Текст книги "The Guilty"

Автор книги: Sean Slater

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Текущая страница: 26 (всего у книги 32 страниц)

One Hundred and Seventeen

The bomber stood in the woods to the west of the facility, almost directly on the US border, and stared through his binoculars at the man on the bed in Room 12. He looked like he was in there alone, but he was not, of course. The detective was in there with him, and so was at least one plainclothes cop. He couldn’t see them, but they were there.

He knew it.

Shivering in the shadows of a giant oak tree, he focused on the man in the bed and a strange stirring sensation slowly overpowered his numbness. It made him want to run. To break free. Like a wildebeest kicking loose at a lion’s claws. So many odd emotions intermingling.

Anxiety. Desperation.

Grief.

Archer Davies was dead.

Slowly, inevitably, the shield that he had built around himself these past ten years disintegrated. Crumbled like the walls of Babylon. And for the first time since he was a little boy, he panicked. How he longed to go inside that room. To hold that man’s hand one last time. To lay his head down on the man’s chest. And to just tell him that he loved him. That, more than anything.

Just to tell him he loved him.

The black cell vibrated in his pocket, and he let it ring. It would only be Molly, and fuck her anyway right now. She had never come to see him. Not once. It was unforgivable. All this violence they had committed, all her goddam faith, and yet in the end she could not face mortality – not even a death that was not her own.

The more he thought about it, the more angry and lost he became.

Tommy Atkins went to war

and he came back a man no more.

Went to Baghdad and Sar-e.

He died, that man who looked like me.

The words seemed to lack punch now as he chanted them.

With the tears leaking out his eyes, he took one final look at the man on the bed, and realized that his final goodbye would never come now. The detective had made sure of that.

‘Goodbye,’ he whispered.

It was all he could do.

One Hundred and Eighteen

When the line had gone dead, Striker knew it was time to change tactics. Tom Atkins – or whatever alias the man was using – would never return to the care hospital now.

Striker got on his cell and called up the regional RCMP brass who had lent them the plainclothes units. After a lengthy discussion, the RCMP Superintendent agreed to maintain surveillance of the Sunset Grove Care Centre, just in case the bombers returned. With the place now secure, Striker and Felicia headed out to speak with the Davies family. According to the hospital documents, Archer’s wife’s name was Lilly, and she lived in White Rock with her two children, Logan and Rachel.

It was just a ten-minute drive down the road.

The lot was small, as was the house on it, which was composed mainly of blue wood trim and old white stucco that was now a dirty beige colour. The place looked like it had been built in the 60s. So did the old Ford jalopy in the driveway.

They parked and climbed out.

Striker reminded Felicia, ‘I’ve already instructed the care home not to call Mrs Davies until I tell them to do so. So whatever you do, don’t mention Archer’s death. Right now we need to get information from this woman. We need her calm.’

‘Of course.’

‘And be ready for anything.’

Felicia just nodded and adjusted her holster.

They knocked on the front door, and minutes later were inside the living room with Lilly Davies. She wore ironed slacks and a cream blouse. She was clearly of Eurasian descent, and a Japanese strictness flowed through her in everything she did, from the way she offered them tea and cookies to the way she sat – her back board straight, her hands cupped in her lap, her head held high.

‘Thanks for seeing us,’ Striker said.

‘Especially without any notice,’ Felicia added.

The woman smiled politely. ‘It is no problem, Detectives. Though I still don’t quite understand the connection here . . . how is this related to my husband?’

Striker avoided the details. ‘We’re not entirely sure, Mrs Davies. We’re checking out all the possible links we have – family, police, you name it.’

Lilly Davies nodded as if she understood but the confusion remained in her eyes.

‘Are your son and daughter here?’ Felicia asked.

She shook her head. ‘Logan is visiting my sister right now. In Toronto. And Rachel is at work – at The Sizzle.’

‘Is that a restaurant?’ Felicia asked.

‘Yes. She waitresses there. Like me. Actually, I got her the job.’

