Inspector Green Mysteries 9-Book Bundle (295 page)

“My guess is somewhere in this twenty-five-k stretch between Elbow Rapids and Broken Skull River,” Nihls said. “It would be tricky for an empty canoe to get around that bend at the rapids without washing up on shore.”

Bugden shook his head. “But the river below there is very slow and winding. Not enough force to crack up the canoe as bad as it was. Besides, the mining claim is way up here.”

“But that’s almost a hundred kilometres upriver!” Sergeant Nihls said. “Some canoeing party would have spotted them on the shore.”

“Green thinks they might be trying to get to the mine.”

“Green’s grasping at straws! Have we confirmed the kids even knew where the mining claim is? You said Green had to phone the Mining Recorder’s Office.”

Chris had been listening quietly, biding his time. Now he cleared his throat. “Well, sir …” He hesitated. His head was about to go on the chopping block. “In fact, Scott Lasalle did too.”

Nihls crossed his arms over his chest. “Care to tell me what the hell you’re talking about, Constable?”

“I made some background inquiries, sir. On my own time.” He filled them in on his call to Kim Swift, and watched Sergeant Nihls’s expression grow thoughtful.

“Maybe not such an off-the-wall theory after all,” he said.

“Bloody idiots!” Bugden muttered. “College boys from Vancouver who think they can just traipse around in this wilderness and find a supposed ruby mine? What do they expect? Signposts? You know how many legends there are about secret fortunes up there in the mountains? Ever since the Klondike there have been morons tramping about in hopes of finding that one motherlode. Getting lost and dying too.” He stalked back to his chair and flung himself into it, nearly tipping it over. “And for nothing. There’s no mining in the park. Even if they’re lucky enough to find this claim, even if there’s a ton of gemstone grade rubies in it, it’s worthless.”

Chris was studying the map. It was the first time he’d seen the coordinates marked on the topographical map. Just beyond the boundary of the park lay the Cantung Mine, where the rare metal tungsten had been mined on and off for decades. Also beyond the boundary was an old mining road that penetrated deep into the mountains. The coordinates of the claim lay mostly within the park but extended some distance south and west of it, possibly as much as fifteen kilometres depending on which coordinates were accurate. If rubies were found there, it might still be possible to get them out across the Little Nahanni River via the mining road.

“I think we need to know more about what Scott Lasalle was up to, sir,” Chris said. “He had an altercation with a cousin in Whitehorse last winter. It’s possible that man knows something.”

“And how the hell do you know —?” Nihls checked himself. “All right, fine. We’ll get the Whitehorse detachment to interview him.”

“Since I know the background, sir — and this cousin may not wish to help us find Lasalle — it would be better if I talked to him myself.”

“Out of the question. There’s too much to do here.”

“Well, at the same time I could talk to the outfitter who equipped Lasalle, and the bartender who witnessed the assault.”

Nihls’s eyebrows shot up. “I thought you said altercation.”

“It got physical. That’s why the victim may be less than co-operative.”

“I don’t want to lose you to the search effort, Constable. Your Cessna will be needed.”

Bugden was back at the map, frowning. “This doesn’t make sense. That whole area is serious mountain-climbing territory. They’d be fools to try to get in that way. Of course, we already know they’re fools.”

Chris pointed to the deep fissures, creek beds, and glacier lakes cradled in the middle. “Maybe they were trying for an easier access through one of these creek valleys.” He turned to the sergeant. “I think it’s worth a shot, sir. If we can find out where he intended to go, we’ll be able to narrow down the search area considerably. Twenty-four hours, that’s all I need. And if you want, I’ll take a SAR team up the river and drop them off on my way.”

Chris could tell from his tight lips and ramrod shoulders that the sergeant didn’t like being outmanoeuvred, but he couldn’t argue with the logic.

In the end the sergeant sent him off to Whitehorse later that morning, empty-handed, arguing there was no point wasting a SAR team on a speculative run without any clear idea where they should be looking.

“The sooner you gain the intelligence, the better, and meanwhile we’ll start mobilizing down here. Besides, Ian Elliott is already up the river. He may have two city greenhorns with him, but he also has one of the best trackers around.”

