Seaweed in the Soup (8 page)

Ricketts said, “Bradley went back to the car. I ended up on the beach below Collins Lane, and headed north.”

Bernie frowned as if perplexed. “Why north?”

“It was just a guess, sir, a toss-up. I had no real reason to favour either direction.”

“You didn't see any footprints or other signs?”

“No, sir. If I had, I'd have told you,” Ricketts replied with assurance.

“Good, very good, Ricketts. All right. You headed north along the beach?”

“I headed north along the beach until I came abreast of the big house and heard Mrs. Milton. She was screaming hysterically.”

Bernie's brow furrowed. He seemed a little confused. “Mrs. Milton?” he said haltingly.

“She's the housekeeper,” Ricketts explained.

Maybe Ricketts didn't know it, but Bernie has a memory like a steel trap. He can recall facts and figures from cases that he was involved with 25 years back. But sometimes it is to an interrogator's advantage if the person being questioned is encouraged to think he's the smartest guy in the room. He gets sloppy and lets his guard down. Says things he shouldn't.

Still frowning slightly, Bernie consulted the murder book. “What time would that be, Ricketts?”

“A little after nine. Maybe ten after nine?”

“So what you are telling me is, half an hour elapsed between the time you got the dispatcher's call, and when you saw and heard Mrs. Milton?”

Ricketts shrugged.

“Okay, let's leave the timeline angle for now,” Bernie said. “Go on with your story.”

“Mrs. Milton was in a terrible state. She'd just had a terrible shock, she just kept on screaming and screaming. She was like a madwoman; it took me a while to calm her. It was several minutes before she could bring herself to tell me that there was a dead man in the cellar. I went downstairs and saw the dead man myself. It's the first dead man I've seen, but I was certain that he was dead. I called headquarters and then I called Constable Bradley. Told them where I was, what I'd found.”

Bernie moved his chair back and crossed his legs. “It never occurred to you that Mrs. Milton might be the killer?”

Ricketts blinked. “Hell no, sir. She was obviously scared out of her wits. Terrified.”

“Terrified, or in a panic?”

Ricketts made a bewildered face. “I'm sorry, sir. It never entered my head. Jeez. Did she kill him?”

Bernie ignored Ricketts' question. “Let me get this straight. After talking to Mrs. Milton, you phoned headquarters. Then you phoned Bradley?”

Ricketts hesitated. “It's possible I phoned Bradley first, sir. I'd just seen the dead man, I was agitated.”

“By the time you called Bradley though, you and Mrs. Milton were probably a little calmer?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Constable Bradley arrived soon afterwards?”

“Yes, sir. Lightning—er, Constable Bradley was the next officer to arrive,” Ricketts said. “As the senior officer, Bradley told me to stay with Mr. Chew. He said we had to preserve the integrity of the crime scene so there'd be no legal issues later.”

“Bradley told you to guard Mr. Chew's body?”

After pausing to reflect, Ricketts answered, “Well no, come to think of it. Constable Bradley just said to stay with the body. At the time I'm not sure that we knew who the dead man was.”

“I suppose not, Constable. What did Bradley do next?”

“I don't know, sir. I stayed in the bedroom. As far as I know, Bradley was upstairs until you arrived.”

Bernie made a big deal of reading the murder book. Ricketts had been standing rigidly to attention, but by then his shoulders were beginning to sag.

Bernie eyed Ricketts shrewdly. “Approximately how much time passed between Constable Bradley's arrival and when Sergeant Seaweed and I showed up at the house?”

Ricketts licked his lips. “Frankly, sir, that's rather hard to say. Time seemed to pass very slowly.”

“Hazard a guess.”

“Ten minutes?”

“As little as that? Think carefully, this could be important.”

Ricketts ground his teeth. “I suppose it could have been fifteen minutes. Ten to fifteen minutes, sir.”

“Did Constable Bradley say or do anything that might suggest, to your mind, that he and Mrs. Milton had known each other previous to this incident?”

Ricketts seemed astonished. He shrugged, and then shook his head emphatically.

