campsite in Port Renfrew. It was awkward. We got to the beach around ten this morning. Didn’t even know Angie was missing. Some thought she had slept in, stayed behind.” He stuttered over the next words. “Then the diver found her. They say he moved...the body. Poor guy. I would have done it myself. You can’t let...” With a crack, his voice trailed off, and he looked at the sand.
“It was a natural reaction, Mr. Gable.” Holly’s reassurance seemed to relax his shoulders, and she smiled. “How long will you all be staying?”
“Scheduled for another day, but the trip is over. Preparations will have to be made. The family contacted.”
“I see. We’ll need to talk to some of the students. While they’re together, it’s more convenient for everyone.”
“Tell me how to help. The girls are all crying, and the guys aren’t far from it. They’ll probably need some counselling. Father Drew is a great guy in a crisis. A prayer assembly, then individual conferences as necessary. Teenagers don’t expect death to come calling. I remember when a boy in my fourth grade fell from a cliff. Harold Bach was his name. Just a quiet little guy, but he crawled out on a dare, and the ledge gave way.” He turned to her with naïve wonderment. “Why do I still recall his name? So weird. He wasn’t a close friend, and I didn’t go to the funeral. None of us did. Wasn’t expected in those days.”
The way he was rattling on seemed morbid. She needed to learn how to direct an interview, but sympathized. “Do you think about Harold very often?”
He scratched his head. “Once a year on Hallowe’en. That’s when it happened.”
“Then you’re reinforcing the memory, bumping the curve back up each time.” She checked her watch. “We’d better get to the camp so that you can start home now. Sooner is better than later for collecting information.”
Along the path, she pointed to the bike. “Yes, it’s one of ours,” he said, inspecting a metal tag welded to the frame. “We brought six trail bikes. They’re not allowed on the beach, but they’re fine for the park roads.”
“Could Angie have ridden it here?”
He shrugged. “I suppose so. Someone is supposed to be in charge of inventory at the end of the day, but maybe they slipped up, and it’s been here since we came over yesterday.”
“We’ll toss it in the car,” she said, motioning to Chipper to collect it.
As they returned to the lot, Gable stood awkwardly with Chucky, spreading his arms in a question. “My ride’s gone. Can you...”
She opened the rear door. “He’s welcome. We’ve had worse passengers. At least he’s sober.”
The trunk contained emergency equipment. A shovel, plastic cones, a blanket, rain gear, bottled water, even a stuffed bear in a plastic bag for when a child needed comforting. Chipper secured the bike, then tied the lid with polypropylene rope. He got into the front and started the engine. In the back seat, Gable shuffled around with Chucky in his arms, perhaps uncomfortable in the confines of a vehicle with reinforcements to prevent glass breakage. On one of her favourite shows, Cops, a suspect had braced himself and kicked out the rear window of a cruiser.
Holly rolled down the windows to catch the breeze. With its computer equipment, radio and brackets for a shotgun, the vehicle was crowded. Opening the clear slider so that they could talk, she half turned towards Gable. Phrases from psychology and interpersonal communications courses came to mind. “This must be a terrible shock for you, sir.”
“Please, Paul is fine.” He wiped his freckled forehead. His arms were strong, and knobby, hairy legs protruded from his tan shorts. She recalled that he also wore sandals with white socks. “You can’t imagine, or maybe you can in your line of work. It’s just impossible that this could have happened to Angie.”
In minutes, they turned into Les’s RV and Camping, following Gable’s directions to the group area at the forested rear section beside the showers and washrooms. Chipper turned off the vehicle and excused himself. Holly led Gable to a picnic table, where Chucky began to nibble on grass.
He told her about the activities the day and night before, leading to the discovery of the body and the steps to contact the authorities. In the second stage of the interview, she began writing.
“And her full name is...please spell it, too.” She poised with her pen, listening as he proceeded.
“Angie Didrickson. Our star swimmer. Butterfly champion of the province.”
Now the physique made sense. Holly jotted more notes. “A reliable girl then. She’d have to be to undergo that kind of discipline and training.” She paused, her memories searching back. “But Notre Dame doesn’t have a pool, does it?”
“No,” he said, “but we have an arrangement with Seaparc. Angie and a few other diehards would be there at seven every morning to practice.” He wiped at his eye. “She was headed for a full scholarship to the University of London. Her dad was so proud, and so was the school.”
“And her mother?” Holly felt herself wanting to understand that this victim was a human being with a life behind her. Was it worse to die at eighteen or to disappear in your forties? Unholy balances.
“Grace Didrickson died in an auto accident a few years ago.
Nate did a damn fine job raising her and her little brother.”
“And the last time you saw her...”
He gave a sniff, pulled out a handkerchief, and honked his small, beaked nose. “You mean...”
“Of course. Alive.” She cautioned herself to show more patience, even though the questions were obvious. This wasn’t a race. Slow and sure, Ben would say.
“That would be last night at the campfires. A sing-along. Marshmallows, the traditional thing. Started near dark, around nine. The chaperones and I had our own blaze, but I made the rounds from time to time to keep everybody honest, not that I was counting heads. You have to give kids some degree of trust. And you can’t expect them to be tucked in by ten.” He smoothed his thick hair, a cowlick raising a stubborn shock. “I’m sure on the perimeters the usual vices were present. Cigarettes, a can of beer, maybe even a joint or two. But not in sight.”
“So you saw her as late as...” She kept her pen poised. Reports with initialed changes were frowned on.
On the road, the guttural roar of a motorcycle caught their attention. Whimpering, the dog started running circles, entangling the lead, and Gable kept trying to undo it. “Chucky, stop.” He looked at Holly with a plea. “Can I tie him to a tree over there? This is distracting.”
“Sure.” String him up was more like it. Holly hated illbehaved, aka ill-trained animals. If any dogs were neglected in obedience matters, the small varieties were. Much easier to scoop up the thing and tuck it under your arm than teach it manners. German shepherds had to be under control, at one with their master, their partner. She missed that bond.
On his return from attending to Chucky, Gable said, “Now where were we? Oh, right. The time. Somewhere near eleven. It was pitch dark. I don’t have one of those glow model watches. Anyway, the kids seemed to be heading off to bed without problems.” He gave an ironic laugh. “That’s how much I knew. Jesus, she was out there and—”
“It
