A Cold White Sun: A Constable Molly Smith Mystery (Constable Molly Smith Series) (17 page)

Eliza let out a long breath. Her green eyes glittered like emeralds.

“One by one girls left, never to be seen again, and new ones arrived. Then it was my turn.”

When she started labor Margo was put in a dark cold room by herself for several hours. When she was far enough along, they sent her to the hospital. Dropped off at the front door and the car sped away without so much as a goodbye or a good luck. Inside the hospital it was much the same. They, the unmarried girls, the wicked ones, weren’t given pain relief or support. She was put in a bed and there she lay, by herself, laboring all through the night. Once in a while a nurse would pop in, spread Margo’s legs, check the progress, listen to her heartbeat, and leave. Without saying a word of comfort or encouragement. The priest stopped by. The same nasty slimy creep who told them to beg forgiveness for their sins and wanted to hear every detail of the transgression at confession. One last chance to rail against the evilness of women and have a peek at her breasts.

Margo felt the ghost of a smile curling around the edges of her mouth.

Eliza noticed. “What is it?”

“Thinking of someone I met there. He did not come to a good end.” She’d read the name of that priest in the paper about ten years ago. He died in jail, where he was doing time for the rape of a ten-year-old girl. The report said
there were
plenty of accusations against him, but the others had not made it to court.
Perhaps,
Margo thought
, there is some justice in the world after all.

At last the ordeal ended and a baby boy was born to her. “They didn’t give him to me to hold. They whipped him out of the delivery room before I realized it was over. I’d been told a decent churchgoing family would adopt him. I wanted him so much, I wanted to keep him with me, care for him. The world was a hard, harsh place. The only one who could be counted on to keep him safe was his mother. Me. But it was not to be.”

What could she do against the church, the courts? Margo found out much later that legally she could have prevented the adoption. She didn’t have to sign the papers. They’d told her at the home she’d be put in jail if she didn’t sign.

She’d been too stupid, too bullied, to wonder why she’d have to sign him over if the law said she had to give him up.

“I saw my baby for the last time that night. I asked the woman who came to check on me if I could see him. She was very young, just a nursing student. She was kind. She told me to get out of bed. We’d pretend I was a married woman, and she’d take me to the nursery.”

“Is everything okay?” the waitress asked.

Eliza and Margo jumped. Eliza picked up her untouched wine glass. “We’re fine. Thank you.”

“If you need anything,” the woman said, glancing from one to the other, curiosity breaking through the aura of professional disinterest.

“The bill, please,” Eliza said.

“So that’s my story. I never went back to that miserable Prairie town. I never saw my parents again. The nurse who befriended me knew of a place that took in young women boarders, and I found a simple factory job. I worked hard. I was smart, and I was able to go to secretarial school at night. I was lucky. I’ve had a good life, Eliza. I could have ended up on the streets like so many sad abandoned women. Steve’s a good man, and he’s been a good husband. Our life hasn’t been without its ups and downs, but my children turned out well and I’m blessed with a strong healthy grandchild. Before we married, I told Steve about Jackson, that I’d had a baby. I owed him the chance to leave me, to not be tricked into marriage with a bad woman.” She felt herself smiling as she remembered. “He said he wasn’t a virgin either. He’d lost his virginity in the rec room of a high school friend’s house when the friend’s mother said he was a big boy now, and she had something secret to show him. Oh, gosh. Don’t ever tell him I told you that.”

“I won’t.”

Margo sipped at her wine. “This is good.”

“My dear, you saw that baby when he was one day old. And that was what, forty years ago?”

“Forty-five years. February 6th. Two a.m. I’ll never forget him, Eliza.”

“I don’t think you should, but…”

“I’ve contacted groups that help children locate their birth parents. Nothing. Never a trace. Yet here he is. In Trafalgar. All my dreams have been answered.”

Eliza did not smile as she placed her credit card on the table.

Chapter Twenty

John Winters spent most of the afternoon in his office, going over reports from the officers who’d been conducting interviews with Cathy Lindsay’s friends and colleagues. A great deal of shock and distress. A big fat lot of nothing useful. No one had said anything about her apparent interest in the math teacher, Mark Hamilton. Winters had not told the officers about Hamilton. He didn’t want to alert the man that the police were interested in gossip surrounding him. Not until Winters could have a chance to interview him.

He picked up the phone. “Ron, have you heard from the lab yet, anything on that cigarette butt?”

“John, I’m not going to keep it to myself, you know. When I hear, you’ll hear. I can’t give you what I don’t have.”

“Have you told them it’s urgent?”

“Are you really asking me that?” Gavin said.

“I guess not. It’s just that I have nothing. Absolutely nothing here. I need something to work with. Be nice if that butt is crawling with DNA.”

“You know the story, John. The lab’s behind, working as fast as they can. To them, every case is urgent. They’ll get to it when they can. And when they do, you can be sure I’ll let you know what’s what.”

