Her Dark Path

by Ken Ogilvie

  He gave her a dull stare. So Cartwright hadn’t shared anything with him. “Okay, DC Bradley.” He pointed at a wooden chair opposite his desk. “Make yourself comfy. New shoes hurt if you stand in them too long.”

  She sat down. “Please, just show me.”

  “Sally pulled my files. Cartwright said he didn’t want them, although he copied the interview notes I made. Probably burned them later.” O’Reilly swept an arm towards a side table. “You’re welcome to go through the whole lot. I’m sure you won’t find much you haven’t already seen.”

  Rebecca glanced at the files and gave him a weary look. “Tell me in your own words.”

  “Don’t need to. Wrote my own summary, with a little help from Sally. You can read my other stuff too, if you want. Thoughts on the murder. Ideas Cartwright said he had no use for. Called me an amateur, but his investigation was a total bust.” He rose to his feet and strutted out of the room.

  Rebecca gazed at the imposing heap of files. More than she had anticipated. He’d antagonized Cartwright big time — a fatal mistake, especially now that Cartwright was the regional superintendent. She didn’t feel comfortable assessing the office, as well as O’Reilly’s competence, but Cartwright had insisted on it. Not that her opinion would hold any weight. She was too junior for that kind of task. He just wanted someone else to agree with him. Anyway, if assessing O’Reilly’s performance was the price of getting the case, so be it. Cartwright obviously expected her to advise office closure and instant retirement for the chief. And based on O’Reilly’s behaviour so far, Cartwright had a point. O’Reilly certainly hadn’t endeared himself with his boorish antics, but she’d met people like him in Prospect. He wasn’t as tough as he pretended. She would give him a chance.

  She kicked off her shoes, settled into O’Reilly’s chair, and grabbed the top file. His case summary had been written formally, as if he’d expected Cartwright to use it as an official document. She suddenly felt sorry for the ‘chief.’ He really had tried to play a useful role in the investigation.

  She read it slowly.

  On the morning of 12 May, 2006, Abigail McBride went out on what appeared to be her daily stroll along Hagger’s Creek in Conroy, Ontario. She left her house at 8:15 a.m., according to Agnes Jackson, an elderly neighbour across the street. She passed two townsfolk on her way to the creek, and two more when she crossed the south bridge to follow the east side path. She kept her head down and didn’t acknowledge any of their greetings.

  She should have reached the north bridge at about 8:28 a.m., but no one saw her there, and she wasn’t seen again until she entered Robbie’s Diner at approximately 8:45 a.m. Although she ordered a coffee and was seen by more townsfolk at the diner, she didn’t speak to anyone, including Robbie Johnson, the proprietor. Mr. Johnson said she acted distant, but that wasn’t unusual. She left Robbie’s at 9:05 a.m. One minute later, she entered Parker’s Grocery and shopped at a leisurely pace. She left the store at 9:16 a.m., according to staff. That was the last time anyone interviewed saw her alive.

  At 6:00 p.m., her husband, Kingsley McBride, came home from work. She wasn’t there, which surprised him, because she always had dinner ready. Mr. McBride became worried. He checked with the neighbours, and with her only close friends in town — Hound and Herman Vogel. All of them, except Mrs. Jackson, said they hadn’t seen Abigail all day. He went to find Constable O’Reilly. They went through the town and found no evidence of Mrs. McBride’s whereabouts. That evening, Constable O’Reilly filed a Missing Person Report. The following morning, local volunteers searched the town and nearby lands.

  On 14 May, police from Orillia arrived and interviewed the townsfolk. They scoured the surrounding area, using canine support, but found no trace of Mrs. McBride. CIB detectives, led by DI Cartwright, came to Conroy on 15 May. They searched for several days and came up with nothing. On 28 May, sixteen days after Mrs. McBride went missing, Mr. McBride came home from work and found his wife’s body propped upright on a kitchen chair. The autopsy said she’d been dead for two days. Rope burns and soft tissue injury to her neck were evident. Death was by asphyxiation, but there were no signs of a struggle. The coroner’s report said it was a homicide. The investigation lasted one month, then was put on hold due to lack of evidence and the need to deal with other cases.

