by Ken Ogilvie
Rebecca closed her eyes and listened to the birds chirping. Doubt began to creep into her mind. Why did she think she could do better than the CIB detectives with all their experience? She’d done well on her detective courses, but she was still an amateur compared to them. She shook her head and told herself to stop. She would show everyone what she could do, now that she had the chance. Then she smiled to herself. She had already dug up one new piece of information that Cartwright seemed to have missed — that Abigail McBride was born to a wealthy family in the Netherlands, as Marijke van Rijn. At least, his case notes hadn’t recorded it, and just maybe this detail could lead to a clue about her murderer. If so, it was an awful oversight by him, Rebecca thought, and an opportunity for her to prove her worth.
It was getting hot, and sweat had beaded on her forehead. She checked her watch — 7:55 a.m. Time to go. The GPS indicated one minute to O’Reilly’s office. She wiped her face and pulled out, just as an old Buick blazed past from behind, almost sideswiping her Mercedes. She wrenched the steering wheel round and slewed into a shallow ditch. Shaken, she watched the Buick race towards Conroy, too fast for her to catch the licence number.
She slumped into her seat, breathing hard. It took her a few minutes to compose herself, and then she gunned the car, spraying mud. Now she’d be late for her meeting.
O’Reilly’s office was in a red brick building with a corrugated metal roof, at the south end of town. Rebecca wheeled into the gravel parking lot and came to a halt in the shade of a giant sugar maple. She studied her face in the mirror, frowning at the sprinkle of freckles that made her look younger than her age. At least her sage-green skirt, matching blazer and white cotton blouse suited her detective role. Her new Cole Haan pumps were tight on her feet, but they looked the part.
Struggling to contain her excitement, she went up two steps to a door marked Ontario Provincial Police. She knocked, and then knocked again. She peered through a dusty side window. There was no movement inside. She twisted the latch and pulled but nothing happened. She recalled her lengthy wait for Cartwright two days ago and hammered on the door.
“Damn!” It dawned on her that the only car in the parking lot was her Mercedes.
“Okay, Rebecca, he’ll be here soon enough,” she reassured herself, and meandered about the lot. She soon tired of that. She brushed twigs and dirt off the chipped concrete steps, and sat on her handkerchief. She drummed her nails on her cheekbones and watched a crow flap past, harassed by a host of sparrows. Maybe O’Reilly had been delayed on urgent police business. Still, he could have called.
The sun climbed higher in the sky. She sweated in her blazer, but was determined to leave it on until O’Reilly arrived. She wiped her face. So much for looking nice.
She checked her watch again — 8:25 a.m. Where the hell was O’Reilly? She yanked out her cell phone and punched in his office number. She heard it ring in the room behind her. An answering machine clicked on and a pleasant female voice lilted, “Ontario Provincial Police, Conroy office. Please leave a message after the beep. For emergencies call 911.”
“Crap.” She cut the call. Surely O’Reilly had a cell phone? Why hadn’t she checked that number before she left Orillia? If he didn’t arrive soon, she’d call the office and get it from the admin staff, although she really didn’t want them to know that O’Reilly had stood her up.
She got to her feet and strode to Main Street. Not a soul in sight. It was just like the movie, The Day the Earth Stood Still. She returned to the office, sat on the step and patted her neck. The tissues were wet through instantly with sweat. She could sure use a glass of cold water right now. And where in God’s name was O’Reilly?
At 8:40 a.m., just as she was stabbing at her cell phone to call Orillia, an aging Chevy Impala with mud-covered OPP markings careened off Main and charged into the lot. It skidded to a stop in front of her, blowing dust into her face. A car door opened and closed. A mid-fifties man in a tight-fitting uniform emerged through the swirling cloud. He swaggered over and peered down at her, smirking, his feet planted like goal posts. “Let me guess.” He raised a finger to his cheek. “The rookie detective from Orillia. Here to solve the McBride case.”
She coughed out a lungful of dust, struggled to her feet and thrust out her hand. “Constable Jack O’Reilly, I presume.”