Striker nodded. ‘You like working there?’

Lilly Davies offered a weak smile. ‘It helps us get by, especially with both children fast approaching college.’

Striker nodded. ‘I know the feeling.’

He looked at the fireplace mantel, at pictures of the kids. Both were good-looking, with much of their mother’s Japanese features in them. In the photos, they both looked to be around fifteen or sixteen. The boy was dressed in a school basketball uniform; the girl in a dance costume of some kind.

Striker pointed to the girl. ‘When was the photo taken?’

‘That? Oh, just last Christmas. Rachel’s dance class.’

‘And your son obviously loves basketball.’

‘Well, hockey was his first love – just like figure skating was Rachel’s. But after Archer’s injury, well, we just couldn’t afford it. Hockey and figure skating are very expensive sports.’

‘They’re nice-looking kids,’ Felicia said.

Lilly smiled politely.

Striker moved past the niceties and got down to business. ‘I’m sorry to stir up bad memories, Mrs Davies, but could you tell us a little bit about your husband – his history, and how the two of you met?’

Lilly Davies nodded. ‘I met Archer during one of his leaves.’

‘From the police department?’

‘No, from the RLC.’

That made Striker pause. ‘RLC? You mean the Royal Logistics Corps?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who’s the RLC?’ Felicia asked.

Striker cast her a glance. ‘They’re part of the British Army. We got a couple of guys on the job from over there. They’re good men. Smart. Tactical. Well trained.’ He turned back to Lilly. ‘So Archer was from the UK?’

‘Oh yes, he never could lose the accent.’ She laughed softly. ‘As I said, he was taking a leave when we met, in fact. He was here visiting his brother – the poor man passed away from cancer a few years after Archer was injured.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Striker offered.

Lilly kept talking as if she hadn’t heard the condolence. ‘One thing led to another, and before you knew it, Archer was taking all his leaves here. And then we were married. He left the RLC and joined the Vancouver Police Department. With his military experience, he was fast-tracked into the Emergency Response Team. As a reserve.’

‘Did he miss the old job?’ Felicia asked.

Lilly nodded emphatically. ‘Oh yes. He did a great deal. But his squadmates came over to visit him a few times. And that made him very happy.’

Striker asked, ‘You two ever go back there?’

‘Oh no, never. Archer loved his squad, but he had no love for the UK, and he hated London. Called it a dirty little town.’ She looked down for a moment, and the teacup trembled between her hands. ‘I often wish he’d stayed there and brought me over instead. Then he never would have joined the Vancouver Police Department.’

Striker nodded. It was understandable. ‘These squadmates of his—’

‘They called themselves The Untouchables.’

‘Why?’

‘Because, back then, they’d all served several tours, and yet none of them had ever been killed. Not even injured.’

‘And now?’

Lilly’s face saddened. ‘They’re almost all dead now. I don’t know the details . . . I don’t want to know the details.’

‘And the ones who still live?’ he pressed.

Lilly sighed. ‘I don’t know. I haven’t heard from any of them in years. Not since the first time they came to see Archer, and that was . . . well, I don’t even know when.’ She looked at the photos on the mantel shelf. ‘Logan and Rachel are almost grown up . . . if only Archer could see them now. He’d be so proud of how they turned out.’

For a moment, Striker thought the woman might break down on him; so he changed the subject. ‘When your husband worked for the Vancouver Police Department, did he ever confide anything in you?’

‘Confide?’ She spoke the word with caution.

‘Tell you any secrets. Anything you think we should know at this particular point in time?’

Lilly shook her head, confused, and Felicia spoke next.

‘Ms Davies, the reason we’re investigating your husband isn’t because he’s suspected of any wrongdoing. Quite the contrary, I think he was an impressive cop with a strong moral compass. What we’re investigating is the latest string of bombings that have been going off in the Lower Mainland . . . We believe there’s a connection to your husband.’

‘To Archer?’ Lilly Davies’ face flushed with the words. It was the first glimpse of true emotion that Striker had seen in the woman.