  Rebecca closed the file and leaned back in O’Reilly’s chair. The case had stumped Cartwright, who had told her he’d found no motive for Abigail’s murder. Her husband, Kingsley, was the first suspect, but Cartwright said he seemed shaken by her death. He had no criminal record, not even a speeding ticket. And he was at his office in Conroy the day that Abigail was returned to their house, according to his private secretary. A search of his house by Constable O’Reilly soon after Abigail’s disappearance, and another, more thorough, forensics search after Cartwright and his detectives arrived, turned up nothing to suggest Kingsley had been involved with the homicide. Moreover, there was no life insurance coverage on Abigail, and no known disputes within the marriage, so Cartwright had ruled Kingsley out as the prime suspect.

  As far as anyone knew, there had been no strangers in Conroy on the day Abigail disappeared, leaving the investigation with no discernible motive for the murder, and no clear suspects. Rebecca returned to the mysterious question at the heart of the case: how had Abigail been strangled without showing any evidence of resistance?

  Cartwright had been sent away on senior management training soon after the initial investigation, so he didn’t have a lot of time to devote to the murder. He evidently had no good ideas on what to do next, but he had still kept the lead on the case, with DI Sykes’s encouragement.

  A year had passed and no progress was made.

  Now she was here and she was determined to solve this case. That would force Sykes into giving her a job in the CIB. Once there, she would track down her mother’s killer. There was also a chance that the McBride investigation might help her achieve her life’s mission sooner: there were disquieting parallels between the murders. Her mother and Abigail were both thirty-two years old when they disappeared, and they were both found later in their kitchens, strangled. It was conceivable, although a long shot, that the same killer was involved. If so, Rebecca had to know. Her main goal had always been to catch her mother’s murderer and bring him to justice, and solving Abigail’s case would boost her confidence. Joining the CIB was only a step along the way.

  Rebecca returned her thoughts to the task at hand. She found it hard to believe that nobody in Conroy had seen Abigail after she left Parker’s Grocery. Where could she have gone? Was she kidnapped? If so, why wasn’t there a ransom note? Why was she murdered? Why would someone keep her alive for two weeks, then kill her and cart her body to her own house during the day, when someone might see it? Why not bury her in the woods, where she might never be discovered?

  She sighed and focused again on O’Reilly’s files. The investigation had been thorough. Dozens of townsfolk had been interviewed, to no avail. The town and surrounding area had been searched thoroughly, and nothing was found. Kingsley McBride had been questioned several times, and his story never varied. The neighbours had been asked about their relationship, but there was no domestic strife that anyone knew about — or would admit to. Everyone in Conroy had claimed that the McBrides got along well.

  DI Cartwright had conducted a conventional investigation. But Rebecca planned to take a different approach, one that would mesh with her assignment to assess the Conroy office. She would get to know the townsfolk. Having grown up in northern Ontario, she knew how small towns worked — at least, she thought she did. Cartwright was a big city boy, Toronto born and raised. He had never hung out with small-town locals, and never would. He wouldn’t fit in. But she could. Small towns were much the same everywhere. It wasn’t easy to break into the social circles of any town, and Conroy had a particularly close feel to it. But if she got to know the people here, she was convinced she would turn up evidence that had been missed last year
.

  Chapter 5

  Hound lumbered out of Duffy’s, his eyes fixed on the ground in front of him.

  The incident brought back memories of his unhappy childhood, how it felt to be taunted by his schoolfellows and shunned by his cold family. He told himself it was all behind him now. He’d found a quiet haven in Canada, far from the devils that had plagued his youth. But he couldn’t help remembering that incident at Baysford Academy back in London, when he was ten years old . . .

  “Get lost, fat boy, you’ll never be on my team,” Albert Thatcher shrieked. His hulking protector, Harley Bronson, hovered next to him, flexing his muscles.

  A horde of schoolboys gathered round, gabbling to each other in excitement.

  Hound swallowed, his eyes watering. He stared about the yard, seeking help, but no teachers were in sight. He didn’t belong at Baysford. He would never fit in. Life wasn’t fair. No one cared what happened to him. His rage began to build and his meaty hands curled into fists.

