Читать книгу Holly Martin Mysteries 3-Book Bundle - Lou Allin - Страница 13

Ann came into Holly’s office a few days later, bearing a fax. “This just in.”

A “Thanks.” A smile passed between the women. Mike was in the clear on the condom package prints, but Billy’s prints from the left thumb and forefinger matched in twelve different ways, substantial proof. Disappointing news. The young man had seemed honest. Now he was in serious trouble. After studying the whorled diagrams and the arrows of comparison, she called Whitehouse. “It’s still ambiguous. Maybe there’s another girl involved. Maybe the package was there from an earlier rendezvous.”

“Give me a break.” He snorted. “But how did you get those fingerprints again?”

“Purely voluntary. There had been a car broken into at the park.”

“That’s one thing you did right. My compliments. Get those boys in this afternoon. I’ll be right over. Our problems with this annoying case are nearly over. When they’re faced with hard evidence, they crumble like burnt toast.” He hung up with a perfunctory grunt.

Holly craned her head into the main office. Chipper was at one of the computers. She’d assigned him to looking into the sporadic radio connections on the southern island. In a crisis, communication lines were crucial, especially with only one coastal artery. A killer tsunami, well-documented in native oral history, could leave them as helpless as the Salish woman tossed into a tree. She fell from the branches and became a hunchback, but lived to tell a tale so amazing that it had survived without paper for three hundred years.

A mug of fragrant jasmine tea by his side, he was making notes, biting his lower lip in such concentration that he looked like a schoolboy. “Chipper,” she called. “We need you over at Edward Milne for a pickup. Tell them to send a counsellor if the parents can’t come. Whitehouse wants this done ASAP. And don’t let the boys sit together. Put one in the front.”

Holly gave serious thought to the way she had entrapped Billy, the specious reason for taking prints. But both boys had volunteered. If they had been innocent of that crime, why would they have refused? Did they play a role in Angie’s death? Within legal limitations, bringing out the truth was the goal. An officer without compassion was a danger, but too much empathy was an emotional straitjacket. She thought of Mrs. Jenkins and felt strangely disloyal.

The boys arrived at noon. Whitehouse took Billy first and Holly sat nearby, along with a mousy female counsellor who seemed more attentive to the condition of her cuticles than the unfolding scene. She wore designer jeans, plastic barrettes in her unnaturally russet hair, and a peasant blouse, giving her the appearance of a student who had stayed too long at the fair.

The shabby interview room was silent as Holly began the recording at Whitehouse’s nod. He didn’t open the window but let the heat build. Holly’s tie choked her as she fought the urge to adjust it. Sweating characters in search of an author. Opening with ponderous formalities, the Inspector stared down his long nose and used pauses like whips, watching Billy’s pupils enlarge as an open condom package was taken from a labelled brown paper bag and placed on the desk.

His eyes sought Holly’s, making her uncomfortable. “But I thought...you said—”

“We’re ready to start,” Whitehouse said. He turned to the counsellor, giving her a severe appraisal. “Ms Drew, is it? You understand that everything you hear in this office stays in this office.”

The woman cleared her throat and shifted in her chair. “My profession involves confidentiality.”

“Now, son,” Whitehouse said in a curiously avuncular tone. “You’ve said you were alone on the beach with Mike. This is not consistent with your prints on this piece of evidence.” He moved the package with a pair of tweezers, dangling it like an evil charm. “What were you both doing that night? This is your first and most important chance to tell me your side. We know what happened.” Holly looked at the Rorschach watermarks on the stippled ceiling. He was using such a hackneyed bluff, from Thirties black-and-white films to The First 48. Sometimes it worked. Career criminals “lawyered up”. Billy didn’t stand a chance.

Holly watched the numbers on the recorder roll. A muscle on Billy’s jaw twitched, but he said nothing. His oversized hands seemed frozen on the chair handles, until one finger began to tremble. Whitehouse narrowed his eyes like a veteran eagle toying with a rabbit. “Textbook case, Corporal. Wouldn’t you agree?” he said. “The failure to make eye contact is very suspicious.”

Billy inhaled deeply, flaring his nostrils. A pulse beat a frantic escape at the side of his neck. “I want to tell you the...the truth.”

“It’s about time, isn’t it? You should have done that from the beginning.” Whitehouse’s fist pounded the desk, then he folded his hands as if nothing had happened. Tensions rose and fell with the tides. From somewhere far away, a time-challenged rooster crowed.

Like a beaten dog, Billy shook his head and ran fingers through his heavy black hair. “I know, but it didn’t sound good.”

“We’ll be the judge of that. Go on. You’re making an honest start.”

