The colonel let out a slow, judgemental breath. Fatima ignored it. She knew there was a good deal of tension between the Australian colonel, who represented the Pacific in North America, and the Welsh union boss, who ran the American fishing fleet. It was one of the many petty squabbles she wanted no part of.

  “Are there any other points of entry?” Fatima asked.

  “Those loading doors there, but they are locked,” Heather said. “And there are the sea doors, of course, but they’re shut.”

  “What time did you enter the boathouse?” Fatima asked.

  “About midnight. Maybe a little after, but no later than five past.”

  “Before then, when was the last time you went inside?”

  “Yesterday, around seven with Lorraine,” Heather said. “We assessed what work needed to be done but decided it was more efficient to sleep first, then work, rather than the other way around.”

  “Would anyone have gone in after you?” Fatima asked.

  “Gethin might have. He usually takes a look at his boat the night before taking it out.”

  Fatima nodded. “We’ll need to confirm that. Where is he?”

  “He should be over on San Juan Island collecting Kim and her team,” Heather said, “but since the boats are part of your crime scene, I’d guess he’s having a second breakfast.”

  “Can you find him, please? And anyone else who might have gone in there. Colonel, there must have been a patrol last night.”

  “There was, but nothing unusual was reported.”

  “Could you check if they saw anything or anyone, please?” She opened the boathouse’s door. The first thing she noticed was that she could see the bodies. “Heather!” she called out to the retreating sailor. “The lights are on. Was that you?”

  “They’re always on,” Heather said. “There’s virtually no daylight in there even when the sea doors are open.”

  “Thank you.” Fatima turned back to the crime scene. She took out the phone and shot a panoramic view from the doorway. The boathouse was divided into ten bays. Each had a concrete ramp sloping down into the lapping waves and was separated from its neighbour by a raised jetty that jutted out into the water. A small cabin cruiser was moored at each of the first eight piers. Beyond the boats, the rear wall was split into four grey-painted retractable metal doors, separated by stout concrete pillars. The base of the doors was hidden below the waves, but none appeared open.

  “This is the Nye Bevin Boathouse,” she said for the benefit of the bodycam. “Previously used by the officer training corps. Approximately fifty metres wide and one hundred metres long. There are no obvious points of concealment. No offices or other rooms. The roof is clear, so there is no hiding place among the rafters.” Her gaze lingered on the boats. “There’s nowhere to hide but aboard the boats.”

  She turned back to the crime scene. Each slipway was numbered, with Number One closest to the door, and Number Ten farthest away. The bodies all lay in Number Three. One woman lay near the faded yellow criss-cross lines demarcating the shore-side prep area from the sea-adjacent zone. The man and another woman lay almost feet-to-feet. He was on his front. She was on her side, halfway to the water. Three feet above the waterline, where she’d been moved by Heather, lay the third.

  Fatima took photographs of all of them as she slowly moved down the slipway, avoiding the blood as much as possible. With that done, she returned to the man. He was so obviously different in dress from the other three, if she were to jump to a conclusion, it would be that he and the women were on different sides.

  “Victim Four is male.” She stepped around to his left where she could better see his face. “Mid-forties to mid-fifties. Wedding ring on his right hand. Better jeans than most new arrivals. Decent boots, too. Work boots. Creased at the heel, but the soles have only a month or two of wear.” She bent down so she could better see his hands. “Definite signs of manual labour.” She paused to line up her phone. “By his left hand, he appears to have written something with his own blood.” She bent to take a shot from an oblique angle. “Four letters. V. O. D. E., I think. Or is that an A rather than an O? V.A.D.E. Invader? No, because no one starts a word in the middle.”

  She realised she was speculating aloud. It was all Sholto’s doing. He’d partnered with her on the serial killer case, and again on the fight because he’d been at a loose end. As much as she found his company intriguing, he practically breathed theory and hypothesis. An assumption before the evidence had been collected could lead her down a dead end. On the other hand, this man lay face down and was looking towards what he’d written, so it was most likely that his dying act had been to write whatever was uppermost in his mind. A message? A warning? An apology?

