Читать книгу Shallow End - Brenda Chapman - Страница 14

Thursday, October 6

Jane Thompson sat on the vinyl-covered kitchen chair sipping an instant coffee and smoking a cigarette, watching the sky lighten above the trees and buildings across the street. Even though Thursday was her day off, she still rose at five and went for a morning jog while the world was in darkness. The cigarette was her reward. She was working on quitting and had gotten herself down to two a day. She’d have the second after supper. Soon, she’d have to cut them out altogether, but not just yet. She’d started smoking in her early twenties and quit when she found out she was pregnant with Ben. She started up again in prison because her life had felt so hopeless. The idea of getting lung cancer had seemed like a fitting end. In the depths of her despair, she’d forgotten how much her kids needed her.

She reached inside her pocket and pulled out the letter from Ben that she kept with her as a reminder that she had to hold on. He’d sent it the month before she got out, without Adam’s knowledge, she knew. The words were ingrained into her memory but she still liked to see his handwriting and imagine him forming every word carefully so that she’d be able to read his writing. He was infamous for his poor penmanship.

Olivia and I can’t wait to see you. We know you worry that we don’t love you anymore, but we do. Dad is still angry but we know that you did what you did for a reason. We want to live with you when you get out. I know it’ll take a while to happen, but that’s what we both want. This is so messed up. Come home Mom.

Ben and Olivia. Her reasons for everything she’d done and was about to do.

Adam had cancelled two visits but had agreed she could see them today after school. She’d thought about going behind his back but her parole officer had warned her that this wasn’t a good idea if she wanted to keep regular visits a possibility. Adam was angry and letting her know that he held all the power. If she crossed him, she knew that he’d keep the kids from her. She’d been right to be patient and outwait him. Only a few more hours.

She took a long drag of the cigarette and held the smoke in her lungs. The burning felt good before she let the smoke out in a long, slow stream through her nose. She stubbed the end out in the ashtray and got up to make a second cup of coffee. The phone rang in the bedroom as she was filling the kettle from the tap. For a split second, she considered not answering, and then thought better of it. Her parole officer said to always be available, and for now, she had to play by the rules. She leaped across the small space into the bedroom and grabbed the receiver.

“Hello?”

“I can’t believe they think you killed that kid. How could they … my God. How are you doing?”

“I’m fine, Sandra. How did you find out?” She shifted the phone from one ear to the other and lowered herself onto the edge of the bed.

“The Whig-Standard. You made the front page. Photos from your trial and even a wedding picture of you and Adam. The reporter is named …” A pause and rustling of paper that Jane could hear over the phone. “Yeah, here it is. Marci Stokes wrote that you were taken into the station. I’m so relieved to find you at home.”

Jane closed her eyes. Not again. “The police asked me some questions yesterday but let me go. I assure you that they have nothing on me.”

Sandra was quiet for a moment. “Of course they don’t. You aren’t a killer.” Jane heard less certainty in her sister’s voice. “Will this affect your visit with Ben and Olivia?”

“Why should it? I haven’t been charged.”

“It’s just Adam can be a real jerk.”

“Well, he knows how much this visit means to me and how long I’ve waited. Besides, he doesn’t read the Whig.” She ignored the buzz of worry starting in her belly. Today was her day to finally hold her kids and nothing would get in the way.

“I guess you’re right. Not even Adam could be that cruel.”

“Sandra … I have to go. I have a busy day ahead and need to get in the shower.”

“Are you still coming for supper on Saturday?”

“Yes. Are you sure I can’t bring anything?”

“Just yourself. And Jane?”

“Yeah?”

“Nothing. Just keep your head down. Don’t give them any reason to arrest you again.”

“I’m trying. Thanks for the call.”

