the number and I’ll pull up the Yellow Pages website.’

  It took Anderton less than ten seconds to access the site on her phone. Winter reeled off the number and she typed it into her cell phone.

  ‘Here we go,’ she said. ‘I’ve got an address for Argyle Street, in Fraserview. It’s residential rather than industrial, so presumably Gifford is running his business from home.’

  ‘Is it in our target area?’

  ‘It’s pretty much slap bang in the middle.’

  ‘Let’s go, then.’

  Anderton leant forward and pushed the key into the ignition. She went to turn it, but stopped at the last second. She leant back in the driver’s seat.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Winter asked. ‘I thought you’d be anxious to get over there.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘So what’s the problem?’

  ‘Is this our guy?’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘How possible?’

  ‘At this stage, I’d say fifty-fifty.’

  ‘No higher?’

  ‘Would it matter if it was?’

  ‘If it’s higher, then really we should be leaving this to Freeman. If it’s lower then it’s no better than a hunch and there’s nothing stopping us investigating it on our own. In fact, it would be the right thing to do. After all, we don’t want to waste police time with hunches, do we?’

  ‘No, we wouldn’t want to do that.’

  Anderton sighed. ‘This whole situation pisses me off. Freeman is such an asshole. We’ve done good, solid work here, but does he want to acknowledge that? No, he doesn’t. Not even a little bit.’

  ‘Okay, I’m going to throw your question back at you. Do you think this is our guy?’

  Anderton smiled. ‘Honestly? I’d say it’s about thirty-seventy. You know, it might even be as low as twenty-eighty.’

  ‘Which is as good as saying that this is just a hunch, right?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘So, what are we waiting for?’

  46

  At some point one of Freeman’s people was going to connect the dots. It might have already happened, in which case Winter reckoned they had about a thirty-minute head start. It would take that long for Freeman to arrange a raid. He’d need to get a team together, and brief them, and then they’d have to hustle over to Argyle Street. The curse of the large organisation was its lack of flexibility. The advantage of being a self-contained two-person unit was that they could make decisions and act immediately. Anderton was feeling the urgency, too. She had her foot down and was driving as fast as the traffic conditions allowed.

  Winter spent the whole journey going through the gallery pictures. The photograph of the two sisters wasn’t a one-off. Gifford had a great eye. He seemed to have a knack for capturing those moments that another photographer might have missed. The pictures were so natural, the emotions totally genuine. Even when the photograph had clearly been staged, nothing looked forced.

  He clicked through to the miscellaneous section. These pictures were in a different league altogether. They could have been hanging in a gallery and selling for a small fortune. If Winter had had a place to call home, he would have been happy to put these on his walls. This was what made Gifford’s heart sing. The pictures were arty and surreal. Vague impressions rather than actual images. It was almost impossible to tell what the original subject had been, but that didn’t matter because the subject matter was just a springboard for Gifford’s imagination.

  One photograph in particular caught Winter’s eye. It was a manic swirl of reds, pinks and whites. Maybe once these had been lights on a highway caught in time-lapse. That was before Gifford had manipulated the image into something else entirely. The more Winter studied the image, the more unsettled he became. There was violence and death in this picture. Danger and mayhem. The next picture was different but the same. This time the swirls were coloured blue, purple and black. The overall effect was to cool down the violence and calm the mania. Considered together, the two images were like yin and yang.

  Why would someone this talented choose to make a living taking baby photographs? Granted, it might not be through choice. Talent alone wasn’t enough to guarantee fame and fortune. That said, Winter reckoned that Gifford could have done better for himself. Which begged the question of why he would be happy to exist in the shadows. The second thing that had occurred to him as he was looking at the red-swirl photograph was that fifty-fifty has just gone up to sixty-forty.

  Winter had just moved on to the corporate photographs when Anderton announced they were almost there. He glanced up from his cell phone and saw that they were passing through a middle-income neighbourhood. The houses were bigger than the one Myra Hooper had shared with Cody, but way smaller than Sobek’s place over in Kerrisdale.

  He went back to his phone and swiped through the corporate pictures. Compared to some of the other photographs on the site these were fairly pedestrian. Then again, how much artistry could you bring to a head-and-shoulders shot of a CEO? He was swiping quickly, not really paying much attention to the faces flying past. Something spiked at his subconscious and he swiped back a picture. Whatever it was that had caught his attention it had nothing to do with the woman staring out from his phone. He swiped from left to right and a new face appeared on the screen. His heart thumped uncomfortably against his ribcage then settled again. Anderton must have sensed something. She looked over from the driver’s seat.

  ‘What?’ she asked.

  He held his cell up and she glanced at the screen. Just for a second, but a second was all that was needed. The hair was shorter, the beard was gone, but there was no mistaking who this was.