  His forearms were covered with shallow cuts. His T-shirt, once a pale blue, was stained with blood, slashed three times, and pierced with puncture wounds, all targeted below the rib cage. Around his neck, she found a locket. Inside were two portraits, one of a woman, the other of a child of about seven. Most likely his wife and son. She closed the locket, then lifted the body. The man was heavy. She only managed to roll him a few inches but saw the bloody T-shaped blade laying beneath his body.

  “Slashes across the chest, puncture wounds below the rib cage. An empty sheath on his belt. Probably contained a hunting knife. That would suggest this other blade caused his wounds.” She reached down and carefully took out the T-shaped blade, before lowering the body to the ground.

  She held the weapon up so her camera could record it. “A punch-dagger with an eight-centimetre blade, only the top four centimetres are sharpened. The handle is brass and ornate.” It would be uncomfortable to hold, sitting in the palm of a hand so the blade protruded between the second and third fingers. She placed the weapon next to the man’s head.

  All three women wore hijab-style scarves and the poncho-like tunics that were popular in Australia among men and women alike. In a land where cloth was scarce, attitudes towards modesty had been rethought. Body-concealing abayas and thawbs had become a sign of extravagant profligacy, and were far beyond the reach of the ordinary citizen. In their place were thigh-length ponchos made from bedsheets, curtains, or whatever other surplus material could be found. These were black and thin, but the women’s fabric hiking boots were barely worn. The trousers, too, were good quality and full of useful pockets, a sure sign of expensive specialist ware. And the women were dressed identically. Not just similarly, but it was the same make of boots, the exact same style of trousers. Possibly even the same size, as the trousers seemed a little short on Victim Three. Thus their clothes probably came from a pre-outbreak stockpile. What kind of person kept clothing like that unused for two years?

  “Victim One, female. Wearing a headscarf. Face is partially concealed.” She bent down, not currently interested in the woman’s features but in what she appeared to be clutching to her chest with both hands. Yes. “She is holding a hunting knife that has been thrust into her stomach. No sign of the blade exiting her back.” She glanced over at Victim Four. The sheath at his belt was nearly thirty centimetres long, while Victim One was skinny enough for Hollywood. “She’s about five-four. Victim Four is around six foot. The blade appears to be angled upwards, towards her heart. He must have been on his knees when he delivered the blow.”

  A second punch-dagger with identical scrollwork lay on the ground near Victim Two. The woman lay a little farther up the slipway, a trail of blood leading back to the fight. Her face had been slashed, possibly blinding her. That wouldn’t have been fatal. Fatima peeled back the neck of her poncho. Yes. Blood on the neck. A lot of blood.

  “The fatal wound appears to have been to the neck.” But there was a chain around her neck. Fatima pulled it out and revealed a hand-carved wooden cross, ten centimetres long, and six wide.

  “The three women are presenting as Muslim, yet she’s wearing a concealed cross.”

  Lifting the edge of the tunic, she looked for any other wounds and saw the belt buckle. It was brass, large, and also appeared incomplete. The swirling scroll pattern matched that of the punch-dagger. So, it was a concealed weapon in which the buckle was the sheath.

  She moved on to Victim Three, the woman who’d been dragged from the water. Beneath the poncho, she found the same type of overly ornate brass buckle-sheath. Around her neck, was a large wooden cross.

  As she was checking Victim One, the door to the boathouse opened and her mother walked in.

  “Oh, this is terrible,” Myrna said.

  “It is, yes,” Fatima said. “It always is. You don’t need to see this.”

  “If you can stomach it, so can I,” Myrna said with a thin smile. “I want to be a useful assistant.”

  Fatima smiled back and held out the phone. “I’ve taken photographs of their faces. Start with the man. I think he’ll be easiest to identify.”

  “Three Muslim women travelling together? Poor girls. They must be from the pilgrimage.”

  “I don’t think they’re pilgrims,” Fatima said. “If they were, they’d have been staying at the mosque. Besides, they’re each wearing a cross beneath their tops.”

