Inspector Green Mysteries 9-Book Bundle (288 page)

“Are they close?”

She chuckled and drew another puff. “I hope not. He’s dead. Way before Scott was born. In fact, his father was just a baby.”

“What was he doing up there?”

“I have no idea! We’re talking sixty years and four husbands ago! I think he was one of those bushmen chasing gold or something. One winter he just …” She snapped her fingers. “Vanished.”

“Are there any relatives still up there that Scott could be in touch with?”

“Never heard of any. Look, I don’t know what he’s up to. I haven’t known what he was up to since he was six years old.”

“You’ve had no contact with him?”

She thrust her lower lip out in a gesture more combative than rueful. “Some. But like I said, that was four husbands ago. Lot of water under the bridge.”

Bob looked flummoxed. Even after eight years on the job, he still clung to a rosy view of motherly love. Wasn’t it innate? Universal?

Sue could see he was about to say something stupid, so she leaned forward. “What happened?”

“Life. Men.” Veronica blew out a stream of smoke. “Too many adventures, too little time.”

Sue waited.

“Look, it’s not like I miss him. I hardly know him. He hasn’t been a part of my life in nearly a quarter century.”

Still Sue held herself in check. The old Sue would have barged in, demanding to know details of the custody agreement and the reason for the estrangement, but she’d learned a thing or two about patience while lying in pieces in a hospital bed and struggling to put one foot in front of the other in rehab. This woman had a story to tell, but only if she chose to.

“So what’s the deal?” Veronica said finally. “What’s he done up on the Nahanni?”

“Scott is leading a group of friends on a wilderness canoe trip, and they seem to have disappeared.”

“What do you mean by disappeared?”

Sue explained about the broken canoe and the lack of sightings. Veronica looked unperturbed. “He’ll show up. Once he ran away from home when he was three years old. Wanted to go somewhere he wasn’t allowed, and threw one hell of a tantrum. He was gone six hours, the cops were looking all over town, but then he walks through the front door cool as a cucumber. He’d been down where he wasn’t allowed. The gravel pit on the far side of town, collecting rocks. Miles away.”

Bob was frowning. “You think he’s doing this to punish someone?”

“No, no. It’s just when he got an idea into his head, he’d go full steam ahead on it. Didn’t think about anyone else, but smart enough to get himself out of anything.”

“Was he close to his father?”

“Oh yeah. Because his father gave him everything. Said he was a genius and we had to encourage that. William was a two-bit lecturer making peanuts and taking a dog’s life to finish his degree. The younger guys were all passing him by. He was never going to go places.” She stubbed the cigarette out with sharp, angry jabs. “I blame his mother for that. She was a bitter old hag stuck in the past, never could get over losing her husband. Blamed everyone but the fool himself. The Indians were lying, the RCMP were incompetent. It was all one big cover-up. She taught her son to complain about what could have been instead of grabbing what could be. That’s why I had to get out.”

Sue saw a thread of a lead. When Bob didn’t pick it up, she leaned in. “Was Scott interested in these stories about the Nahanni and his grandfather?”

Veronica reached for the cigarette pack. Twiddled a cigarette longingly, but didn’t light it. She shrugged. “Could be. Scott asked me once, when he was a kid, if his grandfather had been murdered. That was my mother-in-law’s pet theory. His body was never found so she figured someone had deliberately got rid of it. Wacky stuff. Nobody paid any attention to her, including the cops, I heard.”

Sue saw Bob jot something in his notebook. “What did the cops think?” she asked.

“Beats me. I turned a deaf ear when she started up. So did William. Been doing that all his life, I think. He’d never have passed it on to Scott.” She finally stuck the cigarette in the corner of her mouth. “William used to say that Scott got all his brains, but my energy and my character. Properly harnessed, he said, Scott could go places we could only dream of.” She paused and her painted lips parted in a mischievous smile. “I was a bit of a wild thing, truth be told. Those tantrums? They were mine. And the spirit, the stubbornness. I could see it all in Scott, and I think that’s what scared William more than anything. That if I stuck around, all that would rub off on him. The extremes, the passion, the blackness. The hunger for more.” She shrugged. “He was probably right. I had no patience for runny noses and soccer games and all those fucking questions, ‘Why?’ The kid was better off without me, even if it pissed me right off to hear the judge agree with him.”

