James Carol - The Quiet Man

‘Also, superglue would tie in with the MO. That’s what he used to attach the door sensors. Forensic evidence would be able to confirm if that was used here.’

Winter found the business card Jefferies had given him and punched the number into his phone. The detective answered on the third ring with a curt, ‘Yeah, what is it?’

‘I’m missing you, Jefferies.’

‘Winter?’

‘And you said I’d never call.’

‘You’ve got something?’

‘Maybe. We’re across the street.’

‘I’ll be right there.’

‘I’m counting the seconds.’

They were perfectly placed to see Jefferies launch himself from the front door. He stopped for a second, searching for them, then jogged over, undressing as he went. The hood went down first, then the mask. By the time he reached Winter he was pulling off the latex gloves and scrunching them into a ball.

‘What have you got?’

Anderton fielded the question. This was her show. While they talked, Winter went back over what he’d seen inside the house, searching for that elusive something and hoping that it wasn’t an elusive nothing. He closed his eyes but all he kept seeing was Myra’s bedroom door opening, then the bright flash of the explosion. The picture in his head changed and he was now looking at Sobek’s kitchen door. Again, it opened an inch and the picture in his head disappeared in a nuclear flash. One door opens, another closes. The phrase jammed in his head, the rhythm of the words creating a melody that, in turn, became an annoying earworm that wouldn’t leave him alone. One door opens, another closes. One door opens, another closes. He was back outside Myra’s bedroom, pushing the door open. And now he was back outside Sobek’s kitchen, pushing the door open. And now he was standing with Eric Kirchner and he was about to push the door open. And now he was downstairs at Myra Hooper’s house, pulling the kitchen door open.

He felt his breath catch and his heart accelerate and tried not to get too excited. Very occasionally you got a flash of insight that changed everything, a moment of total clarity where the only thing you knew for certain was that things would never be the same again. Anderton and Jefferies had stopped talking. He had no idea how long they’d been staring at him.

‘What’s going on?’ Anderton asked. ‘You’ve got a strange look on your face.’

‘Who’s your go-to guy for bombs?’ he asked.

‘Why?’

‘Because I need to see him. Now.’

Anderton’s go-to guy turned out to be a go-to gal. Heather Barnfield had been a bomb disposal expert for the British Army until she retired ten years ago. Her husband was originally from Canada and they’d decided to relocate here to while away their twilight years. Their house was on the banks of Harrison Lake. It was only an hour and a half from Vancouver but it might as well have been a different planet. The lake was surrounded by trees and mountains and plenty of fresh air. The water reflected the sky, shimmering and shining and perfect. Boats were skimming across the surface, sails blustering. The only sounds came from the birds and the breeze.

Anderton had spent most of the journey on her cell, calling in favours and mining for information. She’d managed to establish that Myra Hooper was thirty-one and had lived in Vancouver for most of her life. There was a three-year gap while she was at college in California, and six months spent travelling in Europe, but they were the only occasions she’d spent any real time away from the city. For the last three years she’d worked as a buyer for a firm that imported coffee. She’d been living apart from her husband for six months, but neither party had filed for divorce. Add in the fact that she was still using her married name and that got Winter wondering about a possible reconciliation. Cody was at elementary school, and by all accounts doing well. His grades were good and he’d never been in any real trouble. He liked sports and was on the school’s soccer and basketball teams.

They parked next to a battered old pickup that must have had a couple of hundred thousand miles on the clock. Barnfield was waiting on the porch with a steaming mug of coffee in her hands. Her grey hair was tied up in a bun and she was wearing gold-rimmed spectacles. She could have been a librarian. Then again, looks could be deceptive. There was evidence of her previous occupation in the way that she carried herself. Her movements were economical and precise, and her brown eyes didn’t miss a thing.

She waved and called out a ‘hello’. Her accent was more working class than ruling class. Winter liked it, though. He’d always been a sucker for a British accent. She came down the porch steps to meet them, limping slightly, a Labrador at her heel. He looked more closely and noticed that her left leg was missing. Her jeans hid most of the prosthetic limb, but the sandals couldn’t hide the fact that her feet didn’t match. One was flesh and blood, the other titanium and latex. Judging by the way she moved, the limb had been amputated below the knee.

Barnfield caught him staring. ‘It’s not what you think. Shortly after we moved here I had a cycling accident. My advice, if you’re going to pick a fight with a car make sure you’re driving a lorry.’ She laughed. ‘It’s ironic, really. I spend three decades working with bombs without losing so much as a fingernail and then something like that happens.’

‘Not that it’s slowed her down any,’ Anderton put in. ‘Last year Heather ran the Vancouver marathon. How much did you raise again?’

‘Almost five thousand dollars. But that’s by the by. The real achievement was that I got a better time than Dale. I still haven’t let him forget that one.’

‘And where is Dale?’

Barnfield pointed to a boat out in the middle of the lake. It was painted blue and didn’t seem to be going anywhere any time soon.

‘That’s him out there. He tells me that he’s fishing, but he never catches anything. I think it’s just an excuse to get away from me.’ She turned back to Winter and held her hand out. ‘Heather Barnfield. You must be Jefferson Winter.’

They shook hands.

‘So, can I get you a coffee? Tea, perhaps?’

‘Coffee for me. Two sugars, please.’

‘What about you, Laura? Anything?’

‘A coffee would be good, thank you.’

Barnfield went up the stairs to the porch, one hand on the railing to keep the weight off her injured leg. There were two chairs on the porch, both pointed toward the water, a small table between. The view was spectacular. If Winter ever decided to settle down, this was the sort of place he would gravitate toward. He’d only been here for five minutes but he could already feel his thoughts and heartbeat quietening down. He accompanied her into the neat, orderly kitchen. Everything was squared away, every surface shone. The Labrador followed them in and headed straight for its bed in the corner.

The only nod to Barnfield’s previous occupation was a framed photograph on one of the walls. She was standing in the middle of a group of soldiers, everyone dressed in battle fatigues. The fierce light and the sand-blown environment indicated that this had been taken a long way from Canada. Given her age, Iraq or Afghanistan seemed most likely. She was a head shorter than her colleagues, and the only woman, but there was no question of her not belonging. She came over to where he was standing and handed him a coffee.

‘Afghanistan, November 2001,’ she said. ‘Interesting times. It was just after 9/11 and everyone was still waiting for the dust to settle. Two of the men in that photograph are dead now, killed by IEDs. Whenever I start feeling sorry for myself this reminds me that there are worse things to lose than a leg.’