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

by JACKIE ELLIOTT

  Andi stared at him. “Jim, I get it, I do. Harry’s a friend, Hephzibah too. But this is a significant connection, right? Mason sent a picture of Harry’s boat to me just before he was killed. And—”

  “I see where you’re going with this,” Jim interrupted, “but we’re missing Harry’s story. I’ve known him a long time, and yeah, he has a temper, but killing Mason over something that happened years ago? I don’t buy it.”

  Andi looked down and took a deep breath. She wanted to believe Jim, more than she’d realized. But not chasing down every lead had got her fired before. “OK. I’ll keep working on it. But it was you who said we go where the facts take us, remember?” She met Jim’s eyes, challenging him.

  He nodded.

  “I said that. I meant it too. So, what’s next?”

  Andi grabbed her notebook. “Try to find Mason’s wife. I’ve searched the marriage registry in Quebec, and I’ve even joined one of those ancestry sites, but I can’t find anything.”

  “She might be common law, or they may have got married in Mexico or something,” Jim suggested.

  “Yes. So I’ve left a message with Captain Robert’s secretary, Christina. Her friend was one of the Black OPS protesters. If she’ll talk to me, she might have contact details for the mysterious Mrs Mason. And in the meantime, I thought I’d poke around Hades Fish Co.”

  “OK.” Jim smiled. “Good work. I have to put some calls in to advertisers so we can pay some bills, but I’ll wander down to the dock later and see if I can chat with Harry. Over a coffee.”

  Jim’s phone rang.

  He listened for a moment. “Thanks, we’ll get down there.”

  Andi looked at him expectantly. “Well?”

  “Vega brought in a diver. And it looks like they found something.”

  “You go on ahead, I’ll catch up.”

  Jim nodded. “OK, meet me down there.”

  He stopped before opening the door to leave.

  “You know something Andi? This is good work. Great work. You’ll get through this.”

  After Jim left, Andi sat in her apartment with her head in her hands. Jim was right. This was a good story. She was a good journalist. Working for him and the Gazette wasn’t punishment for her fuck-up, it was a second chance. She saw that now.

  She had to move on. She couldn’t allow Gavin to waltz in to her life and destroy her all over again.

  Andi’s face burned as she remembered her encounter with Gavin’s wife and then felt tears at the back of her eyes. Why had he lied to her? She’d loved him so much. Maybe she still did, a little bit.

  But then she heard his mocking words echoing in her head, and remembered the smirk on his face as he belittled her in front of his colleagues, and this time, instead of being reduced to tears, she felt anger. How bloody dare he? Who the fuck did he think he was?

  Andi got up and marched out of her apartment, letting the door slam behind her.

  Gavin and his assistant were alone in the office. They were sat beside each other at Jim’s desk, their heads close together as they studied the laptop screen in front of them.

  Andi faltered for a moment and nearly turned to leave, but Gavin looked up.

  “Andi,” he said, without much enthusiasm. “Did you forget something?”

  “No,” she said, keeping her voice level, “I wanted to talk to you, Gavin.”

  His assistant stared at her but Andi kept going.

  “If you don’t mind, this is a personal matter. Maybe you could get a coffee or something?”

  “Andi . . .” Gavin began, but Andi held her hand up to stop him.

  “Gavin, I’m going to say what I want to say, whether we are alone or not.”

  He glared at her, and Andi felt something new. Confidence.

  Gavin nodded at his assistant, and she flounced past Andi, before pausing at the door. “Can I get—”

  “No!” he almost shouted, and Andi saw with surprise that he was agitated.

  “Look, Andi, I know what you’re going to say.” Gavin got up and started pacing back and forth in front of the desk. “I know I signed off on that story, and I could have pulled it when I found out that source was suspect, but it was a damn good story and—”

  “What?”

  “The story. I know I shouldn’t have let it run, but at the time—”

  “You knew?” Andi felt her stomach tighten, as if she had taken a blow. “You let me take the fall? You bastard!”

  “Andi . . .” His voice had taken on a patronizing tone. “Look, you should have checked, but you didn’t. It was your story, and as it was, I did get a bollocking.”