“Not after the girl drownded...drowned. Who’s going to believe me now? Even if Mike was there.”

“Right, and he’s your buddy. What’s he going to say, other than to make you look as righteous as possible? I thought you said you were telling the truth. Smarten up.”

Righteous. Holly winced at the Ebonics, or was it Mafiaspeak? “He wouldn’t lie for me. Not if I’d hurt someone.” His voice forced against breaking, the boy sounded wounded. Under heavy black lashes, he looked down at his patched jeans more as an embarrassment, not a minor fashion statement. A huffing sound from Whitehouse caught everyone’s attention.

Ms Drew’s eyes ricocheted back and forth as she sat rigid in her chair. A convenient prop, she knew little about why they had come together.

With a barely discernable motion from Whitehouse, Holly leaned forward, her voice soft and urgent. “So tell us, Billy, in your own words. What happened that night?”

Billy gave a long sigh, as if something deep inside ached. He tried to speak, but swallowed instead, then moistened his dry lips. “Could I have a glass of water, maybe?”

Whitehouse drummed his fingers. Holly went to the cooler, hitting the blue button and praying it wouldn’t stick and flood the floor. “Thanks, Miss, I mean Officer,” Billy said.

He finished in a few gulps, then held the glass in his large hands like a chalice. She wondered if it would break into a hundred pieces like in the movies, but he cradled it gently.

“It happened the same as I said before.”

Whitehouse leaned forward with a menacing snarl. “We’re not here to listen to that crap again. We know what happened. We only want you to explain it. I told you to—”

Holly spoke quietly, trying to establish an atmosphere of trust. “I think Billy has more to tell us, right?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He managed a sweet puppy-dog smile that girls would find appealing. Unlike many of his peers, his skin was clear and smooth, bronze with high cheek bones. “We had a fire on the beach. Mike was burning some sweetgrass, ’cause his mom’s been pretty sick. Like a ritual.”

“Sweetgrass. Not pot, then. Was alcohol involved?” Whitehouse’s slash of an eyebrow rose like an unfurling snail.

He shook his head. “No, ma’am, sir.” For seconds he sat silent. Outside, a heavy transport roared by. They cringed at the shrieking application of jake brakes, illegal in denser areas. Standing at rest in the corner, Chipper shot her a look as if asking whether to deal with it. She shook her head.

“Go on, boy,” Whitehouse said. “And remember, we’re not interested in small-time charges like trespassing on the damn beach or even smoking some dope. We want to know how this girl died.”

Billy put the empty glass on the table and straightened his shoulders, a man under construction. “She came up to us. About moonrise.”

Holly remembered the bike, abandoned on the path. “Walking?”

“Uh-huh.” He squeezed his eyes together. “And I...lied to you about something. I did know her. We’d seen each other at a couple of soccer games. Said hi. But we never hung out.”

“Don’t worry about that now. We’ll cover the fine points later,” Whitehouse said. His voice was speeding up, as if he smelled blood.

A quizzical look came over the boy’s handsome face. “There was something funny about her. She was walking all right, but she wasn’t herself. Maybe she’d been taking something, I don’t know.”

“Taking something? Like drugs?” Whitehouse asked, shooting a glance at Holly.

“I know she was an athlete. I can’t see how she would have done that, but things happened pretty fast.” He swiped a hand over his eyes with an ironic laugh. “Mike’s no dummy. He went off by himself for awhile.”

“By himself?” Billy gave a quick nod and dropped his gaze.

“I see. And then?” Whitehouse asked.

“Yeah, we had sex. She was really hot for it. I hardly had time to...well, you know.” He blinked in embarrassment. “No disrespect meant. I was like...what? She smiled at me last time I saw her at the July 1st fireworks. Gave me some gum. But she was with a big guy, another athlete like her. I didn’t think we’d ever—”

“How long were you intimate?”

He translated the niceties and cleared his throat. “Not long. Maybe ten minutes. Then she said she was going for a swim to...clear her head. I found Mike and we went to bed. We were due back to cut brush for my uncle, and he starts work at sun-up.”

Some enchanted evening, Holly thought. Premature ejaculation was common in young men. “And you didn’t follow her? Make sure she was safe?”

“She wasn’t staggering. She was talking slow, but she made sense. Anyways, wasn’t she a big time swimmer? The water was calm that night, no waves or anything. When she went off in the dark...” With a groan, he spread his hands in a gesture of uselessness. Perhaps he felt that his performance had disappointed her.

“And what about the meth? Did you give it to her?”

“What meth?” His tone rose three notes, and his face paled to a milky coffee. “I don’t do that stuff. Ask anyone.”

