by Ken Ogilvie
— The diary of Rebecca Sarah Bradley (2002)
The storm clouds had cleared. Rebecca left Duffy’s and strolled along Main to O’Reilly’s office, shaking her head. Hound was awkward, but no fool. She sensed he was holding back a tremendous amount of energy, like a pressure vessel about to blow.
When she entered the office, O’Reilly was ensconced in his private room, with his face hidden behind the Orillia Packet and Times. She went in and planted herself in front of him.
“Good morning, Constable O’Reilly.”
He lowered the paper. “Top of the morning to you too, DC Bradley.” His words were uttered through clenched teeth. Rebecca sensed that something bad was about to happen.
“I hear you’re planning to close up my shop.”
Rebecca’s heart sank. This wasn’t just bad, it was awful. How had he found out? Her review of his office, and him, was supposed to be a secret.
She could think of nothing to say, except, “Let’s just get on with retracing Abigail’s route.”
He leaned back and glared at her. Then he shrugged. “Okay, let’s boogie. Snappy outfit, by the way. Shall we take your shiny new convertible or my old Chevy?”
“Yours will do.”
“Well then, everything’s just fine.” He tossed the newspaper on the floor and stormed past her.
She followed him out to his car and they drove in strained silence to Abigail’s house. Rebecca noticed Mrs. Jackson peering at her from across the road as O’Reilly wandered about the yard, his hands jammed deep in his pockets, until it was time to set off.
Rebecca started towards Hagger’s Creek, with O’Reilly trailing behind her, whistling tunelessly. She could tell he was hurt. How had he found out about her assignment? He must know someone close to Cartwright.
They reached the creek and crossed the south bridge, where the tension became too much for Rebecca. She turned back to face him. “Look, Constable O’Reilly, we have to work together on this case.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Of course. Why would you think otherwise?”
She didn’t know what to say.
“Just because I’m angry doesn’t mean I won’t help,” he continued.
Rebecca apologized. “Could you describe what you did, how you carried out your search after Abigail disappeared?”
To her relief, he quit sulking. “At first I wasn’t concerned. People often go missing for hours, even days, and then they show up. But Kingsley persisted. He told me he was really worried, it was uncharacteristic of her. I hiked Abigail’s path along Hagger’s Creek, looking for signs that someone had strayed off it, but didn’t find anything. The next morning, I asked Hound, the milkshake guy at Duffy’s, to go over the path. He’s a gifted tracker and spends hours in the countryside hiking off into the bush to follow animals, or whatever. He confirmed that nobody had moved off the path for at least a day.”
“Why didn’t you record it in your case notes?” Was this another slip by the chief? They were starting to pile up.
He gave Rebecca a sharp look. “No need. My observations were accurate. If Hound had said otherwise, I would’ve noted it.”
She decided not to press the point. “All right. Anyway, I’ve arranged to interview Hound later this morning, at his house.”
O’Reilly shrugged.
They were now nearly halfway to the north bridge. The day was heating up fast. Deer flies once again swarmed about Rebecca’s head, apparently preferring her to O’Reilly. She quickened her pace to shake them off.
“You have the names of the people Abigail met on her walk,” O’Reilly said. “I’ll set up interviews.”
“Not yet, please. I don’t intend to cover all the same ground that you did. I’m trying to approach the case from a different angle. But please continue with your account.”
“After leaving the path, Abigail went straight to Robbie’s Diner.”
“How long did it take Abigail to get from the north bridge to Robbie’s?” She slowed to match O’Reilly’s pace.
“About fifteen minutes, more or less.” He sounded hesitant.
“I walked it yesterday, Constable O’Reilly. It took me three minutes. Eyewitnesses at Robbie’s said she arrived at around 8:45 a.m. That would mean she took seventeen minutes to get from the north bridge to Robbie’s. If she took that long, what happened during those extra fourteen minutes? Where could she have gone? Not far on foot, obviously. She might have stopped to talk to someone. But if so, who was it, and why didn’t they come forward? Perhaps someone picked her up in a car. But who, and why, and where would she go?”