  “I lost my job! I got blacklisted!” Andi knew she was shouting, but didn’t care. “You piece of shit.”

  Gavin came towards her, his arms out, a smile on his face. “Come on, Andi, shit happens in our world, right? And you’ll do OK, a couple of years and everyone will forget. You can leave this shithole and come back to the mainland. No harm, no foul, right?”

  “You wanted to get rid of me. So you threw me under the bus. Why, Gavin? Why didn’t you just break up with me? Ask me to leave?” Andi’s voice shook a little. “You never cared about me at all, did you? I was just another bit on the side. Your wife said as much.”

  Gavin’s face lost the smile.

  “You were out of line, coming to my house! Upsetting my daughter like that.”

  “Yes, Gavin. I was out of line. And I’m sorry. Sorry for that poor woman and your child — they both deserve better. And I’m ashamed of myself. But what you did to me was despicable, you lowlife piece—”

  Andi heard a cough from behind her. She swung round to see Gavin’s assistant holding a cup of coffee, but she didn’t care. She carried on, her voice steady.

  “This isn’t over, Gavin. One day, all your lies and bullshit will catch up to you. You know what? You did me a favour. Maybe the Gazette is only a local newspaper but I’m still a better journalist than you’ll ever be—”

  “This is damn well over,” Gavin interrupted her. “We’ll be out of this office in a few days, Andi. Good luck with your wildlife piece.”

  He turned and walked back to the desk, and his assistant hurried to his side.

  Andi stood for a moment. She’d been dismissed, but it didn’t matter. She’d said what she needed to say, and it felt good.

  She turned and left the office. She walked down the stairs and out into the street and took a couple of deep breaths of fresh air.

  She wasn’t sure she was “over” Gavin, but it was a good start. And now, she had work to do.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Finally, some progress. The team was feeling it too. The mood was upbeat as they filed into the briefing room.

  Vega now knew why the name Hephzibah Brown had been taunting his memory. It was her brother, Harry. Harry had more than one connection to their victim.

  He let Sergeant Fowler brief the rest of the team, and he settled in a chair at the back of the room.

  “Brown was charged back in the eighties for threatening Mason with a gun. Mason was working for Greenpeace, and Brown’s defence at the time was that Mason had just deliberately rammed his boat, putting his crew in danger and causing damage to his property. He admitted that he’d lost his temper, but the case was dismissed. Then when Mason was here in the nineties protesting the clear-cutting, as we know, Sarah McIntosh disappeared and was washed up on the beach, her arms and legs tied. She was the daughter of Joe McIntosh, owner of the biggest lumber business in the area, and the subject of Mason’s protest.” Sergeant Fowler paused and looked around at her colleagues.

  “It was a big deal for the community. A witness implicated Mason, but a full investigation cleared him. Trouble was, the community decided that Mason had something to do with it. Harry Brown’s younger sister, Hephzibah, who now owns the café on the boardwalk, was Sarah’s best friend, and Harry was involved with the initial search. Also, Tara McIntosh, second wife of Joe and Sarah’s stepmother, confirmed t
hat Harry recently took the trouble to inform Joe that Mason was back in town.”

  She looked at Vega, who nodded for her to continue. Fowler pointed to the board on the wall, which now had Harry’s picture pinned next to Mason’s.

  “Nothing concrete here connecting Brown to Mason until this morning. The diver found a rifle. We don’t know yet if it’s the murder weapon, but it seems probable. The rifle is registered to Harry Brown. We’ve sent it over to the lab for testing. This is all coincidence so far—”

  “But as we know,” Vega interrupted, “there are no such things as coincidences in this line of work. I have one other piece of information. Pass this around, please.” He handed out copies of the picture Andi Silvers had given him.

  “As you know, Andrea Silvers is a reporter for the Gazette in town.” He broke off and looked around the room. “Some of you might know the name. She used to work for the Vancouver Mail, but they dropped her like a hot brick after she fucked up a case for the Financial Crimes Unit last year. Well, she ended up here and she’s been digging around. I guess she still thinks of herself as an investigative reporter. So far she’s kept out of the way, but she handed over the picture you are now looking at, plus Mason’s cell phone — dropped, as you know, by Brian McIntosh, who is still in hiding.”