‘We don’t know the reason yet,’ she continued. ‘But there are many connecting factors here. And they all seem to lead back to your husband. Is there anything he was working on he told you about? Anything off the books?

Lilly’s face remained white. ‘No. No, he never told me anything about his work. Nothing at all. He kept his work very private.’

‘I see. Does the name Tom Atkins mean anything to you?’

‘Tom Atkins? Why, no. I’ve never heard that name before.’

Felicia nodded but made no reply.

Striker began questioning the woman next, particularly on Archer’s ex-army squadmates. Had any of them been in trouble with the law since they’d left the service? Were any of them unbalanced? Suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder? And so on. The answers to his questions were all a resounding no. Lilly didn’t know anything about these people, and she hadn’t seen them in years. The same thing went for the Vancouver Police Department. No cops came around.

Not ever.

‘That was the saddest thing,’ Lilly added. ‘After Archer was hurt, no one came by to visit him. It was as if he had suddenly ceased to exist. As if he had become taboo or something. He was new at the Vancouver Police Department – I know that – and not many people knew him. But it still hurt him deeply. And it added to his depression, to his blood pressure, and eventually, he had the stroke.’

Striker listened to the woman talk, and after a moment, she finally broke down and cried in front of him.

‘I’m sorry,’ he offered again. ‘I really am so sorry.’

The words felt small and hollow, but he could think of nothing else to say.

One Hundred and Nineteen

Striker and Felicia were on the highway in ten minutes, heading back for the City of Vancouver. Felicia kept herself busy checking messages and emails; none were file-related, so she saved them all and hung up her cell. Only when Striker had pulled into the fast lane and hit one hundred and twenty K per hour did they speak again.

‘Something back there just doesn’t add up,’ he said.

Felicia looked up. ‘With Lilly Davies or the care centre?’

‘With Lilly. Archer was injured on the job.’

‘Yeah?’

‘So when cops are injured in the line of duty, not only do they get insurance money, but the Police Mutual Benevolent Association steps in. They help the families out financially. Granted, it’s nothing mind-blowing, but it’s enough to live comfortably. Plus, Lilly should be getting a partial pension from the British Army.’

‘Again, so what?’

‘So where is all the money? She lives in an old house, she drives an old beater, she has to work as a waitress just to make ends meet, and even still, she can’t afford for her kids to play hockey or figure-skate. White Rock may be nice, but it sure as hell isn’t expensive like West Vancouver or Kitsilano. She should be doing fine financially.’

Felicia looked out the window. ‘Maybe she’s made some bad business decisions or investments.’

‘I want to know why. Call up the land title office. See if she owns that house. And then call the PMBA. I want to see what kind of funds she’s getting.’

‘If they’ll tell us – that’s confidential information.’

‘I know the secretary-treasurer. She can find that information. Just tell her it’s me and that these are exigent circumstances.’

‘You say everything is exigent.’

‘If a guy blowing up the city isn’t pressing enough, the courts can hang me for it. Besides, our bomber has been visiting Archer. They’re connected. Make the call.’

Felicia agreed. She took out her cell and began dialling, and Striker increased their speed to one hundred and forty K per hour. By the time they had reached the Knight Street Bridge, Felicia was still on the cell and running names on the laptop.

Several kilometres later, she finished the phone call. She hung up and turned slightly in her seat to face him. ‘Okay, you were right about the land title. Lilly rents the place. The house is actually owned by a family that rents a half-dozen other houses in the neighbourhood.’

‘Any crime connections?’

‘No, the family is clean. But that’s not the interesting part. The interesting part is the pension and the PMBA money – Lilly’s only getting half of it.’

‘Half?’

‘The rest of it is going overseas. To the UK.’

Striker stopped hard at a red light on Broadway and looked at her. ‘You got to be kidding me.’

‘A first wife, by the sounds of it. And a first family.’

‘He has other kids?’

‘Two names are listed.’

‘Is one of them Tom?’

Felicia shook her head. ‘No. Oliver and Molly.’

