James Carol - The Quiet Man

‘All we’ve got to do now is work out what the killer sees when he’s watching them.’

‘Easier said than done.’

‘That’s why they pay us the big bucks, Anderton. What time does the records office open?’

Anderton glanced at her watch. ‘About five minutes ago.’

‘In that case, let’s hustle.’

Anderton’s contact gave the impression that he’d been working at the records office since the beginning of time. He had to be well into his sixties, maybe even pushing seventy. He was wearing a flamboyant paisley-print vest under his jacket and a bright red bow tie. His impressive moustache had curled waxed tips. He was grossly overweight, but all those extra pounds seemed to suit him. His name was Alan Smith, which was a disappointment. There was something Dickensian about him. His name should have reflected this.

His office was small but tidy. And dark. The view from the window was blocked by the neighbouring building, which also affected how much light got in. Judging by the lack of space, the two chairs in front of the desk had been brought in especially for this meeting. There was a coffee in front of each chair. White for Anderton, black for Winter. They sat down and Smith got settled in the chair on the other side of the desk.

‘It’s good to see you again, Uncle Alan.’

‘Always a pleasure, my dear. By the way, you need to phone your mother. I was having lunch with her last week and she was complaining that you never call.’

‘I spoke to her last night.’

Smith raised an eyebrow, calling her on the lie.

‘Okay, okay, I’ll phone her tonight.’

Winter was battling to keep a straight face. His own family might have been the textbook definition of dysfunctional but he knew how the theory worked. Everyone had their place in the hierarchy. It didn’t matter how old you got, those positions were set in stone. He’d just witnessed a fifty-three-year-old woman being reduced to a child again.

‘You said on the telephone that you need help with the August 5 Bomber case.’

‘That’s right. We’ve had some new information and we think it could shed light on why the date is significant.’

‘Well, anything I can do.’

Anderton gestured toward Winter, indicating that this was his show.

‘We’re going to need a list of all the women who died in the city on August 5, 1992. Ages as well.’

‘No problem. You’ll have to bear with me a second, though.’

Smith pulled the keyboard closer and went to work. In the end it took a couple of minutes to get the information and print it out. He handed the printout to Anderton.

‘Thanks. May I borrow a pen, please?’

Smith took a pen from the desk drawer and passed it over. Anderton laid the printout on the desk and Winter crowded in to get a better look. There were seven names on it. The killer’s mother would have been older than fourteen but younger than forty-five when she gave birth. Working on the assumption that the killer was the same age as Cody when his mom died, they could eliminate anyone younger than twenty-four and older than fifty-five.

That left one name. Anderton’s brown eyes were shining with hope but her mouth was shut tight. She wasn’t saying a word in case she jinxed things. Winter had a good idea of what she was feeling because he was feeling it as well. Smith, too. He’d rolled his chair as near to the edge of the desk as his gut would allow and was leaning in to get closer to the action.

‘The third name on the list,’ said Winter. ‘Catriona McDonald. Does she have any children?’

Smith ran a search. Even before he spoke, it was clear that the news wasn’t good. His shoulders sagged and he looked like someone had stolen his candy. ‘No,’ he said.

‘This could still work,’ Anderton said. ‘Try Julia Macey. Number five on the list. She would have been forty-eight when she gave birth, which is old to have a child but not outside the realms of possibility.’

Smith did another search. ‘She had two daughters. Both were in their thirties when she died.’

‘Not Julia Macey, then.’

‘It’s not over yet,’ Winter said. ‘Remember, we’re working on the fact that Myra is thirty-three and Cody is ten. The killer and his mom might have been slightly older.’

‘Or younger,’ Anderton put in. ‘Uncle Alan, can you run searches for 1991 and 1993, please?’

‘Certainly.’

Smith clicked with the mouse and pecked at the keyboard with his fat fingers. He hit enter with another flourish then walked across to the printer. There were two printouts this time. One for each year. Eight names on one, six on the other. Anderton beat Winter to the pen. When she was finished they were left with two names for 1991. She passed the printouts back to Smith and he started searching the birth register. No one was talking because no one needed to. By now they all knew their respective roles. Smith finished searching and sat up a little straighter.

‘They both had one son. Esme Brown’s was fourteen when she died. Gemma Wood’s was ten.’

‘Gemma’s son was the same age as Cody, so let’s start with her. How did she die?’

‘It says here that she had a cerebrovascular accident.’

‘Thirty is way too young to be having a stroke. Was she married?’

Smith did another search. ‘Yes, she was. To Nathaniel Wood.’

‘Run another search. See if he’s still alive. If he is, we’re going to want to speak to him.’

The small office had gone very still and quiet. Winter and Anderton were both staring across the desk at Smith. He hit the enter key. There was no flourish this time. He’d picked up on how serious this was and reeled in his eccentricities. A couple of seconds later the results pinged up onto the screen and his eyes widened.

‘Nathaniel Wood died on April 21, 1991. He was thirty-five. The cause of death was internal bleeding.’

‘Which was a little over three months before his wife,’ Anderton said.

‘It was,’ Winter agreed. ‘And if they’d been old I wouldn’t have a problem with them dying so close together. That sort of thing happens. You get two people who have spent their whole life together and are so devoted to each other that they can’t bear to be apart. When one of them dies the other just fades away.’

‘But Gemma Wood was only thirty.’

‘Exactly. And Nathaniel was only thirty-five. They’re in completely the wrong age group for something like that to happen.’

Winter jumped to his feet and headed for the door. Anderton was on her feet as well.

‘Where are we going?’ she asked.

‘The Vancouver Sun ’s offices.’

He stopped so suddenly that she almost ran into him. He turned back to Smith.

‘By the way, what’s the son called?’

It only took a couple of clicks for Smith to backtrack to the relevant page.

‘His name is William Wood.’

‘Two visits in two days, Laura. I’m honoured.’

Rebecca Byrne strode through the reception area with her arm outstretched and a grin on her face. She shook hands with both of them. Anderton first, then Winter. Today’s dress was as red as yesterday’s but a different design. If anything her lipstick was a shade brighter. It contrasted starkly against her pale, waxy skin. That two-pack-a-day voice was exactly the same, though.

‘So you want to see our back issues again. Anything you feel like sharing?’

‘Not at this precise moment,’ Anderton said.

‘But you’re making progress?’

‘I think so.’

‘You think? Either you are or you’re not.’

‘Okay, we’ve made some progress.’

‘But you’re not prepared to enlighten me.’

‘Not at this stage, no.’