Her final transfer, along with a bit of luck, brought her home to paradise, where roses sprouted in February. She liked the freedom of the rural and semi-wilderness setting with the amenities of nearby Victoria. Border living was another advantage. Seattle was a quick ferry ride.
British Columbia, known as E Division, encompassing policing at most provincial, federal, and municipal levels, was the largest in Canada, with 126 detachments and over 6,000 employees, about one-third of the total RCMP enlistment. Only twelve municipalities in B.C. had their own forces, and on the island, only Victoria, the capital city. The island itself had only 850 officers spread across its wilderness, many hours away from back-up.
At thirty-two, in a few more years, she could take the exam for sergeant, then staff-sergeant. At that level, she’d command a post with fourteen members, not including civilians, a comfortable number. Holly wanted to stay on the island, but moving any higher up the ranks would mean a transfer to a larger city with noise, crowding and major crimes. Call her unambitious, lover of Lalaland, but Holly had no desire to walk mean streets, even in Nanaimo, though she might entertain the idea if she could join a 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 are you two going on about?” Ann broke in. “We have an ID.”
Deciding to ignore the woman’s abruptness, Holly shivered. The idea of looking at a floater didn’t appeal to her. “How long had she been gone?”
Ann touched a finger to her long sharp nose. “Lucky you. The girl was in camp only last night. Annual high-school senior bonding exercise. Not enough chaperones. Never are. Not all the armies in the world can stop hormones when their time has come.”
Holly saw Ann’s eyes glance at the graduation picture of her son. Was that what had happened? As Holly’s plain-spoken mother reminded her, nothing could screw up a woman’s life faster than an early, unplanned pregnancy. Life was an uphill battle after that, not impossible, but tough on everyone. “No-fail protection,” Bonnie Martin had said in a wry tone to her bored young daughter in their birds-and-bees talk, crossing her fingers in a telling gesture. “Keep your legs closed.”
“Paramedics have the location, but they’re tied up for an hour. No need for resuscitation in this case, sadly.” As the two headed out, Ann added, “I’ll call Boone.”
Boone? Hadn’t Reg mentioned a coroner? “Oh, right. Thanks.” Her mind racing, Holly grimaced. Her first serious situation as a leader, and she wasn’t even rolling on four wheels. What did anyone expect from a tiny outpost, one staff member chained to a desk? Suppose something didn’t look right? Should a murder investigation ever be necessary, protocol dictated that larger resources would come to her service. Sooke was headed by a staff-sergeant, so an inspector would come from Langford, the West Shore detachment. She gave herself a mental scold as calming logistics kicked in. Why be so dramatic? This is going to be simple but monumentally tearful, as are all senseless young deaths.
After grabbing her pristine notebook, Holly headed for her jacket. “So we’re off, and—”
Ann looked up with a slow, deliberate question. “Don’t you want to know the girl’s name?”
Holly turned away to bite her lip. “Of course. Guess I’m just...never mind.” Confessing her weaknesses to this woman was not an option.
Ann said. “Angie Didrickson.” Then she spelled it.
Outside, as they approached the five-year-old white Impala, Chipper patted the trunk, frowning. “We should have our own FB decal, not SK.” The huge black initials helped helicopters identify each detachment and coordinate efforts.
“We’re lucky to get Sooke’s castoffs. I was guessing a quad and a couple of bikes,” Holly said, belting up. Parked behind their building was a 1985 Suburban with 250,000 Ks, another donation from the big dogs. Still, it would come in handy in winter if they had to go off-road or up the tortuous steep hills north into the San Juan Ridge.
As they headed down West Coast Road with Chipper at the wheel, ugly clear-cuts began skirting the road. “Not even a margin any more,” Chipper said. “Is this going to be the next Sun River, with thousands of houses?”
“It’s oceanfront or oceanview. Pure gold. Only the zoning gods will hold the balance.”
Checking the time, Chipper reached for the siren, but she said, “Leave it off. No need to pass on this road. It’s too late for her, and it’ll only frighten the tourists and attract gawkers. We don’t want a parade.”
They slowed at Jordan River, no longer a landing site for logs, as in its historic past. Electrical generation from the river had first reached Victoria in 1911, and the massive structure of the old powerhouse upstream had once attracted visitors. More people came to surf now than to ogle ancient buildings, and the storms of fall and winter brought peak conditions. Though there was only a brisk wind today, six or seven hopeful people on boards paddled out to catch the waves. The Chula Coffee and Juice Bar sold exotic fruit drinks and custom coffee, the closest Canada came to Malibu. At the beach, campers and vans lined the shore, some VWs with flower-power paint jobs. Every so often, a free camping spot could be found, but for how long?
Holly owed her job to what loomed ahead, a billboard advertising the first major housing development west of Fossil Bay. To her left and right, great roads were being dozed into the woods or carved across former clear-cut hills. Million-dollar properties, especially on the oceanfront. Recent rulings by the Minister of Forests, with no consultation or conditions, had threatened to allow the timber companies to turn tens of thousands of hectares of lease land into lucrative real estate. Hit hard by a downturn in demand for timber products, the companies claimed that their debts could be settled better from immediate revenue, not wood scheduled to be cut in 2050. Mills were closing everywhere, from Nanaimo to Campbell River. Citizens and environmentalists fought back in public meetings, and surprisingly draconian zoning laws had temporarily halted the deals. Everyone knew that the battle had merely paused for breath. The boomers were on the move, especially from Ontario, and those not able to afford houses in costly Victoria wanted property. Moving vans went west and returned empty. Meanwhile, laid-off timber employees wondered if they should join the building trades.