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chapter nine
ОглавлениеThe movers arrived at the Davie Street studio promptly at eight o’clock Saturday morning, three hulking steroidal men in their twenties and a tall, wiry black woman in her thirties, who appeared to be the boss. In under two hours, notwithstanding our good-intentioned help, they moved everything it had taken us all week to pack down the freight elevator and into their truck. Although the elevator complained loudly and frequently, fortune smiled upon us and it didn’t break down. The drive to the new location took less than thirty minutes and by noon, the truck was empty. I thanked the woman and her crew, handed her the envelope containing the prearranged tip, then they all piled into the cab and the truck rumbled away, leaving us with our office furniture and filing cabinets, crates and cartons and equipment cases, not to mention the film fridge and Bodger’s cat carrier, stacked in the middle of the floor of the new studio space.
Prior to the rehabilitation of Granville Island in the seventies, the building into which we were moving had once been a chain and wire-rope manufacturer. It had been renovated to house artisans’ workshops, artists’ studios, and small galleries and shops. Originally, the building had had a concrete floor and a thirty-foot ceiling, with high, tall windows letting in plenty of light. Our new space still had a concrete floor, but it had been freshly painted a cheerful battleship grey. The front two-thirds of the space still had a twenty-foot ceiling and floor-to-ceiling windows. The back third, however, had been vertically subdivided, with office, washroom, and kitchen facilities upstairs, which is where we stashed a very unhappy Bodger’s cat carrier while we unpacked and tried to get organized.
At four o’clock Constable Mabel Firth poked her head through the front door. She was dressed in jeans and a tweedy jacket, and her dark blonde hair was loose. Although she was stationed on Granville Island and her husband Bill worked for the City of Vancouver, they lived in Burnaby, not far from the Chevron tank farm just east of the Second Narrows Bridge, so I didn’t often see her in mufti and almost didn’t recognize her. At first I thought she was off duty, then I noticed she was armed. There’s something about a big, attractive woman carrying a Glock …
“I guess you haven’t come to help us get this place sorted out,” I said.
“’Fraid not,” she said. “We’re re-interviewing all the witnesses in Bobbi’s assault case, in case we missed something the first time.”
“Have you been promoted to detective?”
“No, but a girl can always dream.” She took a spiral-bound notebook out of her inside jacket pocket. “Have you got a minute to go over your meeting with the faux Anna Waverley again?”
“Sure,” I said. We went outside and sat on a bench in the sun. “Faux?”
“Cute, eh? When I used it this morning, Jim Kovacs almost choked on his coffee. So …?”
I told her about the meeting, in as much detail as I could remember, but without embellishing or speculating to fill in the gaps in my memory.
“And when she left,” Mabel said, when I’d finished, “she was under the impression that you were going to meet her at eight on the boat?”
“Yes.” She made a mark in her notebook. “Am I to infer,” I said, “from the fact that you’re re-interviewing everybody, that you aren’t making much progress?”
“I’d say that was a safe inference,” Mabel agreed. “We canvassed residents of the condos with a view of the seawall and the path between the Broker’s Bay Marina and the Burrard Street Bridge. No one saw anything. Baz and I talked to dozens of people on the seawall and the promenade, asking them if they were in the area between eight and eleven Tuesday evening and, if so, did they see anything. Nothing. Our best lead was Anna Waverley, but while she can’t prove she was home alone after nine-thirty, there is the problem of motive. She doesn’t seem to have one. We can’t find any connection between you or Bobbi and the Waverleys.” She raised her eyebrows. “Is there one?”
“Actually …”
“What?”
“There might be a kind of indirect connection. My brother-in-law bought some art from Samuel Waverley’s gallery. He’s also met them socially at charity events.”
“What’s your brother-in-law’s name again?” I told her, plus Mary-Alice’s home phone number. “Anything else?” she asked.
“Does the name Walter P. Moffat mean anything to you?”