‘A boy and a girl,’ Striker mused. ‘Just like our bombers . . . If Archer had kids real young, these could be them. What’s their surname?’

‘They took their mother’s maiden name – Howell.’

‘Oliver Howell and Molly Howell,’ Striker said. ‘It sounds so ordinary.’ He gave Felicia a queer look. ‘Did you run a full search on the names?’

‘On Oliver and Molly Howell? Of course. On all the systems. There’s nothing.’

He nodded absently. ‘What about Tom Atkins?’

‘Negative too.’

Striker swore. ‘I know I’ve heard that name somewhere before. Run another search. Hell, Google it.’

Felicia started up the web browser and performed the search. The very first link on the page was to the online encyclopedia, Wikipedia. She clicked on the link and soon found herself reading up on the name Tom Atkins. After a long moment, she let out a sound somewhere between surprise and disbelief.

Striker caught it. ‘What did you find?’

‘A direct hit.’ Felicia summarized the passage. ‘The name Tommy Atkins is a slang term for any soldier in the British Army.’

Striker cocked an eyebrow her way. ‘Are you shitting me?’

She shook her head. ‘In World War One, in the trenches, British soldiers were often referred to as “Tommies”.’

Striker couldn’t believe his ears. ‘The cocky bastard. He’s laughing at us.’

‘So Oliver Howell is Tommy Atkins?’

‘We’re about to find out.’

Striker pressed his foot down hard on the accelerator and the car surged forward just as the light turned green. Their destination was Main Street Headquarters. Striker couldn’t wait to get there. He had a few phone calls to make. First to Interpol, and, failing that, the British Army. If Oliver and Molly Howell were in any way associated with the armed forces, Striker was going to find out.

For the first time since this investigation had started, he felt as if they were on the edge of a major discovery.

One Hundred and Twenty

Feeling like a bag of shit, Harry parked the pickup truck behind Main Street HQ and walked down the lane. Because of the press release, informing the world of his death, he was supposed to lay low till things calmed down.

But he had never been one to sit idly by.

High above, swooping lines of telephone wires crisscrossed the sky, and a drunk from the Empress Hotel was yelling out the top-floor window. Harry ignored the racket, swiped his keycard, and walked inside the south entrance where Stores was located. Ahead of him, a couple of rookie cops were leaving the counter with their new gear – uniforms, bulletproof vests and new holsters. The uniforms meant little to Harry; he was more concerned about the global positioning devices the department owned.

Harry approached the service area. Behind the counter, the desks were overflowing with mounds of supplies and stacks of paperwork. Harry reached out, rang the bell, and waited. After a minute or two, he rang it again.

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah – hold on!’ came the call. ‘We’re unloading back here.’

The caustic tone of the woman’s voice told Harry it was Desiree Wentworth, and he frowned. The Stores clerk was about as sweet as cyanide and just as deadly. Standing only 152 centimetres and weighing in at damn near 118 kilos, there was a reason everyone called her A Street Car Named Desiree.

Harry waited for almost five minutes until she finally rounded the corner. ‘Hot as a fuck in here,’ she said, then eyed him up and down. ‘Harry Eckhart? I thought you were dead.’

‘Long story.’

Desiree didn’t mince words. ‘Well, welcome back to the land of the living. What ya want?’

‘GPS records.’

‘For what?’

He held up the base of the GPS device – the unit he had broken off the Ford cruiser before it had exploded in the A&W parking lot. ‘Found this in the back lane. Not sure if it fell out of my car or someone else’s. Can you check the database?’

Desiree grabbed the device from him, yanking it from his fingers. Harry felt his hands ball into fists. Had any street toad done that, he would have busted their jaw . . . but this was the VPD, and around here you got more flies with honey.

He watched patiently as Desiree searched through the database for the part number. When she located one and cross-referenced it through the system, she found what she was looking for. She didn’t even bother to look up.

‘Not yours.’

‘You sure?’

‘You change your name to Connors? Leave it here. I’ll see that it’s returned.’