He shrugged. “The car explanation’s possible. But, I repeat, nobody saw her, except like I told you earlier, Herman Vogel. He saw Abigail pass by his station at 8:30. I checked out the entire area after that. I walked five minutes at a brisk pace either side of the route between Herman’s and Robbie’s, and found nothing. After Herman’s, Abigail must’ve headed to Robbie’s, just a whole lot slower than usual. Then she went to Parker’s, and that’s when she disappeared.”
Rebecca was certain he was hiding something.
“I want to interview Mr. Vogel. Let’s go see him.”
O’Reilly spoke curtly. “Suit yourself. You won’t get much out of him. He’s a tight-lipped sort.” He lengthened his stride and marched towards the gas station.
Herman was standing inside, watching them through the window. “Good day, Herman. Detective Constable Rebecca Bradley of the Ontario Provincial Police is with me. We’re doing a follow-up investigation on Abigail.”
Herman’s office surprised her. Everything in it was neatly stacked and labelled.
“Mr. Vogel, I hope you don’t mind answering a few questions. It won’t take long.”
Herman’s eyes were moist and red, his eyelids puffy. His face was pallid and grey, and his shoulders and back were stooped like an old man, but on closer examination, Rebecca estimated his age at about sixty. He must be sick, or perhaps he was suffering from heavy stress of some sort. She wondered if it was linked to Abigail’s death.
Herman slowly replied. “No, Miss, I will help you, if I can.” He seemed hesitant to talk, and his lips were quivering.
“Thank you. Now, I understand that Abigail McBride passed by your station on the morning she went missing. Can you tell me what time that was?”
“I told Chief O’Reilly. It was 8:30.”
“Exactly 8:30? Did you look at a clock, or your watch?”
Herman spoke with a pronounced Dutch accent. “Ja. I saw the clock on the wall. I always keep the time fine. It is my way.”
“Yes, thank you, I can see that. So if Mrs. McBride passed here at 8:30, she should have arrived at Robbie’s Diner a minute later, two at most. Witnesses say she arrived at 8:45. Do you have any idea why that might be?” Rebecca gave him an encouraging smile.
O’Reilly stepped in front of Herman. “You know, DC Bradley, we’re not sure about Abigail’s exact arrival time at Robbie’s. Like I said, she must have slowed up after passing the station and arrived later than usual. There’s only ten minutes or so that need accounting for. Maybe she just sat somewhere and had a rest.” O’Reilly pursed his lips. He looked uncomfortable.
Rebecca glared at him. “And like I told you, Constable O’Reilly, fourteen minutes. That’s a lot of missing time, no matter how you cut it. Where could she have gone?” She looked around him at Herman. “Have you any idea, Mr. Vogel?”
He stared through the office window and spoke in a distant voice. “No, I could not say. I am sorry, Miss.”
O’Reilly intervened again. “I think we should move on, DC Bradley.”
This made Rebecca angry, but she gave in. “Thank you, Mr. Vogel. Perhaps we can talk another day.”
Herman didn’t respond.
Outside, she turned and glowered at O’Reilly.
He spoke quickly. “Constable Bradley, you should know that Herman and Abigail were very close. Both of them came from the Netherlands. They talked a lot about what
they called the ‘old country.’ Other than Kingsley, I don’t know anyone in town who’s been there, except now that I think about it, perhaps Hound. Otherwise, why would he spend so much time with Abigail? I’ve often wondered about that.”
“Why Hound?” And she thought: So you did know about Abigail’s past, and Hound’s long-term friendship with her.
O’Reilly sighed. “I don’t know. But he and Abigail used to chat for hours on end. I have no idea what they talked about. Hound’s never told me much about himself, and I’ve never tried to find out. Abigail told me he’d had a difficult childhood and wanted to forget things. Her death was hard on him. But now I wish I’d spent more time with him on the investigation last year. Like most people, Abigail had depths to her that didn’t show on the surface, but if anyone knew about them, it would be Hound.”
