COFFIN COVE a gripping murder mystery full of twists (Coffin Cove Mysteries Book 1)

by JACKIE ELLIOTT

  Andi understood the need for Terry’s macabre sense of humour. He captured images that only existed for most people in their worst nightmares.

  “Let’s catch up,” he shouted, making a drinking gesture with his hand.

  Andi waved in agreement, as a uniformed officer came hurrying over.

  “Please leave the area, you’re not allowed to be here,” the officer started.

  Andi waved the cell phone at him. “I think this is relevant,” she said. “I think it belongs to your victim, Pierre Mason,” she ventured, hoping to strike up a conversation and get some more details.

  “It’s a lost cell phone,” the officer said dryly, too experienced for Andi’s tactics. “I’ll pass it on and a member will get in touch with you if necessary.”

  Andi passed him her business card.

  “The Gazette,” he remarked. “There will be a press conference later. Until then, I must ask you to leave. Please.”

  Andi joined Jim at the dock. The protesters, who were milling around like scared kids, having lost their cocky swagger now that their leader was likely lying dead in the fish plant, were eager to talk. They told them that, yes, Mason was driving a rental car like the one parked outside the fish plant. No, they didn’t know if he was meeting anyone the previous night, they only knew to meet him at the dock this morning to organize their next protest. “But you’d know more about that,” one of them said, looking at Andi, “seeing as you met Pierre at the pub last night.”

  Andi refused to meet Jim’s eyes.

  * * *

  “You met Mason last night?” Jim practically yelled at Andi when he got back to the office. “And didn’t tell me? What else haven’t you told me?”

  “Nothing!” Andi said, irritated by Jim’s reaction. If it wasn’t for her, they would be in the dark and waiting for the press conference like everyone else.

  “You were one of the last people to see him alive, one of the first people to see him dead, and you had his cell phone,” Jim stated, his voice back to a normal level.

  “What are you trying to say?” Andi asked.

  “That the investigating officer will probably want to talk to you,” Jim replied. “You’re supposed to report the story, not be part of the story.”

  Andi considered this for a moment. She had to admit Jim had a point.

  “I’ll turn myself in tomorrow,” she said. “Right now, I’m writing my piece for tomorrow’s issue, and I’ve only got an hour before the print deadline.”

  An hour later, after arguing with Jim about the details she could include in the article without being sued and pointing out for the thousandth time that if the Gazette went digital, they could report the news throughout the day instead of having these ridiculous deadlines, Andi checked her email.

  “Holy shit!”

  “What’s the matter?”

  Andi swung her laptop round to show Jim.

  “‘The Bigger Picture’,” he said, reading the subject line. “What does that mean?”

  “Look who it’s from,” Andi said impatiently.

  “Holy shit.” Jim looked at Andi.

  “Yes,” she said, “Pierre Mason.”

  “Something else you should mention at that police interview—” Jim looked at her seriously — “otherwise, you’ll end up as the prime suspect.”

  “Funny,” Andi said. “There’s an attachment to this email, but no message.”

  Andi printed off the picture. “It looks like Mason scanned an old photo,” she said, peering at it. “Looks like a bunch of boats fishing.”

  Jim studied the photo.

  “That looks like a packer,” he said, “and that one there is a seiner. It’s not very clear.”

  “OK,” Andi said, “explain.”

  “Oh, a packer is a boat that doesn’t fish, it literally goes out to pick up fish, to pack them. That way, the boats can carry on fishing and they don’t have to spend valuable time running back to the dock. They can sell their load right away. A seiner is a ‘purse-seiner’. The boat makes a big circle with its net around the fish, and then pulls it in, so that the net tightens up . . . like a purse. Hey, give me that picture again.”

  Jim looked closely.

  “I wouldn’t swear to it,” he said, “but that boat looks like the Pipe Dream.”

  “Harry’s boat?” Andi said, surprised.

  “Yes, I’m fairly certain. Now why would Pierre Mason send you a picture of Harry’s boat?”

