A Cold White Sun: A Constable Molly Smith Mystery (Constable Molly Smith Series) (18 page)

“She wouldn’t have minded, you know. That that was the last thing you said to her.
She knew
you loved her.”

“But she didn’t. She didn’t,” Bradley sobbed. “How could she have known? All the things I said to her, the names I called her. Now she’s dead and I’ll never see her again. Mom. My mom.”

Smith’s radio crackled. A car accident on the highway. Not her call, but she couldn’t stand here counseling this kid all night.

“Have you had dinner, Bradley? I haven’t and I’m starving. How about we grab something at Crazies? They’re open until nine on Tuesdays.”

He rubbed his eyes. Blew his nose. “Why?”

“Why? Because I’m hungry.”

He hesitated.

“My treat.”

She practically saw his tough kid armor settle back down around his shoulders. “Nah. Word got around I was with a cop, everyone would peg me for a snitch. Can I go now?”

“I’m not keeping you here. Why don’t you drop into the youth center tomorrow? Someone there’ll be happy to talk to you.”

“I don’t think so. That place’s for wusses.” He sneered and started to walk away. A decent kid trapped in a teenage boy’s body. He hitched up his drooping jeans.

“Go home, Bradley,” Smith called after him. “Your dad needs you. You’re sorry you didn’t say goodbye to your mom. You can make it up by being there for your dad.”

He turned around. “My dad. What do I care? My dad’s never been there for me. I doubt he much cares Mom’s gone. See you around, Smith.”

“Do it for your grandparents then. Or your sister. She’s a nice girl. She doesn’t have a mom any more. She needs someone who cares for her. What’s her name again?”

“Jocelyn.” His face softened. The sneer faded. He sniffled. “Her name’s Jocelyn.” He turned the corner and disappeared into the shadows.

Chapter Twenty-one

Wonder of wonders, Wednesday dawned bright and cheerful. As John Winters ate breakfast and lingered over coffee and the paper he was delighted to see the weak rays of the early spring sun poking out from between the mountains. Soon the snow would start to melt and before you knew it, crocuses and daffodils would be pushing their heads out of the ground.

“Victoria,” Eliza said, glancing up from her iPad. “I haven’t been to Victoria in ages. It’s such a delightful city. Will you be taking afternoon tea at the Empress?”

“Think the city’ll pay for it? I am going to interview a man’s mistress. The setting would be appropriate.”

“If they won’t, they should.” She nibbled on a slice of unbuttered whole-wheat toast.

His phone rang. Ray Lopez calling from the office. “Good morning, boss. I’ve got something that might make it an even better morning.”

“Go ahead.”

“Mark Hamilton. The math teacher? He served in the military for twelve years. 1994 until 2006.”

“What’d he do there?”

“Infantry. A grunt. Entered as a private, left as a sergeant.”

“Infantry means weapons.”

“Firearms of many types. Training on how to use them. He did a couple of tours in Afghanistan. Left the military immediately after his last tour and went to UBC where he earned a four-year degree in mathematics. He then enrolled in the UBC teachers’ program. Started working at Trafalgar District High in September of last year, his first teaching job.”

“What’s his police record like?”

“Before signing up he did a variety of odd jobs. Lumber camps, fishing boats, short-order cook. Seasonal unskilled stuff. He was in some trouble before he joined the army. Couple of arrests for punch-ups in bars, one drunk driving offense. He’s been clean as a whistle since 1993.”

“As far as the record shows.”

“Precisely. You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“We know our guy had to be good with firearms, and this has moved Hamilton to the top of my list. Whether he had reason enough to want Cathy Lindsay dead, whether he was in the vicinity at the time, is another matter entirely. Ray, get his plate number and vehicle description. Send it out. RCMP and border guards. I want to talk to him, and I don’t want to sit around any longer twiddling my thumbs waiting for him to come home.”

“You got it.”

“Get into his military records. Find out if he was in any trouble with the MPs. I want a peek at his medical records as well. Plenty of opportunity for trauma and psychological problems in Afghanistan. Look for a diagnosis or treatment of PTSD. Explosive temper, paranoia, that sort of thing.”

“Will do. What time’s your flight?”

