Killers

by Laurence Gough

  She had stood there in the bathroom for the longest time, flushing the toilet over and over again…

  Iris said, “About a month before we killed him, he called and said he wouldn’t be coming home that night. He didn’t bother to say why, to make up an excuse. But what really hurt was that he was so cheerful. He didn’t care about me enough to bother with a lie. I felt so terribly humiliated. I cried for hours, Susan, and then I suddenly realized I’d had enough of him, and started to work out how to kill him. And then, when you came to me and told me how he’d betrayed you, I knew you’d do what you could to help. And I was right, wasn’t I?”

  The fire crackled and a spark shot into the air and bounced off the metal screen. Susan made a small sound of fear, but Iris ignored her.

  “The night we killed him, I cooked a ten dollar steak and cut it into chunks and slipped a codeine tablet into each one. I put the pieces of steak in a plastic bag and drove through the snow all the way to the park. Gerard had told me about the security cameras, so I left the car down by the water. I wasn’t sure if the guard dog would accept the meat, or if he’d been trained not to.” She smiled. “You should have seen him gobble it down! In ten minutes he was sound asleep. I picked him up in a fireman’s lift and dumped him over the wall, into the moat. The cold water must’ve revived him. Then I took the stairs up to the roof and used Gerard’s spare key to let myself into the room above the shark pool, and hid behind a potted plant. A potted plant! Gerard arrived about an hour later. I waited until he’d stripped and dived into the pool and then went in after him. The poor man kept trying to turn around, but I wouldn’t let him. I’m sure he thought I was you, Susan, and who can blame him? As a jilted lover, you certainly had a wonderful motive. But then, didn’t we both.”

  Iris stroked Susan’s silky hair. Susan had told her about her date with that unwitting bastard Gerard, the romantic late-night swim. Iris had instructed her to show up half an hour late, but neglected to explain why. She’d drowned Gerard in Susan’s absence and then, when she finally showed up, forcefully recruited her to help with the really hard part — shifting all that lard to the whale pool. Susan had been really useful, but Susan was weak. Her rage towards Gerard had died with him. Love was seeping back into her heart. Like Gerard, she had become a liability that must be disposed of.

  Iris said, “Did it ever occur to you that we look very much alike, dear?” She smiled a sad, sweet smile. “If you’d only known me when I was your age…” A single teardrop, burning like liquid gold in the firelight, trickled down the older woman’s wrinkled cheek.

  The second bottle was half-empty. Where had all the wine gone? Susan looked at her glass. There it was, some of it. She raised the glass to her lips. A little wine trickled down her chin. Iris offered her a napkin, and she took it and held it tightly.

  Iris said, “He died thinking it was you, dear.”

  Susan shuddered. She’d already consumed at least two full glasses of wine. Iris was watching her. She knew she would have to be very careful. She tried to put her glass down. The driftwood table was a bit unsteady. Or perhaps the glass slipped from her hand. Something went wrong.

  A mouthful of wine spilled across the shiny yellow wood.

  Iris said, “So you killed him, in a way. Didn’t you? Not that it makes the slightest bit of difference. We couldn’t have done it without each other. In the end, that’s what counts, don’t you think?”

  Susan began to cry; tears flooded her cheeks and great racking sobs shook her body.

  Iris picked up Susan’s wine glass and tossed it into the fire. She was quite sure the silly girl hadn’t touched anything else. But in the morning she’d clean the house from end to end and top to bottom, just to be sure.

  Susan had curled up into a tight ball of grief. The tears continued to flow. Her body heaved and shuddered. But who was she grieving for — Gerard, or herself?

  Iris went into the bedroom. She stripped down to her bra and panties and then wriggled into her wetsuit, dressed again in her baggy jeans and black sweater. She stuffed her mask, gloves and swim fins into an Eaton’s shopping bag, carried the bag into the kitchen and hung it on a hook by the door.

  When she returned to the living room she found that Susan had cried herself into a state of exhaustion. She told her it was time to go home, pulled her to her feet and helped her with her coat.

