Read Online Death On a No 8 Hook (A Willows and Parker Mystery) by Laurence Gough - Free Book Online
Authors: Laurence Gough
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Willows braced himself. Dickie was floundering, barely managing to keep his head up. His skin was white, pebbled. There was a wild look in his eye. Willows reached out, and got his arms around Dickie’s chest. He was surprised to see that Dickie had not let go of the saw. He started moving backwards, hauling Dickie and the chain-saw out of the water and up on the beach. The steel blade of the saw clattered on the rocks. Dickie’s teeth were chattering, too. He was shivering uncontrollably.
“You okay?” Willows asked, crouching down next to him.
Dickie didn’t seem to hear the question. His eyes were on Rossiter.
Willows stood up. He went over and unrolled the portable stretcher. Rossiter struggled with the body. It was stiff and ungainly, cold as a block of carved ice. Finally he got a grip under the girl’s armpits. Her heels left parallel grooves in the sand and gravel as he dragged her out of the water.
“Give me a hand getting her on the stretcher,” Rossiter said to Willows. He had seen right away that Dickie wasn’t going to be any help.
Willows grasped the girl’s ankles. Her flesh was soft and pulpy. She was much heavier than he had expected. Together, he and Rossiter lowered the naked body on to the stretcher. There was a tattoo high up on the inside of the forearm, a smudge of blue that was distorted by the swollen skin.
“What the hell is that?” said Rossiter.
Willows knelt for a closer look. “A Smurf,” he said.
“A what?”
“Smurf. Little cartoon character. Don’t you ever watch television on Sunday mornings?”
“Not if I can sleep in.”
Willows found himself staring at the girl. She would have been very pretty. Embarrassed, he looked away.
Dickie’s close-cropped hair lay flat on his head. He fiddled with his moustache. Water dripped from his shirt and blue jeans. He leaned over and hit the chainsaw with the heel of his hand. “I’m going to have to strip this fucker right down to the frame,” he said. “Wash all the parts in gasoline, wipe ’em down with an oily rag. Replace the gaskets and probably the wiring.”
Rossiter was getting into his trousers. “Life is damn hard,” he said. “But death is a whole lot worse.”
Dickie ignored him. He ground the toe of his boot into the gravel and pointed at the corpse. His hand shook but he didn’t try to steady it. “That’s Naomi Lister. Her dad runs the Chevron station down by the highway.”
“I don’t think I recognize her,” Rossiter said.
“She left town a little over a year ago. Went down to Vancouver.”
Willows gave Rossiter an enquiring look.
“I’ve only been stationed here six months,” Rossiter explained. To Dickie, he said, “What’d she do down in the city?”
“How should I know?” Dickie said. He climbed unsteadily to his feet, took a few steps away from them, and threw up.
Willows stared upstream, past the white froth of water and the curving black bulk of the huge egg-shaped boulder. He looked at Rossiter, and Rossiter nodded. They were both thinking that the girl had probably taken off her clothes to go swimming, that if she had, the clothes had to be up there somewhere.
“Jack and I are going to take a little stroll,” Rossiter said to Dickie’s hunched back.
Dickie made a gagging sound.
Half a mile upstream, they came upon an overgrown logging road and a crumbling corduroy bridge made of cedar logs. The disused road was little more than two faint parallel depressions in the grass. What made it easy to see was the absence of large trees. There were tread marks and torn soil where a four-wheel drive vehicle with a short wheelspan had braked hard. Willows found traces of oil, a few small globules of heavy grease.
The girl’s neatly folded clothes were in the fork of a wild cherry near the bridge on the far side of the stream. Willows saw the bright orange tanktop first, and then the white shorts and white tube socks, neatly folded over the running shoes.
Rossiter
Willows braced himself. Dickie was floundering, barely managing to keep his head up. His skin was white, pebbled. There was a wild look in his eye. Willows reached out, and got his arms around Dickie’s chest. He was surprised to see that Dickie had not let go of the saw. He started moving backwards, hauling Dickie and the chain-saw out of the water and up on the beach. The steel blade of the saw clattered on the rocks. Dickie’s teeth were chattering, too. He was shivering uncontrollably.
“You okay?” Willows asked, crouching down next to him.
Dickie didn’t seem to hear the question. His eyes were on Rossiter.
Willows stood up. He went over and unrolled the portable stretcher. Rossiter struggled with the body. It was stiff and ungainly, cold as a block of carved ice. Finally he got a grip under the girl’s armpits. Her heels left parallel grooves in the sand and gravel as he dragged her out of the water.
“Give me a hand getting her on the stretcher,” Rossiter said to Willows. He had seen right away that Dickie wasn’t going to be any help.
Willows grasped the girl’s ankles. Her flesh was soft and pulpy. She was much heavier than he had expected. Together, he and Rossiter lowered the naked body on to the stretcher. There was a tattoo high up on the inside of the forearm, a smudge of blue that was distorted by the swollen skin.
“What the hell is that?” said Rossiter.
Willows knelt for a closer look. “A Smurf,” he said.
“A what?”
“Smurf. Little cartoon character. Don’t you ever watch television on Sunday mornings?”
“Not if I can sleep in.”
Willows found himself staring at the girl. She would have been very pretty. Embarrassed, he looked away.
Dickie’s close-cropped hair lay flat on his head. He fiddled with his moustache. Water dripped from his shirt and blue jeans. He leaned over and hit the chainsaw with the heel of his hand. “I’m going to have to strip this fucker right down to the frame,” he said. “Wash all the parts in gasoline, wipe ’em down with an oily rag. Replace the gaskets and probably the wiring.”
Rossiter was getting into his trousers. “Life is damn hard,” he said. “But death is a whole lot worse.”
Dickie ignored him. He ground the toe of his boot into the gravel and pointed at the corpse. His hand shook but he didn’t try to steady it. “That’s Naomi Lister. Her dad runs the Chevron station down by the highway.”
“I don’t think I recognize her,” Rossiter said.
“She left town a little over a year ago. Went down to Vancouver.”
Willows gave Rossiter an enquiring look.
“I’ve only been stationed here six months,” Rossiter explained. To Dickie, he said, “What’d she do down in the city?”
“How should I know?” Dickie said. He climbed unsteadily to his feet, took a few steps away from them, and threw up.
Willows stared upstream, past the white froth of water and the curving black bulk of the huge egg-shaped boulder. He looked at Rossiter, and Rossiter nodded. They were both thinking that the girl had probably taken off her clothes to go swimming, that if she had, the clothes had to be up there somewhere.
“Jack and I are going to take a little stroll,” Rossiter said to Dickie’s hunched back.
Dickie made a gagging sound.
Half a mile upstream, they came upon an overgrown logging road and a crumbling corduroy bridge made of cedar logs. The disused road was little more than two faint parallel depressions in the grass. What made it easy to see was the absence of large trees. There were tread marks and torn soil where a four-wheel drive vehicle with a short wheelspan had braked hard. Willows found traces of oil, a few small globules of heavy grease.
The girl’s neatly folded clothes were in the fork of a wild cherry near the bridge on the far side of the stream. Willows saw the bright orange tanktop first, and then the white shorts and white tube socks, neatly folded over the running shoes.
Rossiter
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