Bob was looking thoughtful and Sue could see he was working up to something. She gave him an encouraging look.

“This is an awkward question,” he said. “We’re trying to gather as much information as we can about Scott’s motives and his state of mind. You mentioned his tantrums and extremes. Do you think there could be any instability — I mean, is there any history of mental illness on either his grandmother’s or father’s side, or…?”

She flushed. “Mental illness. Mental illness. Fuck, that’s a condescending term. Like it’s something to whisper behind curtains. Wacko. Nuts. Those are nice, clear words. William is as sane and boring as anyone I’ve ever known. If Scott is wacko, he got it from Lydia or me. But look at me.” She spread her arms to encompass her luxury bungalow, her pool, and the Northumberland Strait lapping the shore just beyond. “I’ve done all right for myself. Just don’t bore me. Or cross me.”

“Not sure all that’s very helpful to the inspector,” Bob said as they tucked into a huge bucket of mussels. Fresh homemade bread sat at their elbow, ready to soak up the tomato garlic sauce, and two glasses of crisp Pinot Gris glowed in the setting sun. Beyond the patio, the ocean licked over the rocks and seaweed of low tide, and gulls wheeled overhead. The rich smells of salt, seaweed, and garlic mingled in the air.

Sue savoured a mussel. “The grandfather’s death is a lead he can follow up on up there,” she said.

“The man is worried sick about his daughter. There’s got to be more we can do down here.”

She reached for his hand, turned it over, and stroked his palm. “Can we talk about this later? First things first. Food, wine, and then … maybe …”

He laughed then, and his fingers tightened around hers. She managed to keep his attention focused on her, and on the spectacular food, until their dessert arrived. Homemade cinnamon apple pie with ice cream oozing down its sides, a dessert straight out of her own small-town Ontario childhood. But after three bites, he thrust it away and pulled out his cellphone.

“After I make this report, the evening will be all yours.”

Sue’s twinge of irritation vanished when she heard Inspector Green’s hello on the line. If Bob had had to leave a message, God knows when he’d call back and what he’d be interrupting.

Bob flipped open his makeshift notebook, all business. “Any news, sir? Oh … w-well, it’s early…. No, we didn’t have much luck at this end either. I mean, yes, we found the mother but she doesn’t know much. She hasn’t lived with her son since he was six…. No, she didn’t seem worried.” Bob passed on the mother’s story about Scott’s stubborn streak and her apparent total lack of interest in her son. “She didn’t ask a single question about him, and I got the impression she wouldn’t lose a wink of sleep over his disappearance.”

“Don’t forget the grandfather,” Sue whispered.

“What? N-no, sir, that was Sue, reminding me. The one thing the mother showed any interest in was the fact Scott was going to the Nahanni. His grandfather disappeared up there, but that was years ago. Scott never knew him.” Bob extended his fork and carved off a mouthful of pie. “No, sir, no relatives, but I did find out some background on Scott’s parents. I don’t know if it’s relevant, but do you want…? Y-yes, sir.” He flipped back a few pages in his notebook.

“The father was born in Whitehorse in 1944, but moved to Vancouver early on and went to school there. I guess that was after the grandfather died. He met Scott’s mother, Veronica, there, but she’s from Prince George…. I don’t know, sir. She’s ten years younger than him. They got married in Vancouver, June 3rd, 1979, and Scott was born October 24th, 1980. William Lasalle — that’s Scott’s father — got his B.A. from Simon Fraser University in 1970, his M.A. in 1979, and Ph.D. in 1988, both from the University of British Columbia.”

Listening to Bob’s succinct summary, Sue did the math in her head. William Lasalle had been a late bloomer, both in marriage and in educational achievement, and there was a peculiar, nine year gap between his B.A. and M.A. that seemed long even for the poorest or most lackadaisical student. The pregnancy had come hard on the heels of the marriage but not within nine months. Veronica had been ten years younger than him, and her speech and current lifestyle suggested a woman far less interested in education and ideas that he was.

Sue could understand Veronica’s interest in him. For one thing, where men were concerned, she seemed pretty indiscriminate. If it walked upright, it was a candidate. For another, Veronica was from a rough logging town in the middle of nowhere. Her choice had probably been between mill workers and fishermen. An older man with not just one university degree but two must have seemed like the perfect catch.

