A Cold White Sun: A Constable Molly Smith Mystery (Constable Molly Smith Series) (5 page)

They didn’t do much together any more. Nothing you could call fun at any rate.

Tonight, he’d take Cathy out for dinner. Some place expensive and flashy. Maybe he’d go shopping later, surprise her with a no-occasion present. She liked that jewelry store in town, perhaps they’d have something in her taste on sale.

Gord’s hiking shoes were scarcely adequate for the deep snow outside. He pulled on Bradley’s boots. They were too large, but they’d have to do.

Gord Lindsay left his house and crossed his back yard. As he opened the gate, he glanced over his shoulder. Jocelyn stood at the window of the family room, her face white, her eyes round, the red phone clutched in her small hand.

Chapter Seven

The light snowfall that had been predicted was turning into a near blizzard. Snow whipped around their faces and piled at their feet. Smith, Tocek, and Norman made their way back up the hill after leaving the church. Yellow police tape had been strung between trees and telephone poles at the top of roads ending at the hiking trail. Most of the gawkers had disappeared as the temperature began to fall as fast as the snow.

“Impossible to follow,” Adam Tocek said, breath visible in the cold air, to the group of police assembled to hear what he had to report. “The scent goes into a parking lot and then it disappears. Poof. Almost certainly, the perp simply got into his car and drove away. Probably mixed with people leaving church.”

“I asked Reverend Watkins to tell the guy who plows the lot not to come until she hears from us,” Smith said.

“I doubt we’ll be able to single out any particular tire treads even if we knew what to look for,” Tocek said.

“Still…”

“Still,” John Winters said. “We have to try.”

“A lucky break on his part,” Ron Gavin said. “A funeral service on a Saturday morning.”

“Lucky? Good timing, more likely. He walks down from the mountain casual as can be…”

“Not bothering to hide his tracks,” Smith said.

“Having parked his car in the lot so that his trail would be lost, first among parents picking up their kids and then when the funeral ends and the street’s jammed full of people and cars jostling for the exits.”

“
He knew
when the service was.”

“That doesn’t help us much. A funeral notice would have been placed in the papers. Probably an invitation to kids to come to the sleepover also.”

“He walked through a residential area after shooting a woman,” Ron Gavin said. “That tells me something.”

“What?” Smith asked.

“You didn’t come across a gun lying discarded under a tree, so he kept it with him. He planned far enough ahead to be able to conceal his route of exit. I doubt he tossed his weapon casually over his shoulder as he made his way through the church parking lot. Any number of people would have seen him, and probably called it in. The weapon had to be able to be broken down, small enough to fit into a backpack or sports bag.”

“You have any ideas on that yet, Ron?” Winters asked.

“We have the shell and the casing found in the clearing. They’re on the way to ballistics, but they’ll be a couple of days getting back to us. Pretty clearly a 12ga.”

“Which means?” Smith asked.

“A 12-gauge pump-action shotgun
.
Affordable, not difficult to get hold of, legally or illegally. It has a folding stock that would fit into a sports bag.”

Townshend and Gavin had erected a small tent over the body to keep it protected from the weather. The coroner had arrived, seconded the paramedic’s declaration of death, and headed back home to his family, ready to come out again when it was time to take the body away.

Winters shook his head. He had a bad feeling about this. A shot out of nowhere, a quick escape. Almost a sniper attack. Judging by the signs, the killer hadn’t tried to approach the woman after he shot her, so any sexual motivation was unlikely. Couldn’t have been a robbery. No one would expect a woman out walking a dog on a snowy morning to have her purse on her or more money in her pocket than would buy a cup of coffee.

Appearances, no one knew better than John Winters, could be deceiving. This woman looked middle-class, respectable. Ordinary.

That didn’t mean she was.

Could this have been a hit? A contract killing?

A warning to someone else? Her husband, her father?