Whitehouse stood. “Meth, Billy boy. We have definitive tests. We know she took it. You’re the last person to see her.”

Billy’s face paled, and he was making an effort not to cry. It was as if he had been wading and now found himself over his head. “I don’t care how many times you ask. There...was...no... meth. I wouldn’t touch that shit.”

Whitehouse turned his back. “Stay around Port Renfrew. We’re not finished with you yet.” He gave a curt gesture towards the door.

“But don’t you believe...I mean I wouldn’t hurt...” He got up slowly, brows confused, addressing his comments to Holly. “I’ll take a poly...whatever you call it, a lie detector test. So will Mike. Isn’t that good e—”

“Put him in the car, Chipper, and stay with him,” Whitehouse said. The boys passed each other without speaking. Mike came in next. At first he stuck to the initial story, but his head hung low, and he squeezed his hands together. Any bravado he might have had vanished as Whitehouse slapped a folder on the desk, making the boy jump. “Billy told us everything about your night with Angie. Help yourself out by confirming it. It’s never too late to come clean.”

Suspicions crossed his face as if in betrayal. Mike’s self-control stiffened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Honest.”

Whitehouse’s voice sharpened into a steely edge that sparked words. “He confessed that they had sex. The condom pack had his prints, for Christ’s sake. Don’t waste our time.”

Mike cleared his throat. A red flush came over his broad face. Unlike Billy, he had a blooming case of acne. “I don’t know. I left them alone.”

“All right. That’s better. And how was Angie acting?”

“Okay. Friendly. But I didn’t know her.” He squirmed in his chair. “Just to see around. At the A&W maybe. Who could forget a girl like that? She was a babe.”

“And when you got back?”

“She was walking along the beach like she was going for a swim. She waved, even. We turned in then. Billy didn’t say anything. He’s a quiet guy. Not much for words.”

Whitehouse added, “We know you gave her meth. She had it in her system.”

This time Mike jumped from the chair. “No way, man. We don’t use that shit. Billy never told you that. Never.” He dropped his eyes. “Sorry, sir.”

Whitehouse kept at him for another fifteen minutes, hammering the same questions every which way. Mike remained adamant that drugs had not been involved. Like Billy’s denials, his words rang true to Holly. And naming an exact time for turning in, as if he’d been waiting and checking his watch until Billy returned. It fit. What other scenarios did that leave?

“That’s enough, then. Have Ann transcribe the tapes, and get a statement for them to sign later. Take them back to school.”

After the detachment door closed, Whitehouse turned to her. “Good bluff, and it worked, but only so far. They’re the sole witnesses to what happened on the beach. They’ll both claim she walked off of her own free will. And who knows, maybe she did.”

Holly frowned and looked at her notes from an earlier telephone interview with a counsellor at Edward Milne. “I still don’t get the motivation for any harm. Those boys don’t have a record of violence. Billy is an honour student. It was opportunistic to take advantage of her, but—”

“Who wouldn’t?” He made a rude noise. “Are we living on the same planet? Was ‘Say no to sex’ mother’s best advice?”

Holly tried to keep her face neutral. She didn’t want anyone guessing at her nun-like existence. Three boyfriends in ten years. “At least he used a condom. Score one for sex ed, or health ed, whatever they call it. Both boys agreed that Angie was acting strangely. From what I’ve read, she should have felt the effects of meth a lot sooner. Why was she was able to ride that bike all the way to the beach?”

“Everyone’s different. And maybe she brought it with her.”

“From the profiles, first-time users wouldn’t take the risk of experimenting alone.”

“Anything else to suggest?” Whitehouse began packing up his papers, filing them neatly in an alligator attache case.

Holly folded her hands. Surely they hadn’t considered every possibility. “Of all the ways meth is taken, what would be the slowest to reach the nervous system?”

He pursed his broad lips, a slight cut at the edge from hasty shaving. “Ingestion, I guess. Passing through the digestive system takes longer than shooting up or snorting.”

Holly snapped her fingers. “So she could have taken it at the camp. Or had it given to her.”

“To get the best rush, she should have been smoking it. Does this all matter?”

“Billy strikes me as an honest guy. He offered to take a polygraph test.”

He snapped shut the case. “So do it. Get Victoria to send out the unit. If the boys fail, and I’m thinking they will...everyone believes they can fake it...we’ll have more ammunition.”

Holly left to give Ann the directives. When she returned, Whitehouse was answering his cell phone. “Yes, yes,” he said impatiently, scratching the back of one hand until it bled. “Do what I told you, dammit.” Then he hung up.

“Bad news?”

