Dan Sharp Mysteries 6-Book Bundle. Jeffrey Round

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СКАЧАТЬ I said….”

      “But you said there was a second reason you were sure it wasn’t him you saw returning with the bicycle.”

      “And I was coming around to that.” Terry winked. “In my own fashion, of course.”

      Dan waited as Terry took a quaff of his beer and set the glass down.

      “The other reason I am sure it wasn’t Craig Killingworth I saw with the bicycle that night was because it wasn’t a man. It was a youngster. Last run over on the ferry but one.” Terry looked triumphant.

      Dan thought it over. “Did you recognize the kid?” he said at last.

      Terry shook his head. “Afraid not.”

      He had one final stop. He drove back along the parkway to the OPP detachment on Schoharie Road. Inside the long grey bowling alley, flanked on either side by an empty parking lot, Dan’s name elicited an immediate response. Saylor came through the door, pressed smartly into his uniform, greeting him as though he were a long-lost friend.

      He ushered Dan into a spacious office the colour of unfired pottery. A policeman’s sanctuary. He’d covered his walls with posters, handwritten notices of crimes, some recent and others from long ago, alongside the Xeroxed faces of people wanted in connection with any number of incidents. Some of the reprobates scowled at the camera while others smiled, seeming to enjoy their little moment of notoriety. The usual detritus of police station life.

      Saylor was clearly glad for the interruption in his routine, where Dan might find himself pressed to make even a fifteen-minute opening in his day. Small town-big town, he mused. That was the difference. In smaller places you had time for people, even if they were casual acquaintances.

      “Good to see you, buddy. What brings you out here?”

      “Just passing by,” Dan said. “I thought I’d drop in and say hello.”

      “You got the file I sent you?” Saylor asked.

      “Yes, I did,” Dan said. “Thanks for being so prompt. I’m looking into it now.” He paused. “I take it there’s been nothing further on the Ballancourt case?”

      Saylor looked at Dan curiously. “No. It’s still closed. Were you expecting a change of direction on it?”

      Dan affected an in-confidence tone. “Am I the only one to think it was awfully convenient for Lucille Killingworth to have a judge around to back up the claim of death by misadventure?”

      Saylor shrugged. “The thought occurred to me.” His expression brightened. “I still think my theory was pretty ingenious.”

      A knock came at Saylor’s door. A head poked in, white-haired, intense. Dan recognized him immediately. It was the serious-looking man who’d danced with Lucille Killingworth on the boat the night of the wedding. The man with barracuda eyes.

      “Oh, my apologies,” he said. He didn’t seem to recognize Dan. “I’ll come back later, Pete.”

      Before Saylor could introduce them, he’d vanished around the door. Dan waited a beat then tried for casual. “Who was that?”

      “That’s Commissioner Burgess,” Saylor said, grinning. “The big shiny brass in this small town.”

      “I think he was at the wedding,” Dan said nonchalantly.

      “Yeah.” Saylor kept his voice low. “He’s a friend of Lucille Killingworth’s.”

      Dan nodded. “Can we step out for a coffee somewhere?”

      The Royal Café in downtown Picton was another holdover from Victorian times. A tin ceiling held onto its silver paint, but only barely. Large flaps hung down here and there, as though the sky had given way.

      “Shoot,” said Saylor. “It’s free to talk in here.” He turned his head to the back of the café, where an older woman stood wiping cake crumbs off a table. “Maggie’s deaf,” he said with a wink.

      “That file you sent me — did you check to see if it was intact before it went to the courier?”

      Saylor looked at him. “I never even thought to look,” he said. “Wasn’t it all there?”

      Dan shook his head. “Most of it, but there was one document missing.”

      “Any idea what was in it?”

      “It was labelled M.H. Possibly someone’s initials. Maybe a clerk’s. My guess is it had something to do with the assault charges Lucille Killingworth filed against her husband. I was hoping you could take a second look for me.”

      Saylor looked perplexed. “I’ll try,” he said, “but I sent everything there was. I can get one of the junior officers to look around and see if it was misfiled, but I wouldn’t hold out much hope. It was in a bunch of boxes that got shuffled off to a storage unit more than ten years ago. I had to get special permission to open it.” He shrugged again. “I don’t know what to tell you.”

      Dan was silent for a moment. He looked up at Saylor. “Did you ever meet Craig Killingworth?”

      “No,” Saylor said. “But my brother went to the high school where Craig was principal. I remember there was some scandal and he disappeared for a few months in the middle of a school year. Then came the assault charges and he lost his job. Suspended, actually. It shocked a lot of people.” His tone became reflective. “You never know about people — the secrets they hide.”

      “I guess not,” Dan said.

      “Last month I got called to a place just outside town. A mechanic, one of the toughest guys around, hanged himself in his barn. Of all the people you might expect to commit suicide, he wouldn’t be anywhere near the top of my list.”

      “You’re right,” Dan said. “You never know. I’m curious though, why was a rich guy like Killingworth working as a school principal?”

      Saylor’s face frowned in concentration. “I guess because it was her money,” he said. “I think she expected him to earn his keep.” He stopped and looked over at the counter. “Maggie!” he called in a loud voice.

      The old woman looked up. “Yes, Pete? Did you call?”

      “I did, Maggie. I’m just wondering if you remember the Killingworths.”

      “Who?”

      “Killingworths,” he said, even louder. “The husband disappeared about twenty years ago. He was the school principal.”

      “Oh, yes!” she said, her face suddenly transformed by memory. “Other side of the reach.”

      “Rich family, weren’t they?” Saylor asked.

      The woman nodded slowly. “Oh, yes,” she concurred. “It was her father’s money. Nathaniel Macaulay. I don’t think you’d remember him. It was Nate’s great-great-great-grandfather who founded Picton. The Reverend William Macaulay. With a Crown grant of four hundred acres. I’m surprised you don’t remember your local history, СКАЧАТЬ