Bernie slammed his desk with the flat of his hand and said, “That's a tape recorder on my desk, not a goddamn video camera. Don't nod or shrug or shake your head to me, Constable! Speak your answers out loud! Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir, sorry, sir,” was Ricketts' abject response. “I'm sure it was the first time Constable Bradley and Mrs. Milton had met.”

Bernie turned in his chair and looked at me. “Do you have any questions for Constable Ricketts?”

I waited till Ricketts made eye contact with me. “How long since you and Bradley partnered up?” I asked him.

“Three months, Sergeant. Give or take.”

“Foot patrol?”

“Foot patrols by day, mostly downtown. Car patrols when we pull the graveyard shift.”

“You and Bradley have been using one of our older-model Crown Royals. Do you usually drive it?”

Ricketts hesitated and his gaze dropped. “For the most part. Bradley drives it occasionally.”

“Who was driving the Crown Royal when it was involved in a serious accident?”

Ricketts had been staring straight ahead. His face swung towards me, but he failed to meet my eyes. “Sir?”

“Were you driving the Crown Royal when it sustained an accident severe enough to twist its frame?”

“An accident? Hell no!” Ricketts said. “Who said it had been in an accident?”

“Just answer my question.”

“I don't know anything about it,” Ricketts said indignantly. “Before I take a car out I walk around it first. It's the standard drill. The last time I checked, the Crown Royal had a few nicks. There's a small gravel starburst on the left side of the windscreen, and that's about all.”

“The last time you checked the car was when, exactly?”

Ricketts looked as if his head might burst. “The same day that we drove to Echo Bay Road and saw those women. There wasn't a fresh mark on the car, I swear.”

“In your assessment, there's no question that those women you pursued were First Nations?”

“They were First Nations, all right.”

I had no further questions. Bernie reminded Ricketts that it was a firing offence if he communicated with either Constable Bradley or Mrs. Milton in any way.

By then, Ricketts looked like a boxer at the losing end a fifteen-round slugfest. He said, “Permission to speak, sir?”

Bernie said, “Go ahead.”

“I just want to repeat that I'll do everything possible to reinstate myself, sir, and to protect my good name.”

“Duly noted,” Bernie said. “That's all, Ricketts, you can go home again. You're suspended off duty with pay until this matter is settled. Stay by the phone, we might need you to come in for more questions later. Today or tomorrow.”

Ricketts gave a smart salute and went out.

“Well, what do you think?” Bernie asked.

“I think Ricketts has the makings of a good officer, Bernie. Maybe you came down a bit hard on him.”

“Okay, okay, I hear you, but I think he might be holding something back. And what's all this about a busted frame?”

I told Bernie about my conversation with Cynthia Leach. “I think we should impound the Crown Royal and have it looked at. Forensics, mechanicals, prints, the whole nine yards.”

“All right, take care of it,” Bernie said.

I picked up the phone, dialled Serious Crimes and told them what was needed.

Bernie put his feet on his desk and crossed his legs. He said broodingly, “The immediate puzzle is whether Lightning leaned on Ricketts. Asked him to lie and cover his ass.”

“Whose ass?”

“Lightning's ass. Ricketts may be stupid, I don't think he's a liar.”

“People lie all the time, especially children, politicians, televangelists and cops.”

“Children are the worst. I have three of my own, so I ought to know.”

“Televangelists are the worst. Children are bad, though. Children lie even when there's no need to lie. And that brings up something else. When are you going to waterboard Lightning Bradley?”

Bernie hesitated. “Not yet. I'll let Bradley and Maria twist in the wind for a bit. Then when they're ripe we'll bring them in separately and put the boots to 'em. We've already got a court order and we're tapping Lightning's phones. Ricketts' too. With a bit of luck one of 'em will break. He'll make a call and spill the beans. Give us something we can get our teeth into.”

“When do you want me get started on this?”

“You can start right now,” Bernie said. “Cho's inquest is tomorrow morning. After that it's up to you, but keep your head down. Try not to get yourself killed. Be nice when you talk to Twinner Scudd. If you need help with your neighbourhood duties, we'll find somebody to keep things going till you return to normal duties.”

“If I get killed, I won't return to normal duties.”

“Just remind me again. What are your normal duties?”

