Читать книгу Fire in the Stars - Barbara Fradkin - Страница 10

During Amanda’s short ride up the highway to the café, the clouds unexpectedly began to shred and roll out toward the east. The ocean quieted, and the lingering dusk painted the sea and sky in muted swirls of lavender and rose. Amanda’s fatigue and hunger evaporated under the spell.

The Fisherman’s Dory Café was situated on a bay in an old saltbox house painted flamboyant turquoise with yellow trim. Surrounded by practical but humourless houses sporting white siding, pickup trucks, and piles of firewood and tires in the front yard, it looked like a dancer at a plowman’s match. She parked by the front window, fed Kaylee, and ran her around the parking lot before shoehorning her back into the trailer with a promise of better walks tomorrow. The dog gazed out at her, sad-eyed and unimpressed.

A blast of steamy air redolent with fish, garlic, and beer greeted Amanda when she pushed open the barnwood door. A stout woman in her fifties glanced up from behind a counter at the back, and a smile lit up her wind-weathered face.

Amanda felt as if she’d walked into a nautical-themed Disney set. Netting was draped in swoops along the walls, with various shells and fish woven through it. Lobster traps and stuffed fish hung everywhere. The place was empty except for three men clustered around a television at the back, watching football. Celtic music from speakers clashed with the breathless play-by-play voiceover, and every now and then the men erupted in shouts of excitement or disgust. The woman looked delighted for the interruption, and within seconds she’d introduced herself as Jill and settled Amanda at a table by the window as far from the shouting as possible. As Amanda was placing an order for a draught, seafood chowder, and grilled turbot, Jill spotted Kaylee outside.

“Oh for the love of God, that’s no place for a dog! Bring ’im in, bring ’im in, darlin’! Dere’s nobody here but us, and the boys will take good care of ’im while you eat. I gots just the piece of turbot for ’im.”

Amanda didn’t raise the question of regulations, having learned that Newfoundlanders loved to ignore them anyway, and Kaylee wasted no time gobbling up the fish and charming her way into the middle of the men, who slipped her the occasional bite from the food in front of them. Relieved and happy, Amanda devoted herself to the bowl of steaming chowder Jill placed before her.

After the long day on the road, the chowder was divine, full of juicy chunks of cod, scallops, and shrimp. She waited until she’d savoured it all and Jill had returned with her plate of turbot before she picked up the thread of her search. Jill herself supplied the opening.

“You going up to the Viking settlement?”

Amanda shook her head. “I’m trying to find a friend and his son. The woman at Nancy’s place said he came through here a couple of days ago. Did you see him?”

“A man and his boy?”

Amanda dug out her cellphone to show the photos. “Tyler’s the kid’s name and he’s eleven.”

The woman’s face crinkled in delight. “Oh, Tyler! Yes, they come through here a couple of nights ago — Monday, was it? — quite late. I was closing up the kitchen, but I fixed them some soup and burgers. The boy ate two full bowls of that chowder you had. Now that’s a big bowl!”

Amanda could attest to that. She eyed the fish spread out before her, delicately breaded with a wedge of lemon on the side, and wondered whether she had room for any of it. No wonder there had been some left over for Kaylee.

Then Jill’s smile faded. “The man hardly ate anything. Poked his food around his plate. Drank three pints of Quidi Vidi Premium, though.”

“Did he say anything? Talk about his plans?”

She shrugged. “Just sat there staring into his beer, leaving the poor boy with nothing to do but watch the football game or talk to me. He followed me around, asking me questions about all the fish on the walls, and them paintings. He weren’t much of a football fan and anyways it weren’t the CFL, so I took pity on him. No one’s asked me about this stuff in years, so I told him my husband — God rest his soul — caught them all and I still have all his boats and equipment in our stage down at the harbour. I still go out in the strait with my brother sometimes, but the money’s better here. When Tyler asked if he could see our stage, I offered to take him down.”

“His father let you do that?”

