The Guilty Read online

  The Guilty

  Sean Slater is the pseudonym for Vancouver Police Officer Sean Sommerville. As a police officer, Sommerville works in Canada’s poorest slum, the Downtown East Side – an area rife with poverty, mental illness, drug use, prostitution, and gang warfare. He has investigated everything from frauds and extortions to homicides. Sommerville has written numerous columns for editorials for the city newspaper. His work has been nominated for the Rupert Hughes Prose Award, and he was the grand-prize winner of the Sunday Serial Thriller contest. His debut novel, The Survivor, was shortlisted for the Arthur Ellis Award.

  Also by Sean Slater

  The Survivor

  Snakes & Ladders

  First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2013

  A CBS company

  Copyright © Sean Slater, 2013

  This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.

  No reproduction without permission.

  ® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster Inc. All rights reserved.

  The right of Sean Slater to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  Simon & Schuster UK Ltd

  1st Floor

  222 Gray’s Inn Road

  London WC1X 8HB

  www.simonandschuster.co.uk

  Simon & Schuster Australia, Sydney

  Simon & Schuster India, New Delhi

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-47110-136-6

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-47110-138-0

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Typeset by Hewer Text UK Ltd, Edinburgh

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

  This book is dedicated to two people who shared my childhood and helped make it such a magical time.

  To Billy,

  who I gave an airplane ride into a tree.

  I am sorry for that (not really).

  And to Cindy,

  whose Barbie dolls I drowned in the bathtub too many times to count.

  I’m sorry for that, too (again, not really).