“I'm a neighbourhood cop. Apart from taking care of PC, I don't have any normal duties.”

“Exactly, so you won't be missed. This is the deal: do a good job. If you do get killed, we'll pin a medal to your remains. Give 'em a nice send-off. Wreaths, bands playing, a few weepy girls.”

I must have been scowling. Bernie said, “Okay, what's bothering you now, Silas?”

“Tell me something. Do you really believe that those women killed Raymond Cho?”

“What kind of question is that? It doesn't matter to me if they did or if they didn't kill him. That's for a jury to decide,” Bernie said without hesitation. “Pay attention, Silas, darling, because I've said this before and now I'll say it again. What-I-believe-doesn't-signify. Would you like me to repeat that for you?”

“No. I think I've got it now.”

“I don't have infinite time or resources to spend on this case. All I can do is try and cover the bases,” said Bernie, running his fingers through his hair. “I know I've been hammering this thing to death, but just look at the facts. Two Native girls were spotted leaving the area soon after Raymond Cho was murdered. Cho was probably clubbed with a slavekiller before his throat was cut. This all leads up to certain conclusions. Whatever. I'm doing the best I can with what I've got. If what I've got doesn't work, they'd better suspend civil rights and call in the army.”

“Why did you rub your head with cologne?”

“It's got alcohol in it,” Bernie said, with another yawn. “It makes my scalp tingle and helps to keep me awake.”

I said so long and walked downstairs. By the time I reached the basement garage, Bradley's blue-and-white was being towed to forensics.

CHAPTER FIVE

The next morning, as I was leaving my house, I found an injured pine siskin lying in my garden. Brown overall, with yellow wing bars, the tiny bird tried to fly away, but it had a damaged wing. Instead of rising into the air, it thrashed around on the ground in circles, emitting a rapid series of husky distress notes.

Wild animals don't seem to experience fear in the same way as humans. The little creature seemed more bewildered than afraid when I cupped it in my hands and deposited it high in an escallonia bush, where it would be safe from roaming cats. Bathed in a self-congratulatory glow, I took a venison chop from my fridge and chopped little pieces that I suspended from strings in the escallonia here and there. The little bird was eating breakfast when I drove to town.

I ate my own breakfast at a greasy spoon on Store Street before I went over to View Street and parked near the CIBC building. A man wearing a Bill Clinton mask was playing a saxophone on the corner, although nobody seemed to care. I went into the Bay Centre. The smell of food enveloped me as I took the escalator down to the grocery section. I bought eggs, a package of frozen Cornish pasties, a jar of Smuckers marmalade and a tin of Spam. I was trying to decide between bumbleberry pie and a pint of chocolate ice cream when my cellphone rang. It was Mrs. Nairn.

“Silas, this is urgent,” she said, “CDI Tapp wants you to meet him at Lightning Bradley's house right away. The CDI has been trying to reach Bradley by phone, but he isn't answering. We know that there hasn't been any outgoing phone activity from the house during the last 12 hours. Do you know where Bradley lives?”

I knew where Bradley lived. I also knew that Serious Crimes had been monitoring his house phone and—using a frequency counter and a scanner—they had been tracking Bradley's cellphone calls as well.

I opted for the chocolate ice cream and lugged my purchases to the checkout. Time stood still while an old-timer, three customers ahead of me in the lineup, fumbled for change from a purse, one coin at a time. Time was a-wasting. I apologized to the clerk and left the store empty-handed.

Lightning Bradley's house was on a side street, a block away from Victoria's Central Middle School. When I arrived, girls wearing white shirts and grey pleated skirts were playing field hockey in the school's playing fields. The house, a small one-and-a-half storey with an attached garage, had a neglected, unoccupied look. The curtains were closed, and the grass hadn't been mowed in weeks. Weeds proliferated between the paving stones leading up to the front door.

Bernie was speaking into a cellphone when he showed up and parked at the curb. He put the phone away, and then got slowly out of his car. He was yawning when we walked up to the house together. Bernie rang the doorbell; nobody answered. I shaded the sides of my face with my hands and looked through a front window. It was dark inside, I couldn't see anything. The back door facing the school was locked.