Jill must have heard the surprise in Amanda’s voice. “This is Newfoundland, my dear. The father was happy for the babysitting and the boys here said they’d man the bar. So Tyler and I went down to the cove. It was dark by then, and all the boats were back in that was coming in, but a few fellers were still around, repairing their nets and the like.”

She paused to pull a chair out from the adjacent table. In the silence, Amanda digested the implications. Phil was paranoid about safety, particularly regarding children. What kind of shape had he been in that he’d let his son go off with a stranger, no matter how motherly she seemed? Jill eased stiffly into the chair, hiding a grimace behind a wide smile. “What a lovely boy he was! Questions, questions, questions. Reminded me of my own boys, all gone now to Alberta and Ontario. Nothing for them here except a few weeks’ work at the fish plant down in Port au Choix if they’re lucky. He told me his own dad couldn’t get work here either and that’s why he’s so sad. Well, he’s not going to find work at the bottom of a beer bottle now, is he?”

“No. That’s why I’m looking for him. I’m worried about him. Worried about the boy too.”

“He’s a clever one. Curious too,” Jill said.

A chorus of cheers drowned her out for a moment. Someone had scored something.

Jill glanced over at the table and pulled her chair closer to be heard. “He seemed like a good dad, made sure the boy liked his food and such, and Tyler sure loved him, so he must be doing something right.”

“Did Tyler mention any plans? Where they might go next?”

“Out in a boat,” she said, laughing. “To an island where they could see puffins and whales. That’s what the boy wanted. He was disappointed the deep-sea-fishing season wasn’t open yet.”

“Do you know where?”

“Well, there’s boats all along the coast and plenty of fishermen eager to make an extra buck by taking them out.”

“What about boat tours?”

“Couple of them up in St. Anthony. That’s about an hour and a half up the coast. But St. Anthony’s a busy place and Tyler said they were looking for wilderness.”

She paused and swivelled to look at the men. “Hey Frank! Did that feller who was here a couple of nights ago — the one with the boy — did he say where he was going?”

Frank looked away from the game blearily. “The one sat over ’dere?”

“Yeah. Looked like he’d spent a week in the bush without a shower.”

“He didn’t talk to us,” said another of the men.

“He talked to that other feller, though,” said a third man, who sported a thick grey beard. Jill had all their attention now, lured away from a dreary game by the prospect of intrigue.

“What other guy?” Jill asked.

“The hitchhiker that hardly talked English. Greek or something,” Grey Beard said. “You were gone by then.”

“Oh right!” Frank said. “He came in late, some cold and wet and hungry, b’y. Must’ve walked in off the highway. Didn’t have proper clothes for the Newfoundland coast, I can tell you. He was after free food, leftovers, scraps, anyt’ing. Turns out he only had a dollar in his pocket, just off a boat up at St. Anthony. Your friend bought him food and a couple of rounds of vodka too. That was before they started arguing.”

Amanda grew alert. “What about?”

“Jobs. Fish. I dunno. We was watching the game.”

“It was mostly the Greek arguing,” said Grey Beard. “The drunker he got, the louder he got. ‘Dey’s all cheaters,’ he said.”

“Who?”

“Like I said, we was watching the game. Someone he was working for, I t’inks. Or supposed to work for. He said he just wanted to go home.”

“What was Phil doing?” Amanda asked. “My friend, I mean.”

“Trying to talk him down, weren’t he?” Grey Beard said. “I couldn’t hear what he said because he talked low and soft, but seemed like he were asking him questions. But each question just got the feller madder.”

“Right,” Frank said. “When the foreign feller started to cry, your friend said it was time to go. So he paid for everything and practically carried the feller out the door. Wasn’t hard, guy couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred and twenty pounds. Even soaking wet from the rain like he were.”

“Wait a minute. They left together?”

Both men nodded.

“Did you see what happened outside?”

“No, it were raining and dark as pitch out that night. I heard a truck drive off, but I don’t know whose.”

