James Carol - The Quiet Man

They traded handshakes and welcome smiles.

‘I saw you on TV last night,’ Byrne said. ‘It was good to see Delaney taken down a peg or two.’

‘I take it you’re not a fan.’

‘You could say that. The TV people look down on the radio people, and the radio people look down on us poor lowly print hounds. And I’m fine with that. But Delaney is in a league of her own. The woman is a major pain in the ass. She sits up there in her ivory tower and thinks her shit smells better than everyone else’s.’

‘Rebecca heads up the crime desk,’ Anderton said. ‘She’s been here since forever. If she ever leaves then this whole building is going to come crashing down. At least that’s how the legend goes.’

Byrne’s cackling laughter was as dry as old sand. ‘It’s good to see you again, too, Laura. How’s the PI business?’

‘It has its moments.’

‘And how is our Mr Sobek?’

Anderton cracked a smile. ‘He has his moments.’

‘I’ve got to admit, your call got me curious.’

‘Which is why you’ve come to meet us personally rather than sending one of your minions.’

‘Curiosity kind of goes with the territory. So why do you want to see our back issues? Has this got anything to do with the August 5 Bomber, perchance?’

Anderton nodded. ‘Winter thinks the date is significant.’

‘If memory serves, you didn’t.’

‘He’s coming at this with fresh eyes. He might see something I missed.’

‘And that’s what I’ve always liked about you, Laura. You’ve always had an open mind. You should never have been kicked off the investigation, you know.’

‘I’m not going to disagree with that.’

‘So, do you think Freeman’s going to catch this guy?’

Anderton laughed, then turned to look at Winter. ‘You saw what she did there, right? She softens me up with a compliment, then slides her question in there real smooth, hoping I slip up and answer.’

‘Yeah, I saw.’

She turned back to Byrne. ‘There’s no way I’m going to answer that, Rebecca. I can see the headline now. DISGRACED COP RIPS INTO HER SUCCESSOR.’

Byrne shrugged and looked sheepish. She wasn’t really owning the emotion. ‘You can’t blame a girl for trying. And anyway, I’d come up with a better headline.’

‘Just so we’re clear, unless I clearly state otherwise, everything I say to you from now until the end of time is off the record. That goes for Winter, too.’

‘And just so we’re clear, if this fishing expedition nets anything I expect to be informed before my esteemed peers.’

‘That goes without saying.’

‘Actually, it does need to be said. Which is why I said it.’

‘So, where are the back issues kept?’

‘This way.’

Byrne led them down a corridor that could have been in any office building, anywhere in the world. The walls were white, the brown carpet hardwearing and cheap, the striplights too bright. A door opened and a hassled-looking guy came hurrying out, a blast of noise and chaos following in his wake. Before the door swung shut Winter caught a glimpse of the newsroom. The messy desks were laid out in neat rows and people were working the phones hard. In a lot of respects it wasn’t much different from the incident room.

The back issues were kept in a room at the end of the corridor. Byrne pushed the door open and switched on the light. It was twelve feet by twelve, bigger than a broom closet but not by much. The volumes holding the back issues were lined up neatly on the shelves. The large table positioned under the striplight in the middle of the room had a computer terminal sitting on top, and two chairs slotted underneath.

Byrne followed his gaze to the table. ‘The more recent editions are digitised, but anything before 1998 you’ll need to look up the old-fashioned way.’

‘You still keep hard copies of the current editions, though.’

‘That’s because at heart we’re still a news paper. Technology is all well and good, but you need to be careful not to lose your soul.’

‘Amen to that.’

‘Okay, I’m going to leave you to it. Remember, though, if you find anything, I want to know about it.’

Winter stood for a moment staring at the shelves. The newspaper had been founded in 1912. The early years were each represented by a single volume. By 1962 two volumes were needed, and from 1971, three. In 2006 it was back to two volumes again. He could feel the weight of all those millions upon millions of words pressing in on him. So much history. So much despair and tragedy. Some joy, but not a whole lot. This was a newspaper, after all.

So, where to start?

Anderton was staring, too, and no doubt wondering much the same thing. She walked over and reached up to the newer volumes on the top shelf. These looked a lot less ragged than those on the bottom shelf. The year of each volume was etched on the spine in gold. The Vancouver Sun was etched there, too, also in gold. The volume she was aiming for was from four years ago, the year before the murders began, which made sense. Then again, just because something made sense, it didn’t necessarily make it the right thing to do.

‘Hold up a second,’ Winter said. ‘We need to get clever or we’ll be here all night. I take it you’ve already had someone go through these.’

‘Of course.’

‘And they did exactly what you’re about to do? They started four years ago and worked from there, checking the headlines for the days around August 5 to see if anything jumped out?’

Anderton nodded. ‘That’s right.’

Winter glanced at the volumes of back issues lined up on the shelves, searching for inspiration, searching for ideas. ‘What’s the first difference between then and now?’

‘The fact that we’ve established the killer is targeting the husbands rather than the wives.’

‘Exactly. The dynamic has completely changed. We need to bear that in mind when we’re looking through the back issues.’

Anderton reached up to the shelf again.

‘Wait,’ Winter said.

Her hand froze in midair and she turned to face him.

‘We need to try a different approach,’ he went on. ‘Like Einstein once said, insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. The reason that became a maxim is because it’s true. It’s the curse of large bureaucratic organisations like the Vancouver Police Department. The two of us might be lacking in manpower, but no one will ever accuse us of being a large bureaucratic organisation. I say that we embrace our flexibility.’

‘Okay, so what constitutes a different approach?’

Winter pressed a finger against his lips to shut her up, then closed his eyes. He could sense her frustration. She was champing at the bit, anxious to get going, and he kept pulling her up. He took a couple of deep breaths and tried to clear his mind. Then he thought about Nicholas Sobek and David Hammond and Eric Kirchner, looking for the things that connected and separated them. He thought about the photo composite and the way that the three faces had been blended together to create a brand-new face. One that was similar but different. Black hair, brown eyes, early thirties. The age worked with how the killer was profiling. The hair colour and brown eyes could be taken as read. Without realising it, the killer had told them what he looked like. But what was motivating the crimes? That was the key question here. Winter opened his eyes.

‘Yesterday we were chasing a sadistic killer who got his kicks from making his victims suffer through a nightmare that’s almost impossible to comprehend. What must their last moments have been like? Sitting there waiting for the door to open and knowing that they were going to die? Any rational person would look at that situation and conclude that this guy was a complete sadist. So we fast forward to today and it’s like we’ve woken up on a brave new world. The whole landscape has changed and nothing is as we remember it. For starters, he isn’t a sadist.’