  He walked to the front of the room and pinned a copy of the picture to the board.

  “Forensics went over the cell phone — nothing interesting, except a call from Hades Fish Co. They’re based in Steveston, and we have someone following up on that. But it is worth noting Harry Brown used to sell fish to them throughout his fishing career.”

  Vega let that sink in and then pointed to the picture.

  “The fishing boat — the one with the big drum thing on it — is the Pipe Dream. It’s Harry Brown’s boat and it’s parked in the harbour, here in Coffin Cove.”

  “Moored, sir,” someone called out. “A boat is moored, not parked.”

  Vega waited for the giggles to calm down, and carried on, ignoring the comment.

  “Harry Brown lives on the Pipe Dream. Pierre Mason emailed this picture to Andrea Silvers the same night he was killed. He also met her in the pub earlier that evening. She claims Mason was still upset about the Sarah McIntosh investigation and went so far as to threaten legal action if she wrote anything about it. The subject line on the email from Mason says, ‘The Bigger Picture’. Now, I didn’t give this much weight.” He paused for a second until he was sure he had everyone’s attention. “I didn’t give this much weight because I thought Mason was just trying to get an interfering hack off his back. That’s on me. That’s my responsibility. But this morning, another murder victim was found in Nanaimo. He’s been identified as Captain Gerald Roberts, and his body was found on the beach beside the Department of Fisheries and Oceans, where he worked. He was shot.”

  Vega waited for the murmurs to quieten.

  “Two things. First, as we know, I don’t believe in coincidences. Murder is very rare on this island, so to have two within a few days . . . Well, we have to consider whether they’re connected. And there’s this picture.” He held it up. “There are two other vessels in this picture. One is a DFO enforcement vessel. We don’t know yet, but if Captain Roberts was in any way connected to that vessel, we have another killing that’s not only connected to Mason but also to Harry Brown. So, Sergeant Fowler, next steps?”

  “Bring Brown in for questioning,” she said promptly.

  Vega nodded. “Yes. Ask him about his gun, obviously, but don’t show him this picture. Ask him if he knows Captain Roberts and watch for his reaction. We don’t have enough to arrest him . . . yet. But let’s keep an eye on him. And keep searching for Brian McIntosh. It’s imperative that we find him.”

  One of the team put his hand up. “Should we question Andrea Silvers? See if she’s found out anything?”

  Vega considered this for a minute. “Not yet. I don’t want the press finding out anything about the investigation, except what we want them to know. I don’t need Miss Silvers fucking up another case.”

  * * *

  Harry had seen and heard the commotion on the beach. A police diver had shown up in the morning, and Harry had watched with interest as he struggled into his black wetsuit, pulled on a weight belt, dive tank, fins and mask, before dropping into the water beside the crumbling fish plant pier.

  Hephzibah was chattering animatedly with customers when Harry arrived at the café for a late lunch.

  “They’ve found something,” she said, before he could order a sandwich. “They think it’s the murder weapon.”

  “They?” Harry couldn’t help smiling. “Did Inspector Vega drop by and announce it himself?”

  Hephzibah rolled her eyes at Harry’s sarcasm. “No, but that diver found something. And they were pretty excited about it.”

  An hour later, as Harry was leaving the café, a young female RCMP officer stopped him at the entrance.

  “Harry Brown?”

  He nodded.

  “We’d like to ask you some questions, sir,” the officer said pleasantly. “Would you mind coming with me to the detachment?”

  Harry hesitated. “Sure,” he said. “I’ll meet you there.”

  “No need, sir,” the officer said, “I’ll drive you.”

  They drove the two blocks to the detachment.

  Quicker to walk, Harry thought, and couldn’t help wondering if the officer was making sure that as many people as possible in Coffin Cove saw him get into the police car.