“You seem to have a great regard for Hound, Constable O’Reilly. Why? Because he helps you?”
“Yes, when I call on him. But he’s different. Some call him strange, but I think special is a better word. You’d understand that if you got to know him.”
“What do you mean? Why is he special?” Rebecca instinctively put a hand on O’Reilly’s arm.
He looked down, and she pulled it away. “I can’t pin it down, really. He’s like a child of nature. He’s really competent when he sets his mind to something, like tracking animals. He’s deeper than you might think. Certainly not the goofball you saw at Duffy’s.”
“Tell me more.”
This was a mistake, Rebecca realized when O’Reilly said, “You’re interviewing him later. Find out for yourself.” Then he clammed up.
Rebecca shrugged. “Have it your way. But why did you interfere with my interview? Herman was really tense. I want to find out why, and I will. He knows something, I’m sure of it.”
O’Reilly grunted. “If you say so.”
“And why didn’t you record in your case summary that Herman saw Abigail pass by his station?”
He studied the ground. “No reason, DC Bradley. An oversight. You can tell Cartwright I’m a negligent note-taker.”
“Constable O’Reilly, I’m not going to get anywhere if I go over the same ground as the original investigation team. I need to follow new leads.”
“Fine, then. Just be careful not to hurt innocent people along the way.”
Rebecca bristled. “Okay, if that’s how you feel about it.” She moved off, with O’Reilly trailing along behind. The people they interviewed at Robbie’s told them nothing new, and no one at Parker’s had anything to say.
This seemed to please O’Reilly, and he bustled back to his office. Rebecca was fuming. He’d stopped her questioning Herman. Why? She would try again when O’Reilly wasn’t with her.
She set off to find Hound’s house, frowning. Something had happened last year that linked Abigail, Herman, and O’Reilly, and Hound might also figure into it. Rebecca’s suspicious mind started to work overtime.
Chapter 11
I’m on tenterhooks. DI Cartwright’s coming back to give a series of lectures at the college and he’ll be staying here all next week. I hope he remembers me!!
— The diary of Rebecca Sarah Bradley (2003)
Hound’s secluded home was not far from Maggie’s. Rebecca followed a tree-lined driveway to a two-story Victorian-style house, nestled in a grove of poplar trees and surrounded by fields of tall grass.
Hound was waiting for her, a huge figure on the front porch, like a grizzly defending its den. He was over six feet ten inches tall and must have weighed at least three hundred and fifty pounds. Rebecca felt like David looking up at Goliath.
“Good morning, once more.” He greeted her with a shy smile. “Now it really is a nice day.”
“Yes, the sun’s come out.” She gazed around her. “What a lovely house and yard. Before we do the interview, though, I believe you offered to show me your mystery collection?”
“Of course. Come in.”
The house was astonishing. The foyer and living room were furnished with exquisite English antiques, all highly polished. Rebecca gazed at the ornately carved wood on the wainscoting and doors. A gorgeous spiral staircase wound up to the second floor.
“What a stunning place! Where did you get the wood? It’s black oak, isn’t it?”
Hound blushed. “Yes. I carved it.”
“Extraordinary. Where did you learn to do that?”
“I taught myself. It took a long time before I figured out how to get it right. I like working with my hands. It helps me focus my thoughts.”
He had real talent. Rebecca was impressed. “What about your books? I truly want to see them.”
His eyes sparkled. He pointed at the steps leading to the basement. “You’re the first visitor to my private rooms. Not even Shorty and Lukas have been down there.”
Rebecca was suddenly nervous. What did she really know about him? She considered postponing the interview until O’Reilly could be with her. But then she decided to risk it. O’Reilly would only interfere again, especially if he was somehow linked to Abigail’s murder. This increasingly complicated case was putting her on edge – she could take no one at face value. She began to sympathize with Cartwright and his detective team.
She cleared her throat and said, “I’m flattered.”
Hound didn’t seem to notice her discomfort. “You’re a detective, so you’ll understand what draws me to mysteries. My friends wouldn’t get it.” He led the way down and opened a heavy wooden door to reveal a black velvet curtain. By now, Rebecca was almost shaking.
