by James Carol
‘Good to see you again, Laura.’
‘I wish I could say that the feeling was mutual.’
Anderton looked down and waited for Winter to meet her eye. ‘We need to go.’
‘And where are you going?’ Delaney asked. ‘If you don’t mind me asking.’
‘Actually, I do mind.’ She looked down again. ‘Let’s go.’
Without another word, she walked over to the Mercedes and blip-blipped the doors open. Winter took one last drag on his cigarette, crushed it out, pushed the butt back into the pack, then stood up.
‘You still owe me an exclusive,’ Delaney said.
‘I’ve got your number on speed dial. As soon as I’ve got anything, I’ll be in touch.’
Delaney flashed him an I’ll-believe-it-when-I-see-it look. ‘Have a nice day.’
Winter watched her walk back to the news truck before climbing into the passenger seat of the Mercedes.
‘The woman’s a pussycat,’ he said.
‘No, Winter, she’s a viper.’
‘And snakes are perfectly harmless so long as they’re handled properly. Incidentally, Jefferies says that he’s already sent Gifford’s passport picture.’
Anderton took out her cell and checked it. She tapped an attachment onto the screen then held the phone toward Winter. Like every passport picture he’d ever seen, this one was bleached out and made Gifford look guilty. Maybe not guilty of murder, but certainly guilty of something.
‘We need to talk to Sobek,’ Anderton said. ‘Maybe we can jog his memory by showing him this. Kerrisdale is only five minutes away. I’ll call to let him know we’re on our way.’
54
Anderton stepped into the porch and pressed her eye against the top scanner, and her thumb against the bottom. Ten seconds passed, then the door clicked open and a disembodied voice said, ‘I’m on the firing range.’ They followed the sound of gunshots through the house, the noise getting louder the deeper they went. Each shot was followed by twenty seconds of silence. Enough time for Sobek to readjust his aim and take a couple of deep breaths. They descended the stairs into the basement, turned right and walked past the closed door to Sobek’s office. They stopped outside the door at the far end of the corridor and waited for the next gunshot. Even with their hands pressed over their ears, it was still loud. Anderton opened the door and they went in.
Sobek was stood in a combat stance at the end of the range. Legs apart so his weight was distributed evenly, left hand supporting the right to steady the gun. Ear defenders to protect his hearing and shooting eyeglasses to protect his sight. He looked over and saw them standing in the doorway. The gun went down, the ear defenders ended up around his neck. He hit a button and a small motor burst to life. The target started floating toward him like a ghost. Winter estimated that the length of the range was about twenty-five yards, which was consistent with a full-length bowling alley. The flooring hadn’t been changed since the previous owner lived here. It was slick and glossy and the markings were still visible. Sobek was a yard back from the foul line. Another five yards on from that, the arrows tapered to a point.
Winter and Anderton walked over. Sobek didn’t acknowledge them. His attention was fixed on the target. Winter counted twelve holes. The gun was a Glock 19, which meant there were still another three bullets, which was worth bearing in mind. All the bullets had hit the target. Nine in the chest, three in the head. The head was covered with a copy of the photo composite. Sobek studied the target for a moment then turned to Anderton.
‘Any progress?’ he asked.
‘We’ve identified the killer.’
For a long couple of seconds Sobek just stood there, absorbing the news. The brief smile that fluttered across his face was there and gone before it had a chance to take root.
‘Does the name Billy Gifford mean anything to you?’ she asked.
He shook his head. ‘Never heard of him.’
Anderton took out her cell phone and switched it on. Gifford’s passport picture was already cued up. She handed the phone to Sobek. He stood looking at it for the best part of thirty seconds. ‘I’ve never met this person,’ he said eventually.
‘Take another look.’
Sobek took another look, this one longer than the last. He was concentrating hard, trying to place the face. He handed the phone back and shook his head. ‘I’m sure I’ve never met him.’
‘Yes you have.’
‘You sound pretty certain of that.’
‘We are.’
Anderton pressed her phone screen twice and Sobek’s picture appeared. She passed the cell to him. He glanced at the screen, then looked back at Anderton for an explanation.
‘Billy Gifford is a professional photographer. He did some promotional pictures for your company.’
Sobek didn’t say anything for a while. He’d slipped back in time, digging deep into a memory that would have been vague to non-existent. He got hold of something he could hook on to and nodded to himself. ‘Yeah, I remember now. It was shortly before Isabella’s murder.’
‘Can you remember when, exactly?’
‘I can’t, but it would be easy enough to find out. It’ll be in my diary.’ Sobek looked at Gifford’s picture again. He was staring hard, still trying to place the face and not quite managing to. He shook his head. ‘I still don’t recognise him.’
‘What exactly can you remember about the photoshoot?’ Winter asked.
Sobek turned to him and let loose a long sigh. ‘Not much. It was organised by Alison Farnsdale, my PA at the time. She was responsible for looking after our website. That’s what the pictures were for. I remember that the photographs were taken in the conference room, and I remember that I was up first so I wouldn’t have to hang around waiting. And therein lies the problem. The whole thing was over in less than a minute. I went in, sat down, had my picture taken, then left and went back to work. I don’t remember anything that passed between us, although I dare say something must have been said.’