“Thanks.”

“Good luck,” Gavin said, hanging up.

Winters tried Mark Hamilton’s number again. He’d left a message, asking the man to call him, but people didn’t always return calls from the police. The patrol cars had been told to drive past Hamilton’s house regularly, checking for signs of habitation. Nothing yet.

“Still here?” Molly Smith’s head popped around the corner. Her skin glowed with exercise and good health. Didn’t have to be a detective to tell she’d spent her day on the ski hills. Personally, he didn’t see the attraction. Plunging down the side of a mountain at the speed of a freight train and getting freezing cold to boot? No thanks.

“Still here.”

“No developments, eh?”

“Early days yet. That’s what I keep telling myself. When people go on vacation they should be required to leave contact information with their local police department. Just in case.”

“Good luck with that.”

“Did you want something?”

“No. Just saying hi. I’m about to head out.”

“Hi. Have a good night. Hope it’s Q.” Police officers could be a superstitious bunch. In the way that actors never said the name of the “Scottish Play,” cops never wished for a quiet shift. That would be sure to bring on the opposite.

He listened to the sound of Smith’s boots heading down the hallway. The office was quiet, the day staff gone home. He took off his reading glasses and rubbed his eyes. The weather forecast clear skies tomorrow. He’d asked Barb to get him tickets to Victoria. The first flight out wasn’t until eleven, and he wouldn’t get to Victoria until early afternoon. The Victoria police had made an appointment with Elizabeth Moorehouse. By the time he made his way to her place, interviewed her, it’d be too late to get a flight home. Barb had reserved a room in a hotel in downtown Victoria, overlooking the harbor. A very good hotel. If he had to be away from home, he might as well stay someplace nice. He could afford to supplement the miserly daily rate the city paid.

He logged off from the computer and pushed his chair back with a sigh. He really, really did not like this case.

***

Molly Smith made the rounds of the bars, saying hi to the bouncers, counting the numbers, sniffing the air, looking for trouble. Of which there didn’t seem to be any tonight.

She leaned against the bar at the Bishop and Nun and sipped a glass of water. TVs scattered around the room played various sports channels, the sound turned off. Mike, the bartender, was regaling her with the exploits of his three-year-old nephew, the light of his life. He was a cute enough kid but one could only hear so much about nursery school, play dates, and a future in the NHL. They didn’t usually run into much trouble at the Bishop. It was close to the center of town, meaning close to the police station, and catered for a middle-class clientele in search of a faux British pub. The accents were wood, the booths snug and private, and the papered red walls bore paintings of hunting scenes featuring unnaturally-elongated horses. A gas fireplace burned on one wall.

“I’ll drop by again later,” Smith said, finishing her water.

“See you, Molly.”

She went through the back and emerged in the alley. Wires and cables stretched overhead, an urban jungle. She took a moment to shift her gunbelt, extended her arms to give them a good stretch. The muscles in her shoulders and thighs ached like the blazes. After intense skiing of the sort she’d had today she should have gone home and had a long bubbly soak in the bath with a glass of white wine resting on the side of the tub, and later met friends for drinks beside a fireplace burning real wood.

Instead, a quick leap into the shower, towel off, pass the dryer over her head for not long enough to get her hair thoroughly dry, pull on uniform and out the door. Alphonse’s was closed and he hadn’t even left her a treat of leftover baking on the landing as he often did. She hadn’t had time to eat and the glass of water at the Bishop would hardly do for a meal. She was absolutely starving. Maybe she could get Dave Evans, who was in the car, to stop at the pizza place and pick her up something.

Yellow cat’s eyes watched her from behind a pile of garbage bags laid out at the back of a convenience store. Until she could get that pizza, a chocolate bar would have to do. She heard a whoop of laughter followed by a crash and the tinkle of breaking glass. More laughter. She rounded the corner.

Three boys, underage almost certainly, were hiding in the shadows of the loading dock behind the hardware store. A garbage can was rolling down hill, picking up speed as it went. As Smith watched one of the boys swung a plastic bag against the wall. Glass broke. The other two took swigs from bottles of beer clenched in their fists. Brown glass glittered at their feet. They were laughing so hard at their own antics, they didn’t notice her approach.

“I suggest you pour those out, guys,”

They jumped and she recognized them. Minor trouble makers. Fifteen, sixteen years old. Kids who lived with their parents in comfortable houses and went to school. Kids who’d grown tired of soccer league or church social groups, who hung around behind the bars because they weren’t allowed in. It was early, not much after eight, so they hadn’t, probably, been drinking for long. Not that their scrawny, still growing bodies had much capacity for alcohol in any event.

They turned and faced her, pushing the beer bottles behind their skinny backs, like ostriches stuffing their heads in the sand.

“Show me your hands, Kieran.”

“I don’t have anything, Smith. You can’t make me.”

“I can take you down to the station, if that’s what you want. You’re drinking in public and causing a disturbance. Think your parents want a call tonight?”