  Harry cursed under his breath when he saw reporters from the Vancouver Mail loitering at the entrance. He ignored them as he followed the officer inside and she showed him to the interview room.

  Harry waited for twenty minutes. He checked his phone several times as he sat at the table in the middle of the small room. He considered leaving but decided against it. He didn’t need another scene. The café had gone quiet when the officer stopped him this afternoon, and he’d felt all those interested eyes on him. He didn’t need to feed the gossip machine.

  The female officer finally came into the interview room and identified herself as Sergeant Fowler. She sat down at the table opposite Harry, placed a file in front of her and thanked him for being there.

  Not like I had much choice, Harry thought, but he acknowledged her pleasantries and refused coffee.

  Sergeant Fowler opened the file and took out a piece of paper. She placed a picture in front of him. “Is this your gun, Mr Brown?”

  Harry looked at it for a long moment. He was startled but didn’t want to show it.

  “It looks like a gun I own,” he said finally. “But I can’t be certain from a photo.”

  “We have the serial number,” Fowler told him.

  “Then you can check the registration,” Harry said impatiently. “You already know if the gun is mine, Sergeant. Ask me what you need to know. We don’t need to play guessing games here.”

  Fowler nodded. “Our diver pulled this gun — your gun — out of the ocean this morning. Do you have any idea how it got there?”

  Harry felt his heart sink.

  “No. But I didn’t put it there. So the only way it could have got there was if someone took it off my boat,” he added. “I live on my boat, the Pipe Dream.”

  “You didn’t notice your gun was gone? Or that someone had been on your boat?”

  “No. But I lock away the gun. I don’t check it every day.”

  Sergeant Fowler sighed. “Mr Brown, you know what my next question is going to be, right?”

  Harry nodded. “I keep my gun in a drawer under my chart table. It’s locked all the time.” He looked at Sergeant Fowler and closed his eyes for a moment. “I do leave the keys on the boat when I go out.” Harry was feeling like an idiot.

  “Who knows where you leave your keys? And have you been aware of anyone on your boat? Anything else missing?” Fowler asked.

  It was an obvious question, Harry knew. He shook his head.

  “Not
that I’m aware of. Nothing missing, and I leave my laptop out. Probably a lot of people know where to find my keys. There’s a cubbyhole above the door to the galley,” he tried to explain. “Fishermen know that keys are usually within an arm’s length of the door. It’s kind of a custom, I suppose.”

  “Not very secure,” Fowler noted drily.

  “Apparently not,” Harry agreed.

  “And how would this intruder know where to find your gun?” asked Sergeant Fowler, a little sarcastically, Harry thought.

  “If you have ever been on a boat, Sergeant Fowler, you’ll know that there isn’t much storage space. I kept my gun under my chart table. It wouldn’t take long for someone to find it.”

  “When was the last time you checked on your gun? Or fired it?”

  “I have no reason to ‘check’ on it. I fire it occasionally — but not out of hunting season. That’s why I have the gun. I go hunting.” Harry reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. “Here’s my hunting license. It’s up to date.”

  He handed the card to the sergeant, who studied it for a moment and handed it back.

  “Again, Mr Brown, when was the last time you fired your gun?”

  Harry hesitated. “I don’t know exactly — a couple of weeks, maybe?”

  Sergeant Fowler looked at him for a long moment and nodded.

  “Mr Brown, would you be open to our team having a look at your boat? We might find something that corroborates your, er . . . ‘theory’. Of course, we could get a search warrant . . .” She let her sentence tail off.

  Harry shrugged. “Be my guest. I’ll stay at my sister’s place.”

  Fowler nodded her approval. “Thanks for your cooperation. Did you know Pierre Mason well, Mr Brown?” She opened her file and ran her eyes over a document while she waited for Harry to reply.

  It rattled Harry a little.

  “Not really. I remember him from a . . . legal matter years ago, and he was investigated for the murder of Sarah McIntosh.”

  “He was cleared though, correct?”

  Harry nodded.

  “Maybe you still think he was involved?”

  Harry could feel Fowler looking intently at him, waiting for a reaction, he thought.