Whitehorse, July 18

Carrying nothing on board but his overnight bag, Chris pushed the Cessna hard and splashed down into Schwatka Lake just south of downtown Whitehorse in a little over three hours. Mindful of protocol, he dropped into the RCMP building to introduce himself to the desk sergeant and to fill him in on his plans.

With nearly twenty-six thousand people, Whitehorse was the largest city in the Yukon and home to nearly half its population. The RCMP station was a fancy glass and brick building that took up half a block in the historic waterfront downtown. To Chris’s eyes, it looked completely out of place in the north, but Whitehorse was a modern metropolis and the RCMP was a state-of-the-art police force, so both were trying to look the part.

Sergeant Doran too was a complete contrast to Nihls. Roly-poly and out of shape, he sweated from the effort of rising from his chair to shake Chris’s hand. But his grip was warm and his grin infectious.

Until he heard Chris’s request.

“Vic Whitehead, eh? Hmm. Want some company?”

“Do I need it?”

“Well, let’s just say, if you’re a cop it’s best to have a witness to back up your version of the interview.”

“I’m not accusing him of anything.”

“I know, but you’re asking him about that assault. That’s probably enough to get his back up.”

Chris wavered. In truth, he didn’t want this interview to seem too official. He was hoping for a friendly chat, but this was Doran’s turf, and his call. “Okay, can you spare someone for an hour?”

“I’d say me, but I don’t think that would improve Whitehead’s mood. So I’ll get someone off patrol.” He winked.

That someone turned out to be rookie Constable Jennifer O’Neill, who was younger than Chris thought possible and who filled out her uniform in all the right places. Crafty old bugger, Chris thought as he folded himself into the passenger seat of her cruiser.

In keeping with his low-key approach, Chris had phoned Whitehead’s office and arranged to meet him in the coffee shop around the corner. He kept his reasons vague: “Hoping you can help us with an ongoing inquiry.”

Victor Whitehead was fifteen minutes late, and strode into the coffee shop with the impatient scowl of a man far too busy to be inconvenienced by police inquiries. At the sight of Constable O’Neill, his frown faded and he even smiled as he squeezed into the chair opposite her. Knees almost touching.

Constable O’Neill kept the poker face that Chris suspected she’d had to perfect early on to deal with the frontier male of the north, often drunk and always on the make. Victor Whitehead was no prize worth going for in any case. He might have an engineering degree and a high-profile job, but as a man even Chris could see he was as ugly as the devil himself. Short, bow-legged, and top-heavy, with a face carved up by acne. His chest and shoulders rippled with steroid-enhanced muscle, like he spent every spare hour in the gym.

After undressing Constable O’Neill with his eyes, Whitehead turned a contemptuous stare on Chris. Despite himself, Chris felt his face flush. He rushed to take back control.

“Thank you for meeting me, Mr. Whitehead. I’m from Fort Simpson and we’re trying to locate a canoe party that has gone missing in Nahanni Park. One of the party is your cousin, Scott Lasalle.”

Surprise flickered in Whitehead’s eyes, but he said nothing. As if he were waiting to see what else Chris would lay on the table.

“I understand you met with Mr. Lasalle a few months ago here in Whitehorse. Can you tell me what that was about?”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why should I tell you?”

“We hope it will provide information that might lead to his whereabouts.” For once Chris was glad of the rote line that had been drilled into him in training.

“I know absolutely nothing about this Lasalle fellow, or about any cousin for that matter. I assume you’ve been misinformed and I’m sorry you’ve wasted your time. And mine.”

“Sir, you met with him in the Rocky Mountain Bar and Grill. February 23rd, to be exact.”

“Says who?”

“There was a police report filed. You had an altercation in which Scott Lasalle struck you. You declined to press charges but the police laid them anyway, based on eyewitness accounts. I’m sure you wouldn’t forget an incident like that.”

Whitehead said nothing for a moment. His ugly face was expressionless. “I do remember some drunken idiot in a bar, but that’s all. I didn’t know he’d been charged. Who says he’s my cousin?”

“It was in the police report. I’m assuming he did.”

“Well, that’s news to me. I had no idea who he was and I forgot his name — forgot the whole incident — until you reminded me.”

“So what was the fight about?”

“What is a bar fight ever about? Who the fuck knows? I looked at him wrong, or he didn’t like my face.”

