The Guilty (46 page)

‘They’re nice-looking kids,’ Felicia said.

Lilly smiled politely.

Striker moved past the niceties and got down to business. ‘I’m sorry to stir up bad memories, Mrs Davies, but could you tell us a little bit about your husband – his history,
and how the two of you met?’

Lilly Davies nodded. ‘I met Archer during one of his leaves.’

‘From the police department?’

‘No, from the RLC.’

That made Striker pause. ‘RLC? You mean the Royal Logistics Corps?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who’s the RLC?’ Felicia asked.

Striker cast her a glance. ‘They’re part of the British Army. We got a couple of guys on the job from over there. They’re good men. Smart. Tactical. Well trained.’ He
turned back to Lilly. ‘So Archer was from the UK?’

‘Oh yes, he never could lose the accent.’ She laughed softly. ‘As I said, he was taking a leave when we met, in fact. He was here visiting his brother – the poor man
passed away from cancer a few years after Archer was injured.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Striker offered.

Lilly kept talking as if she hadn’t heard the condolence. ‘One thing led to another, and before you knew it, Archer was taking all his leaves here. And then we were married. He left
the RLC and joined the Vancouver Police Department. With his military experience, he was fast-tracked into the Emergency Response Team. As a reserve.’

‘Did he miss the old job?’ Felicia asked.

Lilly nodded emphatically. ‘Oh yes. He did a great deal. But his squadmates came over to visit him a few times. And that made him very happy.’

Striker asked, ‘You two ever go back there?’

‘Oh no, never. Archer loved his squad, but he had no love for the UK, and he hated London. Called it a dirty little town.’ She looked down for a moment, and the teacup trembled
between her hands. ‘I often wish he’d stayed there and brought me over instead. Then he never would have joined the Vancouver Police Department.’

Striker nodded. It was understandable. ‘These squadmates of his—’

‘They called themselves
The Untouchables
.’

‘Why?’

‘Because, back then, they’d all served several tours, and yet none of them had ever been killed. Not even injured.’

‘And now?’

Lilly’s face saddened. ‘They’re almost all dead now. I don’t know the details . . . I don’t
want
to know the details.’

‘And the ones who still live?’ he pressed.

Lilly sighed. ‘I don’t know. I haven’t heard from any of them in years. Not since the first time they came to see Archer, and that was . . . well, I don’t even know
when.’ She looked at the photos on the mantel shelf. ‘Logan and Rachel are almost grown up . . . if only Archer could see them now. He’d be so proud of how they turned
out.’

For a moment, Striker thought the woman might break down on him; so he changed the subject. ‘When your husband worked for the Vancouver Police Department, did he ever confide anything in
you?’

‘Confide?’ She spoke the word with caution.

‘Tell you any secrets. Anything you think we should know at this particular point in time?’

Lilly shook her head, confused, and Felicia spoke next.

‘Ms Davies, the reason we’re investigating your husband isn’t because he’s suspected of any wrongdoing. Quite the contrary, I think he was an impressive cop with a strong
moral compass. What we’re investigating is the latest string of bombings that have been going off in the Lower Mainland . . . We believe there’s a connection to your husband.’

‘To
Archer
?’ Lilly Davies’ face flushed with the words. It was the first glimpse of true emotion that Striker had seen in the woman.

‘We don’t know the reason yet,’ she continued. ‘But there are many connecting factors here. And they all seem to lead back to your husband. Is there anything he was
working on he told you about? Anything off the books?

Lilly’s face remained white. ‘No. No, he never told me anything about his work. Nothing at all. He kept his work very private.’

‘I see. Does the name Tom Atkins mean anything to you?’

‘Tom Atkins? Why, no. I’ve never heard that name before.’

Felicia nodded but made no reply.

Striker began questioning the woman next, particularly on Archer’s ex-army squadmates. Had any of them been in trouble with the law since they’d left the service? Were any of them
unbalanced? Suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder? And so on. The answers to his questions were all a resounding
no.
Lilly didn’t know anything about these people, and she
hadn’t seen them in years. The same thing went for the Vancouver Police Department. No cops came around.