“A new case out of Royal Roads University. Some professor killed his wife. Tried to make it look like an accident. Pathetic, really.”

Royal Roads, formerly a prestigious military training school, occupied a palatial estate in Langford. She swallowed, felt her blood charge through her veins at the word professor. “What kind of an accident?”

“Fall down the stairs. Trouble is, the blood spatters and prints don’t agree with what he said happened. We’ll nail the bastard to the blackboard, and it’ll be a pleasure. Academics think they’re so smart, but their heads are up their asses.”

She kept quiet, digesting the information. Arrogance was Whitehouse’s middle name. How comical that people despised in others the traits they nurtured. “I’m going to follow up that meth connection...all the way to Victoria if I have to.”

“Try the parking garage off Government Street. At least that was last week.”

Holly watched him leave...again, wishing that the wind would blow from the west to keep him far away from Fossil Bay.

Ann came into the office carrying what looked like a school blue book for exams. “I may have some information,” she said, her face alive and almost eager. “About that meth. Sean’s done a hell of a job. I’m proud of that kid.”

Riding around on weekends, Sean had noticed something suspicious at the end of Munson Road. More a muddy rut, Munson abutted an old farm with rocky pastures unfit for crops, hardly prime real estate. Eli Munson, a childless widower, had once run a marginal sheep operation there after the Second World War, but with his death, the land had passed into the public domain for tax arrears. Over the last thirty years, the small farmhouse and leaning barn had fallen into disrepair. Its signal feature for a meth lab was total privacy. Thick cedars woven together with huge firs kept it well hidden from the road. Even the lane curved so that the house couldn’t be seen. Ruts in the drive and the marks of truck tires showed that some recent traffic had passed. Teenagers looking for a private place to party? Ann paused with a proud grin. “Sharp, eh? Noticing those tracks. Not quads either. Too far apart.”

“He’s getting an A so far. Go on.” She watched Ann read from Sean’s notes. “Secret Report” was printed at the top of each page.

Sean had noticed a strange smell when he rode by. An unusual inland breeze was wafting odours from the property. Cat pee. “And my grandma has seventeen, so I know what that’s like,” he had added. When he crept closer, pulling himself on his elbows an inch at a time, keeping the bushes in front of him, he saw that the lower windows had been blacked out with tinfoil.

“Where’s Chipper?” On full alert, Holly planned to visit the scene, even though the boy’s imagination might be on overdrive. Still, his details were compelling.

“He went to Jordan River on a domestic complaint about ten minutes ago. It was pretty serious. Kelly Esterhazy might have a broken arm. Earl’s drunk. She’s drunk. Usually gives as good as she gets, just doesn’t have the size.”

“I’ll wait for him. If it is a meth lab, it isn’t going anywhere in only one day.” This time she’d make no assumptions, but go by the book. With back-up. Given the three-person operation, that was like juggling plates on sticks. She tried to raise Chipper on the radio, but he was away from the vehicle, tending to the Esterhazys. It chilled her that they were so isolated and defenseless at this end of the island.

Ann got a strange gleam in her eye and went to the window. “Andrea’s probably home. She could...” Then she turned too fast and winced. “No, forget it.”

Holly gave Ann points for wanting to contribute in a more active way, but she let the woman set her own limitations instead of saying something patronizing. Meanwhile, she got on the computer and ran the Capital Regional District program, which allowed her to focus on the suspect area. Manipulating the controls, she zeroed in. The end of Munson Road looked like one giant Sherwood Forest. Trees in all directions, except for a few isolated meadows. The land had retreated to nature quickly enough, though much of the periphery was scrubby alder. At the maximum focus, she could make out a small house and several outbuildings. No vehicles were apparent, but that meant nothing. It wasn’t a live feed. The satellite pictures came from a year or two ago. Maybe the house had been occupied then, maybe not. Squatters were rife in Victoria, but this far into the bush made an unhandy address...unless for good reason.

The only way in was the lane, one advantage for the law. Unless there were all-terrain vehicles, no one was escaping out the back. A deep V of a creek sliced the property in half. After jotting a few notes, she made a call to check municipal records for the owners.

An hour later, Chipper returned. “I’ve got Earl in the cruiser. Cross your fingers that he doesn’t barf,” he said. “He’ll be off to the West Shore holding facilities. Sooke’s full up.”

Holly thought for a moment. Here was a safe chance to let Ann shine. “Call in our volunteer to man the phones, Ann. You take him in.”

A small smile grew on Ann’s face along with the nuance of a dimple on one pale cheek. It seemed to ease the strain lines and light up her personality. Holly had seen a yoga pamphlet on her desk with a couple of classes circled.