  The world sped up and Albert’s snotty face came into focus. He was finished with being taunted and pushed around. Today, he would not retreat.

  Hound drew himself to his full height and glowered down into Harley Bronson’s small, mean eyes. A hush descended on the schoolyard.

  Harley’s snarl melted and his stance faltered. His feet braced as though preparing to run. He lowered his gaze . . .

  * * *

  Hound headed for home, just outside the town. Shorty trailed after him. “Boy oh boy, did you ever treat this town to a show.”

  Hound picked up the pace. Wisecracks were the last thing he wanted to hear right now.

  Shorty hustled to keep up. “Slow down, I’m getting tired. Hey, I’ll bet that doll with O’Reilly thinks you’re a class act.”

  Hound stopped abruptly, causing Shorty to run up against him and lose his balance. “What the—?”

  “Forget the fishing.” Hound stalked off.

  He crunched up the gravel driveway to his front door. Inside, he descended the creaky wooden steps to his library, where he slumped into his massive leather armchair. He settled back and stared at the ceiling.

  He thought about his meaningless life. Twenty-two years old and, until today, all he’d wanted was to forget the past. He still mourned Abigail. In the year since her death, he’d felt lost and unloved, just as he had in England. Abigail had been his rock. Now he was floating, without an anchor. Seeing Rebecca had made him want to move on again. He wondered briefly what it would be like to be with someone like her. But she would never pay any attention to him. He was a loser, going nowhere. What did he have to offer her, or anyone else for that matter?

  He sat on for a while, until he grew tired of wallowing in self-pity. What he needed was to bring some purpose to his life.

  Chapter 6

  Amazing news today!! I’ve been accepted for training at the police college, makes those months in Toronto as a cadet totally worth it. I’ll be a constable, and then a homicide detective. And after that, I’ll catch Mom’s murderer. Dad almost disowned me when I told him, but I know he won’t do that. I’m his only child, after all.

  — The diary of Rebecca Sarah Bradley (2002)

  It took Rebecca until the early afternoon to read through O’Reilly’s stack of files. She went to the outer office and sat at Sally Partridge’s cheap metal desk. O’Reilly offered to take her on Abigail’s route the day she disappeared, but Rebecca wanted to take her first look alone.

  “If you don’t mind, Constable O’Reilly, I would rather do it by myself. Perhaps we can go over it tomorrow in more detail.”

  His back stiffened. He retreated to his office and closed the door, very gently. Rebecca cursed under her breath. She should have been more diplomatic. He probably thought she was just like Cartwright. Well, maybe she was. She gathered up her papers and left the station.

  The McBride house was two blocks away, in the direction of Hagger’s Creek. Rebecca planned to interview Kingsley McBride today. According to the chief, Kingsley was the only chartered accountant in Conroy and handled the financial affairs of all the prominent townsfolk, including the mayor.

  When she went to Kingsley’s office, his secretary told her that he’d left town and she didn’t know when he would be back. Rebecca was certain she’d lied, but anyhow, she wasn’t overly concerned about Kingsley. DI Cartwright had checked him out thoroughly last year and he came up clean. She couldn’t waste time retracing Cartwright’s steps.

  She headed alongside Hagger’s Creek, as Abigail had done last May. Abigail seemed to have been following her daily routine — a pleasant walk, visits to Robbie’s Diner and Parker’s Grocery, then back home. Her neighbour, Mrs. Jackson, had seen her setting out, but the old lady’s eyesight was poor. Rebecca went over to sit on a vacant bench to think. If Abigail had been on her usual morning excursion, why did she ignore the people who had greeted her along the way? People that she would normally have acknowledged, even if she didn’t socialize with them. Her behaviour suggested to Rebecca that she was distressed, but what about?

  Last year, in Orillia, the McBride case had been a topic of intense debate. What was the motive? Love, hate, jealousy, revenge, money? None of these seemed to apply. What interested Rebecca most of all was that Abigail’s body had been found propped carefully upright, rather than slumped forward or sideways. Why had she been put on a chair at all? Why was she positioned so carefully? There had to be an explanation.