  Contents

  Part 1: Fuse

  Wednesday: One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Part 2: Spark

  Thursday: Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Forty-Six

  Forty-Seven

  Forty-Eight

  Forty-Nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-One

  Fifty-Two

  Fifty-Three

  Fifty-Four

  Fifty-Five

  Fifty-Six

  Fifty-Seven

  Fifty-Eight

  Fifty-Nine

  Sixty

  Sixty-One

  Sixty-Two

  Sixty-Three

  Sixty-Four

  Sixty-Five

  Sixty-Six

  Sixty-Seven

  Sixty-Eight

  Sixty-Nine

  Seventy

  Seventy-One

  Seventy-Two

  Seventy-Three

  Seventy-Four

  Seventy-Five

  Seventy-Six

  Seventy-Seven

  Seventy-Eight

  Seventy-Nine

  Eighty

  Eighty-One

  Eighty-Two

  Eighty-Three

  Eighty-Four

  Eighty-Five

  Eighty-Six

  Eighty-Seven

  Eighty-Eight

  Eighty-Nine

  Ninety

  Ninety-One

  Ninety-Two

  Part 3: Detonation

  Friday: Ninety-Three

  Ninety-Four

  Ninety-Five

  Ninety-Six

  Ninety-Seven

  Ninety-Eight

  Ninety-Nine

  One Hundred

  One Hundred and One

  One Hundred and Two

  One Hundred and Three

  One Hundred and Four

  One Hundred and Five

  One Hundred and Six

  One Hundred and Seven

  One Hundred and Eight

  One Hundred and Nine

  One Hundred and Ten

  One Hundred and Eleven

  One Hundred and Twelve

  One Hundred and Thirteen

  One Hundred and Fourteen

  One Hundred and Fifteen

  One Hundred and Sixteen

  One Hundred and Seventeen

  One Hundred and Eighteen

  One Hundred and Nineteen

  One Hundred and Twenty

  One Hundred and Twenty-One

  One Hundred and Twenty-Two

  One Hundred and Twenty-Three

  One Hundred and Twenty-Four

  One Hundred and Twenty-Five

  One Hundred and Twenty-Six

  One Hundred and Twenty-Seven

  Part 4: Shockwave

  Saturday: One Hundred and Twenty-Eight

  One Hundred and Twenty-Nine

  One Hundred and Thirty

  One Hundred and Thirty-One

  One Hundred and Thirty-Two

  One Hundred and Thirty-Three

  One Hundred and Thirty-Four

  One Hundred and Thirty-Five

  One Hundred and Thirty-Six

  One Hundred and Thirty-Seven

  One Hundred and Thirty-Eight

  One Hundred and Thirty-Nine

  One Hundred and Forty

  One Hundred and Forty-One

  One Hundred and Forty-Two

  One Hundred and Forty-Three

  One Hundred and Forty-Four

  One Hundred and Forty-Five

  One Hundred and Forty-Six

  One Hundred and Forty-Seven

  One Hundred and Forty-Eight

  One Hundred and Forty-Nine

  One Hundred and Fifty

  One Hundred and Fifty-One

  EPILOGUE: One

  Two

  Three

  Acknowledgement Section

  Part 1:

  Fuse

  Wednesday

  One

  The bomb may have been set to go off in three hours, but the fuse had been lit nine years ago. They had been long years. Hard years. And the notion of it all brooded in the bomber’s mind like a nuclear winter haze.

  He knelt on the concrete floor of the steel barn and stared at the woman who was strapped to the chair in front of him. She was attractive. Middle-aged. Dark-skinned.
And she was crying softly – had been for damn near an hour now. Mascara-thick tears stained her ebony cheeks.

  Her sorrow meant nothing.

  He turned his eyes away from the woman. Ignored her sobbing and waffling and suffering. Instead, he focused on the burlap sack, for it was what mattered now. As he opened the bag, the orange light of the barn lamp tinted his face, making his damaged skin look like a dried-up peel. It was a sight to behold, and the gobsmacked woman tied to the chair could not help but stare.

  He focused on the strange motley of items he was removing from the bag.

  Yellow sponge . . . check.

  Micro-tape recorder . . . check.

  Red file folder . . . check.

  And of course, the toy – a hand-crafted wooden duck, dressed in a policeman’s uniform. That was the essential piece . . . BIG check.

  The bomber stared at the toy. The wooden duck was roughly the size of an iron, and had been personified with arms and legs, so that it somewhat resembled a Daffy or a Donald Duck, and not a real one. Painted on its chest was a bright red number 6. The sight of it made the bomber smile sadly. He stuck his finger through the steel O-ring, gave it a pull, and listened to the bird’s voice-box come to life:

  ‘These criminals are making me quackers!’

  The recording ended, and he looked at the duck for a long moment. His smile slipped away, but he did not frown. He did not show any emotion. He just knelt there looking at the wooden duck and feeling overwhelmed by memories – ones which were slanted and out of order.

  Like a row of freight train cars that had gone off the tracks.

  When his thoughts derailed, he stared at the woman. A strange mix of emotions distorted her face. Confusion. Fear.

  Pain.

  She choked back her tears. ‘Pl-please. I’ve told you everything. You don’t . . . you don’t have to do this.’

  In an instant, his expression changed. Turned dark. And his blue eyes looked like ice under the jagged rim of black hair. When he angled his head to see her, his face looked maniacal in the strange orange hue of the barn lamp.

  ‘I’m not doing anything,’ he said. ‘You’re the reason for all of this. And you bloody well know it.’

  The woman broke down.

  He barely heard her sobs. Already he was looking at his watch, going over timelines, analysing strategy. So far, the operation was going well.

  Battle One of this long war had started.

  Were it not for the fact that he really didn’t want to do this – hell, he didn’t want to hurt anyone – the bomber would have smiled. Because everything was going perfectly well. Spot on without a glitch.

  And then the teenage girl stumbled through the first-floor doorway.

  And everything went to hell.

  Two

  Homicide Detective Jacob Striker sat in the driver’s side of the undercover Ford Fusion and sipped from a cup of Tim Horton’s coffee, black. The brew was hot – too hot for the summer heat wave which had moved in late June and was still residing like a bad tenant, halfway through July.

  He drank the coffee anyway. Caffeine was needed. It was only five in the morning, and – judging by the heaping mounds of workflow back at the office – the shift was going to be a tedious one.

  In the passenger seat, Felicia sat with her visor down, staring at herself in the mirror. Her own cup of coffee, thick with cream and sugar, sat untouched in the pullout tray between them, and that was unusual.