“Will do.” Ann grabbed the phone and dialed, speaking quickly.

“Chipper, check your belt, then make sure the shotgun’s loaded and the Suburban’s full of gas. We have a house call to make, and the terrain might be rough.”

His face lit up like a kid’s as he looked at her computer screen. “Where are we going?”

By the time they were ready, Andrea was power walking down the lane as Ann was pulling out. With Chipper at the wheel of the muscular vehicle, Holly brushed aside chip packs, candy wrappers, and root beer cans from Reg’s time. “Sorry, Boss,” Chipper said, scooping muffin crumbs from the seat. “Haven’t used the old bus since I got here. Tomorrow I’ll take her into the car wash and clean her up.”

In the late afternoon torpor, Holly’s vest was punishingly hot. She filled Chipper in on Sean’s information and the way they would handle the approach of the property.

En route through the rural backroads, they blocked an escaped peacock whose owner was pursuing it with a net, then took the final turn to Munson. “The island,” Chipper said. “Gotta love it. Llamas, alpacas, therapy horses and exotic birds.”

They had climbed a serious of long grades to amazing views of the strait to one side and the San Juan Ridge on the other. Despite the sun, mist rose like smoke from the dark hills. Holly agonized trying to understand why some of the island’s premium coastal land had been tagged for logging or gravel pits. But twenty-five years ago, anything even a mile from town was “rural”. The population huddled along the lifelines of the ferries to the mainland.

After parking out of sight before the last turn, she removed the shotgun from the clip. On a second thought, she put it back, then took it again and handed it to Chipper, who watched her with some confusion. Going in like gangbusters might be a mistake, but being unprepared for one time in his life had killed Roy. How many people were on the property? Perhaps if they saw more than one vehicle, they’d call for backup from Sooke. If the damn radio cooperated.

Chipper looked down the lane. “Can’t see a thing. Just like you said.”

She grabbed a pair of binoculars. “Let’s approach from the side. There’s a break in the hedging fifty feet down.” Emerging through the tormenting Himalayan blackberries, both their uniforms torn, they crept toward the house, passing the outbuildings first. The open barn door revealed piles of rotting hay and rusty implements hung on nails. Chipper pointed to a small storage shed with a new padlock that gleamed in the sun peeking through the clouds. Otherwise the place looked deserted. They needed to get closer.

He followed her to a thick arbutus bush full of plump, pink berries with hard, raspy shells, where they hunkered down to inspect the house. Constructed over a century ago, when the area had fledgling farms, the building was thirty by thirty feet with a crumbling chimney. The mossy shake roof sagged over a dilapidated porch with boards missing like yanked teeth. The unpainted cedar siding had weathered to grey. Underneath was a stone foundation, merely a crawl space which might have served as a root cellar. Instead of storing beets, carrots and potatoes, now it might house supplies. A brisk wind blew in as the weather pattern shifted. A rocker missing one arm started to move back and forth in eerie silence as if entertaining a ghost. Someone had sat there, watching the sun go down.

“Smell anything?” Holly asked.

Chipper obligingly tweaked his nose, small for his face, giving him a boyish appearance. “I was a scout. Wind’s blowing from behind us.”

She pointed to the windows plastered with foil, as if some night shift worker lived there. “That’s very suspicious. Sean was onto something.” Records at the town hall had revealed that the owner lived in Vancouver and rented out the property. But he was in Europe on business, and his personal secretary at the appliance store could reveal no more information about the tenant other than that he had been there only a few months. “It’s been vacant since the owner died,” she had said. “Mr. Mitchell bought it for back taxes on spec. As a hobby farm, it’s just a drain. He’s been renting it out this year to people not particular about luxury, he says. When the rezoning comes through, those lots will be worth a fortune.” Holly recognized the strata concept, allowing four properties on every ten hectares. The CRD had been able to sustain a moratorium on that kind of growth, but with development pressure, how long would it last?

Mere suspicions and foiled windows aside, they had no search warrant and no probable cause. The reactions of the “tenant” would tell her how far to proceed. She couldn’t see the debris Sean had mentioned, but perhaps it had been cleaned up. After a mute signal to Chipper, she knocked on the door. No response. Knocked again. Women’s tones would be less alarming. “Hey, are you guys there?” she called casually. Certainly better than announcing themselves. Chipper gave her an approving nod.

Then they heard an annoyed answer. “You fuckwit. I said not to come before...” And the door opened. “What the...”

A skinny white man who hadn’t seen a razor in days stood before them. His jeans were torn, his T-shirt filthy with stains.

He stepped back and made as if to shut the door, but Holly found a use for her tough boot. “Not so fast.”

