Shoe pressed “Stop,” ejected the tape from the VCR, and slipped it back into the cardboard sleeve. He put the tape dated two weeks earlier into the VCR and pressed “Play.”
This tape had been shot at night, from inside a vehicle parked up the hillside from Patrick’s house. The video image was grainy and unsteady and the colours were muted, almost monochromatic. It went in and out of focus a couple of times, then zoomed in on the window of a large, well-lighted bathroom. Although the venetian blinds were partly closed, the downward angle of the camera provided an almost unobstructed view of a big bathtub between the tilted horizontal slats. As Shoe and Ed Davage watched, Victoria entered the bathroom. She bent over the tub, tested the water temperature with her hand, then shrugged out of her bathrobe and stepped into the bath.
“Jesus freaking Christ,” Ed Davage swore.
Shoe stopped and ejected the tape, shoved it into the cardboard sleeve, and threw it into the drawer.
“Call Hammond’s house,” he said to Davage as he wrote the number on a sticky notepad from Tilley’s desk. “Ask for Sergeant Matthias or Constable Worth.” Shoe handed Davage the note. Davage reached for Tilley’s phone. “Use another phone,” Shoe said. Davage took a cellphone out of his pocket.
While Davage was making the call, Shoe picked up the telephone on Tilley’s desk and dialled Victoria’s number. The telephone rang four times before the voice mail system answered. Patrick’s voice intoned, “You have reached—”
Shoe broke the connection. If Tilley were indeed there, he didn’t want to tip him off.
“I’ve got Sergeant Matthias,” Ed Davage said.
“Tell him what we found here and that Tilley may be at Mrs. O’Neill’s home in West Vancouver,” Shoe said as he hurried out of the office. “Tell him I’m on my way there now.”
Davage lagged behind, speaking into his cellphone. He caught up to Shoe by the elevators.
“He’ll alert the West Van police,” he said, closing his phone. Shoe stabbed the elevator call button. “What can I do?” Davage asked as the door hissed opened.
“Stay here,” Shoe said. “And if Tilley shows up, shoot the bastard.”
“Would that I had a gun,” Davage replied gloomily.
Shoe pushed the old Mercedes, his driving skills, and his luck to the limit, running every red light he hit, but it still took him almost twenty minutes to get to the British Properties. When he skidded to a stop in front of the house, there was a West Vancouver police car parked in the street and another in the driveway, strobes flickering, lighting up the exclusive neighbourhood, bringing out the occupants of the nearby houses, who stood gawking at the action from a discreet distance.
“You Schumacher?” said one of the two uniformed cops standing in front of the door to the house.
“Yes.”
“We were told to expect a big guy. Go on in.”
“Any sign of Del Tilley?” Shoe asked.
“Nuh-uh.”
Victoria was in the sunken living room, sitting on the long sofa. Standing over her was another pair of West Vancouver uniformed cops. One was a big-boned blond woman only an inch or two shorter than Shoe. All the lights were on and the drapes were drawn over the picture window. Victoria stood when she saw Shoe. Although it was just a few minutes past eight, she was wearing a plain blue terrycloth bathrobe belted tight around her waist. It looked like the same one she’d been wearing in the video. Her eyes were reddened as though she’d been crying. Shoe wouldn’t have expected her to spill any tears for Bill Hammond.
“Is it true?” she said. “Bill’s dead?”
“Yes,” Shoe said.
She closed her eyes for a second or two, then opened them.
“What happened to your face?” Victoria asked. Shoe told her, keeping it brief and simple. “Is Abby all right?” she asked.
“Physically,” Shoe said.
Victoria nodded. “Did Del Tilley kill Patrick?” she asked.
“It’s beginning to look that way,” Shoe said.
“On Bill’s orders?”
Shoe shook his head. “More likely to get him out of the way.”
“Out of the way? I don’t understand.”
“It appears Tilley’s been stalking you for some time,” Shoe said. He told her about Tilley’s collection of videotapes.
What colour there was in her face drained away, leaving her deathly pale. She sank onto the sofa.
The big female cop said gently, “Can I make you a cup of tea?”
Victoria shook her head.
“Something stronger maybe?” the cop asked.
“No, I’m all right,” Victoria said to the woman. “Thank you.”
