A Cold White Sun: A Constable Molly Smith Mystery (Constable Molly Smith Series) (25 page)

Chapter Twenty-nine

The man with the knife in his leg, screaming threats now that the police had his attackers in custody, was taken away by ambulance. Brad Noseworthy accompanied them. The two fighters were stuffed into patrol cars and driven to the station to be processed into custody.

Smith got a ride with Dawn Solway. Evans drove Noseworthy’s vehicle with the second prisoner.

“You okay, Molly?” Dawn asked, keeping her voice low as she switched the light bar off and the windshield wipers on. She’d only been inside a few minutes yet a light coat of ice covered the window.

“Yeah.”

“If you’re not, take some time, eh?”

“I’m good.” Smith sucked in a breath and gave what she hoped was an encouraging smile.

“How about we drive outa town first,” their prisoner suggested. “I can show you gorgeous
ladies
what a real man can do. You don’t even have to take the cuffs off.”

“Gag me with a spoon,” Solway mumbled as she pulled the car into the street.

They processed the prisoners. These two would be spending a few days in jail until their hearing. Assault PO and assault with a deadly weapon.

The man Evans had grabbed, the one who’d knifed the guy, remained quiet. He grunted his name and address when asked, kept his head down and his eyes averted. The other one, who turned out to be his brother, swore a blue streak, alternately threatening to sue the police for everything they were worth and asking Smith and Solway to keep him company in his cell. He made Smith’s skin crawl.

Finally the men were tucked up for the night, and Solway and Smith headed upstairs. The dispatch console was a circle of harsh white light in the dark and quiet of the offices.

“I need a drink,” Solway said, “Molly?”

“Huh?”

“I asked if you want a pop? Are you sure you’re okay? If we’re charging that ugly guy with assault PO, that means you were in a fight, right? Do you want to talk about what happened?”

Smith glanced at Ingrid. The dispatcher had been around a long time, seen almost everything, probably had heard everything. “Just us girls here, Molly.”

“I’m fine. Personal stuff on my mind. Really.”

“If you say so.” Solway went into the lunch room, and came back pulling the tab off a can of Coke.

Footsteps sounded in the hall, and Dave Evans joined them. “Coulda been a bad one.”

“But it wasn’t,” Smith replied.

“I’m heading back out,” Solway said. “You need a lift?”

“I’ll walk.” Smith said. “Check out the action in the back alleys.”

The phone rang. The three young cops watched as Ingrid picked it up. “I’ll send an officer around immediately,” she said, before hanging up.

“The Youth Hostel. Woman was raped—allegedly—in a bedroom. Suspect has left the scene. Victim needs medical assistance.”

“I’m on it.” Solway downed the last of her drink and put the empty can onto the counter.

“I’ll come with you,” Evans said. “You’ll need help taking statements.”

They ran out of the building. Smith picked up the empty can and took it to the recycling bin in the lunch room. She turned the collar of her jacket up.

“Stay safe,” Ingrid said.

Smith gave the dispatcher a wave and let herself out the secure door. The street entrance contained a small vestibule with a narrow bench, a corkboard displaying safety tips and wanted posters, a counter with a glass divider between the room and the main building, and a sliding partition the dispatcher could open to ask a caller their business.

Had she seriously been thinking of cheating on Adam, solid, reliable, adoring Adam, for a guy whose only virtue was that he was a good skier? She must have been out of her mind.

She pulled out her phone, flicked it open, and pressed buttons. She kept her face turned toward the street in case Ingrid had recently learned how to lip read.

Her call was answered before the second ring. “You okay? It’s late.”

“I’m okay. Wanted to hear your voice.”

“You’re hearing it,” Adam said. It was a good voice, deep and strong. Authoritative when it needed to be, soft and warm when it spoke to her.

“I kinda forgot about the time difference. Sorry. I guess you’re in bed.”

“Not a problem. You can disturb me in bed anytime. Things busy there?”

“Yeah. We’re hopping. Dawn’s been called to a rape at the youth hostel. An alleged rape. How come if the victim had been stabbed in the chest, it wouldn’t be called an alleged stabbing?”

He chuckled. “Been talking to your mom, have you?”

“I love you, Adam.”

“Hey, Mol. I love you too. You know that. Did something happen tonight? You sound, I don’t know, kinda sad.”

“I guess I just realized for some reason that I really, truly do love you.”

“Was that in doubt?”

“Perhaps the depth of it was.”

“It’s four o’clock in the morning where I am, and you’re working. I want you sharp and focused out on the streets, not thinking about me. So I’m going to go now. Hell, maybe I do want you thinking about me. When I get back, I have something to ask you, Molly. Take care.” She heard a soft click as he hung up.

