Valley of the Lost (19 page)

“I’ll tell you once more that I had no relationship with her. She came to the support center for tips on saving money on diapers and how to milk the welfare system. I smiled and said hi ‘cause I’m a friendly sort of guy. Got that through your thick cop brain?”

“It’s a struggle, I’ll admit. You’re free to go, Mr. Armstrong. But please, if you plan to leave Trafalgar for any reason, let us know where you can be contacted.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

***

Winters settled into an uncomfortable chair and reviewed the audio tape. It didn’t show the degree of Armstrong’s nervousness, the twitch of his right eye at certain questions, the way his left knee had of shuddering when he was lying. When he talked about Ashley in Trafalgar he was calm, as calm as anyone can be in a stark police interview room under interrogation. But when it came to Vancouver, Armstrong was as jumpy as the frog in the proverbial pot of water set to boil. Whether or not Armstrong had screwed his female clients was not Winters’ concern. If Vancouver had decided, for whatever reason, not to pursue the allegations, neither would he.

One phrase stood out from the interview as if it was highlighted in yellow marker:
milk the welfare system
.

Milk the system
: a good indication that Armstrong, supposedly the caring counselor, didn’t have a whole lot of sympathy for the women who were his clients. Or at least not for Ashley. Was Ashley
milking the system
? Winters could only wish she had been—any involvement with government agencies would leave a paper trail. She’d never applied for benefits, or even left a full name at the center through which they could contact her.

Ashley.

It all came back to Ashley. Of course the victim was the center of any murder investigation, but this one was different. The girl had no past, almost no present. And certainly no future. Except for one tiny, screaming little thing.

Miller. Miller wasn’t going to open his petite pink mouth and say “my mommy was killed by…” Nevertheless, Winters needed to see him again. And he could talk to Lucky Smith at the same time.

“What’s up?” Lopez said, walking into the interview room.

“You ever had reason to come across a girl calls herself Marigold? Waits tables at The Bishop and Nun?”

“I know her. I suspect she’s a low level dealer. Why?”

“She’s Ashley Doe’s roommate.”

“I know. You think she knows something about the killing?”

“Just fishing. Ashley died a week ago. We’ve had officers circulating her picture all around town, to every community in the area. But no one’s come forward as recognizing her other than as a girl they’d seen hanging around. She doesn’t seem to have had a boyfriend. No friends to speak of. Her roommate barely knew her. No mementos in her room—no pictures of happy days with Mom and Dad. No letters from home or old school friends. No boyfriend, no girl friends either. Just Ashley and Miller. And Miller isn’t talking.”

“It takes time, John, you know that. To find the right person who, when they see the picture, will recognize her straight off and know everything there is to know about her.”

“Time isn’t usually on our side. We can’t keep flashing her morgue picture forever.”

Lopez glanced at the tape recorder on the table. “Interview?”

“Armstrong. Right now, Julian Armstrong is my number one suspect. Listen to this when you have the time. Let me know what you think. The guy’s lying, no doubt about it. He knew Ashley in Vancouver. That doesn’t mean he killed her, of course. But it makes me wonder why he’s so determined to lie to me.”

“Some people lie to the police soon as breathe.”

“Let the Yellow Stripes sort it all out. Chief’s put in a call to the IHIT.”

“I don’t imagine they’ll be in a rush to get here.”

“Huh?”

“You haven’t heard?”

“Heard what?”

“Shooting at a playground. All over the news. Two children dead, three critical. Between the ages of four and six.” Brown freckles stood out on a face white with anger. “A mother died shielding her daughter with her body.”

“Jesus.”

“You got that right. Not one of the shooters apprehended. Every cop in the province’ll be on it like white on rice. That plus the suspected gang-connected lawyer knifed in the washroom of his office building yesterday, and the IHIT has enough on the go. A week-old death of a heroin junkie will be a minor pea on their plate.”

“Ashley wasn’t a junkie.”

“Prove it,” Lopez said. “I’ll listen to that tape later.”

Chapter Twenty-one

John Winters wiped steam off the bathroom mirror so he could have a good look at his face. He held his index finger up to cover his mustache, wondering what he’d look like without it. He’d had a mustache since the ‘70s. Then it was trendy, not to mention black. Now it was old-fashioned and mostly gray.