“Eleven. I hate giving up a whole day, possibly two days, just to speak to this woman. Probably a waste of time, but it’s necessary. She’s not only close to Gord Lindsay, but she might have her own reasons for wanting his wife dead.” Winters snapped his phone shut. Across the breakfast table Eliza’s head was down as she read the screen of her iPad. The tip of her tongue was trapped between her teeth, and she drummed her pink fingernails against the table top.

“You heard nothing,” he said.

“Really, John, after all these years you don’t have to tell me.” She lowered her reading glasses and fixed him with her amazing green eyes, sparkling with love. Or maybe only the reflection off the snow as the rising sun hit the untouched expanse of white and threw diamonds through the kitchen window.

***

Winters read reports all the way to Vancouver. He’d taken an aisle seat, not wanting to be distracted by the breathtaking view as the small plane flew low over the snow-covered mountains. He trotted through the terminal to catch the next leg of his trip. The even smaller plane had scarcely taken off before it began the descent into Victoria. This plane was so small everyone had a window seat, and he put his papers aside to admire the view. A sprinkling of verdant green islands were scattered across the blue sea like a giant child’s handful of discarded marbles. No snow here, and when he got off the plane at the Victoria airport he shrugged off his winter jacket. It was a good fifteen degrees warmer than in Trafalgar.

“Sergeant Winters?” A woman approached him. Thirties, casually dressed in brown wool pants and matching jacket over a beige blouse. Her black hair was cropped very short, and although she could stand to lose a few pounds they carried well on her approaching six-foot frame.

“Yes?”

“Constable Louise Swanson. I’m your ride.” She held out her hand, and he accepted the shake. Her grip was firm, her hand cool.

She led the way to her car. He didn’t have luggage, just a backpack into which he’d stuffed a change of underwear and clean shirt along with his toiletry bag.

He told her it was nice to see some grass for a change.

“Got lots of snow where you’re from?” she asked, in a tone that was almost wistful.

“Don’t tell me,” he said. “You’re a skier.”

“Every chance I get. That’s the great thing about living in Victoria. I can take my kids up island in winter for skiing. In summer, we get out on the sail boat.”

Pleasantries over, as soon as they were in the car, a non-descript blue van, pulling into traffic, Winters said, “Did you call Ms. Moorehouse yourself?”

“Yup.”

“How’d she sound?”

“Not too concerned, I have to say. She said she wasn’t surprised at my call. She’d heard about the killing in Trafalgar. The wife of my good friend, is how she put it.”

“Tell me what you know about her.”

“Not much to tell. She has no police record. She went to school in Smithers. Never attended university or college. Works at a local hardware store. Pretty dull life. On the surface.”

“You never know what simmers beneath.”

“And that,” Swanson said, “is why you and I have jobs. Only one small item of interest. She was the victim of a serious knife attack a couple of years ago. Sounds like wrong time, wrong place sort of thing. The attacker was arrested on the spot, convicted, did some time. That happened before Moorehouse moved to her current address, and I could find nothing at all in that case to do with anyone name of Lindsay.”

Elizabeth Moorehouse lived on a street of comfortable middle-class homes not far from the center of the city. Compact houses with huge trees on spacious lots indicated the age of the neighborhood. Swanson drove slowly, checking the house numbers. Spring was well underway here, and the neat gardens were lush with flowers and blossoms.

She pulled to a gentle stop in front of a small brick home, the front door and shutters painted a deep cheerful red. The street ended a few houses further down and Winters could see a flash of water. A canal or small river.

The police got out of the car and walked up the path. Winters knocked on the red door, and it opened almost immediately.

The woman was more attractive than he’d expected. Tall and slim with good skin and thick brown hair pulled back into a high ponytail. Her makeup was heavy but not untasteful. She wore jeans tucked into leather boots, a black T-shirt sprinkled with glitter, and a red leather jacket, nipped in at her small waist. A red silk scarf was wrapped tightly around her neck. At first glance she appeared to be in her early thirties. He looked closer, saw the fine lines at the edges of her eyes and around her mouth, the skin on her neck beginning to fold, and upped his estimate by a decade.

She smoked, a lot by the smell of it, and the tobacco struggled to compete with an expensive perfume, applied with a heavy hand.

“Right on time.” Her husky voice was reminiscent of smoke-filled bars and whisky-soaked nights. “Come on in to my humble abode.”