She tucked her phone back into her pocket, and then turned and looked through the glass. Ingrid was smiling at her.

And Molly Smith realized she had a big, stupid smile on her own face.

Chapter Thirty

Mark Hamilton went skiing. In town it had rained overnight, but fresh powder had fallen on the mountains and conditions on the black diamonds were good. He skied hard and fast, muscles aching and face burning with the cold, until dusk began to settle and the lifts closed.

He’d received an e-mail last night, inviting him to an upcoming get-together in Vancouver, a rare invitation from his old buddies from the unit. He never went, so contact between them had largely dried up over the past five years. Some of the guys,
he knew
, were as fucked up as he was. They found strength in each other. As soldiers always had and always would. They might go to shrinks and mind-docs, where they’d talk about their feelings and pop pills, but no one else, they knew, could ever understand.

No one who hadn’t been there. Done the things they’d done.

Seen the things they’d seen.

Not that they’d ever talk about it. It was enough, to know your buddy was by your side when you needed him there.

Mark only knew this from talk he’d heard. He didn’t exchange news or meet every now and again over a beer to complain about the civilian world or the incompetence of the department of veterans’ affairs.

He wasn’t good enough.

He’d failed in the worst way a soldier could.

He’d let a man, one of his men, die.

He didn’t deserve their support, their friendship.

Their understanding.

It had been a good day on the slopes. He’d outraced his mind and exhausted his body. Back to work on Monday. It would be nice to see the kids again, even the sneering, surly grade nines and tens. Boys who thought they were so tough, but didn’t have a clue.

Their innocence was a balm on his tormented soul.

***

The store was busy on Saturday, but James and Flower were both working and so Lucky Smith spent the day planning for the end-of-season sale.

Time to get rid of the skis and snowshoes and make room for hiking poles and kayak paddles.

She glanced round her small, crowded office. A picture of her and Andy hung on the wall. It had been taken the day the store opened. Andy had long blond hair and a droopy mustache; Lucky’s flame-red hair had been ironed and parted in the middle of her head to fall in a smooth waterfall across her shoulders, and her skirt barely covered her pert little butt.

So young.

So many years, so many memories.

Unlikely she and Paul would have memories to share in their old age. Last night had not, to put it mildly, ended well. She’d been furious at his casual dismissal of environmentalists as tree huggers.

She was intelligent enough to realize that she probably would have let it go if she hadn’t been on the phone to her friend Jane Reynolds only that afternoon. Jane who never, never gave up. Jane who spurred Lucky on when she sometimes felt like simply giving in.

Other people seemed to pass their lives without always finding something to be angry about.

Sometimes Lucky wished she could.

But that wasn’t her way. She did like Paul, very much. She liked his company, she even respected him for the job he did. A smile touched the edges of her mouth as she imagined her nineteen-year-old self, a sophomore at the University of Washington, heavily involved in student politics in the Vietnam era. On one of her first dates with Andy they’d gone to a SDS demonstration.

But that was long ago, and the past, as they said, was another country.

What to do about the past that was last night? Paul had obviously been hoping Lucky would stay over at his condo, but after their spat in the theater, and then a chilly walk, in more ways than one, back to his car, neither of them made the suggestion.

They drove out of town in silence. He pulled up to Lucky’s house in the snowy woods. “Thank you for a lovely evening,” she said.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “if…that I upset you. I wouldn’t like to think things such as that can come between us. Destroy our…friendship.”

His hands were clenched on the steering wheel. She laid one of hers on his. “Our friendship is important to me,” she said. “Good night Paul.”

He didn’t ask if he could come in. She didn’t know what she’d have said if he had.

She got out of the car. He watched until she was inside and kitchen light came on and then he drove away.

She’d wanted to kick something. Instead, she opened the door again and let Sylvester out.

Chapter Thirty-one

The church parking lot was full half an hour before Cathy Lindsay’s funeral service began, and cars began to spread out along the steep mountain roads, tucked between snowbanks. Two uniformed officers were in place directing traffic.

John Winters made sure he was one of the first to arrive. The day was clear but cold, so mourners would be unlikely to linger outside. He took his place near the front of the church, at the end of a pew where he could see everyone as they arrived. Ray Lopez stood at the back. The gleaming casket, all polished wood and brass, covered with a mass of flowers, had been brought in earlier and placed in front of the altar. Additional bouquets and wreathes filled the church, their scent sickeningly strong.