  “Oh,” her mother said as she took in the crime scene again, this time with more curiosity than revulsion. “You’ve found a real mystery.”

  “In policing, it’s bad luck to use the M word,” Fatima said. “Start with the man, then move on to the women, but don’t limit yourself to those with headscarves.”

  Myrna nodded and hurried back outside.

  The wounds were ferocious and deep. She’d seen something like this before, though then it had only been in crime-scene photographs. Three years ago, on Christmas Eve, two soldiers had had a chance reunion in a Vancouver bar. One was American, the other Canadian. Both were Special Forces. The precise details of how they knew each other, or why they might want each other dead, had remained classified. According to eyewitnesses, their meeting had seemed friendly at first. They’d bought each other drinks, and then the American had bought drinks for the bar. That seemed to have been the tipping point. All bonhomie had evaporated and both men had gone outside. Both had drawn blades. It was over before most bystanders had time to take out their phones, but each man had sustained over twenty distinct wounds. Minutes of words and seconds of fury had led to an eternity of darkness for both of them. It was the same here. A brutal, savage fight where the focus was on killing rather than defence.

  Fatima didn’t want to hypothesis, especially after she’d vociferously harangued Thaddeus about his guesswork. On the other hand, she was the sole investigator in the region and the only analyst on the continent. All three women had attacked the man at the same time. Victim Two had received a slash to the upper face which had blinded her, and a backhand blow across the neck that had severed the artery. She’d crawled up the ramp, and towards the door. Victim Three looked to have sustained a ferocious thrusting, twisting blow to the abdomen. She’d staggered towards the water and collapsed. Since his knife was buried in her chest, Victim One had left the fight last. After which, the man, bleeding out from puncture wounds to liver and kidneys, had collapsed, and written those four letters before he’d died.

  He’d attacked rather than run. Why? It wasn’t a robbery, because no one had anything to steal. Could the women have been fighting off a predatory man? Unlikely. What if it was revenge for a similar crime in Australia? Had he been fleeing justice while they were fleeing shame, and a chance encounter had turned revenge into their own demise? No, because that didn’t explain the hijabs and crosses, the concealed blades, or what any of them were doing here, next to eight boats ready to sail.

  The women were a group, that was obvious. So either they wanted a boat or the man did. Where had they wanted to go?

  “Constable?” Colonel Bell called from the door. “I’ve got two of our guard patrols outside. They were walking the grounds tonight. They remember seeing three women together.”

  “Three women in hijabs?” Fatima asked, turning back to the bodies.

  “Yes, that’s right,” the colonel said.

  “Did they speak with them?” she asked, her gaze shifting to the boats.

  “No. They assumed they were just suffering from jet lag.”

  “Yes, because a hijab is a good way to get people to leave you alone. And on the rare occasion they don’t, what do people remember? The face? No. They remember the headscarf. What harm could three Muslim women be? It’s a good disguise.”

  “A disguise? Do you mean they weren’t Muslim?” the colonel asked.

  “Almost certainly not.” Fatima held up a hand, catching herself. “I mean to say that their religion is irrelevant. Each wears a crucifix beneath their shirts. A large and showy one. The kind you wear when you want the world to see it, except these were temporarily concealed. The crosses are identical. So are their weapons and clothes. Uniform clothing means organisation, and that speaks to a purpose. Could you get Heather, please. And do you have a bomb technician?”

  “You suspect terrorism?”

  “Yes. We need to inspect these craft, and we should assume the worst.”

  “In which case, please step outside,” the colonel said. “I mean it. I’m not leaving until you do, and I don’t want to be blown up on a chilly Canadian pier.”

  Chapter 12 - Ponchos and Crosses

  Colwood Harbour, Vancouver Island

  Thaddeus had talked highly of Major Branofski, but this was the first time Fatima had met the Yorkshire soldier. Her first impression was of a man for whom emotions were rationed, a trait she usually associated with lawyers and conmen. As Bran and Heather went to check the boats for bombs and sabotage, she relocated to a nearby bench. Her attempts to make friends with Hurricane, Bran’s dog, stalled after he realised she had no food. He lay down with his head on his paws and went to sleep. Fatima dearly wished she could do the same.