She turned and they followed. Swanson closed the door. A small dark hallway led into the living room. The furnishings were mass-produced from The Brick or Ikea. A vase of tall red roses, wilting slightly and browning around the edges, sat on the coffee table. Everything was neat and tidy. The room overlooked a large garden, shaded by old trees. A single lounge chair and a small table occupied the stamped-concrete patio.

“Have a seat.” Moorehouse tossed herself onto a chair. A packet of cigarettes and an overflowing ash tray lay on the table beside her. She shook a cigarette out of the pack and lit it. Her hands contrasted with the rest of her. The nails were short and broken, the skin rough with a few nicks and cuts. She took a deep breath before saying, “I know you’re here about Gord’s wife. I read about it in the paper. Terrible thing.” Her voice broke and she coughed.

Winters sat on the couch. As well as tobacco and perfume, the place smelled of an excess of air freshener. Overlaying the distinctive scent of pot. Not his concern; he wasn’t here on a drug bust. Swanson’s nose twitched.

“You’re friends with Gord Lindsay?”

“Yes.”

“Good friends?”

“Very good friends, if you catch my meaning.” She dragged on her cigarette. The end glowed red.

“Gord lives here, with you, when he’s in Victoria?”

“That’s right. I’m sure you’re too polite to ask, so I’ll come out and say it. He sleeps with me. In my bed.”

“How long have you known Mr. Lindsay?”

“Three years.”

“This is a nice house. Do you own it?”

“If you’ve done your homework, you’ll know I do. I bought it in 2002. Got a good deal, the price of homes in this neighborhood, big yards, close to the water, near downtown, have skyrocketed since. The house was pretty much a wreck, the yard a jungle. I worked hard, did most of the gardening and renovations myself.” She looked around the living room, proud.

“Does Gord Lindsay contribute to the mortgage?” Winters asked.

“He chips in to help with my expenses. Why not? He lives here a quarter of his time. You’re wondering how I can afford this place. Well I’ll tell you. First of all, I work at the hardware store. That means I get tools and lumber and everything else I need at a hefty discount. It also means I make only slightly more than fuck all in salary. Fortunately, I have other sources to maintain my
lavish
lifestyle.”

She unwrapped the scarf from around her neck. A scar, jagged, white, ugly, cut horizontally through the base of her throat.

Winters said nothing.

“I used to be a singer. A darn good one. A couple of moderately successful records but nothing made it big. I sang in jazz clubs and bars. I had a nice bit of a following. Did some backup vocals. Then, in May of 2002, I got in the way of a swinging knife in a fight in a bar. I got it right here.” She abruptly lifted her hand and jerked it across her throat. “The doctors did a good enough job that I can talk fine, even sing a bit. But nowhere near good enough to get work anymore.” She opened her mouth and sang. The note was clear and strong as it began to rise. Then it broke and crumbled as though into dust. Moorehouse coughed. “End of that career.” She shrugged, as if she didn’t much care, but pain shone in her eyes. She retied the scarf. “I got some insurance money, the guys in my backup band put on a fundraiser for me. Together with what I’d managed to save over the years, I had enough to put a down payment on this house. My dad was a carpenter. I pretty much grew up sawing boards and hammering nails. So, now you know my life story. Sad, but not as sad as many.”

“Gord Lindsay?”

“I knew Gord from the old days. He came into the bars where I was singing. Asked me to sign my CDs. That sort of low-level fan. After my accident,” she made quotation marks in the air with her fingers, “I didn’t see him until I ran into him three years ago in a coffee shop downtown. He recognized me. I didn’t even know who he was until he reminded me. We talked, went out for dinner…You know the rest.”

“It didn’t bother you that he was married? Had a family in Trafalgar?”

She crushed her cigarette into the ashtray, twisting and grinding it down.

“Sergeant Winters, it didn’t bother me one tiny bit. I was happy to share him. One week a month’s about all I can stand of the guy.”

“So why…?” Swanson spoke for the first time.

“Why does he stay here? Because I can’t afford to keep this place on what I earn at the hardware store. Insurance and benefit money ran out long ago. I don’t have much of an education, can’t get a better job. I left high school at sixteen to become a singer. The taxes, the utilities, the upkeep are killing me. If I have to screw a fat man a couple of times a month to keep my house, I’ll do it. I know what that makes me in your eyes, but in my eyes it makes me a survivor.”