“Sure. I know who he is. Wally-the-One-Term-Wonder. I wasn’t one of his constituents. I wouldn’t have voted for him even if I was. Why?”
“I found out last night that he buys art from Waverley, too.”
“So do a lot of people, apparently, including the chief constable and the mayor. What’s your connection to Moffat, besides being a former constituent?”
“I was supposed to meet him Tuesday evening to discuss photography for an exhibition catalogue, but his manager cancelled the appointment earlier in the day.”
“La-di-da,” Mabel said. “Keeping pretty highfalutin company these days, aren’t we?”
“He’s more impressive on TV than in person.”
“That’s not saying much. What about Bobbi? Could she have known Anna Waverley or her husband?”
“It’s possible. Bobbi and I are close enough, I guess, but there are still some aspects of her private life she keeps private. But I didn’t get the impression that the name meant anything to her. Have you spoken to her father?”
“Oh, yeah,” Mabel replied sourly. “He’s convinced it’s your fault, that someone was out to get you, and Bobbi got in the way. What about that? You’ve had more than your share of trouble in the four years I’ve known you. Vincent Ryan was a nasty piece of work. Any man who would hire a psycho to rape and murder his own wife wouldn’t be above this sort of thing.”
“Ryan didn’t like to get his own hands dirty,” I said.
“He tried to kill your former girlfriend, Carla Bergman, didn’t he? And he did shoot that guy on the boat.”
“I don’t know if he was trying to kill Carla or not. As for Frank Poole, I’m not sure Ryan really meant to kill him. He may have been just trying to protect Carla. He wasn’t exactly firing on all cylinders at the time. Besides, if it was Ryan, or thugs hired by Ryan, why the charade of hiring me? They could have grabbed me on my way to or from work any time they wanted. And why, when Bobbi showed up instead, assault her? The same goes for anyone else who might have it in for me for real or imagined reasons.”
“But if you can think of anyone …?”
“I’ll let you know, of course.”
Mabel stood up. She was a big, powerful woman, whose every movement was so effortless it seemed to belie the existence of gravity. “We’re pretty much dead in the water. Sorry. Poor choice of words. There’s not much we can do till Bobbi wakes up. Then maybe she’ll be able to tell us what went down on that boat. Assuming she remembers. I’m told that retrograde amnesia isn’t uncommon in cases involving head injury. In the meantime, we’re focusing our investigation on the faux Anna Waverley, whoever she is. But I’m afraid we haven’t got much to go on there, either.”
We shook hands and she left. I went back inside.
Mary-Alice, Wayne, and I had, in the course of the day, managed to get everything positioned more or less where it belonged, but the place still looked a shambles. We knocked off at five. Mary-Alice and Wayne went off together in Mary-Alice’s little white BMW while I locked up and walked home, where I showered, had something to eat, then drove to the hospital. I was grateful that neither Greg Matthias nor Norman Brooks was there. I sat with Bobbi until seven, talking to her about the move, telling her that she’d better get the hell better soon and do her share of the work, since she was so keen on the idea in the first place. The tube had been removed from her throat, but she was still catheterized and had an IV in her arm, electrodes taped to her chest, and an oxygen feed under her nose. As I talked to her, she muttered and twitched occasionally, setting off a flurry of bleeps from the monitors, and from time to time her eyelids fluttered, but she did not wake up. I wanted to shake her, but I didn’t, of course.
I left the hospital at seven and drove toward home. I didn’t go home, however. Instead, I turned west on 4th Avenue and drove toward Point Grey and the vast green of the University of British Columbia Endowment Lands. At seven-thirty I was parked on Belmont above Spanish Bank and Locarno Beach Park, a few metres up the street from a sprawling ranch-style house — the home of Samuel and Anna Waverley.