  Rebecca believed that the key to solving the murder was to be found in Conroy. Someone there knew what had happened, and why. Sitting Abigail on a chair wasn’t something a stranger would do. Cartwright called it sick, but it struck Rebecca as intimate, suggesting that someone who knew her had brought Abigail home.

  Rebecca fanned her face and continued along the creek. Sweat trickled down her neck and soaked her blouse. And now the deer flies swarmed out. She flailed her hands about, swatting at the winged monsters attacking her arms and legs. Added to that, a painful blister was forming on her heel.

  She wondered about the possibility that the same person had killed both Abigail and her mother. It was remote, but at least it was something she could cling to. As a cop, she wanted justice for Abigail’s death. But for her mother she wanted something else — vengeance. She wanted to look the killer in the eye and let him know that Sarah Bradley’s daughter had put him behind bars. And if she was forced to shoot the bastard in the process, so much the better. Ever since she found her mother’s body lying on the kitchen floor, Rebecca had suffered from nightmares. By her early teens, she’d convinced herself that what she needed to get rid of that horrifying image was revenge against the killer. Until that mission was fulfilled, there would be no lasting relationships for her, no children, and no close friends. Nothing to distract her.

  She got to her feet and continued on her scouting trip. Hagger’s Creek tumbled and splashed over glistening stones. The footpath was well used, with tall grass crowding the edges. It ended at the north bridge, beneath majestic weeping willows. At the bridge, Rebecca heard a gentle rustling of leaves and she stopped short, sensing someone following her. She whirled around and scanned the path, but nothing caught her attention. She watched for a few more seconds, then dismissed the eerie sensation as an overactive imagination.

  Tomorrow morning she would retrace Abigail’s entire route with O’Reilly. They would begin at the same time as Abigail had done, and she would write notes along the way. O’Reilly’s presence was essential. He’d boasted that he knew the entire town, and Rebecca needed to talk to anyone who might be implicated in Abigail’s murder. She headed back into Conroy, passing two people. She lifted a hand to wave, but they rushed on. Getting to know the locals might be tougher than she had expected.

  Two minutes later, she reached Main Street and headed south. She passed an ancient gas station with a rusty sign proclaiming Herman’s Fuel Emporium. Herman’s bland face stared at her through the spotless office window. She recognized him from Duffy�
��s, recalling that O’Reilly had told her that Herman saw Abigail pass by his station on the day she disappeared.

  Guessing he wouldn’t respond, Rebecca didn’t bother waving at him. Then she paused. She was certain that neither Cartwright’s files nor O’Reilly’s personal notes had mentioned Herman seeing Abigail that day. Why not? Had Cartwright known and forgotten to write it down? It was hard to believe. He was meticulous to a fault, and Herman was known to be one of Abigail’s close friends – a sighting like that should have been recorded. Could O’Reilly have withheld information from him, as Cartwright suspected? Maybe the ‘chief’ had slipped up when he told her. An uneasy feeling grew in the pit of her stomach.

  She made a mental note to query O’Reilly about the omission. She was beginning to understand why it was useful to look at cold cases again. People could only hide things for so long before they forgot what they had or hadn’t said. She decided to interview Herman tomorrow, when O’Reilly was with her.

  She arrived at Robbie’s Diner one minute later. It took her three minutes to get there from Hagger’s Creek. Eyewitnesses last year had placed Abigail in Robbie’s after seventeen minutes. Tomorrow she would check how far Abigail could have travelled if she’d made a fourteen-minute detour. Her uneasy feeling intensified. Something was definitely wrong.

  A man she assumed to be Robbie gave her a curt nod. She chose not to ask him any questions. She would interview him tomorrow when she returned with O’Reilly.

  To her surprise, the diner was empty. Was everyone avoiding her? That would be awful. How could she carry out her plan? She sighed inwardly, ordered coffee, and settled into a corner booth. She tried to imagine herself in Abigail’s shoes. Had she planned to leave town that day, or was she merely following her usual routine? According to O’Reilly’s case summary, nobody at Robbie’s had spoken to her, which wasn’t atypical with a woman who generally kept herself to herself. But still, it was all very perplexing to Rebecca.