If organized crime had any presence in Trafalgar, John Winters would know about it. The sort of criminals he dealt with were by and large small-time. Drug pushers. Marijuana gro-ops. Purse snatching and break-and-enters. Men who left the bars on a Saturday night and took out a lifetime of frustration and disappointment on their families. That type didn’t keep a distance. If they intended to kill someone, it would be up close and personal. On the spur of a drunken moment, not meticulously planned.

It was possible that this woman didn’t live here. Smith wasn’t positive she recognized her.

Had she come to Trafalgar for a visit?

And brought her enemies with her.

“The parking lot makes me think of someone well organized. Thoughtful. A planner,” Winters said.

“Which doesn’t tie with leaving a cigarette butt and a shell casing behind for us to find. He might have simply been lucky about the funeral.”

“True.”

Winters and Gavin had examined the spot where Adam, and Norman, believed the killer had stood waiting to take his shot. The snow was trampled, the boot prints clear. As well as the highly visible red shell casing Adam had spotted, they found a used cigarette end covered by a light layer of snow. Townshend was up there now, under a hastily erected tarpaulin, sifting through snow and forest debris, looking to see what else might have been left.

“The cigarette could be from someone else,” Smith said. “Could have been someone up here earlier who dropped it.”

“Perhaps, but you saw only one set of prints.” Winters turned at a call. His boss, Paul Keller, suitably dressed for a walk in the woods in high boots, warm coat, thick gloves.

“This snow’s going to be a real problem,” Ron Gavin said. “We can’t cover the entire trail.”

“I heard the weather report at uh…Mrs. Smith’s house,” Keller said. Winters glanced at Molly and saw color flushing her cheeks. “They’re expecting ten to twelve centimeters in the next twenty-four hours, more at higher elevations.”

Gavin swore.

“Do we know who this is?” Keller pointed at the tent.

“No ID on her,” Winters said. “No cell phone. No license tag on the dog. Not even keys.”

“Think that’s important?”

“The lack of keys likely means she didn’t drive up, but plenty of houses are within walking distance. If she were out for a casual outing, she’d have no reason to bring her purse or driver’s license. Molly, you were here first. Did you think the guy who found her might have taken her things?”

“He seemed shook up, as did his wife.” Smith’s face scrunched up in thought. Flakes settled on the brim of her uniform hat. “He didn’t have a pack or anything. Lots of pockets in his coat. No, I don’t think so, and no one else approached her. From what I saw, there only seemed to be one set of prints near the body. Which would be his. He said he touched her to see if she was alive. The dog had jumped around a lot and mussed the snow though.” She turned to Adam. “Can Norman retrace her steps? Maybe he can lead us to where she started from.”

Tocek shook his head. “He can’t follow two tracks of two different people. Far too confusing. He’d try to take us back to the spot where we picked up the shooter.”

“Molly, any more thoughts on where you might have seen her?” Winters asked.

She shook her head. “Nothing specific enough to say.”

“I’ve told Jim to let me know if anyone calls about a missing person. Speculation can wait. Let’s see what else we can find before that snow gets any deeper.

“I’d like whatever help you can get for us, Paul. I need interviews with every house between here and the church. Also, people who attended the funeral service and parents who picked up their kids this morning. Ask if anyone noticed a car parked particularly early or someone walking down the hill carrying a large bag.”

“I’ll call IHIT,” Keller said. “It’ll be tough getting extra bodies with the school holidays.”

“Don’t I know it. Anything they can do will be of help.” The RCMP Integrated Homicide Investigative Team helped out with murder investigations in British Columbia. “Adam, we don’t need you and Norman anymore. Molly, Dave Evans is guarding the top of Martin Street, keeping the log. Go and replace him.”

***

Mark Hamilton opened a can of beans to serve as an early dinner. He dumped the contents into a saucepan and eyed them. Not very much.