Or who was in it, Amanda thought. She sat for a moment, contemplating the implications. How like Phil to take a cold and penniless stranger under his wing. But what had happened afterward? Had he given the stranger a few dollars and sent him on his way? Or had he shepherded him into his truck and taken him to the warmth and protection of their motel?

When Norm Parsons had radioed his frantic call to shore, he’d been directed by the Harbour Authority in St. Anthony to dock at the fish plant as usual, but to wait on board for instructions from the RCMP.

Driving along the coastal road and through the interior as fast he dared during the height of moose time, Chris reached the town of St. Anthony in slightly over an hour. He had never been there, but given that it was the major centre for the upper Great Northern Peninsula, he was expecting a bustling town with lots of commerce related to tourism and fishing.

As he topped the hill coming into town, lights twinkled in the valley below and glistened off the water in the narrow bay. Homes and businesses were strung along both sides of the bay and up the steep hills above. He followed the main road down past assorted heavy industry and turned off onto the eastern shore road which twisted up and down the hilly side of the harbour. The streets were dark and quiet, but as he drew closer, he caught glimpses of the main pier, ablaze in lights and bustling with movement. Trucks and SUVs were parked helter-skelter along the road and on the gravel verges, their occupants crowding against the cordon at the entrance to the concrete pier. Some of the townsfolk had binoculars, Chris noticed, while others had cellphone cameras, even in this remote nook of the island. St. Anthony, he quickly learned, had an excellent cellphone signal.

An RCMP vehicle blocked access to the pier itself, splashing the scene in eerie red and blue. For good measure, yellow tape had also been strung across the entrance road. Stubby shrimp boats bobbed in a line along the pier, and rigging clanked in the stiff night wind.

Chris drew his own, very unofficial-looking GMC Silverado right up behind the RCMP vehicle, prompting a warning shout from the uniformed constable standing guard at the tape. Chris fumbled in his jacket for his ID as he climbed out.

“Corporal Tymko from Deer Lake,” he said. “Looking for Corporal Biggs.”

The constable snapped to attention. “He’s up on the boat, sir. The body’s still in the net. We’re waiting for the medical examiner.”

Chris was amused. His corporal rank was brand-new; not so long ago, he’d been standing at the bottom of the ladder himself, gazing upwards in awe and hope. The constable pointed out the small shrimp vessel rocking in the water at the end of the pier. The edge of the pier was cluttered with storage boxes, netting, and coils of rope, but the pavement next to the boat was clear. As Chris strode along the pier, breathing in the sea air tanged with fish and salt, he mentally braced himself. Bodies pulled out of the sea could be bloated and chewed beyond recognition. As long as it isn’t Phil, he repeated to himself over and over, I’ll be fine.

The detachment commander’s vehicle was parked beside the boat with its engine running and three people huddled beneath blankets inside, obviously chilled by the wind that licked off the ocean. Part of the crew, he assumed, suffering as much from shock as cold.

Powerful floodlights had been set up on the pier to supplement the boat’s lights, and, looking beyond the boat’s high steel hull, Chris could clearly see two men inside the cabin. One was pacing, while the other projected a quiet, watchful attention. After showing his ID to the constable in the DC’s cruiser, Chris clambered aboard and ducked into the cabin. The stench of fish nearly closed his nostrils and he suppressed a gag. He wondered, irrelevantly, whether the crew could ever wash themselves clean of the smell.

Corporal Biggs lived up to his name in breadth as well as height, and his florid face and bulbous nose suggested a fondness for Newfoundland screech. He reminded Chris of an oversized leprechaun, but there was no hint of mischief or merriment in his eyes tonight. A waft of booze floated around him as he shook Chris’s hand and thanked him for coming.

Chris glanced out the cabin window. The boat deck was empty, but suspended above it by ropes was a huge net of shrimp “Where’s the body, sir?”

“Still in the net as per the instructions we were given.”

“May I see it?”

“Why?”

“I’d like to rule out a missing person.”