  * * *

  It was just getting dark as Jim and Andi walked down to the dock. The fish plant was flooded with light. Huge lamps, positioned so that the police investigators could work into the night, threw long shadows over the boardwalk. A press conference was scheduled for the next day. A TV crew had already arrived. Andi knew that by the time all the reporters were assembled, the body would be long gone, and the forensics team would be focusing on the painstaking lab work that would reveal at least part of Pierre Mason’s story.

  Andi knew that she could add to those facts. The email had a time and date, so assuming that Pierre sent the message himself, the police could narrow down the time of death. Brian McIntosh had dropped the cell phone. Did he find it? Steal it? Or (and Andi shuddered at this thought) did he take it off the dead body? And was any of this related to Sarah’s death or was it a horrible coincidence? She intended to find out.

  Andi didn’t believe in coincidences, and wanted to hear from Harry what he thought about Mason having a picture of his boat. Or at least what he was willing to tell them. She didn’t share Jim’s confidence that Harry could or would tell them anything.

  The Pipe Dream wasn’t tied up in its usual place.

  Odd, Andi thought.

  “Does he often go out fishing at night?” she asked. “Seems weird — just about the whole town is heading to the Fat Chicken to find out the gossip.” They had seen cars parked in the street and people walking to the pub, a distinct excitement in the air.

  People enjoyed death, Andi thought, as long as it didn’t involve them directly. She had experienced this before, people contacting her, wanting to be interviewed about their third-hand knowledge of the crime or about some small snippet of unrelated information, to make them seem relevant to the story.

  The pub would be humming with conspiracy theories. She wondered if Sue and Joe knew that the main suspect in their daughter’s death was now lying in a morgue.

  Jim shrugged.

  “Harry could be anywhere,” he said. “We’ll catch up with him.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Brian McIntosh was cold. He had been hiding in the undergrowth on the road out of Coffin Cove since running from Hephzibah’s, crouched out of sight until the day faded into night. The vodka he had grabbed as he left the fish plant sustained him for a few hours, before he drifted into a disturbed sleep. Then he woke up, panicking. He knew it wouldn’t be long before the police were looking for him. He thought a few fishermen at least knew he camped at the fish plant. Then all those people at Hephzibah’s saw him run when the sirens came. He knew he should have stayed and acted casual, but he couldn’t help it.

  And he always got blamed for everything.

  He cursed as he remembered the phone. He still had the cash from his client, but that wouldn’t go far. He was going to sell the phone to a kid he knew who could reprogramme it somehow and sell it on.

  But what to do now? Where could he go? He thought briefly about Joe and dismissed that almost immediately. He hadn’t seen Joe for years, and the last time he showed up, that bitch Tara called the police. Keeping me away from my own brother. A wave of self-pity and anger overcame him for a moment.

  Brian wasn’t stupid. He knew it was no coincidence that he was paid a wad of banknotes for stealing a gun, and a few days later, somebody was shot.

  “I was fuckin’ set up,” he whined, out loud, “fuckin’ set right up. I’m a fuckin’ innocent man, I’m innocent,” he went on, conveniently forgetting his pride at a perfectly executed theft. />
  Then he remembered something else.

  He hadn’t worn gloves.

  “FUCK!” He pounded his forehead with his palm.

  He hadn’t bothered, assuming that the gun would be far away from Coffin Cove by now. He had been so excited about the money that he didn’t think—

  Wait a minute . . . Had his client worn gloves? He couldn’t remember and it had been dark when he handed over the gun. Maybe not? So more sets of prints. That was reasonable doubt, right? Maybe the shooter took the gun. Maybe he wasn’t set up after all. His prints couldn’t be the only ones on the gun, the owner’s were on there too.

  Brian began to calm down.

  Maybe it was a coincidence. Maybe if he just lay low for a bit they’d catch the shooter. Someone else might have heard the shot. Someone might have seen the killer’s truck arrive and leave. There was always some asshole watching everything, nosing in everyone’s business in this fucking town.

