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

by JACKIE ELLIOTT

  “Mr Palmer is about to make me a partner,” he replied with more conviction than he felt.

  “I see. Mr Nikos Palmer or Mr Adrian Palmer? Because it seems that Mr Nikos Palmer still holds a substantial amount of shares.”

  “At the moment,” Steve conceded.

  “I see. Well, Mr Hilstead, I can tell you that my client was not convinced of the value of your proposition. He believes that it will be a very long time, if ever, before your debt is fully repaid, should he decide to go forward. However . . .” Jonathan Dunn paused. “However, Mr Hilstead, I do see some value for Mr Nguyen to consider it. He has some considerable . . . let’s say exposure with his current business model and I have been encouraging him to diversify into more mainstream activities. There are some advantages in pursuing your proposal, I believe.”

  “That’s right, I—”

  “But,” Dunn stopped him, “there are hurdles to be overcome. I’ve detailed our counterproposal in this document.” He produced a manila envelope from his attaché case and laid it on the table. Steve reached out to pick it up. “Please don’t read it now, Mr Hilstead. I should tell you it’s non-negotiable. You have one month only. After that time, the debt will be payable in full, with the interest that has been accruing and continues to accrue. And Mr Hilstead,” he leaned forward and lowered his voice, “I need not tell you it’s very rare for Mr Nguyen to allow any extensions to his debtors. Please don’t let him down.”

  He leaned back and snapped shut his attaché case, then smiled.

  “That concludes our business, Mr Hilstead. Enjoy the rest of your day.” Dunn got up, pushed his chair under the table and walked out of the restaurant without waiting for a reply.

  Steve sat there for a moment, feeling his chest pound as adrenaline flowed through him.

  What the fuck? One month?

  He rubbed his palms on his thighs, calming himself down and trying to think coherently.

  He knew that Nguyen was tough. But they had a history. Just one bad deal, and it hadn’t been his fault.

  He took a deep breath. Well, if I’m going down, then I’m not going alone.

  He picked up the thin envelope, folded it up and shoved it in his pocket. He knew what he had to do.

  Overcome obstacles, he thought grimly, and here comes the first one.

  * * *

  Adrian flopped into the chair that Dunn had just vacated.

  “I’ve just spent two hours doing your job for you,” he said, waving with irritation for the waitress to bring him a drink. “That fuckin’ supervisor has got to be the most goddamn . . . where the fuck did you get him, anyway? And what have you been doing all afternoon — I don’t pay you to sit in here.”

  “No, you don’t,” Steve agreed, and was about to remind Adrian exactly why he was around, when he felt his phone buzz.

  He pulled it out of his inside pocket, looked at the screen and cursed.

  Steve got up and, without bothering to explain to Adrian, started to walk out of the bistro.

  “Where are you going?” Adrian called after him.

  “To do what you pay me to do,” Steve shouted back, without turning round. “My fucking job.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Andi was glad to get out of town. She promised herself a Starbucks coffee after discovering that Hephzibah’s café was heaving with customers. Coffin Cove was vibrating with gossip about the death of Pierre Mason. Everyone seemed to have a theory about the crime, each one less plausible than the last.

  Nothing like a murder to invigorate people, Andi thought, a touch cynically.

  She saw Terry through the window, drinking coffee, and she noted with irritation that he was chatting to Gavin. She wasn’t concerned about Terry handing Gavin a scoop — he was too professional for that — but Gavin’s presence in Coffin Cove was getting under her skin.

  All this time I’ve been desperate to hear from him, she realized suddenly, and now he’s here, I wish he would just piss off.

  She felt strangely protective of Jim and the Gazette and knew that Gavin would enjoy mocking the local paper when he was back on the mainland. She’d seen him appraising the tired office with its outdated panelled walls and worn carpet. She knew that Gavin would have fun entertaining his well-heeled staff with tales of the old man trying to keep a local rag going with undercover investigations into fraudulent bake sales. Andi had seen his performances before. Gavin despised local newspapers. He described them as “nothing more than advertising rags and ‘what’s on’ listings for local businesses, nothing to do with real investigative journalism”. Andi knew, because she’d laughed along with him.