  Susan said that she was frightened. Laughing, Iris told her not to be ridiculous.

  Outside, darkness had fallen and the tide was on the ebb. It was so cold that the rhododendron’s leaves had curled into hundreds of tiny green fingers. A gust of wind made the shrub’s branches scratch against the side of the house. Bits of debris blew down upon them from the surrounding trees. Iris roughly propelled Susan across the snow-swept lawn towards the beach. The wind howled around them. A wave crashed upon the shore in a burst of white froth.

  As they drew near the dinghy, Iris released her grip on Susan’s arm. She tossed the plastic bag into the boat and ordered Susan to help her carry the small craft down to the water.

  On the far side of the harbour, the city glittered as if many thousands of stars had fallen from the sky, and lay stricken and dying upon the land.

  Chapter 25

  The way they worked it, Parker and Willows split the foot-high stack of witness reports right down the middle. Willows read carefully. As he finished each report he added it to the growing pile on Parker’s desk.

  Parker followed the same procedure with her stack of reports. When every report had been read, each detective skimmed rapidly through his partner’s stack, searching for a previously overlooked, telling detail. The teams of detectives Bradley assigned to the case had conducted preliminary interviews with one hundred and six aquarium employees. Almost all of those interviewed had firm but uncomplimentary opinions about the deceased. But no one — so far — had any hard information that might lead Willows and Parker to Roth’s killer. The investigation was going nowhere, and it was getting there in a hurry.

  Willows glanced at his watch. It was quarter past eleven. He’d been at it almost three hours; no wonder his vision was starting to go.

  Parker tossed him another witness report.

  Eddy Orwell’s chair creaked as he leaned towards Willows.

  “That Ellen Murata’s statement?”

  Willows nodded. Orwell’s initials, a block letter ‘E’ inside a flamboyant ‘O’ had been scrawled at the bottom of the page.

  Orwell said, “I spent a little extra time with her.”

  “Yeah?”

  Orwell nodded sagely.

  “Why?” said Parker.

  “Because she was real cute,” said Orwell. “Why else?”

  “Good question, Eddy.”

  Willows half-rose from his chair, leaned across his desk and tossed a report on Parker’s desk.

  “Great body,” said Orwell. “And real friendly, know what I mean? Made me long for the bad old days.”

  “When dinosaurs roamed the earth,” said Dan Oikawa, “and a bottle of Coke cost a dime.”

  Orwell ignored him. “There’s lot of times,” he said, “when I really envy you, Jack.”

  Willows slid open a desk drawer, slammed it shut.

  “Must be nice, being single again. Ready and able to pick and choose…”

  Oikawa and Farley Spears exchanged a quick glance. Oikawa put his pen down on his desk.

  Orwell said, “Man, I bet there’s times you can hardly believe your luck…”

  Willows pushed back his chair. He stood up.

  Parker said, “Jack…”

  Orwell caught her tone. In a gesture of surprised innocence he brought his hands, knuckly fingers spread wide, up against his burly chest. “Did I say something to offend?” He winked at Oikawa. “Could it be that Jack don’t want Claire thinking he’s fooling around on her?”

  Willows moved away from his desk.

  Parker said, “Hey, wait a minute…”

  Willows pointed across th
e squad room. Homer Bradley was lounging in the open doorway to his office, an unlit cigar dangling from his mouth.

  Parker turned the witness reports face down on her desk and followed Willows towards the door.

  Bradley took the cigar out of his mouth, studied it for a moment and then put it back where it belonged. He stepped aside, waved Parker and Willows into his office and shut the door behind them.

  Orwell waited until Bradley’s shadow moved away from the pebbled glass of his office door, and then said, “So what was Jack upset about? He looked as if he was gonna slug me.”

  “No way,” said Oikawa, a little too promptly.

  “He was pissed off about something,” Orwell insisted.

  Spears said, “You better tell him, Dan.”

  Oikawa frowned. He stared up at the ceiling for a moment and then said, “You’re better qualified. You do it.”

  “It’s about the babe,” said Spears. “The witness, the one who came on to you.”