“It might be a good idea for you to stay someplace else till the police find him,” Shoe said.
“I’ll be all right here,” Victoria said. “I’ll set the alarm.”
“We’ll leave a car outside,” the female cop said. Her partner nodded.
“That won’t be necessary,” Victoria said.
“Humour them,” Shoe said.
The doorbell rang. Shoe remembered the name of the tune, Beethoven’s Für Elise. He went to the door and let Matthias and Worth in.
“We’ve circulated Tilley’s description,” Matthias said. “We’ve got his apartment under surveillance, but so far there’s been no sign of him or of Hammond’s car. It’s pretty unlikely he’d go home, though. We’re getting a warrant to search his apartment and his office.”
“Great,” Victoria said sourly.
Matthias and Worth looked at Victoria, then at Shoe. “What?” Matthias said.
Shoe explained about the videotapes.
“There’s no reason anyone has to see them,” Matthias said. “They aren’t related to the murder of Hammond and the housekeeper, and if you don’t bring stalking charges against Tilley, they won’t be needed as evidence. And there’s no reason for you to bring charges against him. We’ve got enough to convict him ten times over for the homicides.”
Matthias and Worth spoke to the West Vancouver cops, then left to supervise the search of Tilley’s home and office. The female West Vancouver cop told Victoria that she and her partner would be outside in the car.
“May I use your phone?” Shoe asked when the cops had left the house.
“Use the one in the kitchen,” Victoria said.
In the kitchen, Shoe dialled Muriel’s number. After four rings, her voice mail answered.
“Muriel, it’s Joe,” he said. “I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner. It’s a long story. I’m at Victoria’s, but I’ll be heading home in a minute. I’ll call you when I get there and explain.”
He hung up and turned to find Victoria looking at him with a puzzled expression on her face.
“Muriel?” she said. “Are you and she—? Well, aren’t you two full of surprises.” There was a bitter edge to her voice that took Shoe by surprise.
“Are you sure you’re going to be all right here by yourself?” he asked.
“I’ll be fine,” she said.
“Why don’t you call Kit, have her come over? Better yet, stay at her place.”
Victoria shook her head. “She’s angry with me. We had a quarrel. She—well, never mind.”
“Try to get some rest,” he said. “And don’t forget the alarm system.”
He went to the front door. His coat and hat were on a chair by the door. He put them on while Victoria silently watched. She didn’t speak as he opened the door, but as he went out, she said, “Tell Mu ‘hi’ for me.”
It was after nine when Shoe pulled into the driveway behind his house. All the downstairs lights were on. Jack must still be painting, he thought, or else he’d forgotten to turn them off. He locked the car and went up the steps to the back porch. Unlocking the back door, he went into the utility room off the kitchen. The roller blind on the kitchen door was pulled down and the utility room was dark, lit only by the light leaking past the edges of the blind. He opened the kitchen door.
Muri
el sat in one of the IKEA kitchen chairs with her back to him. Her arms were bound to the chair back with grey duct tape and her ankles were taped to the chair legs. When she heard the door open, she twisted her head around in an effort to look over her shoulder. There was a length of tape across her mouth. She made a high-pitched keening sound through her nose. Through the thin material of her red silk pyjamas Shoe could see the hard knots and ridges of the muscles of her arms and shoulders as she strained against the bindings.
“It’s Joe,” Shoe said. Seething with dread, he went to her, stood where she could see him, touched her.
Her eyes bulged with terror and she shook her head wildly. Her left cheek was bruised and swollen. As gently as he could, he started to remove the tape from her mouth. She twisted her head quickly to one side, ripping free of the tape.
“He’s still here,” she cried. “Del Tilley. He killed Jack.”
“It’s all right,” Shoe said. He cupped the side of her face in the palm of his hand, gently stroking her cheek with the ball of his thumb. “I’m here now.” He plucked at the end of the strip of tape securing her right arm to the chair back.
Her body went rigid as Tilley appeared in the kitchen doorway.
“Don’t do that,” Tilley said, voice twanging with tension. He stood as if he were pulling against invisible bungee cords that threatened to snap him off balance any second. His face was flinty and his eyes smouldered like molten sulphur. He took a step into the kitchen, then another, the rubber heels of his boots thudding softly on the tiles. “Get away from her,” he said.