  She felt ashamed now. And determined to chase down this story.

  She turned her thoughts towards today’s missions and felt a little better as she drove towards the highway. Andi had plenty of time. She planned to grab a coffee near the Ocean Protection Society’s office and then pay a visit and see if she could glean any information about their campaign against the fishermen in Coffin Cove. After that, she had an interview with Jim’s contact at the Department of Fisheries and Oceans.

  The official purpose of her interview was background on the DFO’s protection of sea lions and the recent shooting of the mammals in Coffin Cove. The real reason was to find out more about Pierre Mason’s mysterious photograph. Could she ferret out any connection between the DFO, the Ocean Protection Society and Pierre Mason’s death? Andi felt certain there were connections, she just couldn’t see them yet. And when she could, the real work would be following up each lead and verifying every fact.

  Andi took the first turn off the highway into Nanaimo, the Harbour City, towards the downtown core. Nanaimo sprawled over several miles, from the southern airport to the mall district at the north end.

  Andi had wandered around the Nanaimo malls once since she moved to the island. She found them a little depressing. She’d been a teenager when it was cool to hang out in malls, eating junk food in the food courts and spending hours browsing in the multitude of cheap clothing stores and over-perfumed makeup counters of the big department stores. Now, many of these stores had disappeared, replaced by dollar emporiums or boarded up completely as online purchasing took over the retail industry.

  In her mind, she started mapping out an article about how small communities were navigating economic disruption.

  Like Coffin Cove, the outskirts of the downtown core of the city of Nanaimo were a patchwork of dilapidated residences, pawn shops and thrift stores. Jim had warned her to be careful where she parked.

  “Lots of homeless people, and plenty of drug problems,” he said. “We had our own tent city spring up in Coffin Cove before — it’s an epidemic.”

  Another symptom of economic change, Andi thought, and sighed. No kid decides to grow up to be poor, homeless or addicted, she thought. But we all treat them as if their lot in life was all down to poor decisions.

  The Ocean Protection Society HQ, which sounded a lot grander on the website, was one, possibly two, cramped rooms — a storefront and back office — beside the Salvation Army soup kitchen. Andi could only verify that the society had once been here from the sign in the window. Apart from that, the door was locked, and it appeared that the headquarters was closed down. Peering through the window, Andi could just see a few brochures on the floor and a door at the back propped open with packing boxes.

  Strange that the office had closed down so abruptly. It had been just a few days since Mason was killed, and it looked like the entire Ocean Protection Society had disappeared. Andi had expected to at least find someone manning the office and issuing press releases.

  She stood for a moment, undecided what to do next, when she caught sight of a small sticker in the corner of the window. It was peeling off, but she could still see a phone number and a partial name. Andi punched the number into her phone and waited. A man answered.

  “West Island Property Management, can I help you?”

  “I’m interested in one of your properties
,” Andi answered, and described where she was.

  “Oh yes, that one has just come available again,” the man replied.

  “Who was in it before?” Andi asked, hoping that her question didn’t sound too suspicious. The manager was happy to chat, and in a few minutes, Andi discovered that the Ocean Protection Society had rented the office space and paid six months in advance, but refused to sign a long-term contract. They had only been there for a couple of months and had not given notice that they were leaving. The first the manager had learned of anything amiss was when he heard about the suspicious death on the news and had recognized the name. But the next day when he checked the property there was no sign of the Ocean Protection Society, and no forwarding address.

  “I haven’t even advertised the property yet,” he was saying. “What did you say your name was?” But Andi wasn’t listening. Through the grimy window, she caught sight of something moving at the back of the office.

  “Thanks, I’ll get back to you.”