On the other hand, what had William seen in her? Her zest and passion? Her sex appeal? Sue tried to imagine Veronica before the assault of advancing years. Without the leathery skin, the over-bleached hair, and garish makeup. Without the ripples of fat where once there had been curves.

The marriage had lasted a mere eight years. A mismatch that had probably been a disappointment for both of them. Sue dismissed the small niggle of doubt that crept into her own thoughts as she looked at her own brand new husband, so stiff, formal, and unsure of himself on the phone. When he was with her, he never stammered, yet he could barely manage a single report to the inspector without tripping over his words. Gibbsie and she were as different as earth and wind, and yet they shared the same passions: solving crimes, catching bad guys, helping victims to find justice. Drummed into them by that man on the other end of the phone.

She thought about how they had both reacted to the inspector’s request. With only the barest flicker of hesitation, they had interrupted their holiday to lend him a hand.

Even now, as she listened to Gibbsie’s fumbling answers over the phone, she knew it was not over. There were more questions to answer, more background to unearth, if they were to get to the core of Scott Lasalle. Veronica had revealed a lot about the influences that had shaped his early years, but her insights stopped at age six. Sue could almost hear the inspector’s voice inside her head. Find out more about the grandfather. The grandmother. Other relatives.

If anyone knew what Scott was up to and why, she and Bob would be trying to find them. That was the message behind Green’s questions. She smiled ruefully as she watched the coral ocean slowly fade to grey on this working honeymoon day. There was more work to be done.

Fort Simpson, July 14

When Chris Tymko finally arrived back at Fort Simpson it was 8:00 p.m. The sky was still bright but his shift was long over and an ice-cold beer on his deck was calling to him. He planned to stop off at the detachment office only long enough to file a brief report on the Jean Marie River call — a toddler gone missing but fortunately found unharmed and fast asleep in a neighbour’s shed.

However, he was surprised to see a familiar Jeep parked next to a cruiser in the gravel parking lot, and when he pulled up next to it, the driver’s door opened. Out stepped Hunter Kerry, the Eagle Air pilot he’d spoken to about the Lasalle/Pollock case. He knew Hunt casually through local fishing derbies and charity air shows, but the man remained an enigma to him. Ex-military, Hunt was generous with his time for a good cause but he kept to himself. He was rumoured to cultivate his personal supply of marijuana in his bungalow outside of town, but no one had ever been invited inside. He seemed happiest when he was in the air, but he hunkered down in the cockpit of his Otter as if he was still in enemy territory. Chris suspected he clung to his own rule of law and survival. Don’t trust anyone.

Hunt opened the cruiser door and slipped in beside him. In his hand he held a small black canvas satchel.

“They told me inside you were due in around eight, so I figured I’d catch you before.”

With Hunt, it was wise to know all the subtext. In the evening light, he studied the man. Pupils normal, speech clear. No smell of booze or pot. He grinned. “Avoiding the sarge, are you?”

Hunt flushed. “I didn’t want this too official if it didn’t have to be.”

“What?”

“I got a voicemail this morning on the company line from some Ottawa cop, name of Inspector Green?”

Chris nodded, volunteering nothing.

“He wanted info on that missing party of canoeists I flew into Moose Ponds.”

Still Chris volunteered nothing.

“I figured I’d rather talk to you about it than some brass from national headquarters. I mean, it’s your case. So I figured you should be in on it. What’s Ottawa’s interest anyway?”

“That cop is not on the job. He’s a city cop, not RCMP. Hannah Pollock is his daughter.”

“Oh.” Hunt fingered the black satchel, pulling the zipper open and closed. “Well, anyways, I already told you everything I know.”

Chris knew Hunt had not lain in wait for him that evening just to relay that message. He thought he saw a flash of relief on Hunt’s face when he’d heard there was no national-level investigation. He nodded at the bag. “What’s this? You mug an old lady?”

The man glanced at the bag in his lap. “There’s not much in it. It’s a waterproof pouch, the kind boaters carry everyday stuff they need to keep dry. Medical first aid, spare batteries, repair kit …”

“Typical old lady stuff. Does it belong to one of the canoeists?”

“Oh, I didn’t take it! No, no! Don’t get that idea. I found it under the seat, when I cleaned out the plane back at my dock.”