She hung up, annoyed at Sandra for the worry behind her words. The big blond detective had spoken in the same disbelieving tone when he asked where she’d been the evening Devon went missing. She stood and shrugged out of her sweatshirt, unhooking her bra as she crossed the bedroom to the bathroom, letting the clothes fall in a scattered trail behind her. Well, soon none of their opinions would be worth a damn. She had plans that didn’t include sitting in the women’s pen for the rest of her life, letting others call the shots. If she’d learned anything in the past four years, it was to stay a step ahead. She wouldn’t let the same mistakes she’d made four years ago trip her up now, because she wasn’t the same woman she’d been when the police first came knocking at her door.

Rouleau poured a cup of muddy-looking coffee from the pot and checked for cream. When none was to be found, he added a scoop of sugar to cut the bitterness. He picked up the file he’d been reading and crossed to the meeting area and noticed that everyone but Woodhouse was holding a Tim Hortons cup. Rouleau had forgotten that Woodhouse made the coffee on Thursday mornings.

“You didn’t send me a text reminder,” he said as he passed by Gundersund.

Gundersund smiled and raised his cup. “We’re trying to encourage him to be more domesticated, remember?”

“It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Rouleau noticed Kala Stonechild sitting separate from the others, head down, reading her phone. Bennett had followed him into the space and was dragging a chair closer to her, but she didn’t look up. Woodhouse was on the other side of Gundersund with a few cops sitting between them. Rouleau had asked Heath for some dedicated uniforms and was happy to see Bedouin, first one on the murder scene, and Tanya Morrison, a smart cop with twenty years’ experience. He’d heard from Vera that she’d put in a request to join his team. Heath was considering expanding the unit the next fiscal if some funding came through. Rouleau took a second to welcome them before checking the chart of people involved in Devon Eton’s life that they’d started on the whiteboard. The connections were growing as the detectives added names from their door-to-door and interviews.

“Right,” he began. “I have the report from Forensics and it shows cause of death was from a couple of violent blows to the back of his head. They aren’t able to determine what was used, but it was a large solid object and not somebody’s fist. Time of death estimated between midnight and 2:00 a.m. October 4, although it could have gone an hour either side. He’d eaten a hamburger and fries sometime around six based on the stage of digestion. He’d also drunk a good quantity of beer, possibly explaining why he was easily overpowered. He was fit with no chronic medical issues. He’d had a broken collarbone that had healed and some faded bruising that was consistent with football injuries.”

“Could he have gotten into a drunken brawl with somebody?” Woodhouse asked. He looked over at Stonechild as if to imply that she was experienced with drunken brawls.

Gundersund responded quickly. “There were no other injuries, which would be probable if he’d been involved in a fight, especially on his hands. He was likely ambushed. If he was half inebriated, he’d be easy to overpower.”

“No drugs in his system?” Bennett asked.

“Not on preliminary analysis but more tests are pending.” Rouleau turned and wrote the details in a column on the whiteboard. When he finished, he asked, “Anything come from the door-to-door?”

Woodhouse shook his head. “Neighbour saw Devon leave for school at the normal time. She said he was polite as always and didn’t notice anything off. She worked night shift at the hospital and didn’t see him come home. Nobody else saw anything. We also checked out the apartment building across from the park. Nobody saw anything.”

Rouleau looked back at the whiteboard. “Gundersund, I see that you and Stonechild interviewed his best friend, Charlie Hanson, is it?”

Gundersund looked at Stonechild but she was busy typing on her phone. He looked back at Rouleau. “Yeah, they were thick as thieves by all accounts. Charlie said that Devon had something to do after school, that he was keeping a secret, and that he never saw him after class got out. Classmates said Charlie wasn’t popular like Devon, and I have to say, the kid was a bit creepy.”

Woodhouse said, “Creepy is the norm for most teenage boys.”

Gundersund stared across at him. “Since when did you become an expert on teenage boys?”

“If Woodhouse is an expert on teenage boys, we’re all in trouble … and maybe in for a lawsuit.” Bedouin waited for the laughs to die down before asking, “What do you want Tanya and me to do today?”