  ‘That’s Sobek,’ she said.

  ‘Which means we now have a direct link between Gifford and the crimes. There’s no way that this is some fluky cosmic coincidence. When you hear quacking, there’s going to be a duck in the vicinity.’

  ‘I should call Freeman.’

  ‘Yes you should, but you’re not going to, so let’s not waste time going down that route.’ Possible scenarios were rushing through Winter’s head at the speed of electricity, neurons sparking and firing and lighting up bright. ‘This is a game-changer. We could be about to go head-to-head with a serial killer. I’d rather not do that unarmed. Given Canada’s stringent weapons laws, this is a bit of a long shot, bu
t have you got a gun stashed in the trunk? Two would be better. That way you could have one, too.’

  ‘No guns, but look under your seat.’

  Winter leant forward and felt around beneath his seat. His fingertips touched tape, then something plastic. He gave the mystery object a tug and it came away with a sticky tearing sound. It turned out to be a standard police-issue taser. Anderton glanced over.

  ‘For emergencies,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got another one tucked away under your seat?’

  ‘Sorry. And just so we’re clear, that’s mine.’

  Thirty seconds later Anderton turned into a quiet, narrow lane and pulled over to the kerb. The house they wanted was thirty yards further on. It was a tidy-looking property with a small fenced yard out back. Three bedrooms, maybe four at a push, but the fourth would be tiny. The clapboard was painted dark brown, making the house appear gloomy and dark. It was almost as if it was trying not to be seen.

  Anderton held out a hand and Winter reluctantly handed her the taser. They got out and walked along the narrow strip of sidewalk toward the house. Most of the neighbouring properties appeared empty, the residents no doubt at work. They passed an elderly woman who was tending the flower beds in her front yard. She wished them a cheery good morning as they passed by, then pretended to go back to her gardening. Winter could sense her eyes following them all the way to Gifford’s front door.

  The house appeared to be as empty as those around it. There were no lights on, but given that it was daytime that didn’t necessarily mean anything. The empty parking slot in front of the house was more telling. Gifford advertised that he travelled to his clients, so it was a safe bet that he owned a vehicle. There was no driveway or garage, so the front of the house would be the logical place to keep it. If he was at home.

  Anderton knocked and they waited. The day was still and quiet. There was no breeze to carry the sound or stir the trees. Today’s weather was as perfect as yesterday’s, the sun burning bright and hot against a hazy blue sky. As the day progressed, the haze would melt away and the mercury would rise. Way off in the distance, an airliner was coming in to land at the airport. Anderton knocked again, half-heartedly, like she was going through the motions. She’d clearly reached the same conclusion about no one being home.

  There were two locks on the door. A Yale and a five-lever mortice. The Yale didn’t pose much of a problem, but the deadbolt was a challenge. In the end it took Winter almost a minute and a half to pick them both. Anderton had positioned herself so the old woman wouldn’t see what they were up to. She seemed to be absorbed in her gardening, but Winter still had the impression that she was watching them. He pushed the door open. Before he could say anything, Anderton had the taser out and was already stepping inside.

  47

  The hall walls were white and completely bare. There were no photographs, no paintings, no mirrors. No personal touches whatsoever. Nothing that said ‘this is where I live’. The space was cold and unwelcoming. Given Gifford’s profession, Winter would have expected to see a photograph or two. He took a closer look at the nearest wall. There were patches where the paintwork was brighter. He ran his fingertips over the wall, felt the way the texture of the plaster changed. There had been picture hooks here once upon a time. Quite a few, by the looks of things. After they were removed, the holes had been plastered over and smoothed out and the affected areas repainted.

  Out of habit Winter sniffed the air. No dead bodies. No smell at all, really. Which was almost as unusual as the lack of pictures. Most houses held the aroma of the last meal prepared there. Which meant that it had been a while since the kitchen had seen any cooking. Which made him wonder how long Gifford had been gone for. The old woman a couple of doors down would be able to answer that. She’d know everything that was happening around here.

  The first door led to the living room. Like the hall, the walls were white and completely bare. There had been pictures here as well once upon a time, dozens of them. All of the hooks had been removed, the marks plastered and painted over. The TV had a layer of dust on the screen and didn’t look as though it had been used for a while. There were no cushions on the sofa and the bookcase was empty. The room had the temporary feel of Eric Kirchner’s apartment. Where it differed was that this furniture hadn’t been picked up cheap in a thrift store. Someone had gone to the trouble of co-ordinating this room. The drapes were a shade of pink that complemented the red sofa, and the furniture styles blended to create a pleasing whole.

  ‘This is weird,’ Anderton said. ‘So does he live here or not?’

  ‘I know what you mean.’