“Nah.” He produced the bottle and held it out to his side. He flipped it over. Liquid foamed on the cold ground.

“You too,” she said to the other boys. They exchanged glances, then the taller one shrugged and they poured out the beer.

“Thanks. I don’t know you,” she said to the tall one. “What’s your name?”

“Who wants to know?”

“Keep up with the lip and I’ll take you in. I asked your name.”

“Rob. Rob Hardwin.”

“Thanks, Rob. Pick up that broken glass. I see you have a bag. How handy. Put it in there.”

“It’s cold. Our hands’ll freeze.”

“Cry me a river.”

Grumbling, they did as they were told, and then they tossed the bag of rubbish into the industrial garbage bin. They weren’t bad kids, just restless with too much time on their hands, too much attitude, and surging testosterone. If they’d given her any backtalk, she’d have had no problem calling Dave Evans to come and pick them all up. March them down to the station, call their parents to fetch them.

Parents tended not to like having to do that.

Tonight, at least, she hoped she’d gotten to them before they could get themselves into any real trouble. “Okay. Kieran and Rob, you can go. Bradley, I want to talk to you.”

Bradley Lindsay glanced around. His friends shrugged.

Smith jerked her head.

“Catch you later,” Kieran said. Then he and Rob ran off, as if Smith would change her mind and arrest them after all.

“You can’t keep me,” Bradley said. “Not after letting them go. I wasn’t doing nothing.”

Molly Smith’s degree was in Social Work. She’d been studying for her MSW but dropped out after the death of Graham. She no longer had any desire to go back to it, all she wanted now was to be as good a police officer as she could. But sometimes, she simply couldn’t help herself.

“Don’t you think your dad needs you at home, Bradley?”

The boy looked into her face, habitual sneer firmly in place. She returned the stare, saying nothing. His eyes were clear, pupils normal sized. He broke away. “My dad doesn’t care what the fuck I do.”

“I doubt that’s true. But, even if you think it is, what about your grandparents? I’m sure they’d like you home.”

He shrugged. “My grandmas are okay. Granddad’s a bossy old fart.”

“They’re all hurting, you know.”

He turned his head to the side and spat on the ground. “I got places to go, people to see. Couple of hot girls, older girls, meeting up with us later, get my drift? You can’t make me stand here talking to you.” He shrugged his thin shoulders in a display of braggadocio, stuck his thumbs into a loop on the waist of his overlarge pants. “Unless you want to go someplace private like. And talk. Yeah, we can talk. How about your car? I’ve heard what goes on in cruisers. Late at night. No one around.”

What a pathetic little jerk. She would have laughed if it hadn’t been so sad. “You want to bug your dad, do you? How about I arrest you, take you in. Give him a call.” This boy needed help. She didn’t know if his dad would be able to give it. Bradley was in trouble before his mom died, minor stuff, teenage rebellion. Now, with all that rage against the world building up inside?

His eyes shifted to one side. “He won’t care. Probably still at work. He’s always at work.”

“We’ll get your grandmothers then. One them will come down to spring you, I’m sure.” She pulled her handcuffs off her belt. Took a step forward.

He leapt back. His eyes dropped and all the aggression melted out of his body. “No. Okay, I’m sorry. I apologize, Constable Smith, if I insulted you.”

“That’s better. I’ll let you off, but I want you to go home. If I see you out tonight, I will arrest you.” She softened her voice. “Your grandparents would like to visit with you, don’t you think?”

“Yeah. They’re not doing so good. Grandma Renee in particular. My mom was her only child. She’s having a hard time.”

“Do you think she needs to be worrying about you?”

“Probably not.”

“How about you, Bradley? You doing okay?”

His shoulders shook and for a moment she feared he was laughing at her concern. Then she realized he was struggling to hold back the tears.

“It’s okay you know, to cry. She was your mother.”

When he looked up again, his eyes were wet, a drop of moisture clinging to the long black lashes. “The last thing she said to me was not to go out. It was the first night of school holidays, and she wanted me to stay in. Watch a movie, play Settlers or something. Like we did when I was little.” He sniffled and rubbed his glove under his nose. Smith dug in her pocket and found an unused tissue amongst all the detritus of a cop’s uniform. She passed it to him. He twisted it in his fingers. “Who the hell wants to sit at home playing board games with their
parents
and a ten year old? I told her…I told her to stop being such a clingy nag. I told her to fuck off.” The tears were running now, free and fast. Smith didn’t touch him. She stood in front of him, quietly, saying nothing, letting him cry it out.

When Graham died, and later her dad, all she could think about for a long time was the things she
should
have said to them, before they left her forever. But she didn’t know their time was coming to an end, and people didn’t go around telling those they loved how much they valued them every time they walked out the door.

When was the last time she’d told her mother she loved her? Probably not since she was a kid, younger even than Bradley. But Lucky knew Molly loved her. It didn’t have to be said.