But Eliza liked it.

The mustache would stay.

It was past time for Armstrong and Marigold to account for themselves.

He often thought he did his best thinking in the bathroom in the morning.

Time to bring Armstrong in again, and lean on him hard. Winters didn’t see the counselor as a killer, but he’d been wrong before. And even if Armstrong hadn’t been involved in Ashley’s death, he knew things about the girl he wasn’t telling. And as he’d claimed he’d never been her counselor he couldn’t hide behind client privilege. Winters couldn’t charge Armstrong with withholding evidence based on his gut feelings. But Armstrong needn’t know that.

And then he’d deal with Marigold.

He called the station and asked to have a uniform and marked car pick him up at home.

Eliza sat on the chair at her dressing table applying pink polish to her toenails. She had amazingly unattractive feet, all bumpy joints and long skinny toes. As far as he was concerned her feet were her only physical flaw. He had never told her so. She raised one well-shaped eyebrow as he hung up the phone, and pointed the bottle of polish at him.

“No breakfast?”

“I’ll get something in town. I want to see someone before his day starts.”

“And thus before your day starts, too.” She turned back to her feet. “Grab yourself a coffee, anyway. It’s ready.”

Dave Evans pulled into the driveway in less than ten minutes. Winters ran out carrying a full travel mug.

He opened the car door and was about to jump in when something caught his eye. He walked over to the edge of the garden. Most of the pale blue berries on the elderberry bushes were gone; the smaller plants around its base trampled. A pile of fresh bear scat.

“Big one,” Evans said, coming up behind him. “And probably a mom. Look over there.” He pointed and Winters looked. It had rained in the night, just enough to wet the ground. Small prints wandered over themselves and underneath a larger set. They disappeared into the bush.

“Wish I’d seen her,” Winters said.

“Me too.”

They went back to the car.

“I want to pay a visit to Julian Armstrong,” Winters said, as Evans put the car into gear. “We’ll try his home first.”

“Christ, not you again,” was Armstrong’s greeting.

“Your lucky day. I’d like to ask you a few more questions, Mr. Armstrong, if you don’t mind.”

“And if I do mind?”

“Then I’ll leave. And I’ll mention that to the judge at your trial.”

Armstrong stood back and let the police into his apartment.

“As a matter of fact, Sergeant Winters, I was about to call you.”

“Were you indeed?”

“I don’t care whether you believe me or not, but it’s true.” Armstrong was dressed in a white T-shirt and baggy track pants, elastic loose, hem ragged, pocket torn. Probably what he slept in. The door to the bathroom was closed.

Winters looked toward it. “Are you alone, Mr. Armstrong?”

“Sadly, yes. Have a seat.”

Winters took the only chair in the room. Evans stood by the door, and Armstrong walked to the window. Morning sun shone through gaps in the trees.

“I don’t have much of a fondness for the police.”

“I’m not here to ask for your vote in a popularity contest.”

Armstrong spoke to the window. “I had some problems, back in Vancouver. That’s why I gave up my practice there and moved to Trafalgar. They were personal problems, nothing at all to do with the law. But the cops interfered.”

Mentally Winters rolled his eyes. He’d heard that before—from every abusive husband he’d arrested when he was in uniform. What happened in a man’s home, they insisted, was a private matter.

Armstrong didn’t turn around. “Far as I’m concerned what an adult woman wants to do with an adult man is her business. Women often form a bond with their therapists. And often it’s that bond which gives them the strength to make the changes they need in their lives.”

Over their heads, footsteps crossed the floor of the main house. A radio was switched on. A blast of music, quickly turned down.

“But some people don’t see it that way. Political correctness and all that rubbish. I had a relationship with a client outside of office hours.”

“One client?”

Armstrong pulled at the edges of the drawstring on his pants. “More than one over the years. But only one that matters here. She was a nice lady. Attractive, rich, spoiled. And so sad.” He turned away from the window. Light shone through his thin hair, gray and greasy. He hadn’t shaved yet, and the edges of his goatee were ragged. Winters couldn’t possibly imagine why a wealthy, mature woman would find Julian Armstrong attractive. But as he, John Winters, wasn’t a wealthy, mature woman, his opinion was of no consequence.

