the fruit was oncoming. The salmonberries were emerging, which would draw hungry bears, tired of their spring-grass feed and down for the summer roaming the temperate rainforest. Later would come thimbleberries and finally the hardy Himalayan blackberry with thumb-thick thorny branches.
A grizzled old man with a handsome carved walking stick bearing a fierce eagle on the handle levered his body from a tippy lawn chair and approached her. He wore cut-off jeans, a t-shirt and flip-flops. A healthy tan testified to days outdoors and a shiny metal peace sign hung around his neck, though his salt-and-pepper hair was cut military short. Aging draft dodger? His arms were lean and muscular, though he wore a knee brace. In one discordant note, his left eye, irritated and red, sported a purple bruise. “Morning, officer. Fine day, isn’t it?”
She held out a hand and introduced herself, tucking her cap under her arm. “And you are, sir?”
“Bill Gorse. Formerly of Gorse and Broome.”
This made her arch an eyebrow at mention of two of the island’s most tenacious plants. “Sounds like an old family company.” She wondered if he were joking, like the Dewey, Cheatham and Howe firm in the Click and Clack Tappet Brothers radio show across the pond in Washington State.
“Pshaw,” he added, emphasizing the “p” as her father had when he was in his Gay Nineties period. His sigh was palpable and self-effacing. “It’s a law firm. Still is, for those not partial to corporate ethics. My late father, the Major, and two brothers. I squandered my youth with the family compact, but my nose couldn’t take it. When they started chasing the dollar by representing goddamn mining polluters up north, I said adios. Wrecked Muse Lake with their diesel spills and got off with a paltry five-thousand-dollar fine.” He flicked at a midge, whirling in its vortex. “Couldn’t stomach it. Anyhow, now that we know each other, what can I do you for?”
A lawyer with principles. So much for the jokes sending them to the bottom of the sea to poison the sharks. Why didn’t he pursue the prosecutorial side? Perhaps he was a true maverick and regarded the law itself as an ass. “There was a report of panhandling here.”
He gave an unimpressed cackle then coughed into his hand. “Thought you were into something serious. This is yee-haw land, not the prissy streets of Victoria.” The local area was notoriously casual, the home of bearded Santas driving ancient Westphalias, llama and alpaca shepherds, and small organic farms. The elderly ladies in Sooke and Fossil Bay had mid-afternoon coffee at home instead of tiffin at the Empress Hotel with the blue-rinsed bluebloods. Unless they worked in the city, few people in the Western Communities went to Victoria without a shopping mission.
Holly gave an apologetic shrug. “It was reported, Mr. Gorse. I have to check it out. What’s the story?” So far he’d been the only person she’d seen, but the gear indicated signs of others. She tried for concerned, not intrusive.
He tapped his chest, a few curly grey pelt hairs peeking from his v-neck. “Listen. I’m the old fart boss around here. I try to make a few rules so’s we don’t get into each other’s faces too much. No stealing. Can the noise after ten. Pick up after yourself. Don’t shit where you live, in every sense of the word. Not much different from that guy’s book about kindergarten rules.”
Suppressing a smile at the candor, Holly saw a neat pile of crushed beer cans in a clear plastic bag. “What about drinking or drugs?”
“Hell, drinking’s legal last I heard.”
“Not on the street. We have open-container laws.”
He planted his feet and folded his arms. “We’re not bothering anybody, not about to take a piss against a building. This is where we live. And it’s public land, belongs to the people. Doesn’t say ‘no camping,’ does it? Be reasonable.”
Holly shifted her feet, feeling like a bully. She glanced at her watch. According to the schedule, she had this sunny afternoon off for a change. With the small population, the three-man post kept hours only between eight a.m. and six p.m. Any emergencies were routed to Sooke, a detachment of fourteen with round-the-clock service. “You’re being a wee bit evasive about the drug question. Do I take that as a yes?”
His lined face grew sober and he scratched at his ear, where a silver loop dangled, giving him a pirate look. “I can’t see that you have probable cause for a search, and I wouldn’t be surprised if you turned up some wacky tobaccy. Personal use only. Hard drugs I don’t tolerate.” It was a cliché that the law in Canada ignored pot smoking, but Holly held up a placatory hand and adjusted her posture to official, not combative. She didn’t want this to escalate. No needles or paraphernalia were in view, and no children would be hanging around under Bill’s watch. “No worries, then. If you’re not bothering anyone, stay as long as you want. But let’s get to my reason for coming, the panhandling complaint.” She arched an eyebrow in a 60-40 serious look.
Bill sat down with a grunt on an overturned blue recycling box and flexed his knee. “I’ll tell you straight. Any guy around here pulling any of that crap answers to me. I don’t want problems with the law. We mind our own business. That one asking tourists for money like some bridge troll, I told him to quit it. Next morning he showed up with a camcorder. Said he won it in a card game at the Legion, the liar. It was a high-end Sony.”
Her interest was piqued. One strand led to another in law and society’s tangled webs. She gave a light laugh. “Nobody gambles with camcorders. Probably he stole it. Is he around?”
“Went to hock it, ask me.”
Holly frowned as possibilities tumbled through her mind. “It’s too far to Victoria. More likely he sold it to a kid on the street, or for nothing at a junk shop. What’s his name?” She took out her notebook.
“Says he’s Derek Dunn. I don’t ask for IDs. Hell, sometimes I change my own middle name. Dick used to be an ordinary handle. Now...” He reached down for a bottle of an over-the-counter painkiller, shook out a few, and showed her one. When she blinked, he washed it down with water from a plastic jug.
Dating a fresh page, she wrote down the name and got a brief description, including a shortened right index finger which Derek said had been cut in a table-saw accident. “Thanks for the information. I’ll check on it. For the record, how many...people are staying here now?” She could see at least four makeshift tents of tarps, branches, and plastic sheeting, more for privacy than rain protection, since it was dry under the bridge. All she could smell was the briny tang of the ocean. Where did they take their garbage? And where did they do their business? In the woods? She’d peed on her shoe in the bush more than once. If it were a crime to drop trou in the deep and dark, ninety per cent of the province would be in jail.
He said, “Varies a bit, more on weekends. I draw the line. Should have been a social worker. If a kid tells me he’s been abused, I know where to send him. A youngster didn’t even start shaving came last week. Said his parents were okay with his travelling, but I sent him packing. So...there’s three, counting Joel Hall.” He nudged a thumb toward a sleeping pad on cardboard beside the concrete bridge support. “Haven’t seen him since last night when we had a bit of an altercation. Could be he’s found a lady friend with a soft bed. He’s past fifty but a charmer when he wants to be. You want to hitch into town, any guy with a pickup will stop.”
Holly gave the scene a final scan. Recently a surprising legal decision had cities scrambling. When the B.C. Supreme Court ruled that since the number of shelter beds was “insufficient” for the area’s needs, the homeless had earned the right to erect tents and sleep overnight in parks. Officials were outraged, since they had just spent tens of thousands cleaning up a camp hidden deep in the dense bush of Mill Hill Park, a wild
