out their old produce. Sometimes it’s possible to make a few quick bucks doing odd jobs. Folks are pretty trusting around here, and there’s lots of seniors. Once he stole a dozen eggs from a roadside stand.”
“All the lavender and flowers he could want, too.” She thought about all the survival skills that the homeless needed. “What else did he say?”
They watched a dragonfly hover over the creek, snagging midges. Its dazzling blue isinglass wings and sectioned, tubed body gave it a science-fiction appearance. Bill tapped his temple as if to prod his memory. “Let me think now. He mentioned Whiffen Spit and said he liked to fish there. Offered to let him use my tackle, but he laughed. Said he had easier ways of making money. Also asked about Algie’s Fish and Chips by the high school. That place has been closed a long time.”
“How long?” Knowing that might tell them when the victim had been here last.
“Ten years at least. I used to wash dishes there once a week before my pension kicked in. For awhile I thought Algie’s widow and I might...” He kissed his fingertips. “That’s another story. I wasn’t about to get a ball and chain along with a daily plate of fish and chips, even though I’m a sucker for halibut.”
Holly gave Bill her card. “I know you probably can’t call, but it’s a short walk to the detachment. If anyone turns up here who gives you trouble, give me a shout.”
“Hey, I’m no squealer. I mind my own business.” He folded his arms.
She met his wise old eyes with a sincerity he couldn’t ignore. “I can put you or anyone in need in touch with social service agencies. This happened on my watch, and I feel responsible. We don’t want anyone dying from neglect. Sometimes a bit of care can prevent more serious health problems. Diabetes is particularly deadly if undiagnosed.”
“I hear you. Buddy of mine lost his leg to an infection. He begs from a wheelchair down at Bastion Square.”
She thought of the roving nurses in Victoria who ministered to the street people. Monitored their meds, clipped their toenails, bandaged their wounds. Unsung Mother Teresas all.
He nodded and ticked the corner of her card with his thumb before tucking it into a pocket. “Will do. And thanks, Cap.”
Cap, Guv, where would it lead? But nicknames meant someone liked you. She sympathized with Chipper. He’d grown up in a less than multicultural neighbourhood and had endured considerable ribbing until he’d changed his name at ten. His father had understood, but his mother was very traditional and insisted on calling him Chirakumar.
Several hundred yards later, she turned right down West Bay Road, a transitional enclave which in typical island fashion mixed a variety of real estate. Deep and dark forested lots where the lights burned all day sheltered mossy-roofed doublewides, hunting or fishing cabins from the Fifties, A-frame kits with ramshackle add-ons of rough, greying lumber, then a spurt of neater box-house bungalows on quarter-acre lots, and finally the newly rich with their mansions. Snapping up cottage properties like great white sharks after chum, they dozed the structures, landing with large footprints and at least five bathrooms. Their long, winding lanes began with mammoth wrought-iron gates and stone posts bearing electric lanterns. Many gigantic cedar signs bore picturesque names: Hurricane Ridge, The Buck Stops Here, Tickety Boo, and the more literary Kenilworth.
Now that school was newly out, she wasn’t surprised to be sent on a petty theft report. With their jurisdiction extending all the way to Port Renfrew, the police often answered calls to summer cottages. The absentee owner in Seattle or Houston arriving in June might discover a broken window and general ransack. A bush bike had been stolen from a shed. Chainsaws and generators, portable property, were very popular. Leaving liquor in a cottage was stupid, because it encouraged thieves to stop and party, an
“All the lavender and flowers he could want, too.” She thought about all the survival skills that the homeless needed. “What else did he say?”
They watched a dragonfly hover over the creek, snagging midges. Its dazzling blue isinglass wings and sectioned, tubed body gave it a science-fiction appearance. Bill tapped his temple as if to prod his memory. “Let me think now. He mentioned Whiffen Spit and said he liked to fish there. Offered to let him use my tackle, but he laughed. Said he had easier ways of making money. Also asked about Algie’s Fish and Chips by the high school. That place has been closed a long time.”
“How long?” Knowing that might tell them when the victim had been here last.
“Ten years at least. I used to wash dishes there once a week before my pension kicked in. For awhile I thought Algie’s widow and I might...” He kissed his fingertips. “That’s another story. I wasn’t about to get a ball and chain along with a daily plate of fish and chips, even though I’m a sucker for halibut.”
Holly gave Bill her card. “I know you probably can’t call, but it’s a short walk to the detachment. If anyone turns up here who gives you trouble, give me a shout.”
“Hey, I’m no squealer. I mind my own business.” He folded his arms.
She met his wise old eyes with a sincerity he couldn’t ignore. “I can put you or anyone in need in touch with social service agencies. This happened on my watch, and I feel responsible. We don’t want anyone dying from neglect. Sometimes a bit of care can prevent more serious health problems. Diabetes is particularly deadly if undiagnosed.”
“I hear you. Buddy of mine lost his leg to an infection. He begs from a wheelchair down at Bastion Square.”
She thought of the roving nurses in Victoria who ministered to the street people. Monitored their meds, clipped their toenails, bandaged their wounds. Unsung Mother Teresas all.
He nodded and ticked the corner of her card with his thumb before tucking it into a pocket. “Will do. And thanks, Cap.”
Cap, Guv, where would it lead? But nicknames meant someone liked you. She sympathized with Chipper. He’d grown up in a less than multicultural neighbourhood and had endured considerable ribbing until he’d changed his name at ten. His father had understood, but his mother was very traditional and insisted on calling him Chirakumar.
Several hundred yards later, she turned right down West Bay Road, a transitional enclave which in typical island fashion mixed a variety of real estate. Deep and dark forested lots where the lights burned all day sheltered mossy-roofed doublewides, hunting or fishing cabins from the Fifties, A-frame kits with ramshackle add-ons of rough, greying lumber, then a spurt of neater box-house bungalows on quarter-acre lots, and finally the newly rich with their mansions. Snapping up cottage properties like great white sharks after chum, they dozed the structures, landing with large footprints and at least five bathrooms. Their long, winding lanes began with mammoth wrought-iron gates and stone posts bearing electric lanterns. Many gigantic cedar signs bore picturesque names: Hurricane Ridge, The Buck Stops Here, Tickety Boo, and the more literary Kenilworth.
Now that school was newly out, she wasn’t surprised to be sent on a petty theft report. With their jurisdiction extending all the way to Port Renfrew, the police often answered calls to summer cottages. The absentee owner in Seattle or Houston arriving in June might discover a broken window and general ransack. A bush bike had been stolen from a shed. Chainsaws and generators, portable property, were very popular. Leaving liquor in a cottage was stupid, because it encouraged thieves to stop and party, an
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