Armstrong sat down, heavily, on the unmade sofa bed. Springs squeaked. He turned his head back toward the window.

Winters admired the décor. Late eighties cheap. Other than the furniture there wasn’t much to look at. The art on the walls was tasteless and mass-produced; the counter in the kitchen alcove was piled high with dirty dishes. Silence stretched between them. Outside a car engine came to life, and someone shouted to someone else to “hurry the hell up, or I’ll leave without you.” Doors slammed and the car pulled away. Far down the mountain, an ambulance screamed.

“Her husband, suspecting she was playing outside the school yard, hired someone to follow her. When faced with it, she told him about me. Who I was.” Armstrong said at last.

“That must have been difficult.”

Armstrong jumped to his feet. “Difficult, you don’t know the half of it. The husband’s on the goddamned police board. He was like thirty years older than her. Gave her lots of spending money but not much else except a fist when he couldn’t get it up. Which was most of the time. He wasn’t too pleased to learn that the trophy wife went in search of a bit of outside excitement because she wasn’t getting it at home, was he?” He rubbed his hands across his face. “From then on it was out of control. She gave him the names of her friends who were clients of mine. The husband, let’s call him Mister F, for a word I always think of when I remember him. Well Mister F went to them, leaned on them, made them lay complaints about me. Say that I’d made inappropriate advances.”

“Had you?”

Armstrong went to the kitchen and poured water into a beer-encrusted glass. He didn’t offer his guests a drink. “Them? Hell, no. Credit me with some taste. It was a bit ironic, because the ones who complained weren’t ones I was friends with.”

“You’re saying that this man asked women to lay charges against you knowing that they weren’t true?”

“Yup. That’s what I’m saying.” Apparently water didn’t satisfy the need, because Armstrong reached into his fridge and pulled out a bottle of beer. He twisted off the top, tossed the cap into the sink, and took a deep slug. Again, not bothering to offer one to his guests. “They tried to charge me with raping the wife, said I talked her into it by telling her that sex was part of the counseling process. Nothing could have been further from the truth. Guy doesn’t often meet a woman so desperate for it.” He lifted his beer toward Winters. “So I gave it to her. Tell me you wouldn’t have.”

Winters said nothing.

Armstrong took a deep drink. “First examination she fell apart. Prosecution knew they couldn’t put her on the stand. Couldn’t even pretend she was too traumatized to testify, because I had the foresight to keep an e-mail she sent me apologizing for causing so much trouble, saying that her husband threatened to divorce her if she didn’t go to court, and asking when we could meet up again. After all that, she kindly tossed in a highly graphic description as to what she’d like me to do to her at our next meeting. The other lady… well it was her word against mine, and considering that she was lying outright… Case closed.”

“All nice and clean and settled,” Winters said. “So why are you here,” he waved his hand around the cheap room. “In Trafalgar?”

“Look Mr. Winters. I’m going to tell you how it is. Straight. You can believe me or not.” Armstrong rested his hip on the windowsill opposite Winters’ chair. His chin was up and a fire burned in his eyes. “My professional body wasn’t too happy at the threat of legal charges being laid, and, no matter that said charges were dropped, the climate was decidedly chilly.”

He looked at Winters, who had gotten to his feet some time ago. “It was time to leave town. And leave counseling people, women, who could solve most of their life’s problems by throwing enough money at them. Believe it or not, Sergeant, I do want to help people.”

“An interesting story, Mr. Armstrong. But I’m afraid it has nothing to do with the matter at hand. I have more than enough witnesses telling me that you knew Ashley and knew much more than you’re telling me. I’ve no doubt you’re aware that obstruction of justice is a crime.”

“Don’t you understand, man? Mr. F, the policeman’s friend, has his knife sharpened for me. Julian knows a girl who’s died, ergo Julian is the killer and we can call him up before a judge without having to worry about the girl’s emotional state. The firing squad will assemble at dawn.”

“It doesn’t work that way. I’ll lay charges as and when I see fit, whether your Mr. F approves or not.” Armstrong, Winters thought, had been watching far too many conspiracy movies.

The counselor sucked on his bottle of beer.