Biggs grunted. “All in good time. Nothing to see yet but a hand, a foot, and some clothes. It’s a waiting game until the doc pronounces.”

“Any damn fool can see he’s dead!” snapped the man who’d been pacing. He wore a seaman’s cap and a heavy wool jacket. Biggs hadn’t bothered to introduce him, but Chris took him to be the skipper.

“Well, I know that, Norm,” Biggs said, “but those are the rules.”

“Meanwhile I’ll have to throw all that catch away.”

“Probably a wise move, anyway. Not too much call for shrimp that’s been cozying up to a dead body for hours.”

The skipper sank onto the stool by the wheel and yanked off his cap to rub his bald head. “Can’t you at least let my kids go home? They been days on the boat and hours without food or rest.”

“I’ll arrange for some food. We have to take their statements before they go.”

“What statements? We all saw the same t’ing! We pulled up the net, this foot near falls out, and we called to shore. You know the rest!”

Chris sympathized with the exasperated skipper. What the hell had Biggs and his detachment been doing since they got here? He’d seen shock take many forms in his career. As a seaman, Norm had probably experienced his share of drama and tragedy over his lifetime, but pulling a dead man up in his net was likely a first. Worrying about his children was a natural reaction.

“I can take their statements if that helps, sir,” he said.

“Good idea. Take Constable Leger there with you. One by one, so they don’t contaminate each other’s stories.”

Contaminate! Chris nearly laughed aloud as he descended onto the pier. Their stories had all been well contaminated during their wait in the car, if not on the twelve-hour trip back to port, but he held his tongue. More than once, a smart quip had landed him in trouble with his superiors, and if he ever wanted to make it up the career ladder in a police force with no sense of humour, he had to learn to behave.

It appeared the entire contingent of St. Anthony RCMP officers was at the scene, but since it also appeared the entire town had turned out for the drama, Chris didn’t suppose it mattered. He opened the cruiser door and peered at the expectant faces gazing back at him. Two men and a young woman. They all looked a pale shade of green, but perhaps that was the light.

He picked the woman and ushered her to a quiet corner of the pier. She hunched over against the wind. Her thin frame didn’t begin to fill out the huge wool jacket that she hugged around herself, but the dark eyes that appraised him were shrewd and sure.

“He’s not a local, you know,” she said before he could even record her name.

“You saw his face?”

“No, but not wit’ ’dem clothes. Nudding on him but a plaid jacket, pants, and running shoes. You don’t go out to sea like that.”

“Maybe he was on the land.”

“What? And swam 250 kilometres out to sea? Some trick, that!”

He laughed and asked her name. “Liz Parsons. My dad’s the skipper. Me and my brothers crews for him when we’re not in school. But we’ll all tell you the same. This time of year, none of us locals would be wearing thin clothes like that. Don’t keep the wind out at all. Most likely a tourist. You check whale-watching tours, I bet you’ll find someone fell overboard.”

Chris suspected those had already been checked, but he nodded appreciatively. “Good idea, Liz. What can you tell me about the area he was snagged?”

“It’s prime shrimp waters, about 250 kilometres northeast of St. Anthony. Also has lots of other ground fish. It’s about a hundred metres deep ’dere, but I can’t tell you if we caught ’im on the bottom or in between. We didn’t know he was ’dere until we hauled the net aboard.”

Chris cast about for more questions. He knew nothing about the sea or the behaviour of bodies within it. The closest he’d come was Great Slave Lake in the Northwest Territories, where fishermen and unlucky tourists were occasionally caught out in a deadly storm. He knew that in fresh, warm water lakes, bodies sank to the bottom immediately and began to rise again after about a week as they bloated with gas. But the salt water and frigid temperatures of the North Atlantic could change all that.

“Is it possible to guess — say, from the prevailing winds or the current — what direction he likely came from?”

“Labrador current comes down the coast,” she said, gesturing with her arms, “and the gulf current comes up the strait, so it can be tricky, but mostly easterly. So he could be from anywhere on the coast of Labrador to the open North Atlantic.”