He opened the door slowly. “What is it, officer?”

She introduced herself and Chipper. The man’s name was Neil Forrester. He had come to the island with a buddy who promised him a job on a fishing charter. The season was over for that gig, she thought. “And you’re renting this house?” she asked.

“My buddy’s sort of subletting to me. Not much of a place, but the price is right.” He waved his hand and snickered.

“Ever try to rent on the island? It’s a brutal market.”

“There have been reports that an illegal substance is being made on the premises.”

He slapped the wall with the butt of his hand. “What?

Wine? That’s not illegal last time I heard.”

Holly bit her lip. “May we have permission to search the building?” She added, “Please.”

His lizard lids narrowed his reddened eyes to slits. “Oh, I don’t think so. We have rights in this country.” He gave the blue turban a once-over and made a contemptuous sound in his throat. “Too many, maybe.”

Chipper tensed, shifting his glance to Holly. They’d lost the timing in this play, moved too fast with too little and no backup to keep an eye on the place. This crew could move on in a half a day, given a truck. Meth cooking was a drive-by-night operation.

“Excuuuuse me then.” Neil prepared to shut the door, the smile broadening on his weasel face.

Then a booming voice called, “We’re gonna need more red phosphorus...”

Before Neil could speak, Chipper moved in, pushed him against the door jamb, and put a warning hand over his mouth. “Beg your pardon, sir. I tripped,” he whispered.

The voice went on. “Check out that source in Langford, Jason someone. And count on making the rounds at the drug stores, one pack per. That Methwatch program is bullshit.”

Holly pulled out her handcuffs. “Hello, probable cause. Either that or a really bad cookie recipe.”

Neil’s brow began to sweat, and his eyes shifted in their sockets as they glanced down the hall. Then he freed his head and yelled, “Take off! Cops!” Chipper gripped his spindly arms, and Neil sank down on the stairs.

Holly secured him to a sturdy bannister while Chipper added leg cuffs. Then she ran toward a back room, where thumps were sounding, slipping on the scarred boards of the hardwood floor. A strong ammonia smell nearly stopped her breath as she entered. She had time only to register the lab equipment and to step carefully. Empty packaging dotted the floor, along with beer cans and chip bags. She was in a minefield of danger. With lethal chemicals, even a spark from a light switch could ignite the gas. Many meth labs were self-destructing, blowing up their cookers or maiming them for life. Following the sounds, she slipped through another door, her gun drawn, body to the side like an old-fashioned gunfighter presenting the narrowest target. “Stop now. Police. You’re surrounded.” A wish and a prayer.

Down a dark hall, a window opened with a shriek, and a grunt outside told her that someone had escaped. She followed, dropping to the ground and scanning the area. No one in sight, but the shed was open. A roar erupted and a small motorcycle emerged at full throttle. It raced past her a hundred feet away, slewing in the gravel. She had time only to record the B.C. license plate. MNR 657. It was gone in seconds, throwing dust clouds in its wake.

She cursed herself for not searching the buildings ahead of time, merely assuming that since no cars or trucks were around, that there were no means of escape. But they had the lab, and they had Neil.

“Aren’t you gonna read me my rights?” he asked with a sneer as he leaned against the wall. She could smell the stale sweat that soaked his shirt. His nose kept dripping, running down his chin. “I want a cigarette,” he demanded with a wheeze.

“You watch too much television. I’m not Dog, the Bounty Hunter. He makes way more money,” she said, then turned to Chipper. “Call it in, get a team from Sooke, and run his name through CPIC for wants. Run the plate, too. It could be stolen.”

They secured Neil, with a complimentary wad of tissues, while Holly pulled on surgical gloves and went back to check the house. If a gas flame was burning, they could lose the place. Though the hydro was working, the house was barely habitable, and the water came from a shallow well dug before her father had been born. Wallpaper peeled in strips, revealing lath and plaster, and the pissy smell of black mould permeated the rooms and made her sneeze. The ceilings were hammered tin, a decorative touch from an age of craftsmanship and pride.

Once this had been a cozy farmhouse with a pump at the kitchen sink and an outhouse instead of indoor plumbing. Bedrooms upstairs, a nominal term, contained only soiled mattresses and blankets. The kitchen had a Coleman stove and an ancient refrigerator with a round apparatus on top, circa 1935. The thought of opening it made her gag.