Not ever.

‘That was the saddest thing,’ Lilly added. ‘After Archer was hurt, no one came by to visit him. It was as if he had suddenly ceased to exist. As if he had become taboo or
something. He was new at the Vancouver Police Department – I know that – and not many people knew him. But it still hurt him deeply. And it added to his depression, to his blood
pressure, and eventually, he had the stroke.’

Striker listened to the woman talk, and after a moment, she finally broke down and cried in front of him.

‘I’m sorry,’ he offered again. ‘I really am so sorry.’

The words felt small and hollow, but he could think of nothing else to say.

Striker and Felicia were on the highway in ten minutes, heading back for the City of Vancouver. Felicia kept herself busy checking messages and emails; none were file-related,
so she saved them all and hung up her cell. Only when Striker had pulled into the fast lane and hit one hundred and twenty K per hour did they speak again.

‘Something back there just doesn’t add up,’ he said.

Felicia looked up. ‘With Lilly Davies or the care centre?’

‘With Lilly. Archer was injured
on the job
.’

‘Yeah?’

‘So when cops are injured in the line of duty, not only do they get insurance money, but the Police Mutual Benevolent Association steps in. They help the families out financially. Granted,
it’s nothing mind-blowing, but it’s enough to live comfortably. Plus, Lilly should be getting a partial pension from the British Army.’

‘Again, so what?’

‘So where is all the money? She lives in an old house, she drives an old beater, she has to work as a waitress just to make ends meet, and even still, she can’t afford for her kids
to play hockey or figure-skate. White Rock may be nice, but it sure as hell isn’t expensive like West Vancouver or Kitsilano. She should be doing fine financially.’

Felicia looked out the window. ‘Maybe she’s made some bad business decisions or investments.’

‘I want to know why. Call up the land title office. See if she owns that house. And then call the PMBA. I want to see what kind of funds she’s getting.’

‘If they’ll tell us – that’s confidential information.’

‘I know the secretary-treasurer. She can find that information. Just tell her it’s me and that these are exigent circumstances.’

‘You say everything is exigent.’

‘If a guy blowing up the city isn’t pressing enough, the courts can hang me for it. Besides, our bomber has been visiting Archer. They’re connected. Make the call.’

Felicia agreed. She took out her cell and began dialling, and Striker increased their speed to one hundred and forty K per hour. By the time they had reached the Knight Street Bridge, Felicia
was still on the cell and running names on the laptop.

Several kilometres later, she finished the phone call. She hung up and turned slightly in her seat to face him. ‘Okay, you were right about the land title. Lilly rents the place. The house
is actually owned by a family that rents a half-dozen other houses in the neighbourhood.’

‘Any crime connections?’

‘No, the family is clean. But that’s not the interesting part. The interesting part is the pension and the PMBA money – Lilly’s only getting half of it.’

‘Half?’

‘The rest of it is going overseas. To the UK.’

Striker stopped hard at a red light on Broadway and looked at her. ‘You got to be kidding me.’

‘A
first
wife, by the sounds of it. And a first family.’

‘He has other kids?’

‘Two names are listed.’

‘Is one of them Tom?’

Felicia shook her head. ‘No. Oliver and Molly.’

‘A boy and a girl,’ Striker mused. ‘Just like our bombers . . . If Archer had kids real young, these could be them. What’s their surname?’

‘They took their mother’s maiden name – Howell.’

‘Oliver Howell and Molly Howell,’ Striker said. ‘It sounds so ordinary.’ He gave Felicia a queer look. ‘Did you run a full search on the names?’

‘On Oliver and Molly Howell? Of course. On all the systems. There’s nothing.’

He nodded absently. ‘What about Tom Atkins?’

‘Negative too.’

Striker swore. ‘I know I’ve heard that name somewhere before. Run another search. Hell,
Google it
.’

Felicia started up the web browser and performed the search. The very first link on the page was to the online encyclopedia, Wikipedia. She clicked on the link and soon found herself reading up
on the name Tom Atkins. After a long moment, she let out a sound somewhere between surprise and disbelief.

Striker caught it. ‘What did you find?’