“Did you see any other boats around the area of your net?”

She snorted. “We was out there four days, towed miles with that net. That’s prime fishing, so lots of boats going to and fro. But none of them hires on townies wearing running shoes and plaid jackets.”

“Did you see any non-fishing boats?”

“You sees all kinds of t’ings. Trawlers, tankers, even cruise ships. And I don’t spend all my days peering out to sea. I’m down in the hold sometimes too.”

“Come on, Liz. You know what I mean. Anything odd? Suspicious? It would be a big help to our investigation.”

The flattery worked. She shrugged in her nonchalant way, but narrowed her eyes as if thinking. While he waited, a vehicle turned off the road onto the pier to the murmur of the crowd, and the guard constable moved his cruiser to allow it access. Chris watched as it drove along the pier and pulled up beside the boat. A man climbed out, carrying a small suitcase. The medical examiner, Chris hoped. Liz watched him too, as he disappeared on board and then turned to Chris with a shrug.

“Maybe a couple of sailing yachts I was surprised to see out that far, some offshore trawlers.”

Chris felt a quiver of interest. “Did they have names? Numbers?”

“Couldn’t see.”

“Would you recognize them if you saw them again?”

“Maybe.” She pointed to the large ship moored in front of her father’s boat. “Could be that one, but I couldn’t make out the name. Lots of ships from places I never heard of. If it floats, that’s all that matters.”

The cabin door of the boat opened and Corporal Biggs stuck his head out. “Hey, Tymko!” he shouted. “You got a decent camera on you?”

Chris nodded. “In my truck.”

“You any good with it? Low light and all?”

Chris was already moving, after a hasty thank you to Liz. Within two minutes he was up on the deck, fighting off the stench of fish as he stared at the seething ball of shrimp and netting that was still suspended from the frame above. Bits of foot and arms, and, incongruously, a vividly patterned jacket, were just visible amid the mass.

The doctor was already backing away, pressing his hand to his nose. “Put the biggest tarp you can find underneath, and we’ll empty the net on it. That way, if there are parts of him … ah … loose, we’ll get them all. Then use the hoist to move the whole thing off the boat. Once you get the tarp down on the pier, I’ll have a better look.”

Both the skipper and Biggs went in search of a tarp, leaving Chris alone with the body. He circled it, photographing it from all angles and scrutinizing it for hints as to its identity. He wracked his brains. Would Phil wear such a brightly coloured jacket? Possibly. Many of his clothes had been bought in Asia or Africa. The one visible running shoe was filthy and frayed, providing little protection or comfort.

Chris had just finished photographing when the men arrived back, hauling a large tarp, which they unfolded beneath the net. Chris watched in fascination as they worked the pulleys and tugged the net onto the centre.

“Try to release it slowly,” the medical examiner said. “I don’t want any fingers or toes going flying off the edge.”

A complicated-looking knot held the ball in place. Once released, the bottom of the net burst open, spilling its contents of wriggling pink shrimp all over the tarp. Then came the body, jackknifing open from the ball onto the tarp, its limbs hitting the metal floor with a clunk. Chris had switched to video to capture the whole process, pausing only briefly when the head snapped back and long strands of coarse black hair fell back from the face. He raced forward for a close look at the perfectly preserved face, the Roman nose, high cheekbones, and sunken, nibbled eyes.

Not Phil! He nearly cheered aloud.

“That poor bastard’s been down there no time at all,” said the skipper. “The sea critters have barely started their dinner.”

Corporal Biggs poked the foot gingerly. “Not much rigor mortis, either. Of course, the sea is damn cold. We’ll let the boys in St. John’s figure out —”

He stopped in surprise when a length of thick yellow rope came into view through the cascade of shrimp, one end of it peeking out from the waist of the coloured jacket. A second later the rest of the rope plunged through.

They all stared as a stone anchor crashed to the tarp with a thud.