  He tried to concentrate on his immediate situation. He needed food and somewhere to stay. Somewhere he could hide until the cops figured out who did the killing, and then he could come back.

  He decided to take a chance and buy some food at the gas station. It was just up the road and it was early. He hadn’t heard any sirens . . . Maybe they weren’t looking for him yet? Then where to go next?

  Brian suddenly remembered a place he could go. A place he hadn’t been for years. Nobody would think to look for him there.

  He checked the cash in his back pocket, felt in his rucksack for his box of treasures and felt comforted. It would all work out.

  Feeling almost cheerful, he headed towards the gas station, keeping his head down, and ducking as far out of sight as possible whenever a car or truck passed him.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Brenda lingered at Steveston Dock. Eight o’clock in the morning, and the marine mist was already clearing. The muddy Fraser River shimmered, disturbed only by a large grey seal, rolling lazily by the fishing boats, and seagulls skating along the surface.

  It was too early for tourists in Steveston. Another couple of months and the town would be bustling.

  So many changes, Brenda thought. As a child her father had brought her to Steveston to get freshly caught fish from the fishermen who sold their daily catch straight off the dock. She remembered the scream of the gulls circling the vessels as they came in, and the froth of blood and fish guts in the water. The old cannery was still in operation then. In those days, there was a steady stream of boats jostling for position to offload, just where she was standing now. The cannery closed a few years before Brenda started working for Nikos, and now tourists trooped through the old building learning about those historic heydays of the fishing industry, and gulls pounced on discarded junk food rather than rotting fish heads.

  Not all changes were bad, Brenda thought. The stench of decomposing fish offal was gone. Brenda’s new apartment, built in place of the Imperial Plant that used to grind herring into powdered fish meal, had a spectacular view of the river and a smart new coffee house and boutiques on the ground floor.

  She’d always loved living near the ocean and had bought into the new development before all the real estate prices went crazy. She lived a comfortable life and hoped that her current worries about Hades would be short-lived.

  In the distance, Brenda could see a small aluminium boat heading up the river. She remembered waiting for that familiar sight with excitement and anticipation.

  It’s the only thing missing, she thought. Someone to share my life.

  She watched the boat get nearer and wondered if she had done the right thing. Wondered if she’d been waiting for a reason to make that phone call.

  The past is the past, she told herself firmly. This is about saving the future. And she walked down the boat ramp to wait for the Pipe Dream to dock.

  Brenda had often wondered how she would feel if she ever met up with Harry again. A long time ago, Brenda had hoped that their friendship would develop into something more intimate, but Harry was going through a divorce back then, and didn’t want the complication of another relationship while he fought for joint custody of his daughter.

  So they agreed to be friends. And then drifted apart. Brenda was sad about that. She didn’t think she had waited for Harry, but in her mind, nobody had ever measured up, so most of her relationships had been short-lived.

  She felt a mixture of nervousness and excitement as the Pipe Dream got nearer, and she saw Harry’s outline in the wheelhouse. Like a silly teenager, she thought. Pull yourself together.

  He docked the Pipe Dream and hopped down from the wheelhouse. Still agile, Brenda noted, even if he was slightly thicker-set than she remembered. Grey hair and a face creased from the wind and sun — of course, it had been twenty years.

  Brenda was suddenly self-conscious. Her hair, once jet black, was greying, and was scraped back in a bun, the same style she’d worn since she was a teenager. She didn’t go to the expensive gyms or trendy classes in the village, preferring to get her exercise from brisk walks in the ocean air, but she wasn’t as skinny as she’d been last time Harry saw her. And she hadn’t been happy either, then, she thought. They had argued — she had been hurt and a little selfish, she admitted to herself.

  When they met face to face at the dock, she held out her hand. Harry laughed and gave her a hug. There was no trace of resentment or anger in his eyes, just the same kind twinkle, Brenda saw with relief, and she hugged him back.

  “How have you been, Bren?” he asked.

  “Good. And you?”