On the wall, a framed needlepoint sampler, the glass cracked and yellowed, read: “To know how sweet your home may be, just go away but keep the key.” Hard-working farm families had lived and died here, their only medicine a dose of honey and vinegar, their weapons a scythe, pitchfork and axe, their loyal partners a team of burly plow horses. In fifty years, perhaps forty, luxury homes would dot the hillside in this Victoria West. She went back into the lab, a former parlour off the foyer, built to face the afternoon sun. Plywood and sawhorse tables held boiling substances in assorted carafes with tubing in all directions. On the floor were empty boxes of cold medication, salt, lithium batteries and Coleman fuel. Unbleached coffee filters sat piled next to a round metal cooking screen and wire cutters. Pitchers, wooden spoons and a carton of Ziploc bags completed the preparations. She saw no finished product. Perhaps they worked batch by batch. It wasn’t a large operation, so chances were that gangs weren’t involved. That might give her a bargaining coin. Whatever Neil might say in this unguarded moment could affect later strategies. As for an immediate confession, he was no boy like Billy or Mike, but he had been caught in the act.

Holly finished taking notes and joined Chipper in the car. Neil coughed in the back. Black mould could make someone quite sick.

“I called it in,” Chipper said. “A specialty team from West Shore will be out here in an hour. After they make their report, this whole place is going to have to be assessed for the toxicity of the chemicals, the guy said.”

“Glad our part’s over,” she said, then turned to Neil. “We have a date at the detachment. I have more questions for you.”

Neil blew out a contemptuous breath. “Go fuck yourself.” “We expect you to cooperate. Meth isn’t friendly like pot, which has some acceptance in the community. Public feelings are running high against this cheap poison. You’re looking at some serious time here.”

Chipper stayed at the site to secure the property and wait for the investigating team while Holly drove Neil back to Fossil Bay. Once in her office, she had determined the tack to take in the preliminary interview. If he started thinking too much, they might not get any more information. As they came in the door, Ann gave them an unusual look and passed Holly a file.

Holly gave the papers a quick scan. “Good work, Ann.”

She sat Neil down in her office, leaving the handcuffs on as a reminder. “I see by your sheet that you come from Edmonton, but you did a year in William Head for dealing cocaine in Vancouver. First offense. You got off lucky in one of our Club Feds.” William Head was located in pastoral Metchosin on the glorious strait. It had a stellar view of Hurricane Ridge. Times she’d driven by, the inmates were in the yard chopping wood as if they were on a rustic vacation.

Neil fiddled with the cuffs, contorting his face. “Can’t you lighten up with these? They’re making my wrists sore. And how about some coffee? I’m not a friggin’ terrorist.”

Unlike the empathy she had for Billy and Mike, here Holly saw a source of evil. Crime had its hierarchies, and Neil was a cowardly bottom feeder. What approach should she take?

Lowering her voice, she chose her words carefully. “Consider yourself lucky that we took the leg cuffs off. I want the name of the other man at the house. I have his bike’s license, so it’s a matter of time. Make it easy on yourself and cooperate.”

“Brad Pitt. Elmer Fudd. Take your pick.” Then he added as his thin mouth curled into an ugly question mark, “I’m not afraid of you, babe. Whadda you gonna do, beat me up?” He shuffled in the seat and produced a pungent fart, watching her reaction.

A bottle of ruthless pine air freshener came to hand, and she sprayed it with abandon, nearly hitting his face. Sparring was fun with an ace up her sleeve. She tapped her pen on the desk, noticing that despite his shabby clothes, he wore a spanking new pair of two-hundred-dollar runners. “Maybe coffee would help, because you’re not thinking too clearly here, Neil. We’re not the problem. You need to be afraid of people who don’t have our ethics and represent only themselves, not the public welfare.”

He coughed pointedly. “Public welfare my ass. Horsemen don’t need the Mafia to do the dirty work. The force is bent enough.”

Holly ignored the flash of flame across her chest. Recent personnel scandals had proved a national embarrassment for Canada’s Mounties, the latest a constable at a lonely outpost cruising sex lines while on duty and offering his patrol car as a bedroom. Hot cop had brought very bad publicity. “Something much more West Coast style.” She got up and pulled off an information paper from the bulletin board, sticking it in his face.

A purple pimple rose from the side of his nose, volcanic in potential. “I don’t read so well,” he said. “Lady at school called me functional ill...ill...” His voice trailed off.

She re-tacked the paper. “If you’re new to the island, maybe you don’t know that most of the dope business is run by gangs. It’s a billion-dollar business, and it’s as protected as a newborn. The Hells Angels take a dim view of some amateur skimming their profits.”

He paled, swallowing back a bobbing Adam’s apple. Clearly he was running a penny-ante business. A few months, and he would have moved on, keeping his head low like a lizard. “What’s that got to do with me? See any Harleys at the farm?”