He snorted. “Sure as hell ain’t Livingstone.” He seized the hand and gripped it tightly. “Just so you know up front, people in this town call me ‘chief.’ You can call me Senior Constable O’Reilly.” He grinned.
Rebecca shot him a frosty look. She was good at those. “Detective Constable Bradley.” She extracted her hand and felt her face flush. “You’re late. Not got a cell phone?”
His reply was gruff. “Important matters. Anyway, nothing in Conroy happens on time. You’ll get used to it. And, yes, I do have a cell phone. They call them mobiles in England, did you know that? It’s with Sally, my assistant. She knows where to find me.” He edged closer.
Rebecca held her ground. There were plenty of alpha male types in Orillia, but O’Reilly was overdoing it. “Maybe in future we can meet on time, if that’s not asking too much.” She matched his combative gaze with a hard stare.
“All business, eh? Officially, work here begins at nine.” He made a show of studying his watch. “Half an hour to kill. First thing I do is Duffy’s. Coffee and doughnuts, like all self-respecting police officers. Care to join me?”
She sighed. “I wouldn’t want to disrupt your daily routine. I take it Duffy’s is the hot spot for local gossip.” There was no point in trying to hide her sarcasm. O’Reilly was an irritating son of a bitch, and he knew it. Things were going to be lively between them.
He didn’t disappoint. His watery blue eyes opened wide. “Amazing. Detective skills are rare in these parts. You’ll have the case licked by noon. I’m just a small-town cop. I didn’t go to no fancy police college.” He pushed his double chin out.
Rebecca held her tongue with difficulty. She wasn’t impressed with O’Reilly’s lack of professionalism so far. Maybe Cartwright had a point after all. O’Reilly cast her an amused look and strutted towards his Chevy. “Hop in. Ride’s on me. Don’t say thanks. It’s just one of the many services I provide.”
Rebecca counted to three and followed him to the car. She tugged on the passenger door handle. Nothing happened. She sucked in a breath and pulled harder. A slight movement. Through the dusty window, she saw O’Reilly jiggle his hand. She got it — shake the handle and jerk on it at the same time. The door screeched horribly and opened just enough for her to slide in. In a puff of dust she sat down and began slapping grime off her skirt.
O’Reilly cleared his throat and eyeballed her Mercedes. “My Rolls is at the garage. Although your little number looks like it could use a good wash.” He laughed heartily and gunned the Chevy. The car lurched forward, and Rebecca’s head thumped back against the seat. She scrabbled to fasten her seat belt.
They motored sixty yards along Main and swerved into an uneven tarmac lot. Rebecca seized the door handle and hung on as the Chevy suddenly braked, catapulting her into the safety belt. She fired an incredulous look at O’Reilly. “You drove half a block just to get here?”
He placed a chubby hand over his heart. “Can’t get your new shoes dirty now, can we?”
Chapter 3
Thaddeus Hounsley, known to folks in Conroy as ‘Hound’ for his hobby of tracking wild animals, lowered his gargantuan frame into a chipped plastic chair. He tossed a comic book onto the table and waved at Daisy, who reached for an ice cream scoop to make his usual chocolate milkshake.
Duffy’s was filling up. Across the aisle, Shorty Davis and Lukas Walker, Hound’s friends and former schoolmates, were engaged in a verbal sparring match, their heads almost colliding over the table. Four years after graduation they still behaved like schoolboys.
Shorty leaned back in his chair and glanced sideways at Hound. “Hound,” he whispered, “When are we going fishing again
? I need to get away from this town and the jerks that live here — one of them anyway.” He nodded at Lukas.
Hound blinked rapidly and swivelled to face Shorty. His chair cracked like a rifle shot, briefly quelling all conversation in the room. “We can go tomorrow morning, Shorty. Meet you out front of Herman’s. Six sharp.”
Shorty turned to Lukas and raised a stubby middle finger.
The chatter bubbled up again. All the local wags and gossips were there, most of them retired or middle-aged and exhausted from scratching out a living in a dying town. The last decent jobs had disappeared twenty-five years ago when Conroy’s sawmill had closed. Young people fled town as soon as they could break free of their weary families. Hound felt sorry for the survivors – if they could be called that.