It wasn’t the biggest house on the block, not by a long shot, but it was big enough. Appropriately, it had a vaguely Spanish look, stone and stained wood and glass, with a terra cotta tile roof and deep eaves. A nice house, I thought, that I might be able to afford in my wildest dreams, but not otherwise. It was surrounded by mature trees on a good-sized lot, modestly landscaped with rock gardens and a water feature, but uncharacteristically devoid of topiary, which was abundant on the adjacent properties. The house next door to the Waverleys’ had a small cedar clipped into the shape of a poodle with puffball legs, chest, and tail. The things people will do to innocent trees and animals …
There was no car in the Waverleys’ wide cobbled drive in front of the attached three-car garage, but as I sat wondering what I was going to do, a dark green Volvo Cross Country went past me and turned into the driveway without signalling. Brake lights flashing, it stopped in front of the garage, driving lights bright on the stained-wood doors. A woman got out, leaving the door open and the engine running, and aimed something at the garage. A remote door opener, I presumed. When nothing happened, she leaned into the car, turned off the engine, then swung the door shut. The car horn bleated and the lights flashed as she walked away from it toward the front door of the house. She was wearing an athletic top, shorts, and high-tech runners. Her upper body was slim, almost petite, while her hips and rump were nicely rounded, legs elegantly tapered. Despite what Witt DeWalt had said, I thought her centre of gravity was fine just where it was.
Now what? I wondered. I couldn’t sit there long. It was a fairly exclusive neighbourhood. Sooner or later, most likely sooner, someone would get worried and call the police. Maybe they wouldn’t wait until they were worried. So I started the Liberty, put it in gear, and drove into the wide driveway, parking beside Anna Waverley’s Volvo. The boxy Liberty and the sleek Volvo looked good together, I thought, as I walked to the front door. Maybe they would mate.
There was a little box with button and a speaker grill by the front door. I pressed the button. A far-off chime sounded, like church bells. A moment later a woman’s voice crackled from the speaker.
“Yes?”
“Mrs. Waverley?” I said. “Mrs. Anna Waverley?”
“Yes, I’m Anna Waverley. Who are you?”
“Mrs. Waverley, my name’s Tom McCall. I’d like to speak with you, if you don’t mind.”
“You don’t have to shout into the speaker, Mr. McCall. I can hear you just fine if you talk normally. And if you stand back a bit, I’ll be able to see you.” I stepped back. “Look up, Mr. McCall. Look way up.” I looked up and saw a glowing red dot beneath the lens of a small video camera. “What would you like to talk about?”
“We could start with old children’s television programs,” I said. “I used to watch The Friendly Giant, too.” Silence. “Mrs. Waverley?”
“I’m still here. I’m waiting for you to get to the point. You’ve got thirty seconds. Then I call the police.”
“Do you know who I am?”
“Yes, I know who you are. You’re that photographer whose assistant was attacked and thrown into False Creek. I feel just awful about that, Mr. McCall. I really do. But if you’re looking for some kind of compensation, it hasn’t anything to do with me or my husband, despite the fact that the woman who hired you evidently used my name.”
“It’s not about money,” I said. “It’s about my friend lying in the hospital in a coma. I’d just like to talk to you for a few minutes, to see if there’s anything you might be able to tell me that will help me figure out who attacked her.”
“I’ve already told the police everything I know,” she said. “Which is nothing.”
Her voice had an odd stereophonic quality, as if it were coming from two places at once. I realized that she must be standing on the other side of the door and that I could hear her voice through the mail slot as well as the intercom speaker. I moved closer to the door. “Mrs. Waverley,” I said, speaking up slightly, but keeping my voice calm and even and as reassuring as I could. “Someone who said her name was Anna Waverley hired my partner and me to take photographs of that boat. The police have evidence that my partner was attacked on the boat, before she was thrown into False Creek under the Burrard Street Bridge to drown. I’m sure that neither you nor your husband are involved in any way, but I would nevertheless appreciate it if you could spare me a few minutes of your time. I’m just trying to understand why Bobbi was attacked. The police aren’t getting anywhere. I —”
A chain rattled and a bolt clicked and the door opened.