The church was late-seventies ugly on the outside, but inside it maintained an aura of dignity and grace. Plain pews, wood worn by decades of seated rumps and sweating hands, large tapestries, woven with biblical scenes, decorating either side of the choir loft. The unadorned altar, the plain wooden cross hanging above it, powerful in their simplicity. The stained glass windows were too modern for Winters’ taste. Jesus’ followers looked like a pack of Trafalgar neohippies rather than first century peasants, but the windows were pretty and allowed the low spring sun to pour through.

Winters recognized the mayor and numerous town dignitaries. His own boss, the Chief Constable, had come, as had Mark Hamilton, the math teacher, and William Westfield, who’d been in Cathy’s night-school class. Winters was surprised to see Margo, Eliza’s assistant; he hadn’t realized
she knew
the Lindsays. Perhaps she could be counted among the curious. Plenty of people would be here who only had a passing acquaintance with the deceased, if at all.

Today was Monday, the first day back at school after March Break. A substantial number of children were in attendance, classmates and friends of the daughter, Jocelyn, as well as Cathy’s fellow teachers and her students. Some of Bradley’s friends had turned up, for once neatly dressed and somber of appearance. Gord and Cathy’s friends and colleagues had come, as well as most of the neighbors. The genuinely grieving and the mildly curious.

It was a spectacular case. A shocking, unsolved murder. Like those who called the police station with nothing of significance to report, some people would come to the funeral only because they wanted to be part of the drama.

John Winters studied the faces of everyone who entered. He didn’t know what he was looking for, but he’d know it if he saw it. Guilt maybe? Gloating? Someone more interested in the reactions of the mourners than the service or tributes to the deceased?

The church was full to bursting. People crowded together in the pews, some had to take seats in the choir loft, everyone speaking in low respectful whispers. Laughing children were immediately hushed. An invisible organ played soft, sad music.

One of the last to enter the church was Elizabeth Moorehouse, beautiful in a severe black suit, black hat trimmed with fur, high-heeled leather boots. Women gave her curious glances and nudged their neighbors. Some of the men stared.

After the way she’d talked at her home in Victoria, Winters got the impression Moorehouse was happy to have Gord Lindsay moving out of her life. Either something had changed her mind or she’d been stringing the police a line all along.

Winters wasn’t the only one surprised to see Moorehouse. She’d taken a seat at the entrance to a pew, making everyone else squeeze down. Gord couldn’t fail to see her as he made his way toward the front surrounded by his family. Winters saw the man’s face tighten and his jaw clench. Gord threw what could only be described as a furious glare at Moorehouse. She did not shy away, but stared at him until the family had passed.

VicPD had come back negative on Gord Lindsay. No hint of anything irregular in his business affairs. As far as they were concerned Lindsay Internet Consulting was precisely what it claimed to be, and nothing more. That the police hadn’t found any skullduggery didn’t mean everything was on the up and up, of course. Might just mean Lindsay was good at hiding it, but Winters doubted it. If Lindsay did have gang connections, Russian mob maybe or even the Yakuza, enemies so ruthless they’d killed his wife to make a point, the man would be cowering in terror, fearing they’d come after him or his children next.

Instead Lindsay simply looked sad. Sad and confused as to why this had happened to him and his family. He took his place at the front of the church and sat, back hunched, head bowed, his children on either side of him, his mother and Cathy’s parents beside them. Jocelyn wore a plain blue blouse and skirt. Her long hair had had been washed and brushed to a high shine. Bradley sported a fresh haircut and had put on a clean white shirt, gray and blue tie, and dress pants.

Everyone sat down, the organ music drifted to a halt, and the minister stepped up to the lectern.

“Friends,” she said, and the service began.

Winters slipped away. From this point on he’d prefer to be at the back.

While the mourners watched the service, Winters and Lopez watched the mourners. Some of the smaller children clung to their parents, a few of the older ones nudged each other and stifled giggles. Teenage boys yawned or kept their heads down, not in prayer or respect but because their thumbs were working their smart phones. Of the adults, women cried and men looked grim and solemn.

Gord Lindsay’s right arm was around his daughter’s shoulder. Bradley sat close, but not touching, his father. Cathy’s parents clung to each other. They all, even the boy, openly wept.

People came forward to speak. Cathy’s principal talked about the woman as teacher. A university friend told them about Cathy’s youth. A local woman related a funny story about their book club.

Winters studied the crowd.

The only person acting at all out of the ordinary was Margo Franklin. She’d taken a seat two rows behind William Westfield, slightly to one side. Her eyes were fixed on him throughout the service, and she kept missing the cues to stand for a hymn and sit down again. Westfield continually glanced over his shoulder, although he did not smile at Margo or acknowledge her.