He found a second can, added those to the first, and put the pan onto the stove. When he got back from skiing he’d built up the fire. Red and yellow flames roared within, throwing heat around the kitchen alcove. The kitchen, like the rest of the cabin, was small, plain but comfortable and comforting. Open shelves were neatly lined with cans and glass jars. Pots, frying pans, and drying bunches of herbs hung from hooks in the rafters. The cookstove burned wood, the table was hand-carved, the colorful rag rugs on the floor had been hooked by Jürgen’s wife, Helga.

While the beans simmered, Mark sliced a baguette he’d bought at the bakery in Trafalgar to go with some good smelly, runny cheese.

In a couple of minutes the beans were piping hot. He tipped them into a bowl, pulled out a chair at the scarred old pine table and sat down. His mother had taught him never to eat standing up. He’d forgotten a lot of things his mom had taught him, but not that. Funny how some things stuck in a man’s head.

Unbidden and unwelcome he remembered meals in Afghanistan. He’d first arrived in that miserable country a few days before Christmas. The staff at the embassy in Kabul had gone all out to mark the occasion. A roast turkey the size of a small child and a decorated, although rather odd of appearance, tree. Everyone trying to be festive in the absence of home and family.

He’d phoned his mom in the morning, and she wept plenty of tears. Not having a wife or children to miss, he’d had a good time at the dinner. Plenty of booze was on hand, enough to make everyone stupid. And that pretty aid worker, the one from some well-meaning, well-funded NGO or another, sneaking into his room when the party ended and everyone staggered off to bed.

He slathered butter onto a heel of the baguette, the best part, and tried to remember her face. Hell, he couldn’t even remember her name.

She wanted to keep in touch when he left the city. He didn’t want complications, so he’d lied and said he had a fiancée back in Canada.

Just as well. She was a nice girl. She didn’t need a trainwreck of an emotional eunuch like Mark Hamilton complicating her life.

He glanced outside. Heavy cloud cover, snow falling hard. It would be full dark soon. Dark out here truly meant dark. No houses so no lamps, no roads so no headlights. Not even the orange glow of a city looming over the horizon to break the night. There wouldn’t be moonlight or stars tonight either.

He’d lit a couple of lamps against the encroaching gloom. They threw long shadows into the corners. Flames danced in the stove. He listened to the deep silence.

Mark finished his meal. Better get outside, clear off the car, and shovel the road while a bit of daylight remained.

Chapter Eight

Molly Smith stood in the snow, stamping her feet. She’d told Dave Evans he could go back on patrol. He’d given her his typical supercilious smirk, climbed into the truck, and executed what he no doubt considered to be a spectacular U turn, spraying snow in all directions.

For a while there, she’d felt like part of the detective team. Backing up Adam, following the scent, listening in on the detectives’ conversation. Even participating when she dared.

And then she’d been sent to stand at the top of the road beside the yellow tape, record everyone official who came and left in her log book, and tell bystanders nothing to see here, move along, please.

Never mind that the temperature had to have dropped ten degrees since she left her apartment in the early-morning dark.

As she held her gloved hands to her cheeks and grumbled under her breath, she struggled to recall where she’d seen the dead woman. The face wasn’t particularly memorable, probably didn’t even look much in death as it had in life. Smith saw so many people from one day to the next. Around town, at the police station reporting a minor car accident, waiting in line at Big Eddie’s or Alphonse’s Bakery, standing in the crowd watching an altercation, walking a dog in the no-dog area downtown.

A man approached from the west. Walking fast and looking as though he were not enjoying the outing. A reluctant exerciser, Smith thought.

“I’m sorry sir, but the trail’s closed for the day. You’ll have to turn back.”

“Closed. Why?”

Because I said so,
crossed her mind. Instead she said, “A police investigation.”

“I’m looking for someone. My wife. I think…she came this way earlier. She’s…” his voice trailed off “…been gone a long time.”