‘There’s a good chance that Gifford was at Isabella’s funeral,’ Winter said. ‘Before you say anything, just think that over. It might help if you close your eyes and picture the scene. He would have been hanging around on the periphery, and he would have had a camera. He was probably posing as a press photographer.’
Sobek closed his eyes. For almost a minute he just stood with his eyes shut. The faint emotions flickering across his face were there and gone in a heartbeat. Mostly his face was a complete blank. He opened his eyes and shook his head.
‘To be honest, I’d struggle to tell you who was there and who wasn’t. But that’s not really surprising. I attended the funeral on autopilot. All I wanted was to get home and lock the doors.’
He handed the cell phone back. Anderton put it away.
‘What else can you tell me about Gifford?’
‘We can tell you that he’s not at home.’
‘You’ve been there?’
‘That’s where we’ve just come from. The police are there now. We were able to take a look around before they got there.’
‘Did you find anything?’
Anderton and Winter shared a look. ‘Yeah, I guess you could say that,’ she said.
While Anderton filled Sobek in, Winter walked over to the gun cabinet and checked it out. There were a couple of rifles and half a dozen handguns. He seemed to have a thing for Glocks. There were two 17s and another 19. Boxes of ammunition were stacked up neatly next to the safe, all different calibres. Sobek could have started his own small war. How many of the weapons were actually licensed? How many were legal? How many had had their serial numbers filed off?
Winter replayed the day’s events, searching for relevance, searching for significance. The trip to the records office, the trip to the newspaper offices, their search of Gifford’s house and the interview with Mrs Franklin. Things were still moving fast, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. They had to tread carefully, though. Gifford was clever and resourceful, and he
was still out there. They couldn’t let him slip through the net because their enthusiasm had got the better of them. There were two questions he kept returning to.
Was Cathy Gifford alive?
And where was William Gifford?
The first question was down to the police to answer. It was like he’d told Jefferies, they had the resources. They’d be able to access the records that needed to be accessed. Maybe she was working, in which case her Social Insurance Number would point them in the right direction. Or maybe she had family who knew where she was. Mrs Franklin had said that Cathy Gifford’s family never visited but that didn’t mean they were all dead. Estrangements happened. Winter could count on one hand the number of times he’d seen his mother in her final years. That didn’t mean he didn’t know where to find her.
When he opened his eyes, Anderton and Sobek were staring at him. He had no memory of closing his eyes, but he must have done. It was a habit he’d had since he was a kid. With his eyes open it was too easy to get distracted. There was just too much sensory input. Too many visual stimuli. When his eyes were shut it was so much easier to think and focus. Sobek was studying him intently, like he was trying to crawl inside his head. Winter just stared back, unimpressed. Anderton had her phone in her hand. She gave the impression that she’d just taken a call and had something to share.
‘What is it?’ Winter asked.
‘Good news and bad. The good news is that Cathy Gifford is still alive. The bad news is that she won’t talk to the police. She doesn’t want anything to do with Gifford. Says it’s a part of her life that she’d rather forget about.’
‘So we turn up at her house with the thumbscrews. She’ll be talking in no time.’
‘And that would probably work. The thing is, she doesn’t live in Vancouver any more. Hell, she doesn’t even live in Canada.’
‘Where is she?’
‘Idaho. A small town called Nordman.’
‘Then what are we waiting for?’
‘Winter, it’s got to be five or six hundred miles to Idaho.’
‘We need to talk to her, Anderton. She moved out just before Isabella Sobek was murdered. That isn’t a coincidence. Also, she’s going to know Gifford better than anyone. Her insights will be invaluable.’
‘And you’re not hearing me. We’re not talking a quick trip to the store to pick up some groceries here. It would take us the rest of the day to drive there. Then, after we’ve talked to her, we’ll have to turn around and drive all the way back again. We’ll be driving through the night.’
Winter smiled. ‘Who said anything about driving?’
55
Boundary Bay Airport had two runways and a scattering of buildings. Hangars and maintenance sheds, for the most part. The southern boundary pushed right up to the water’s edge. They walked into the terminal building side by side. For once Winter didn’t have to wait in line to get his passport checked. That didn’t mean security was lax, it just meant that they were the only ones there. The woman doing the checking was as serious as any border guard he’d come across. Once upon a time the US–Canadian border had been billed as the longest unprotected border in the world. That all changed after 9/11. These days there were eyes in the sky and satellite surveillance and thermal imaging in the more high-risk areas.
Sobek’s little Cessna was fuelled up and ready to roll. It was sitting on the tarmac, glinting and sparkling in the bright August sunlight. It looked brand new, like it had just rolled out of the factory. They climbed aboard, buckled up and put on their headsets. The pilot turned and they shook hands across the seat back. He introduced himself as Dan. He was in his fifties, his hair turning to grey. He gave off a been-there-done-it vibe. Dan went through his final checks then taxied to the end of the runway. He hit the throttle and they buzzed along the runway, picking up speed. They were in the air in a fraction of the distance of a passenger jet, climbing steeply over the water, the plane bouncing and bucking as it went higher. The Cessna levelled out when the altimeter hit nine and a half thousand feet. They were heading east, passing over an immense forest. There were trees as far as the eye could see, spreading out from horizon to horizon in every direction.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ Winter said.