  “Ellen Murata?”

  Oikawa said, “Yeah, Ellen.”

  “What about her?”

  “She dropped by earlier this morning, looking for you.”

  “She did?”

  “Jack took one look at her, fell in love.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “He asked her out, Eddy.”

  “He did?” Orwell looked surprised, even a little upset. “He’s a little old for her, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Lots of girls like older men,” said Spears. “Older men tend to have more money. Also, most women consider them superior sack-mates.”

  “Absolutely,” said Oikawa, deadpan.

  Orwell said, “Well, I’m getting old.”

  Spears smiled. He said, “The truth is, she turned him down cold.”

  Recovering fast, Orwell said, “I knew she would. Jack’s at least thirty-five, right? Must be a bitch, knowing the high ground’s all behind you.”

  Oikawa was in his late forties. Spears was getting close to mandatory retirement. Neither man said a word.

  Whistling jauntily, Orwell consulted his spiral-bound notebook. He picked up his phone, made the call, slammed the receiver back in the cradle.

  “Busy?” said Spears.

  Orwell nodded.

  “Probably she’s trying to get through to you.”

  “Right, right.” Orwell dialled the number again. He made a face, disconnected.

  “Got the automatic redial there, Eddy.”

  “Yeah, right. Thanks.”

  *

  Bradley poured tea from a rose pattern Royal Albert pot into a matching cup. He added three spoonfuls of sugar, squeezed a slice of lemon. He picked up the cup, sipped. “How’s the Roth thing coming along?”

  “Slowly,” said Willows.

  “You talked to the animal rights screwball?”

  Parker said, “Archie isn’t exactly a screwball, Inspector. In fact he was kind of nice, in a way.”

  “Nice,” said Bradley, “but innocent.” He spooned more sugar into his cup. “That’s it — no other leads?”

  Parker said, “Aquarium security sweeps the parking lot every couple of hours throughout the night. They get a lot of kids smoking dope, turning the family car into a motel on wheels. Any car in the lot after hours, they run a flashlight over it, record the tag. We asked the head of security, Bob Kelly, to provide us with a list of licence numbers recorded the night of the murder. There was a Saab registered in Roth’s name, a motorhome from California. It took a while to track that one down…”

  Bradley sipped his tea and thought about how much pleasure his cigar would give him, when his working day finally came to an end.

  Parker said, “There was a black Porsche belonged to a low-level coke dealer named Maury Grescoe AKA Two-Coat Tony. Kearns says he’s called Two-Coat because he’s got emphysema, circulation problems. So he’s always cold… Anyway, we cleared all the cars except one — a late-model four-wheel drive Subaru owned by a woman named Robyn Davis, DOB 11 October 1971. MVB had an address on Pendrell but she’s moved, no forwarding address.”

  “How long’s she been gone?”

  “Too long, Inspector. The building manager gave her notice six months ago. Apparently she had a rambunctious boyfriend; he liked to stay up all night, listen to loud music. The manager warned Robyn twice, and then gave her the boot.”

  “She got a sheet?”

  “No, she’s clean.”

  “What about the boyfriend?”

  “All we’ve got is a first name — Chris.” Before Bradley could vent his displeasure Parker hastily added, “The Subaru’s at the top of the hot-sheet lists. It’ll show up sooner or later.”

  “If we’re lucky. How you doing with the witness reports?”

  “We’re making progress, Inspector.”

  “Stick with it. But in the meantime, do whatever you can to track down Robyn Davis. Understood?”

  Willows nodded, but Bradley having already moved on to the next problem on his list, was reaching for the phone. Willows waited until Parker was clear of the door and then shut it behind them. He checked his watch. High noon. Orwell and Oikawa and Spears had already left for lunch. He said, “Can I have another look at the MVB report on the Subaru?”

  Parker unlocked the top drawer of her desk, handed Willows a buff-coloured folder. He glanced briefly at it. “What’s today’s date?”

  “The twenty-eighth. Why?” She gave Willows a look. “Her insurance is due to expire, isn’t it?”

  “Midnight of the thirtieth.”