As Cathy’s book club friend descended the stairs heading back to her seat, an agonized wail broke through the sound of rustling clothes and gentle weeping. People twisted in their seats to see behind them. In the second last row, mourners shifted their legs. Some half rose.

Mark Hamilton had been seated in the middle of the pew. He’d gotten to his feet and was fighting to get out. Sweat poured down his face, and the thick muscles of his neck bulged with strain. He knocked knees aside and didn’t bother to excuse himself. He reached the aisle. He looked at Winters through eyes as round and white as those of a horse smelling fire.

Winters stepped forward. Hamilton brushed past him.

Winters followed the math teacher out of the church. “Are you all right, Mr. Hamilton?”

“I get.” Hamilton gasped for air. “Claustrophobic. That’s all. Too many people.” He half ran, half fell down the steps.

“Catch your breath. It’ll be over soon. They’ll be serving tea in the…”

“I have to go. So many people. I can’t breathe in there. I can’t bear it.”

Winters reached out one hand. He felt solid muscle beneath the man’s coat. Hamilton shrugged him off as if the Sergeant were a pesky fly. “What can’t you bear, Mr. Hamilton?”

“I have to go.”

“You can’t bear it that Cathy’s dead? What exactly was your relationship with her, Mark?”

“I had no relationship with her.”

Inside the church mourners began to stand, voices rose to sign a hymn. It would be over soon, people flooding outside into the cold sunlight.

Winters was aware of Ray Lopez standing behind him.

“You’re reacting very strongly to her funeral, Mark, stronger than I’d expect from a colleague. Particularly an ex-military man. She liked you, you know. Students, teachers at the school have told me that.” Winters lowered his voice. “Did you like her?”

“She was a nuisance. Always hanging around.
Oh, Mark. Please Mark. You’re so nice, Mark.
Wanting help. Wanting
to
help. I told her to go away, to leave me the hell alone. But she wouldn’t.” The twitch started behind Hamilton’s right eye. It grew stronger, pulling at the corner of his mouth, jerking his lip into a hideous half smile.

Winters’ heart accelerated.
Keep the man talking
. He had to keep the man talking. In a few minutes people would be everywhere, chattering and crying.

“What did you do, Mark, when she wouldn’t go away?” Once again Winters laid his hand on Hamilton’s arm. The man was solid muscle. With his other hand Winters reached for the handcuffs on his belt. He felt as much as saw Lopez take a step forward.

“Do? What did I do? Nothing. I should have told her I don’t like women.
Sorry, but I’m gay, don’t you know
.”

“Is that true?”

“No. These days I’m nothing. Not gay, not straight. Nothing.” The twitch began to slow. His mouth settled back into a straight line.

He jerked his arm out of Winters’ grip and dashed down the rest of the stairs. He ran flat out, across the parking lot, down the hill, his coat streaming behind him.

“Want to have him intercepted?” Lopez asked.

“No. We know where he lives. I want a full check on Mark Hamilton from the army and as fast as possible. I’d say that man’s suffering a full-on case of PTSD. I want to know if it began when he was in the army. Or when he killed Cathy Lindsay.

“Because she was a nuisance.”

***

Shouldn’t be much longer. Molly Smith had been standing at this corner for two hours, directing traffic. She’d stepped in a slushy puddle, soaking her boots, and her feet were freezing. She stamped them to keep circulation going. Earlier, a steady stream of cars had gone up the hill; none had come back down yet.

The funeral was being held at the same church where Norman had gone in pursuit of the shooter. An inadequate parking lot, near the top of a steep hill. The overflow of cars blocked the neighboring streets. The roads were narrow enough in summertime, never mind with five-foot-high snow banks on either side, and people who were less than efficient at parallel parking but still wanted to get as close to the church as they could.

A man came down the hill, heading her way. His clothes, suit and tie, dress coat, indicated he’d been at the funeral, but he was running. Fast. As he approached, she could see wide anxious eyes, blinking rapidly, a face wet with tears mixed with sweat.

Had something happened in the church?

For a moment she thought of a shooting, a bombing, the roof collapsing under the weight of wet snow. No, there wouldn’t be one lone man running away. She could still hear the distant sound of music. An organ playing and out-of-tune voices singing.

“Sir,” she called. “What’s wrong?”

He saw her. His frightened eyes took in her dark blue uniform, the blue hat with lighter blue band, the jacket with shoulder patches, the fully laden equipment belt. If anything, the terror in his face only increased.

“No,” he said, a strangled cry. “No. I shouldn’t have come.”

He changed direction, and darted away from her, running hard. She stood in the middle of the road watching. He slipped on a patch of ice; his arms windmilled and he cried out, but he managed to keep his footing. Then he rounded a corner and disappeared.