“The report says you were talking together.”

Whitehead shrugged. “I don’t honestly remember. It was a crowded bar, everyone is pretty friendly up here, and sometimes people get to talking. Most times they don’t even remember in the morning.”

“So you’re saying he was a complete stranger who just happened to punch you out?”

Whitehead nodded. “It was kind of embarrassing. I don’t usually get in those situations. That’s why I didn’t press charges. I just wanted to put it behind me.”

Chris took a sip of coffee, stalling for time as he searched for a thread to unravel. “Do you remember talking to him about a mine?”

“A mine?” Whitehead barked a laugh. “Everyone talks to me about mines. Especially when they’re three sheets to the wind. Always looking for special treatment or inside information, as if I’m a fucking oracle when it comes to mining.”

Chris gritted his teeth. “Did Scott talk to you about a mine. Please try to remember, sir. It could be important.”

Whitehead paused, but Chris had a feeling it was all for show. Then he shook his head. “He had liquor and women on his mind, as far as I remember. Nothing about a mine.”

Chris declined Jennifer O’Neill’s offer of a ride to his next destination. He didn’t want to spend one more minute in humiliation. He was furious with himself for letting that smirking asshole wipe the floor with him and for letting her watch. He should have been better prepared, he should have known how to turn the tables, get under the man’s skin, and box him in. But he was not an investigator. He had no special interview training, he was just a Prairie farm boy.

He stormed around the streets of Whitehorse for an hour, ignoring the warm evening sunshine and the bustle of tourists on the busy streets. Aware only of the black cloud inside his own head. What a loser he was. On his weeks off, instead of heading to the big city where he could meet new people and expand his horizons, he always went home to the farm. To his mother’s perogies, his sisters’ giggles, and his father’s stiff, quiet pride in him. Neighbours he’d known all his life came by to visit in a steady stream. They asked him about his adventures in the faraway world he’d gone to, as if he was their link to bigger dreams.

When in reality he was just a two-bit constable in a six-man detachment in the back of beyond.

He didn’t even dare report back to Sergeant Nihls. The man had clearly thought the whole trip a waste of time and resources, so he’d better have something positive to report by the time he got back.

Downtown Whitehorse was a whole lot bigger than Fort Simpson, but even its novelty had been exhausted in Chris’s hour-long walk. He was still deep inside his black cloud when he passed — possibly for the second time — the Rocky Mountain Bar and Grill. He remembered the bartender. Surely a more co-operative witness. A shot at redemption.

A band that sounded awful even to Chris’s Manitoba farm-boy ear was tuning up on the stage at the back. The bar was dimly lit and half full. Dishes clattered as patrons dug into platters of nachos, wings, and burgers. Reluctantly Chris’s appetite crept back through his humiliation. He took a stool at the bar and ordered a buffalo burger with all the trimmings. The bartender pulled him a pint of Yukon Gold with a practised hand.

Chris waited until he was on his second pint and halfway through his burger before he introduced himself. He’d worn civilian clothes for his interview with Whitehead, but the bartender pegged him right away. Frank Flaherty had an east coast accent you could cut with a knife and he proved as talkative as Whitehead was tight-lipped. He was no fan of Whitehead.

“Look around ye,” said the bartender, leaning on the edge of his bar as if he had not a customer in the place. A couple of waitresses rushed around, coping with huge trays of food. “I makes most of my money off tourists, and they don’t come up here to see tailing ponds and ugly gashes in the mountainside, boy. They don’t want to hear company jets flying overhead or eighteen-wheelers hauling ore down the river valleys. Vic Whitehead peddles a line of bull that he’s just after bringing jobs and prosperity to the people of the Yukon, and God love ’em, they need it, but he would sell out our future to the highest bidder, which these days are the Chinese. All those jobs and riches will go to China, not us. Just you watch. We’ll be like the girl at the end of the party, lying on the bed with her legs spread. Oil, natural gas, gold, diamonds, and all them rare earth metals everyone is hot for these days — all that will last just a few decades but the rape of the earth will last forever. You can never put it right again, once you’ve destroyed it.”

Frank was obviously winding up for his favourite rant, but Chris didn’t take the bait. “So Whitehead is a big supporter of mines?”