Anderton turned to face him. ‘About what?’ Her voice was infected with static, all mid and top end and very little bass.
‘Billy Gifford. Right now, we don’t know a huge amount about him, but we can speculate. What income bracket would you place him in?’
‘Middle to upper. His house is a good size and it’s in a nice part of the city.’
‘And that’s interesting straight away. No matter how good he is at his job, I doubt that he could afford a place like that on the money he earns as a wedding photographer.’
Anderton thought this over. ‘He must have inherited money when his parents died.’
‘That’s what I’m thinking. His social status isn’t a new thing. He’s always been in the middle to upper income bracket. His father was a surgeon and he owned a light aircraft. That’s a long way from collecting food stamps.’
‘So how does that help?’ Anderton went quiet again, then said, ‘The house is his safe place. That’s where he feels most comfortable. Inside those four walls he can be the person he wants to be. But that’s been taken away from him. He can’t go home, because if he does he’s going to be arrested. That’s got to throw him. The more unsettled he is, the more unpredictable his behaviour is going to be, which isn’t necessarily good.’
‘Granted, but on balance I’d prefer things like this rather than how they were. Yesterday he was still calling the shots. That’s not the case any more. We’ve got him on the run, and that’s always going to be good. The upside of him acting unpredictably is that he’s going to be making mistakes.’
Anderton sighed a staticky sigh. ‘Sure, but how much collateral damage is there going to be in the meantime?’
‘That’s the downside. In any war there’s always going to be collateral damage. All we can do is try to keep it to a minimum.’
‘Amen to that.’
Winter looked out of the window again. There was nothing but trees below. This really was the wilderness. Most of that forest had probably never been touched by human feet. They hit a patch of turbulence and the plane suddenly dropped.
‘We should be out of this soon,’ Dan said. There was a smile in his voice, reassurance in every syllable.
The plane bounced one last time, then the air settled and they were flying level and true again. Winter looked over at Anderton.
‘I’ve been thinking about what it must have been like for Gifford when his mother was in a coma,’ he said.
‘Me too. It must have been grim. He would have buried his father then watched his mom die, and he would have gone through it all on his own. It’s a complete tragedy. And he was just a kid. It’s heartbreaking.’
‘Heartbreaking isn’t the right word. Let me ask you something. Do you think that killers are born or made?’
Anderton mulled this over. ‘Based on what I’ve seen, I’d say it’s a bit of both. Some people are born bad, no doubt about it. Then there are others who gravitate toward the dark side. For the most part, though, it’s not a black and white situation. There’s a huge grey area, and that’s where most killers seem to originate from.’
Winter nodded. ‘That’s more or less how I see it. Now, if we apply this idea to Gifford then the one assumption we can make is that he’s always had psychopathic tendencies. And I’m talking all the way back to when he was kid. We don’t like to think of children being psychopaths, but just because we don’t like to think about something it doesn’t mean that it doesn’t happen. You said his parents’ death must have been heartbreaking. I’d argue that it was more of an inconvenience.’
Winter stopped talking and looked at Anderton. She nodded for him to continue.
‘Look at it from the point of view of the ten-year-old version of Gifford. For his whole life there
had been someone there to make sure that all his basic needs were met. His parents fed him and clothed him and put a roof over his head. The fact that they did this meant that he didn’t have to worry about doing those things for himself. Then one day he wakes up and both his parents are dead and all of those things he’d taken for granted aren’t being done for him any more. That’s going to be a huge inconvenience.’
Anderton’s eyes narrowed. ‘You were about the same age when your father was arrested.’
‘So?’
‘So, it sounds like you’re talking from personal experience.’
‘Maybe,’ he admitted. ‘Okay, let’s fast forward. Gifford meets Cathy and they get married. What does he get out of the transaction?
‘Sex. Companionship.’
‘Sex would have been a part of it. The companionship wouldn’t really mean anything to him. He’s a psychopath. He just doesn’t need that sort of social interaction.’
‘So, what do you think he gets out of the deal?’
‘A support system. Remember, Gifford is pathologically pragmatic. If Cathy hadn’t enhanced his life in some way then he wouldn’t have married her. She dealt with his books and appointments. Right there you have evidence of one of the ways that she made herself useful to him. Judging by the food in his kitchen, it’s a safe bet that she did the cooking, so that’s another way. I’d also bet that she did the housekeeping and the laundry. That would have been the deal they had. He earns the money. She looks after the house.’
‘It sounds like something from the 1950s,’ Anderton said.
‘Doesn’t it? Okay, so fast forward a little further. Cathy wakes up one day and decides to leave. At this stage we don’t know exactly what happened, but what we do know is that Gifford was furious about it.’
‘We do?’
‘We do. You saw the house. After Cathy left, Gifford erased every last trace of her. It was like he sanitised the place. He didn’t want anything left behind that might remind him of her. All the pictures were taken down and he arranged for a moving company to come in and take away her belongings.’