Canine Unit.
With a proprietorial eye, she considered her new preserve and nosed stale cigarette smoke from the decades before the new laws. A coat of paint wouldn’t hurt. That she could do herself. And maybe an area rug. Then a few hardy plants and a picture of her German shepherds, now playing at Rainbow Bridge.
She resigned herself to paperwork, reading the latest crime figures for the province. The Capital Region of Victoria had one of the lowest stats in the country for gun-related incidents, fewer than one per cent. Knives were more popular. Among the bulletins on emerging technologies for law enforcement, one report claimed that soon pistols would be personalized; only the owner could fire it. An officer shot with his or her own gun would be an ugly irony of the past. Another focused on robotic delivery of pepper spray in cases where the suspect couldn’t be approached. Every black-leather duty belt held OC, aka pepper spray, along with metal handcuffs, a 9 mm Military and Police Smith and Wesson, a collapsible asp baton, keys, and a radio. Only those who chose to take an orientation carried the controversial Taser. Recent deaths across the country and in the U.S. had raised serious questions about the excessive use of that defensive weapon. The Taser should be used as a last resort before the gun, not merely to subdue without breaking into a sweat.
From the monthly statistics Ann had compiled, Holly pinpointed the petty efforts at crime that dogged the community. Reg had told her what to expect, and she’d had a taste in Port McNeill. Thefts, stolen vehicles, noise complaints, unruly dogs and unrulier drunks. Now and then a police car visited the many beach parks down the coast on open-container violations or to take a report on an auto break-in. French Beach, China, Mystic, Bear, all the way to Botanical, a necklace of rain-forest emeralds beckoned tourists from California to Calcutta.
“Don’t discount penny-ante crime,” Ben Rogers, her mentor in The Pas, had told her. “Sometimes they’re part of a bigger picture, and it usually involves drugs. Why steal a CD player you can sell for only a twenty unless you need another fix?” But Ben had made his own fatal error. Their last month together, checking out a stolen car seen at a trailer park, he hadn’t expected the twelve-year-old deaf boy to be holding a rifle instead of an air gun. The frightened child fired, and Reg went down with a hole in his chest where his heart had been. Holly had secured the rifle, turned the boy over to a motherly bystander, then cradled Ben’s head in her lap until the ambulance came. When she’d cleaned his office to give personal items to his wife, the Classic Car calendar’s date read “Ninety-nine days to go!”
Around eight fifteen, a bump of unidentifiable music sounded outside, a cheerful whistle came up the walk, and into the office came Constable Chirakumar “Chipper” Knox Singh. Though both his parents were Sikhs, his father had been raised in a Scottish Presbyterian orphanage in the Punjab and baptized with the name of Knox. Like many immigrants, Gopal Singh had worked menial jobs, living like a pauper, finally able to open a convenience store with an ethnic foods sideline in nearby Colwood. Transferred last year from his first post in the Prairies, twenty-eight-year-old Chipper wore a handsome light-blue turban, designed for the force, with a yellow patch to match the stripe down his pants. A trim light-brown beard set off his café-au-lait face. Earnest black eyebrows capped a handsome brow and fine features. At six-three, he towered over the women.
He saw Holly and saluted. “Welcome, Corporal, or should I call you ‘Guv’?” he asked with a grin.
“You’ve been watching the BBC too much.” Her cheeks pinked, and she wondered if Ann had heard the informal exchange.
“Blame my mother. She never misses Coronation Street. Anyway, the car’s all set. That squeal was the fan belt. No big deal.
Hoping to make an ally, she pointed to the banana bread. “Dig in.”
The phone rang, and Ann answered. As she listened, a frown creased her freckled brow, and she wrote rapidly on a pad. “Calm down and tell me what happened. There’s no rush now, is there?” Her manner reminded Holly of her own mother, who could still troubled waters with a quiet assertiveness. Clearly here was one of Ann’s strengths.
Holly and Chipper exchanged glances. His hand paused over a slice, then plunged in as if he might lose the opportunity. Holly felt her heart battery switch to recharge. Another impatient speeder trying to pass on deadly West Coast Road? The logging trucks were making the most of the dry weather. The last few summers had brought increasing drought. She hardly recalled the most recent rain, more the promise of a kiss. Relentless dust made washing her car a never-ending chore.
“We’ll be right out. Half an hour, barring traffic.” Ann listened, taking a few notes and pausing for confirmation.
“That long? Can’t be Bill Purdy beating up on his wife again.” An “old hand” after his first year at Fossil Bay, Chipper had memorized the names of the local troublemakers.
Finishing the snack, he gave an appreciative “mmmmm” and wiped his handsome mouth with a serviette. His shirt and pants were ironed razor sharp. Mother’s work. Chipper still lived at home in the apartment over the store, though his parents had been trying to arrange a marriage for him with a nurse in Sidney. Holly hoped he wouldn’t be transferred too soon. He was bright, ethical and personable, a winning combination in any profession. Though she’d only met him when Reg had given her an orientation, she’d studied the personnel files as part of her homework. Yet records often weren’t the measure of a person. No one looking at the three of them would realize that the thickset older woman was the hero.
“There’s been a drowning at Botanical. A girl...just a teenager.” Ann stood and stretched. A casual gesture in some interpretation, but Reg said that she did simple exercises every few hours to ease her back muscles. “She tries to stay off painkillers on the job,” he had added. “But don’t call her after dinner when she’s been into the sauce. That’s why she’s better at a desk with regular hours in a small detachment with eight-hour shifts instead of ten. Policing’s a 24-7-365 job, especially with a skeleton staff.”
Holly massaged the bridge of her nose, sad but not surprised at the news. The tides were renowned for their dangerous and quixotic nature. In bad winds, a rogue wave could snatch a storm watcher from the beach, sending the body down the Strait of Juan de Fuca. A boy who’d been lost this year at Tofino had never been found. At least it wasn’t a brutal and bloody car wreck. Holly had noticed the new vogue for commemorative descansos along the coastal road: flower tributes, stuffed animals, even a scooter. The concept seemed better adapted to hot, dry climates instead of rain-forest country. “A drowning?”
Ann sighed, the corners of her mouth sad commas. Pale from lack of sun, she wore no make-up, and small wrinkles sucked at the top of her thin upper lip. Old laugh-lines creased the edges of her hazel eyes, but the face was humourless. Was she on medication now? As her commanding officer, Holly should know, but asking would be tricky. And certainly not on Day One.
Ann’s fingers flipped a page in her notes. “Apparently. There seemed to be some head injury at first glance. Kids should know better than to dive, but they do. I told them to leave everything in place. You know the likelihood of that, though. Someone already pulled the body from the water.”
Chipper shook his head as he looked at a wall map. “I’ve been there a couple of times. That beach is very rough. How will we secure the scene? Sand, rock, a nightmare for evidence.”
“Evidence.” Holly tossed him a skeptical look and tapped his arm. “Come on, Chipper. Let’s not jump to conclusions. And we don’t know where the victim went in. She could have floated on the currents down the coast for miles.”
“No missing person reports,” he said, scanning the bulletin board. “But it could be recent, maybe a boating acci—”
“What