Anna Waverley was a handful of inches shorter than me, with wavy reddish-brown hair worn short, rectangular hazel eyes, and a long, straight nose. Her most arresting feature was her mouth. It was wide and slightly crooked, and her lips, which were full and almost too straight, had a bruised quality, like overripe plums. It was not, I thought for some reason, a mouth that smiled often. Matthias had told me she was forty-five, but she could have looked much younger, if she’d tried a little.
“I don’t know what I can tell you, Mr. McCall, but come in.” She stepped back, holding the door open. “Please excuse the way I’m dressed,” she added as I went into the house. “I just got back from a run.” She closed the door. “This way, please.”
From the outside the house had looked spacious, but inside it seemed dark and cramped. It wasn’t that the rooms were small — they weren’t — but the front hall and the living room contained enough heavy, ornate furniture for three houses. Likewise, the dining room. Anna Waverley read my expression.
“I’m afraid my husband regards this house more as a warehouse than a home,” she said. “Come through this way. We’ll be more comfortable in the day room. Would you care for a glass of wine? Or something stronger?”
“Wine is fine,” I said.
She excused herself and left the room.
The day room wasn’t quite as big as the living room, but contained less furniture. What it did contain was eclectic and casual and comfortable. There was a big, blond wood entertainment unit containing a medium-sized flat-screen TV, a DVD player, and mismatched but high-quality stereo components. One wall of the room was mostly glass. Sliding doors opened onto a patio surrounded by semitropical plants in big terra cotta planters and beds of live bamboo and overshadowed by a towering magnolia. An ornate Victorian dining table by the windows looked as though it had seen better days, the finish scarred and cracked. One end of the table was piled high with magazines and newspapers and books. At the other end of the table, a white Apple laptop sat atop a four-inch stack of volumes from an old set of the Encyclopædia Britannica, raising the screen to a more comfortable height to use with the external keyboard and mouse. The computer’s power adaptor was plugged into a heavy-duty orange extension cord that snaked across the flagstone floor to an outlet by the entertainment unit.
Mrs. Waverley returned carrying a tray loaded with a bottle of red wine, a bottle of white wine in a sweating beaten-silver cooler, and two tall wineglasses. She set the tray on a massive Spanish-style coffee table. In the short time she’d been out of the room, she’d also managed to brush out her hair, apply a little makeup, and change into jeans, a black turtleneck sweater, and sturdy Rockport walking shoes.
“I wasn’t sure if you wanted white or red,” she said, sitting on a heavy, worn leather sofa.
“I’ll have whatever you’re having,” I said.
“White, then,” she said, lifting the bottle from the silver cooler. “Please, sit down, Mr. McCall. I don’t know what I can tell you that I haven’t already told the police. I feel just terrible about what happened to your friend. You said she is still in a coma. The police told me she’s expected to make a full recovery, though.” She deftly levered the cork out of the bottle.
“That’s what the doctors tell me.” I sat in an equally worn burgundy leather tufted armchair, facing her across the coffee table.
“Well, I certainly hope it’s true.” She handed me a glass of wine. It had a rich, slightly fruity aroma. I imagined that that one bottle cost more than what I usually spent on three bottles. She raised her glass. “Here’s to your friend’s full and speedy recovery,” she said. We drank. The wine was very good. I upped my estimate of its cost.
“I understand you were at the marina at around nine that night.”
“That’s right,” Mrs. Waverley replied. “Three evenings a week I park my car at Jericho Beach Park near the Royal Vancouver Yacht Club and run to Granville Island and back. Don’t look so impressed. It’s a total of only a little more than ten kilometres. Ten years ago I used to run more than a hundred kilometres a week. Slowing down in my old age, I suppose.”
“It’s all I can do to run to answer the phone,” I said.
“I’m sure that’s not true,” she responded.