  A thin woman with close-cropped grey hair was bending down, picking up documents. She hesitated when Andi banged on the front door, but didn’t look up or move to answer.

  “Hey, can I speak to you for a moment?” Andi called out.

  The woman finally looked up but still didn’t move. Instead, she tossed documents and files into a cardboard box, stuffed it under her arm and hurried towards the back of the building, then disappeared.

  “Shit!” Andi looked around to see if there was access to the back of the building. Three storefronts down, there was a narrow alleyway. Andi jogged down it, side-stepping garbage and gagging on the smell of urine. At the back of the building was a small parking lot, but it was empty.

  “Damn,” Andi said out loud. The woman could have useful information. Or, Andi considered, she could just have been an office worker cleaning up.

  Either way, she wouldn’t find out now.

  Andi made her way back through the alley and checked her phone for the time. Still two hours to kill before her interview with the DFO officer. She was still on the hunt for coffee, so she wandered through Nanaimo’s Old City Quarter.

  An hour later and she still hadn’t had any coffee, but she’d bought a book in the tiny Window Seat Bookstore and some clothes from a small boutique. Jim wasn’t paying much but Andi’s rent was cheap, and living in a town where there were virtually no shopping opportunities, unless you wanted bait or a hunting knife, had its financial advantages.

  Feeling the glow of retail therapy, but mindful of her sparse bank account, Andi passed on the expensive branded coffee and walked past the Coast Bastion Hotel, a Nanaimo landmark, towards the waterfront. She found a tiny coffee shop, Java Time, that had the same feel as Hephzibah’s and settled down at a table overlooking the harbour. After a few months in Coffin Cove, Andi found that she wrote best in sight of the ocean. Today was all about research, though. She programmed her phone to buzz in an hour, flipped open her laptop and googled the Ocean Protection Society.

  The website looked professional and had some spectacular West Coast photos, but very little information. There were some blog posts, a mission statement all about protecting the oceans and wildlife from overfishing, poaching, pollution, the tourist industry — just about everyone who spent any time on or near the ocean, Andi thought. Nothing new here, same as multiple environmental organizations. Apart from making half the planet and all the oceans protected zones, there was lots of pointing out the problems and apportioning blame, and little in the way of constructive suggestions. Andi had come across organizations like this before. Someone looking for an opportunity to cash in on environmental issues, organizes a few protests and puts up a website with a donation button.

  She kept scrolling and found a few press releases but, interestingly, nothing about Coffin Cove.

  Maybe Mason was just trying to make himself relevant again? Or looking to make some cash? It would be impossible to get any financial records. Mason was basically a private individual, and although Andi found the Ocean Protection Society registered as a non-profit corporation, it had only existed a few months, so had not filed any financial statements. That fit with the information she’d got from the property manager. Was the OPS a legitimate organization? If so, why wouldn’t it continue even after Mason’s death? Why the abrupt departure? Andi sighed and wished she had caught up with the woman in the office.

  There was nothing here that might explain why Mason was killed, Andi thought. Did he interrupt a drug deal or some other crime? Or maybe someone in Coffin Cove decided to exact revenge for Sarah McIntosh, believing that Mason was responsible?

  Andi checked out the About Pierre page on the website and found a few photographs of Mason in his Greenpeace days, addressing crowds with a megaphone and waving placards. Andi noted with amusement that Mason had written this section. It was self-aggrandizing, to say the least. Just reading this, Andi thought, you would think Mason was single-handedly saving the planet, fighting against big corporations and big government all on his own. The reality was so different. Andi knew from articles she had researched that it was the daily grind and work of faceless volunteers writing court briefs and constantly lobbying politicians that got legislation passed.

  There was nothing here.