  The next room gave an answer to Anderton’s question. It was half the size of the living room. At some point in time it might have been a study or a dining room. It was filled with Gifford’s photography gear. His lighting gear was stored neatly against the back wall. There were lights on tripods, umbrellas, diffusers and a small A-frame stepladder. A tall rack of steel shelves held everything else he might need. It was arranged methodically, a section for each item. Cameras, lenses, filters. The bags on the bottom shelf were grouped according to size. The largest on the left, the smallest on the right.

  The window had a heavy wooden shutter that blocked all the light. A desk had been positioned beneath it. There was a computer tower underneath the desk and a large high-resolution monitor on top. Winter sat down and glanced over his shoulder. Anderton was busy examining the shelves, looking but not touching. He hit the on button and the computer buzzed and clicked through the first part of the booting procedure before grinding to a halt with a password popup in the middle of the screen. He hunted around for an adhesive note containing a scribbled password reminder. It was a long shot and it didn’t pay off. He tried the underside of the desk. Nothing stuck there, either.

  For a moment he sat wondering what the password might be. The problem was that he’d only just made Gifford’s acquaintance. He typed in his name. No space, the ‘I’s in Billy and Gifford substituted with ones, the ‘O’ substituted with a zero. An incorrect password warning flashed up on the screen. He tried again, this time using William instead of Billy. Ones for the ‘I’s, a four for the ‘A’. Still no joy. He didn’t try a third time. They might only get three strikes. Having the hard drive wipe itself wouldn’t help anyone.

  ‘This is probably a job for the police’s department’s IT geniuses,’ Anderton said at his shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, though, if they find anything, we’ll know about it.’

  Winter rolled back from the desk and spun around to face her. ‘Yeah, but there’s nothing to beat seeing things first hand.’

  The next door led to the kitchen. Like the hall and the living room the marks made by the picture hooks had been painted over, and there was no sense that Gifford actually lived here. Winter felt like he’d stepped into a show house. What was actually in here was almost as interesting as what wasn’t. There was a kettle and a toaster, but aside from that the work surfaces were clear. There was no microwave, no knife nest, no scales, no recipe books, no clutter anywhere. The sink was clear of dishes and gleaming. The stove was gleaming, too. The water in the kettle was cold, but it had been used at some point in time. The crumb tray in the toaster was clean, but there were a few stray crumbs, which indicated that this had been used at some point as well.

  The first cupboard he opened was empty. The second had a single cup, bowl and plate, all lined up neatly on the lowest shelf. The third was filled with pots of Cup Noodles. The cutlery drawer contained one fork, one knife and one spoon. The drawer next to it contained a pile of dish towels, all white, all neatly folded. All the other drawers were empty. There wasn’t even a pair of scissors.

  ‘You’ve got to see this,’ Anderton called out.

  She was over by the refrigerator. Both doors were open and she was peering into it. There was a dozen packets of ham on the middle shelf, all sealed and all within their sell-by date. The bottom shelf held four large tubs of marga
rine. No juice or milk in the door, no salad stuff in the drawer. She pulled open the top drawer of the freezer section. It was filled with loaves of bread.

  ‘The other two drawers are exactly the same.’

  ‘It looks like Gifford is existing on a diet of toast, ham sandwiches and instant noodles.’

  ‘Which is just plain weird.’

  ‘It’s also pragmatic. The less time he spends cooking, the more time he’s got to pursue his other interests.’

  ‘Like stalking his victims and watching the husbands,’ Anderton suggested.

  ‘Yeah, exactly like that.’

  The window overlooked the small backyard. One third was decking and the remaining two-thirds was covered with an overgrown lawn. High fences shielded the yard from the neighbours. There was nothing on the decking. No chairs, no table, no barbecue, no planters. They left the kitchen and went upstairs. There were four doors leading off the landing, all closed. The first bedroom had empty closets, empty drawers and no linen on the bed. Ditto for the second.

  The main bedroom was behind the third door. There was evidence that Gifford had been here at some point. The quilt was dumped in the middle of the bed and the pillows had been left at an angle. The top drawer of the bureau held his underwear. Boxer shorts folded neatly on the left, socks balled neatly on the right. All the other drawers were empty. His clothes were in the closet. Plain white button-down shirts hanging to the left, tan chinos hanging to the right. The shoe rack at the bottom of the closet held two pairs of brown loafers. The leather was shining.

  Anderton appeared at his shoulder. ‘Looks like he’s as pragmatic with his clothes as he is with his eating habits.’

  ‘It certainly looks that way.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because every life contains a finite amount of hours and minutes. Say you sleep eight hours a night, then that’s one third of your life taken up right there. So what are you going to do with the other two-thirds? If we asked Gifford that question he’d tell us that he wasn’t going to waste it deciding what to wear or eat.’