‘A direct hit.’ Felicia summarized the passage. ‘The name
Tommy Atkins
is a slang term for any soldier in the British Army.’

Striker cocked an eyebrow her way. ‘Are you shitting me?’

She shook her head. ‘In World War One, in the trenches, British soldiers were often referred to as “Tommies”.’

Striker couldn’t believe his ears. ‘The cocky bastard. He’s
laughing
at us.’

‘So Oliver Howell is Tommy Atkins?’

‘We’re about to find out.’

Striker pressed his foot down hard on the accelerator and the car surged forward just as the light turned green. Their destination was Main Street Headquarters. Striker couldn’t wait to
get there. He had a few phone calls to make. First to Interpol, and, failing that, the British Army. If Oliver and Molly Howell were in any way associated with the armed forces, Striker was going
to find out.

For the first time since this investigation had started, he felt as if they were on the edge of a major discovery.

Feeling like a bag of shit, Harry parked the pickup truck behind Main Street HQ and walked down the lane. Because of the press release, informing the world of his death, he was
supposed to lay low till things calmed down.

But he had never been one to sit idly by.

High above, swooping lines of telephone wires crisscrossed the sky, and a drunk from the Empress Hotel was yelling out the top-floor window. Harry ignored the racket, swiped his keycard, and
walked inside the south entrance where Stores was located. Ahead of him, a couple of rookie cops were leaving the counter with their new gear – uniforms, bulletproof vests and new holsters.
The uniforms meant little to Harry; he was more concerned about the global positioning devices the department owned.

Harry approached the service area. Behind the counter, the desks were overflowing with mounds of supplies and stacks of paperwork. Harry reached out, rang the bell, and waited. After a minute or
two, he rang it again.

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah – hold on!’ came the call. ‘We’re unloading back here.’

The caustic tone of the woman’s voice told Harry it was Desiree Wentworth, and he frowned. The Stores clerk was about as sweet as cyanide and just as deadly. Standing only 152 centimetres
and weighing in at damn near 118 kilos, there was a reason everyone called her
A Street Car Named Desiree.

Harry waited for almost five minutes until she finally rounded the corner. ‘Hot as a fuck in here,’ she said, then eyed him up and down. ‘Harry Eckhart? I thought you were
dead.’

‘Long story.’

Desiree didn’t mince words. ‘Well, welcome back to the land of the living. What ya want?’

‘GPS records.’

‘For what?’

He held up the base of the GPS device – the unit he had broken off the Ford cruiser before it had exploded in the A&W parking lot. ‘Found this in the back lane. Not sure if it
fell out of my car or someone else’s. Can you check the database?’

Desiree grabbed the device from him, yanking it from his fingers. Harry felt his hands ball into fists. Had any street toad done that, he would have busted their jaw . . . but this was the VPD,
and around here you got more flies with honey.

He watched patiently as Desiree searched through the database for the part number. When she located one and cross-referenced it through the system, she found what she was looking for. She
didn’t even bother to look up.

‘Not yours.’

‘You sure?’

‘You change your name to Connors? Leave it here. I’ll see that it’s returned.’

Without so much as another word, she approached the front counter and muttered, ‘Closing time.’ She slammed down the window partition, leaving Harry standing there, staring at a grey
steel barrier.

He barely noticed. All he could think of was the name she had spoken. Connors . . . that meant David Connors. The man had just been transferred to the Police Standards Section. To Internal. And
the thought of it turned Harry cold.

They know,
he thought.
The department knows.

And they were coming after him.

When they got back to HQ, Felicia continued with the task of figuring out where their suspects had managed to obtain the explosives. While she was following the PETN trail,
Striker began making phone calls on Oliver and Molly Howell.

The task was not an easy one.

Time differences were always an issue with federal and international files. It was six p.m. Pacific Time when Striker finally got through to a sergeant in the National Central Bureau of
Canada’s Interpol branch. After almost a half-hour of run around time and dead ends, he gave up.

He hung up the phone and dialled the operator. Soon he was connected directly with the City of London Police and speaking to a weary-sounding but polite female staff sergeant.