  “There’s a soldier with some sense,” Judith said, sitting on the bench next to her.

  “Major Branofski?”

  “No. His dog. How’s the investigation going?”

  “It’s only just begun,” Fatima said. “I’m still waiting on my mother to identify the victims. They killed each other in seconds and knew where to aim their blows. The women aren’t who they appeared, and the man died trying to write us a note.” She looked across at the crowd. It had grown since she’d arrived, now numbering at least four hundred, almost exclusively made up of the newly returned. “Have they been told what’s happening?”

  “Only that there was an accident,” Judith said. “They’ll hear the truth when they get aboard the ferries, and will be telling each other an exaggerated version of it before they disembark. Speaking of which, are we okay sending them off after breakfast? They’re heading to Bellingham, on the mainland. If there’s a co-conspirator lurking in the crowd, that’d be their chance to vanish.”

  “We need the space for the cruise ship passengers, don’t we?”

  “Yes, but we can set this lot to preparing some shelter for them. They won’t like it, but I’m not sure they’ll like what they’ll find in Bellingham, either.”

  “I’ve no reason to think anyone else was there,” Fatima said. “Which isn’t to say there wasn’t, but I don’t have any evidence of it. Can you take a roll call? Make sure no one’s gone missing. Assuming they haven’t, then I think it’ll be okay to move them across to Bellingham. But I’d like you to check in before the first ship departs, in case something’s come up to make me change my mind. And can you alert Bellingham that they might need to detain someone? I’d also like them alerted that someone might try to disappear, so they should conduct regular roll calls.”

  “I can do that. And I’ll get them to bring you some breakfast.”

  Hurricane’s head pivoted faster than his eyes could open.

  “And I’ll bring some for you, too,” Judith said. “Strewth, it doesn’t matter how many legs a British squaddie has, you’re all the bloody same.”

  After the colonel had left, the dog settled back into his doze. Fatima took out her notebook and began jotting down potential lines of enquiry, though all of them seemed to begin in Australia. She dropped her pen when, with no warning, the dog sprang up and bounded away.

  “At ease. At ease!” Bran said as his dog leaped, paws up, at his chest.

  “And that’s why I prefer cats,” Heather said, giving the two a wide berth.

  “Did you find any explosives?” Fatima asked.

  “No, and no sabotage,” Heather said. “The boats are ready to go just as soon as you give the okay.”

  “We found three bags on one of the boats,” Bran said. “Single-strap, collapsible, lightweight, and could contain about five litres of kit, though they hold about two litres, tops.”

  “What was inside?” Fatima asked.

  “Basic, pre-outbreak survival supplies,” Bran said. “Matches, cord, water purification tablets, a multitool, some first-aid gear.”

  “So no clothing, maps, or weapons?” Fatima asked.

  “There are charts in the boats,” Heather said.

  “Were any open, perhaps with a recent pen mark saying where they might be heading to?”

  “Do cops ever get that lucky?” Bran asked.

  “We can but dream.”

  “Not to rush you, but I do need to prep those boats,” Heather said.

  “I’ll need to inspect them, and the bags, first,” Fatima said. “I’ll take some footage, too. I guess I can release them in about an hour. But not the boathouse. I mean, you can bring pilots in to take the boats out, but no loading or unloading inside.”

  “We can make that work,” Heather said.

  Thirty minutes later, Fatima stood by the door as the sailors walked single file to the boats. She’d photographed and then collected the bags, but they didn’t have any secrets to tell. Not to her. Perhaps the make might tally with some stolen stockpile in Australia. In which case, it would be down to Commissioner Qwong to close this case.

  “Found them,” Myrna said as she came in with a phone in one hand and a bundle of immigration forms in the other. “They aren’t Muslim at all. Look!”

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35