  In British Columbia, automobile insurance is mandatory. If Robyn Davis wanted to keep her Subaru on the road, she’d have to fill out an insurance form — and update her address — within the next two days.

  There was a Chinese restaurant on Keefer, just off Main, that served terrific Won Ton, as well as a decent plate of bacon and eggs. Parker waited for the food to arrive, and then asked Willows if he’d thought about what he was going to do when Sheila came back. The question caught him by surprise, and it showed. He said, “She just left, Claire. The door’s still closing behind her.”

  “She’s dumped your kids — her kids — for some guy so unimportant to her she didn’t even think to mention his name. Some guy who didn’t even care that she dumped her kids. What kind of jerk would let a woman do something like that? How long do you think it’s going to take her to realize she made a mistake? She’ll be back, and it’ll be sooner rather than later.”

  Willows stabbed viciously at a chunk of pan-fried potato, missed. The fork’s tines screeched across the plate. He struck again, and this time his aim was true. He stirred the potato into a puddle of egg yolk, chewed and swallowed, gave Parker an infuriatingly bovine smile.

  *

  The remainder of the day was spent on the witness reports, fruitless calls to the Traffic Detail, Motor Vehicle Branch and ICBC — the Insurance Corporation of British Columbia. Robyn Davis’s driving record was clean. She hadn’t yet reported her change of address. If she’d been involved in a motor vehicle accident, she’d failed to report it.

  Willows phoned Medicare. Robyn had fallen behind in her monthly payments — her health insurance had been cancelled six months earlier.

  During the afternoon Willows repeatedly phoned Susan Carter and Iris Roth. Neither woman answered. Factor in Robyn Davis, and he was zero for three. Nobody answered at his own home, either. At five o’clock he tried Susan Carter one last time, let the phone ring while he cleared his desk.

  Parker said, “Packing it in, Jack?”

  Willows nodded.

  “Got time for a drink?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Freddy’s?”

  “Sounds good.”

  “I’ve got a few odds and ends to tidy up. Meet you there in half an hour?”

  Willows nodded. He cradled the phone, locked his desk and walked out of the office.

  *

  Freddy’s bar was a lot like Freddy — low profile and well-worn. Un
pretentious. Before he got into the bartending racket Freddy had been a fairly decent piano player and wonderfully indecent ladies’ man. Both pursuits had come to a bloody, grinding halt when a jealous boyfriend with a tin ear stuck his hand in a blender set on purée.

  A few years later Freddy settled down, became a happily married man. Because the three middle fingers of his left hand had been chopped off at the knuckles, he wore his wedding ring on his thumb.

  Freddy turned from the television over the bar as Willows walked in. He snatched an open bottle of Cutty Sark off the shelf and slammed it down on the wide oak bar. Reaching for a glass, he said, “All by yourself, Jack?”

  Willows said, “Yeah, but I’ve got a friend I could call if I was lonely.”

  Grinning, Freddy thumped a lowball glass down on the counter, dumped in some ice and poured a generous double. The jealous boyfriend and a couple of pals had taken Freddy to a five dollar room in a skid row hotel, chained him to the radiator and plugged in the blender.

  The night clerk heard Freddy’s screams and, against all odds, dialled 911. Willows and his long-time partner, Norm Burroughs, had kicked in and saved most of Freddy from being turned into a strawberry milkshake.

  About six months later Norm Burroughs succumbed to stomach cancer. No one had thought to notify Freddy of the funeral but he showed up anyway, paid his respects and dropped a thousand dollars in the widow’s kitty. A year or so later he invited Willows to the grand opening of his new bar. He’d been pouring Jack doubles ever since.

  Freddy gave the drink a push. The glass slid along the bar and came to a stop directly in front of Willows. He picked it up, sipped.

  On the television over the bar, a commercial for an environmentally friendly four-wheel-drive vehicle was replaced by a shot of a boxing ring, a square of bright blue canvas, a pair of overweight fighters slumped on wooden stools. A bell rang shrilly. The fighters came lethargically to their feet and shuffled towards the centre of the ring.