She leaned forward. “Here’s what. It’s no problem to spread the word via our undercover officers that you’re open for business and keeping all the cash. Don’t think they’ll ignore you because you’re small. This is a question of disrespecting their operation. And respect is a very important word.” Now she was whisked back to her father’s Seventies period, just before she left for university. He’d organized a Godfather party for his graduate students.

He paled, and his knee started a spastic reaction, riding up and down. He crossed his legs to hide it. “I need a drink.”

She brought him water from the cooler, placed it into his hands as he brought them to his mouth. “And they’re not the worst. Just home-grown. Let’s try another name. The Big Circle Boys.”

“Who? You’re making this up.” Water spilled down his T-shirt. She reached for the paper cup and tossed it into the basket.

“Dai Huen Jai. Chinese gangs. They don’t fool around.” She sliced her finger across her throat in amateur theatrics.

“Enough already. What does it matter? Game was over when Dickhead opened his big mouth.” He furrowed his brow, blood-flecked eyes moving back and forth in spasms. Had he been sampling his own wares? “But if I tell you all I know, you gotta protect me.”

“As much as we can. Don’t expect to get into the witness protection program on this petty information.” With some leisure, she opened a fresh page, drumming her fingers in thought. “We might be able to send you out of the area to do your time. That’s all I can promise. Prince George is lovely in the fall.”

He took a deep breath and rattled off curses. “Dave Barnard. He’s my partner. He’ll probably run to his mother’s in Nanaimo. Fucking baby. Dumb as a bag of nails, too. Damn near blew us up twice.”

She tapped the pen on a yellow pad. “I want the name or description of anyone you’ve sold to in around here. Let’s start with the high schools. Unless you went after younger kids, too.”

“Jesus. I don’t ask for passports.” His tongue ran around his thin lips. “If they resell it, what can I do?”

“Poor you. The downside of distribution.” She spat out the words, punctuating for emphasis. “As if you care. So give over, Neil.” He furnished her with several names, scratching one seedy ear for inspiration. One struck a bell. “Did you say Jeff Pasquin?” She looked up abruptly.

“Met him down at the old cemetery one night. Dude never gave me his name, but I saw it with his picture in the News Mirror. Some swim-meet shit.”

“How many times did you sell to him? And when?”

His upper lip rose, revealing an oral hygiene as dubious as the yellow-birch stumps of teeth. Even his tongue was furry. “A couple. Think I keep records? This is a friendly business.” Next he’d be referring to his poison as “product”. “He’s an athlete, and as far as I know he’s still in training. Are you feeding me a load of manure?” She thought of the physical ravages of the addiction. Jeff was a poster boy.

A croaky laugh came from his chapped lips, a slit in his pasty face. “Oh hell. That’s a myth. Some people can use it and lose it, then go back to pot, booze, whatever turns their...crank.” He winked for a response but got none.

“That’s not what I hear. Users look wasted in very little time.” She pointed to a wall poster with an image of a young woman fit for a horror movie.

He used his thumbs and forefingers to frame the picture, then guffawed, nearly hitting her with a spray of spittle. “I tried it a few years ago. Rough high. I’m more of a mellow guy. Never used it again. Go figure.”

Holly completed the paperwork to move Neil to West Shore, then loaded him into the car. He would be installed in a cheery cell with stainless steel sink and toilet and no sharp edges. Some luck would give him glass-block windows next to the busy thoroughfare of Veteran’s Memorial Parkway. By this time tomorrow if he didn’t make bail, he’d be at VIRCC, Vancouver Island Regional Correctional Centre. Her stomach growling, when she’d finished, she stopped for a pulled pork sandwich at nearby Smokin’ Bones, adding a side of vinegary collard greens.

By five, she was back at the office. Chipper had caught a ride back from the Munson property. He brought cups of herbal tea, and they sat on the small sofa in the lunchroom.

Neither cared to be wired by caffeine at that time of day. They had taken their boots off. Chipper was rubbing a sore toe, the hazards of the stiff footwear.

He told her about the crew that had arrived to secure the site and begin the cleaning process. “What a mess,” he said, gesturing in excitement.

“The place was a sty, but I didn’t take an inventory. What did you find?”

He consulted his notes. “Acetone, red phosphorous, lye, muriatic acid, anhydrous ammonia.” He paused, shaking his head. “That’s tough to get, but some people steal it from farmers.”

“Chemistry background?”

“Not really. Lots of amateurs get into it. There are sites all over the web with instructions on how to make meth.”

“What’s the time frame for the cleanup?” she asked, wondering how to close the site to gawkers. “If Sean could ride over there, so could any kid.”