Without so much as another word, she approached the front counter and muttered, ‘Closing time.’ She slammed down the window partition, leaving Harry standing there, staring at a grey steel barrier.

He barely noticed. All he could think of was the name she had spoken. Connors . . . that meant David Connors. The man had just been transferred to the Police Standards Section. To Internal. And the thought of it turned Harry cold.

They know, he thought. The department knows.

And they were coming after him.

One Hundred and Twenty-One

When they got back to HQ, Felicia continued with the task of figuring out where their suspects had managed to obtain the explosives. While she was following the PETN trail, Striker began making phone calls on Oliver and Molly Howell.

The task was not an easy one.

Time differences were always an issue with federal and international files. It was six p.m. Pacific Time when Striker finally got through to a sergeant in the National Central Bureau of Canada’s Interpol branch. After almost a half-hour of run around time and dead ends, he gave up.

He hung up the phone and dialled the operator. Soon he was connected directly with the City of London Police and speaking to a weary-sounding but polite female staff sergeant.

Striker told her what he required and why.

‘The information you’re asking for is protected,’ she explained. ‘I can’t just tell you this over the phone. Not without proper verification.’

Striker nodded absently. ‘I understand that completely. We can do this one of three ways. You can send the information to my Vancouver Police Department email account, you can send it via CPIC – the Canadian Police Information Centre; but that will take time – or you can verify my badge and identity through the main switchboard and call me back on this line.’

‘How time-sensitive is this information?’ the staff sergeant asked.

‘Extremely. Lives are at stake here. Minutes count.’

‘I’ll call you right back then.’

The staff sergeant verified that she had Striker’s correct name, badge number, and position, then she hung up. Striker did the same and then waited by the phone. After ten minutes, he was getting edgy. After twenty, he was downright annoyed. After thirty, he turned on the Internet, opened Google, and typed in:

Time: London, UK.

The response came back: 01:59 a.m.

Then the phone rang, and he picked up on the first ring.

‘Striker,’ he said.

The staff sergeant identified herself once more. ‘Sorry about the delay, Detective. There was a problem transferring the call – it got dropped several times.’

‘The distance, I guess.’

‘That – and I made some other calls first.’

‘To?’

‘The British Army.’

The words made Striker’s heart skip a beat. ‘The army?’

The staff sergeant made an uncomfortable sound. ‘Look, Detective, I’d be lying if I said the information here isn’t of great concern to us. These two individuals – Oliver and Molly Howell – have outstanding service records with our country’s military. You do realize they’re both members of the Royal Logistics Corps.’

Striker’s stomach knotted up. ‘I knew their father was a member of the RLC, and had my worries their paths might have turned out similar.’

‘They’re both war heroes, Detective. Highly decorated. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how extremely sensitive this information is.’

‘I’ll be as discreet as is legally possible.’

‘Legally possible . . . That doesn’t sound well on this end. And considering the urgency of your call, I’m assuming the worst.’

‘Have you Googled Vancouver?’ he asked.

There was a pause. ‘I have indeed.’

‘What was the first thing that came up?’

The staff sergeant made an uncomfortable sound. ‘The bombings.’ When Striker made no reply, she cursed and said, ‘Bloody hell, this is awful.’

‘Tell me, Staff Sergeant, what exactly did they do in the RLC?’

There was another brief pause and the sound of pages being flipped before the staff sergeant spoke again. ‘Molly is a demolitions tech and a sharpshooter.’

Striker thought back to the woman firing at him in the A&W parking lot – her pinpoint accuracy, her use of suppressing fire just above his head, designed to keep him down and out.

‘Jesus Christ,’ he said. ‘And the brother, what about him?’

‘Oliver Howell is a Commando-trained Ammunitions Technician . . . a Warrant Officer – Second Class.’

Striker closed his eyes and felt a rush of concern. Ammunitions Technician was just a fancy title for a man with a deadly job. Oliver Howell was the one thing that Striker had feared most.

A bomb hunter.