Daisy brought Hound’s milkshake to him and cast a rueful look at his busted chair. He hung his head, until the squealing of tires made him look up.
O’Reilly’s Chevy slid to a stop. The chief flung open his door and wriggled free. He stretched out his arms and turned his face to the sun, a beatific smile on his ruddy face. Nothing unusual about that, but the smartly dressed young woman he was with was a revelation. She squeezed through the half-open passenger door, then reached into the car and dragged out a shiny leather briefcase. She slammed the door shut, glared across the hood at O’Reilly, and smoothed her skirt and jacket with her free hand.
“Morning, Daisy.” O’Reilly strutted into the shop, nodding and smiling at the patrons as though he’d won an Olympic medal. “Got a special visitor, all the way from Orillia — DC Rebecca Bradley. We’ve come to take a look at Conroy’s finest dining establishment.”
Every face in the room turned towards Rebecca. Hound thought she seemed uneasy, angry even. Whatever, she was a total stunner. She was a couple of inches over medium height, with shoulder-length auburn hair, slender and athletic-looking. He rolled her name around in his head. Rebecca. He’d never met anyone with that name before. He liked it.
“What’ll it be, chief?” Daisy winked at Rebecca.
O’Reilly continued to survey the room. “A large coffee — you know how I take it. And one of your famous jelly doughnuts.” He turned to the woman. “How ’bout you, Officer Bradley? It’s on me.”
Rebecca fired him a glacial look. “Thanks.” She didn’t sound grateful. “I’ll have a coffee, black. And a glass of water, please.” She made for the nearest table.
O’Reilly harrumphed.
Rebecca stopped and turned, one eyebrow raised.
He pointed to a corner booth. “That one will do nicely.”
She ignored him and continued to her table, while a buzz of voices broke out around her.
Hound’s eyes widened. Spunky. Challenging O’Reilly? Hound liked that. Fascinated, he watched her open the briefcase and extract a folder. Instead of reading it, she fanned her face nonchalantly.
O’Reilly narrowed his eyes. “Have it your way.” He straightened his shirt and marched like a parade soldier to her table, shoulders squared. Daisy fell in behind, mimicking him, loaded tray balanced on one hand.
O’Reilly settled into the chair opposite Rebecca and held out a hand for his doughnut. Daisy placed it on his upturned palm, and set two coffee mugs and a glass of water on the table. With a friendly nod at Rebecca, followed by a quick roll of her eyes at O’Reilly’s imperious behaviour, she retreated to the front counter.
Hound inched lower in his chair and dragged his milkshake towards him, studying Rebecca’s distorted figure through the half-empty glass.
“Great weather for this time of year, but hot as Hades, eh?” O’Reilly bit into his doughnut, oblivious to the blob of red jelly that plopped onto his shirt. Rebecca seemed to focus on a wisp of steam that curled up from her coffee mug.
Hound listened attentively, eager to hear her voice again.
“You’ll want to interview the townsfolk, right? Well, some key people are here now. Like Daisy Plum. She knows just about everything that goes on in this town. And the guy sitting alone over there is Herman Vogel. He saw Abigail McBride pass by his gas station on the day she went missing. Then there’s Charlie Taylor, the mayor, at the packed table along the far wall. Great friend of mine. Lots more people I could name. You could say I know everyone in this town.”
Hound watched Rebecca flip open her folder and scribble something down. She had delicate hands and wore an elegant watch on her slender wrist. He wondered why she was here. The last time a detective came to Conroy was after Abigail’s murder. He swallowed hard, the memory of his former best friend always made him sad.
“When we’re finished,” O’Reilly was saying, “I’ll take you to my office. Show you how real detective work’s done.” He finally spied the blob of jelly and dabbed at it, leaving a purple smear.
The coffee shop patrons continued their low-pitched chatter, sneaking glances at Rebecca from time to time. She sipped her coffee while O’Reilly demolished the rest of his doughnut. That done, he wiped his hand across his mouth and peered into her mug. “Ready to go?” He looked happy again, pleased with himself. Hound knew what he was like — his mood changed from moment to moment.
Rebecca snapped her briefcase shut and got to her feet.