“Ready?”
“Any time.” She ran a hand through her hair and fought down the impulse to flee. Maybe she should have brought her gun along.
Hound reached out and drew back the curtain. The first thing she saw was a large-scale model of Sherlock Holmes’s living room in Baker Street, displayed on a massive table. Standing about were lifelike miniatures of Holmes, Watson, and Mrs. Hudson. A light shone on the figure of Inspector Lestrade in a corner, trench coat open and gun in hand. In another darkened corner lurked Moriarty with two thugs.
Rebecca forgot all about her misgivings and stepped forward, amazed. “Hound, this is terrific. It’s a work of art.”
He rocked on his heels, blushing.
“You didn’t do this yourself?” She looked up into his beaming face.
“Took me two years to complete. Do you like it?”
“I’m speechless.” She moved closer to the table, awed at the detail.
“Wait till you see my mystery collection. When you’re ready, open the far door.”
The next room contained row upon row of hardcover books, arranged on shelves that reached to the ceiling.
He coughed. “Lots of first editions.”
“Incredible. Must be a thousand, at least. It’s like a bookstore.” Rebecca moved from shelf to shelf, reading the titles. Where had he got the money for all this? The furniture upstairs must be worth a fortune. She sat down in a leather armchair and heard the gentle hum of a dehumidifier.
Hound came and stood next to the chair, and Rebecca realized she no longer felt uneasy. She looked up at him. “I’ve heard you don’t often speak about your past, but I’d really like to know where you come from, if you don’t mind talking about it.”
Hound seemed to struggle with himself. After some time, he shrugged his massive shoulders. “Okay, but only where I grew up and why I’m in Conroy.”
“Thank you. I don’t want to pry too much, though I did come here to find out more about your relationship with Abigail.”
His forehead creased. “I thought you were only checking into my part in the investigation last year.”
“To be honest, there’s more to it than that. But if my questions are too intrusive, you can refuse to answer them.”
“Okay,” he replied warily.
“I appreciate that, Hound. Perhaps we could chat about your past another time, say at dinner tomorrow. I don’t want you to think it’s part of
my formal interview.”
He found a chair and sat down facing her.
“As you know,” she began, “I’m investigating the Abigail McBride murder. I’m trying not to cover the same ground as the detectives last year. They did their work thoroughly, as far as it went. But I’m interested in learning more about the relationships between Abigail and Herman Vogel, and you too. That’s a line the investigators didn’t pursue.”
He stared at the floor and pushed out his lower lip.
“What’s bothering you, Hound?” Was she breaking new ground? Her heart rate increased.
Hound sighed. “I don’t know Herman well, but Abigail and I were best friends. She was a private person, like me, and didn’t want to dwell on the past. But you can’t shut out who you are or where you come from, no matter how hard you try, can you?” He looked at Rebecca, as if she had an answer. “We talked about England and the Netherlands, but never about our families.”
“I don’t understand. Were you born in England?”
“Yes.”
“When did you come to Canada? Where’s your family? What happened to your accent?”
He raised his hands. “Aren’t you supposed to be asking about Abigail?”
“Sorry. I got carried away.” She silently cursed herself for the volley of questions. Rookie mistake.
“You said we could talk about that other stuff later, over dinner.”
She smiled, eager to get him back on side. “Okay, I’ll stick to script. How about we meet at seven tomorrow evening, at the Royal Oak?”
Hound nodded.
“Now, back to business. Tell me about Abigail.”
He seemed to relax a little. “I guess you should at least know how Abigail and I became friends.”
“Please tell me.” She opened her notebook.
It was a while before he began, the whirr of the humidifier fan the only sound. “I was born in London, to a rich family. The Hounsleys are well known in the upper ranks of British society, mostly because my father spreads lots of money about. I met Abigail on a family trip to Amsterdam. As you already know, her name then was Marijke van Rijn. The Hounsleys and van Rijns have been doing business together for generations. My father and Nicholas van Rijn are friends, or rather business associates.”