“I’m going to get scissors from that drawer and cut her loose,” Shoe said to Tilley, pointing toward the kitchen counter. “Then we can sit down and work something out. Don’t do anything stupid.”
Tilley came toward him, dancing flat-footed in his foolish boots, knees bent, back straight, hands cocked and weaving an intricate pattern. He made an eerie, high-pitched sound in his throat, like a character in a Bruce Lee movie.
Shoe backed away. Tilley could inflict damage with those hands, he knew. And as silly as his boots were, if he connected with a kick, it could disable Shoe long enough to finish him off. However, if Shoe could get his hands on him, he might have a chance.
Tilley yelled and attacked, hands striking like snakes, three times, but he darted away before Shoe could lay hands on him. Shoe had blocked the blows, taking them on his arms, and they had all hurt. He suspected Tilley was just toying with him, though, testing him, probing. Shoe had good reflexes for a man his size, maybe better than average, but Tilley was an order of magnitude faster. On the other hand, Shoe was stronger and heavier and had a longer reach. He had to get hold of Tilley before he did serious damage.
Shoe picked up one of the IKEA kitchen chairs. It was made of painted wood, sturdy but light. Tilley grinned. He spun and kicked, then kicked again. The chair came apart in Shoe’s hands. Tossing the shattered remnants aside, he recalled Ed Davage’s words from earlier: “Would that I had a gun.” Shoe would have settled for one of his mother’s old stainless steel kitchen chairs.
He looked around quickly for something else he could use as a weapon, spotting the set of kitchen knives in a wood block on the counter.
“Go ahead,” Tilley said. “Give it a try. You might even make it.”
But Shoe had no confidence in his skill as a knife fighter. Maybe if he kept Tilley talking.
“The police are looking for you,” he said.
“Let them look,” Tilley said.
“Why are you here? What do you want?”
“I came to say goodbye,” Tilley said with a tight smile. “And to make sure you don’t interfere with my plans any more than you already have.”
With a bone-chilling shriek, Tilley leapt, spinning and kicking high, aiming for Shoe’s head. Shoe deflected the kick with his right arm, which instantly went numb from elbow to fingertips. Tilley bounded away again, smiling coldly.
So much for keeping him talking, Shoe thought. “These plans,” he said, trying to ignore the shooting pains in his arm as sensation returned. “They wouldn’t involve Victoria, would they?” Tilley’s eyes narrowed to dark amber slits. “I found your videotapes,” Shoe said.
“Did you?” Tilley shrugged. “That’s too bad. But it doesn’t really matter. I don’t need them any more. Victoria and I can be together now. No more hiding. No more pretending. As soon as I’ve taken care of you and the Parsons woman, we are going away together, someplace safe.”
He came darting in, fists and feet flying. It nearly ended at that moment as the heel of Tilley’s boot slammed into Shoe’s hip in a kick that was aimed at his groin. Shoe staggered, crouched, and stood his ground, half blinded by the pain, protecting himself as best he could, taking the punishment. He almost caught Tilley’s leg as he kicked at Shoe’s knee, but Tilley slipped free and danced away. Shoe may as well have been fighting a ball of smoke.
“You think if you get hold of me with those big hands, you’ll beat me, don’t you?” Tilley crowed. “Well, you won’t. You’re not half fast enough. And even if you did get your hands on me, it wouldn’t do you any good.”
“We’ll see,” Shoe said. He ached in a dozen places, as though he’d been pummelled with a baseball bat. When this was over, he was going to have some interesting bruises. He hoped he’d live to enjoy them.
“In the meantime,” Tilley said, “catch your breath. I’ve got plenty of time.”
Muriel screamed, face suffused with blood, tendons in her neck cording. “Help! Someone call the police! Help!”
“Shut up!” Tilley shouted, circling toward her. Shoe moved to interpose himself between Tilley and Muriel. Tilley backed off. “Anyway, you’re wasting your breath. No one can hear you.”
He was probably right, Shoe thought. The house was well insulated and buttoned up against the winter chill, the nearest neighbours likewise.
“Did you kill Patrick?” Shoe asked.