Hound jerked upright in his seat. She was looking directly at him. His thick legs smashed into the table and he toppled back, shattering the weakened plastic chair. One flailing arm knocked over his milkshake as he crashed to the floor, the frothy liquid running over the table edge and pouring over him.
The rest of the locals burst out laughing, pointing and mimicking Hound’s fall. Tears streamed down Shorty’s cheeks. Only Lukas sat calmly, watching Hound, the faintest hint of a smile lifting one corner of his mouth.
Daisy rushed forward, waving a dishtowel.
Hound’s shoes slipped on the greasy floor as he scrambled to his feet. Blushing furiously, he took Daisy’s towel and wiped his neck, but his eyes never left Rebecca as she left the shop. The Chevy rumbled to life. She peered through the car window at him, and a soft smile touched her face.
Mortified, Hound wrenched his head away. All his life, people had laughed at him. He’d just discovered that sympathy was even worse.
* * *
“Who was that?” asked Rebecca.
“The big guy’s called Hound,” said O’Reilly, still guffawing. “Like the dog. Helps me out when I ask. Routine patrols, petty crimes. Useful lad. Did some training to become an auxiliary officer. An unusual character, even for this cockeyed town. Not someone to tangle with when he’s riled, though. No siree, Bob.”
Chapter 4
I had a massive fight with Dad today. He wants me to go to uni and get a business degree, then come back and help him run his stupid gold mines. But I’ve got other ideas. I told him I’d be applying for a job as a police cadet. Then I’ll train at the college in Aylmer to become a constable, and then a detective. He wouldn’t listen to me, he just stormed out of the room.
— The diary of Rebecca Sarah Bradley (2000)
O’Reilly zipped his Chevy into the OPP lot and stomped on the brakes. Rebecca pitched into her seat belt again. She cursed silently, trying to ignore his grin of triumph. She knew she shouldn’t let O’Reilly’s childish stunts bother her. They did, though, didn’t they? He knew exactly which levers to pull. She recalled Cartwright’s parting shot. “Watch out for O’Reilly.” He couldn’t have treated Cartwright this way, surely?
O’Reilly went to the station door, unlocked it, and bowed low. Rebecca brushed past and found herself in a clean and orderly room.
“My assistant, Sally Partridge, does the filing, in case you’re wondering why everything’s so spiffy. Sweeps up doughnut crumbs and gets rid of coffee cups. Wouldn’t want you to get the impression it’s me. But the good ol’ days are about to end, thanks to the new superintendent. First thing he did was cut my budget. Sally’s job’s kaput, officially, but I’ll keep her on part-time anyway. Go over budget and see what the bastard says.”
“I se
e you’ve heard about DI Cartwright’s promotion,” Rebecca said casually.
“Huh?”
“Last month. He’s now the central region superintendent.”
“Sonofabitch. Just skimmed the circular. Didn’t pay attention to the name.” O’Reilly wasn’t smiling now.
“He went for a year of senior management training, right after he led the McBride investigation. The youngest superintendent on the force. A good friend of mine too.” Oh, why had she said that?
O’Reilly hoisted a shaggy brow. “Friends in high places. How nice for you.” He raised his nose in the air. “A stuffed shirt, that’s what he is. Did a lousy job on the McBride investigation. Marched about like he owned the town. Should’ve stayed in Orillia.” He headed for his private office.
Rebecca couldn’t let him get away with this. “What did you expect him to do? One month and not a shred of worthwhile evidence found. Was that his fault?” She stood at the door and glowered at him. “Well, was it?”
He flopped down onto a worn leather chair. “Who are you, anyhow?” He leaned forward and shoved his face at her. “How can you afford those expensive clothes and a fancy car on your pathetic salary? Why do you even do this work, Constable Bradley?”
Through clenched teeth, she said, “Take it easy, Senior Constable O’Reilly. Your job is to help me on this case. What I wear and what I drive is none of your business. As you already know, I’ve been appointed Detective Constable for this assignment. Temporary, but official. It’s ‘DC’ Bradley to you. Now show me anything Cartwright hasn’t already provided. I’m sure you’ve seen his files.”