It wasn’t true, or at least not quite, but I was hoping to make her smile. I wanted to see what a smile looked like on that wide, sensuous mouth. I was disappointed when she remained straight-faced. I was going to have to try harder.
“Do you normally run at that time of day?” I asked. “After dark, I mean?”
She shook her head. “No, in the summer usually I run between six and seven, but I was, well, running late that day.” She didn’t even smile at her own joke. “More wine?” she asked, holding out the bottle.
“No, thank you,” I said. My glass was still almost full. Hers was almost empty. She refilled it.
“Your friend — Bobbi?”
“That’s right,” I said.
“I saw her photograph in the newspaper. She’s very attractive. Are you and she lovers?”
I was taken aback by the bluntness of the question. “No,” I sputtered. “Just friends. Good friends, though. We’ve worked together for almost ten years.”
“Is it interesting work?”
“It can be,” I said.
“Have you exhibited?”
“My photographs? Not hardly. No one’s interested in photographs of shopping malls or bridges and helicopters. I did win an award once, though, for a photograph I took when I was working for the Vancouver Sun of a man rescuing a huge potted cannabis plant from a burning house.” Did her ripe, bruised mouth twitch slightly? I couldn’t be sure because she lifted her wineglass and drank.
She lowered the glass. “Ralph Steiner’s photographs of everyday objects are quite beautiful,” she said. “Although I think I prefer Aaron Siskind’s abstract work. I am also a big admirer of Diane Arbus, although some critics feel her work is too intrusive. Of course, you don’t want to simply repeat what’s already been done, do you? However, there are many contemporary photographers whose vision of the common, the ordinary, the everyday, often says more about the values of our society than the rare or the beautiful or the fantastic. Do you work with digital, Mr. McCall? Although many people in the arts disapprove, technology has always been at the forefront of art, don’t you think? Visual artists are always exploring ways of using technology to push the envelope, whether they be painters, sculptors, photographers, or performance artists.”
“I don’t really consider myself an artist,” I said. “I suppose you could say that I used to be a news photographer, but nowadays I’m just a common, ordinary, everyday commercial photographer. I take pictures of whatever people are willing to pay me to take pictures of. Their kids, their dogs, their airplanes or construction sites, their chairpersons of the board.” Not to mention half-naked lady loggers and almost totally naked escort service providers and their girls. As I’d told Bobbi’s father, someone had to do it.
“Do you miss being a news photographer?” Mrs. Waverley asked.
“The pay was better,” I replied. “But only marginally. More regular, though.”
Mrs. Waverley held out the bottle. I held out my glass, although it was only half empty. She topped it up, then poured more wine into her glass. The bottle was nearly empty.
“Are you married, Mr. McCall?”
“I was,” I answered, then added quickly, “Mrs. Waverley, the woman who hired us to photograph that boat, do you have any idea who she might be?”
She shook her head. “No, I don’t. How would I? It wasn’t even our boat. Not that that’s relevant, is it? I’m sorry, I’m rambling, aren’t I? I’ve had too much wine on an empty stomach, perhaps. I should eat something.”
I stood up, prepared to take my leave, albeit regretfully, mission unaccomplished.
“No, please,” she said. “You don’t have to go. Unless you have another appointment, of course, if there’s some other place you need to be.”
“No, there’s no place I need to be. But I don’t want to be an imposition.”
“You’re not imposing. Not at all. I enjoy your company. But perhaps we could talk in the kitchen while I make something to eat.”
“As long as I’m not imposing,” I said.
“You’re not,” she said and started to pick up the tray.
“Let me,” I said, and bent quickly to pick up the tray. A little too quickly. We thumped heads, hard.
She sat down on the sofa, eyes momentarily glazed. Way to go, McCall.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, ears ringing. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” she said, rubbing her forehead at the hairline. She stood. “Let’s try that again, shall we?” She gestured toward the tray. “If you would …”
I picked up the tray and followed her into the kitchen without further incident.