“I thought about it,” Tilley replied. “But I didn’t need to kill him to get him out of the way. I was going to show Victoria a videotape of Patrick and Sandra St. Johns fornicating on his office sofa. She would’ve stopped loving him then.”
“You think so?” Shoe said.
“She could never love a man who was unfaithful to her,” Tilley said.
“No,” Shoe said. “Maybe she couldn’t.”
“For a while I thought maybe it was you,” Tilley said. “But it doesn’t matter who killed him. He’s out of the way. That’s all that matters.”
“Was Bill Hammond in the way?” Shoe asked. “Is that why you killed him?”
The muscles of Tilley’s jaw bunched. “Yes, he was in the way, but that’s not why I killed him. I killed him for what he did to Victoria.” He spoke as though his mouth were full of something foul. “He was a degenerate animal who forced sex on his own daughter.”
Muriel grunted. Shoe said, “You think Victoria is Bill Hammond’s daughter?”
Tilley snorted contemptuously. “You don’t expect me to believe you don’t know she’s his daughter, do you? You’re even dumber than I thought.”
“Okay,” Shoe said. “So I’m stupid. Explain it to me.”
Tilley sighed with impatience. He reached into the hip pocket of his trousers. “I found this in Hammond’s safe,” he said, unfolding a black and white photograph. He glanced at it quickly, then, with a flick of his wrist, tossed it at Shoe. It fluttered to the floor. “Go ahead. Pick it up. I won’t attack you.”
Without taking his eyes off Tilley, Shoe stooped and retrieved the photograph.
“At first I thought it was a picture of Victoria,” Tilley said. “Faked to look old. But it isn’t. It’s a photograph of Hammond’s mother when she was young. Victoria looks just like her.”
Shoe risked a quick look at the photograph. Brittle and cracked with age, it showed a young woman in a long straight dress. She had dark, deep-set eyes, sharp cheekbones, and short pale hair. The resemblance to Victoria was star
tling, perhaps even uncanny, but it was far from perfect. He dropped the photograph onto the kitchen table.
“That’s it?” Muriel cried incredulously, twisting in the kitchen chair, straining against the tape. “You think she’s his daughter because of a resemblance with some woman in an old photograph? You’re crazy.”
“Shut your damned mouth!” Tilley shouted, face reddening. He rotated his neck, regaining his composure. “Not just that,” he said. “Hammond admitted she was his daughter. He thought it would save him. It didn’t.” He giggled. The sound made Shoe’s blood run cold. “But,” Tilley said, “she’ll never know her mother was Hammond’s whore or that her own father raped her.”
Shoe charged. If he caught Tilley off guard, though, he recovered well, darted aside, and tried to kick Shoe’s legs out from under him. Shoe was ready for it, though, tucked and rolled, and grabbed for Tilley’s ankle. His fingers slipped off the polished surface of Tilley’s boot, fingernails raking the smooth leather.
As Shoe rolled to his feet in the hall, his right knee exploded with pain and his leg almost buckled under him. Sensing an advantage, Tilley pressed his attack. Shoe crouched, hunched his shoulders and parried Tilley’s stabbing jabs with his forearms. He even managed to land a jab of his own, a glancing blow to Tilley’s cheek. Tilley bounced away and circled toward the front of the house.
“Good, good,” he said gleefully, touching his cheek. “But I’m getting bored. I think I’ll finish you off now.”
Behind Shoe, Muriel shrieked at the top of her lungs. If she was trying to startle or distract Tilley, it didn’t work. She startled Shoe more than she did Tilley.
Tilley laughed. He cocked his hands. “It’s time,” he said, and he began to keen.
An apparition appeared in the hall behind Tilley, a scarecrow with grey straw for hair, a blood red mask, and wild eyes. It had one good arm, in which it held a long thin club. The other hung limp at its side. The apparition raised the club. Bright metal glinted. The club descended with a sharp whistle of wind.
Del Tilley heard the sound and tried to duck. He wasn’t fast enough. The steel head of the golf club glanced off the top of his head with a hollow thwok. Tilley’s scalp split and blood spattered across the freshly painted walls. He staggered, as if the bones in his legs had suddenly turned to rubber. Blood streamed across his face, into his burning yellow eyes. But he did not fall.
Hard Winter Rain Page 24