He was in his early forties, close to the age of the dead woman. Average height, overweight. Except for the padding of fat on his face, he wasn’t bad looking with high cheekbones, a straight nose, wide hazel eyes under thick lashes, brown hair wet with snow. He hadn’t shaved today and black stubble lay thick on his face and neck. He looked, quite simply, terrified.

“If you’ll wait a moment, sir, I’ll ask someone to join us.” She touched the buttons on her radio. “Sergeant Winters.”

“Go ahead.”

She turned slightly, away from the man, not wanting him to overhear her. “There’s a guy here, says he’s looking for his wife. She came this way. Hasn’t come back. Hey! You can’t go there.”

He paid her no attention, but ran down the trail, feet slipping on the snow and ice in overlarge boots.

“He’s gotten past me, coming your way,” she told Winters. “Stop. Please, sir. Wait here. Someone’s coming.”

Should she leave her post? Run after him? And then what? Wrestle him to the ground and snap on handcuffs? She took a step forward. She stopped and looked over her shoulder. No one was approaching who had no reason to be here. Making up her mind, she ran after the man.

Winters rounded the bend. He lifted his hand, and the man slid to a stop. They talked for a moment, and then disappeared down the path.

***

This could not be happening.

Gord Lindsay had assumed Cathy’d run into a friend, gone for coffee and not bothered about him and the kids and breakfast. She could be a self-centered bitch sometimes. At the worst, she might have taken a tumble, twisted her ankle maybe. Been driven to the hospital and not able to get to a phone to call home.

When he saw the policewoman and the yellow crime scene tape, the marked and unmarked cars and vans gathered at the top of Martin Street, his heart began hammering in his chest and he was suddenly drenched in cold sweat.

The cop mumbled something he didn’t hear and turned away from him. Gord ran.

He knew
.
He knew
Cathy was up ahead.

A man approached. Arms outstretched, hands up, he planted himself in the center of the path. “I’m Sergeant Winters,” said a calm voice. “Can I have your name, sir?”

All Gord could see over the man’s shoulder were trees and snow and gray clouds. “Lindsay. Gord Lindsay.”

“Mr. Lindsay, Constable Smith says you’re looking for someone. Your wife. Do you have reason to believe your wife might have come this way?”

The man wasn’t smiling, but his eyes were kind. Snowflakes dotted his mustache and his short gray and black hair was damp with melting snow.

“What?”

“Tell me about your wife, sir. Mrs. Lindsay, is she?”

Gord nodded. He forced himself to calm down. If the police were blocking the path, he reasoned, Cathy would not have come this way.

“Mrs. Lindsay, yes. Cathy. Look, I’ve left my children at home. I don’t want them to worry. I have to be getting back. Maybe Cathy saw the trail’s closed and went around on the street. She and Spot do that sometimes. Thanks, buddy.”

Gord had had a heart attack a year ago. It wasn’t a real heart attack, but it had felt like one. His doctor told him to take the bout of heartburn as a warning and start taking better care of himself. He used to be so fit. He’d played soccer in university. Ran fifty kilometers a week, sailed every chance he got. Man couldn’t get better exercise than a day out on the ocean in his own boat. First came the responsibilities of the job, then the kids, Cathy wanting to have friends over, to visit friends. Too busy, always too busy. Tomorrow he’d go for a run. Start slow, work back up to fifty clicks a week.

Cathy’d be home by now. It was well past noon; she’d be angry at missing the day on the slopes. She’d blame the delay on Gord.

It was always Gord’s fault.

Yes, he’d better be getting home. He turned around. The policewoman was watching him, her cheeks red with cold and her eyes bright with interest.

“Spot?” the man said. “Who’s Spot?”

“Our dog. Well, Cathy and Jocelyn’s dog. I can’t stand the yappy bitch myself. I mean, Spot’s the bitch. Not Cathy.”

“What breed of dog is Spot?”

“Bichon Frise. Not a purebred. Just a spoiled mutt.”

“Why don’t you come with me, sir?” Gord noticed the police officers exchange a look. A look that might have been tinged with sadness.