“Okay, I’ve heard your story of woe. Now tell me about Ashley. Fast. I know you knew her in Vancouver. I know you meant something to her, and I know she saw you here, in Trafalgar. I’m tired of beating about the bush. You make one false statement and we’re off to the cells.”

***

John Winters didn’t like Julian Armstrong. He had no doubt that Armstrong used his position as trusted counselor to lure needy women into his bed. Some women, with money, influence, age even, could handle it. But what about others, more vulnerable?

Armstrong finally admitted that he’d met Ashley in Vancouver. About two years ago, give or take a couple of months. She was a serious heroin addict, but young enough, pretty enough, blond enough, and able to turn the sweet, blushing virgin on at will, that she worked the better hotels and convention centers. Which was where he’d met her. At a convention for the directors of shelters for battered women.

He wasn’t admitting to paying Ashley for her services, and Winters let that go, although cold fingers crept up his spine at the thought that Armstrong went to a feminist conference to pick up abused girls.

“She was unhappy with her pimp,” Armstrong said. “And trying to get away from him. But she was too hooked on the drug to make the break. You know how it is, Sergeant. The pimp controls the supply. He hands it out in doses according to how well she performs.”

Winters knew.

“She asked me to help her. And so I did. The next morning.” Armstrong coughed, recognizing his mistake. He looked away. Winters wanted to hit the man. Instead he sat in his chair and listened. “I drove her to a shelter for hookers and druggies. They took her in. She was there for a couple of weeks. I checked on her regularly.” Winters could guess at the nature of this checking in. But he still said nothing. If it would take everything he had, he’d see that Julian Armstrong did not set up practice in Trafalgar.

“But then I was… well… called away. Things got busy. And we lost touch. I’m sorry about that. I should have followed up. But you know how it is. Life just gets busy.”

Found an easier screw,
Winters interpreted. “And in all that time, she never told you anything about herself. Her name, her family, her hometown?”

“We aren’t the police,” Armstrong said, letting a touch of arrogance creep into his voice. “We don’t pressure. If the girl chooses not to reveal those details, I wouldn’t dream of trying to make her.”

Unlike trying to make her drop her pants.

Winters nodded at Evans, who took down the name of the shelter that had taken Ashley in, and the dates.

“There was one thing,” Armstrong said. “That I heard about later… well, after I got busy with my own practice. Around that time an eager young guy showed up. Right out of school. All set to make the world a better place.” Armstrong almost sneered. Winters had no doubt that Armstrong would hold anyone still in possession of their principles in contempt. “All fresh-faced and full of ideals. Graham Buckingham. Don’t know why I remember the name, except that I have a brother named Graham, and Buckingham, well that’s the palace, so it’s easy to remember. It was a while after, but one day I ran into a woman who worked at the shelter. She told me Buckingham helped Ashley a lot. Got her to make the break, get rid of the pimp, stop taking the drugs.”

Armstrong shrugged. “But, no matter what a great job we do with them, they always go back to the stuff. Never fails.” He gave Winters a grin, like they were long time pals or something. “Addicts and hookers are swimming around at the bottom of the barrel for a reason. What can I say, eh?”

“And then you ran into her again, in Trafalgar?”

“I told you about that. It was at the women’s support centre. Lucky Smith was there. I scarcely recognized Ashley at first. She was looking nice, cleaned up, it suited her, so I guess young Graham Buckingham had accomplished something. Miracles happen. I said hi, and she turned away. If she didn’t want to admit to knowing me, that’s part of client confidentiality, isn’t it? Her choice.”

“What happened the next time you saw her?”

Armstrong opened his mouth to protest. To deny there was a next time. Instead he closed his eyes as well as his mouth and took several deep breaths. “A couple of days later. On Front Street. She was standing outside the bakery when I came out with a croissant for breakfast. No preliminary conversation. No ‘hi, Julian, how’s it been?’ Just told me right out that I was going to help her. I said I didn’t have an office set up yet, but she could make an appointment at the center. She said she didn’t want my professional help. She’d changed since Vancouver, I can tell you. She was much more confident for one thing, held her head up instead of always looking at the ground. She spoke to me, well, as if she were ordering me around.”