  “All the better for seeing you,” he smiled. He used to say that to her every time they met. She was glad he hadn’t forgotten.

  Brenda felt warm inside. I was right to call him. This would all be sorted out now.

  Harry had fished for Nikos and Hades Fish Co. until he sold his licenses. His timing was good, Brenda thought, because the industry had waned since then. Nikos always liked Harry. He called him “the Gentleman Fisherman”.

  “He never forgets that he’s only as good as his next catch,” Nikos used to say. “And he never steps on anyone else to get it.”

  Brenda knew that Harry could talk to Nikos about Adrian without upsetting him or insulting his son. She knew how proud Nikos could be.

  Yesterday, Adrian arrived back from breakfast (surprisingly early, Brenda thought) looking worried. He shut himself in the office, even telling Amy curtly after signing the cheques that he was too busy to be bothered with the social media strategy. He didn’t emerge for the rest of the day.

  Brenda left early. She rarely did that, but Amy was still too busy sulking from being dismissed from Adrian’s office to notice. So Brenda gathered up the mail to take to the post office, making sure that the cheque she had written was included. The worried fisherman would receive payment, at least. Then she hurried home to think over the day’s events.

  As she sat in her tiny apartment, alone, she made a few notes about what she had discovered in Adrian’s desk. She wished she had taken a few pictures with her phone, but she could remember enough to make some realistic assumptions about what was going on.

  Brenda was certain that Hades Fish Co. was buying illegal fish and that Steve Hilstead had either arranged it or was heavily involved. She didn’t know what to do next. If she ignored it and Hades got caught, Adrian would face a fine and possibly jail time. If they didn’t get caught then Steve Hilstead, she was sure, would get more brazen. She wondered what he was getting out of it. He didn’t strike her as particularly selfless. And he was part of the reason that Hades was struggling. He’d encouraged Adrian to refurbish the offices and open the bistro. Adrian had needed little persuading, though. He loved luxury and hadn’t begrudged a penny of the thousands he’d spent on that ridiculous hipster place.

  Thousands of Nikos’s hard earned cash, Brenda thought, and now they wanted to make a quick buck by selling substandard illegal fish and squeezing the fishermen who’d always been loyal to Nikos.
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  Brenda briefly considered quitting in disgust. But she was too young to retire, and wouldn’t get much of a pension. She’d hoped to have more savings before she stopped work. She’d been with Hades for her entire working life — who else would hire her now?

  Besides, she owed Nikos Palmer a lot. He’d asked her to stay on and help his son. He deserved her loyalty. Maybe if she could persuade the old man to talk to his son, get rid of Steve, maybe, she fantasized, he might come back temporarily . . .

  She needed some help. So she picked up her phone and called the only person she trusted, other than Nikos, to give her good advice.

  Harry listened. If he had been surprised to hear from Brenda, he said nothing. He agreed with her. Nikos had given them both a chance and now they owed him the respect of at least laying out the truth. It would be Nikos’ decision, Harry said, what to do next, before telling her that he would come over.

  “It’s a bit crazy over here,” he told Brenda, but didn’t say why. “I could do with getting out of Coffin Cove for a bit.”

  And seeing me? Brenda hoped so.

  She would have to lay out her case. Be factual, not accuse anyone of anything, but suggest that Steve wasn’t a good influence on Adrian. She grabbed her laptop and googled Steve Hilstead. Three articles popped up, one only dating back a year. He’d been charged with harvesting abalone. Brenda was astonished. Abalone, a shellfish that once had been plentiful on the West Coast, was now on the endangered list. The delicacy had been practically wiped out back in the nineties.

  It was well known in the industry that organized crime syndicates paid large sums of money for the illegal shellfish. Poachers who got caught with abalone usually got massive fines, but Steve Hilstead was acquitted. There wasn’t much information, but Brenda read that Hilstead’s lawyer had put forward evidence that the DFO officers had conducted an illegal search.

  Digging back further, Brenda found Steve had been charged several times for violating the Fisheries Act, but he had never got more than a fine.