  She clicked off the website and googled Pierre Mason. A list of references came up — top of the list was Gavin’s article in the Vancouver Mail, Andi noted with irritation, again resolving to pester Jim about bringing the Gazette into the twenty-first century. There weren’t many recent articles about Mason, mainly references to his exploits twenty years ago. He had been controversial and occasionally dangerous in his quest for media attention. Greenpeace made little mention of him except a reference to his “tireless fight for the planet” and how they had decided to “part company and continue the mission, albeit in different directions”. On the second page, Andi found a Vancouver Mail editor’s article that mentioned Jim’s investigation into Sarah McIntosh’s death. There was only a brief mention of Mason, but Andi smiled at the picture of a much younger Jim, with an older man, standing outside a much smarter-looking Gazette office. The older man must be Jim’s father, Andi guessed. Scanning it briefly, Andi realized that the angle was all about the importance of local journalism. Oh, how things have changed, she said to herself, thinking of the way Gavin mocked struggling local newspapers.

  She found some references to court proceedings involving Mason — nothing a protester loves more than getting arrested — but the Google references were drying up, and she was just about to abandon her search when she saw a link to another court case. She clicked the link and found that Pierre Mason was the plaintiff. Then Andi read the defendant’s name.

  “Holy shit!” she said out loud. Her heart sank.

  Her phone buzzed. She had to leave to get to her interview, and she didn’t have time to phone Jim either, so she quickly saved the link and snapped her laptop shut. This would have to wait.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The Department of Fisheries and Oceans’ office, which also housed a Marine Biology Unit, was located on prime waterfront real estate overlooking Nanaimo Harbour. Despite meticulous landscaping and the spectacular ocean view, Andi couldn’t help thinking that the box-like building resembled a hospital. It also appeared to be deserted.

  There was no security officer at the gate, and only one notice pointing towards reception. After trying several doors that looked like they could be the entrance, Andi found one that was unlocked. She walked into a small lobby, painted institutional grey. There was no reception desk, just a door with an electronic lock.

  Andi rummaged and found the contact number and name that Jim had given her and called it from her cell phone. A bored-sounding lady answered, and after describing where she was and who she was scheduled to meet, Andi heard her sigh and finally agree to walk down, collect her and show her to the right office.

  Andi thanked her and waited.

  After ten minutes, Andi was just about to
call again when the door swung open. A young woman with a bored expression to match her tone asked Andi to follow her.

  The building was a maze of corridors lined with closed brown office doors and narrow staircases that all looked the same. Andi wondered if she should drop breadcrumbs so she could find her way out after the interview. A couple of times, she caught a glimpse into an office with an open door, and saw desks piled high with files, dusty shelves full of bank boxes and people huddled silently in front of computer screens.

  It was eerily quiet.

  “How long have you worked here?” Andi asked her guide in an attempt to make conversation. The woman ignored her completely and stopped in front of a glass door. A brass plaque to the left read Department of Fisheries and Oceans, Enforcement Division, Pacific Region. The woman pressed a button on the right-hand side, and another young woman with an equally bored expression opened the door. At least, Andi thought, this young woman was rebelling against the beige interior of the building, with a pink streak in her hair and a nose piercing.

  She took Andi’s business card and asked her to sign in.

  “Take a seat,” she said to Andi. “Captain Roberts will be with you in a moment.”

  Confused, Andi checked the note that Jim had given her. Gerry Roberts, Jim had scrawled, plus the phone number.

  Inwardly, Andi groaned. It had been a while since she’d interviewed a government bureaucrat. Some of them had been institutionalized for so long, insisting on the importance of rank and seniority, that they had completely lost touch with the real world. And they tended to talk a lot.

  Andi tried again to make conversation, this time with the pink-haired secretary.

  “Could you give me an idea about what you guys do in this department?” she asked.

  Pink Hair looked up and pointed to the plaque on the door.

  “Enforcement,” she said, and looked back down at her desk.

  Another twenty minutes went by, and Andi got up and wandered around the reception area, looking at the pictures on the wall. They were mainly posed photographs of men in uniforms receiving awards or standing to attention on government vessels. Andi imagined that this government department would attract military types, used to a regimented environment.