  Striker gave her a few more seconds of looking into the mirror, then spoke:

  ‘Having a staring contest?’

  Felicia let out a long sigh and flipped up the visor. She said nothing at first, but Striker knew the problem: Felicia’s birthday was today, and she didn’t like it.

  ‘Do I look thirty-three?’ she finally asked.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not any more.’

  She cast him a look of daggers, and Striker grinned. After a moment, her expression lightened and she let out a small laugh. ‘Yes, I’m being vain,’ she admitted. ‘But it’s my birthday, so I’m allowed to be. And for the record, any more comments like that one and you’ll be sleeping alone on the couch tonight.’

  Striker sipped his coffee and stared back at her. Having a working partnership and a secret relationship was exciting no doubt, but it was also a lot of work. Sometimes it was difficult to tell where the two lines met.

  ‘Thirty-three,’ he finally said. ‘Hell, I should be so lucky. I crossed that bridge a long time ago.’ He gave her a smile and winked. ‘Don’t fret it, Birthday Girl. You’ll be happy when the day’s done.’

  She cocked an eyebrow at him. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Little surprise I’ve been working on.’

  Felicia gave him a wry look, like she was calling his bluff, but Striker just kept on smiling. He did have something planned – a romantic getaway for two in a quaint little bed and breakfast at Whistler Mountain Ski Resort. The reservation was set for Thursday. Just the thought of getting away brought Striker a sense of peace, and for the first time in as long as he could remember, he felt good.

  Really, really good.

  Then the call came in.

  Sue Rhaemer, the Central Dispatcher for E-Comm, came across the air, her voice smooth yet rough, like sand in honey: ‘Got a 911 coming in,’ she broadcasted. ‘Cell call. Girl’s screaming. Not making a whole lot of sense. Says she’s in the industrial area, somewhere down by the river . . . Keeps talking about two giant chimneys.’

  Striker thought it over. ‘The cement plant.’

  ‘She’s talking about the smokestacks,’ Felicia agreed.

  Striker dropped his cup in the tray holder, spilling some of the brew onto the carpet. He rammed the gearshift into Drive and pulled out onto Granville Street. Within seconds, he had the Fusion up to eighty K and was flying through 29th Avenue.

  Sue Rhaemer came across the air again: ‘Okay, we’ve lost her now – how close is the nearest unit?’

  A patrol unit replied: ‘Alpha 21 – we’re the only car available right now, and we’re coming from Dunbar and 2nd.’

  Striker swore. ‘That’s over in Point Grey – they’ll take twenty minutes.’

  Felicia grabbed the radio and pressed the mike. ‘This is Detectives Santos and Striker. We’re three minutes out. We’re heading down.’

  Striker hammered the gas so hard, Felicia fell back against the seat and almost dropped the mike. As she plunged it back into the cradle, Striker swerved into the fast lane. They raced south down Granville Street, now at over one hundred K per hour, with speeds increasing.

  Striker had a bad feeling about the call.

  ‘Why the hell would a young girl be down by the river – in the industrial area – at this time of the morning?’ he asked.

  ‘No good reason,’ Felicia replied.

  Striker agreed.

  He hit the gas and brought the car up to one-twenty.

  Three

  Factory smoke roamed the black waterways of the Fraser River like lost souls. Where the winds were strong enough, that same smoke spilled back through the pulp mill and concrete plant, blurring out a series of industrial lights so that they looked like distant dim halos.

  Striker turned to Felicia. ‘Roll down your window so we can hear – the girl’s got to be close now.’

  The words had barely left his lips when a small, awkward figure stumbled out into the centre of the gravel road. Striker hammered on the brakes to avoid hitting her, and the cruiser slid to a stop with the sound of crunching gravel.

  He jumped out into the clouds of swirling dust and drew his SIG Sauer. Only when the hard rubber grip of the pistol melded with the firm flesh of his palm did a sense of reassurance filter through him.

  They’d found her.

  ‘Check her out,’ he told Felicia. ‘I’ll cover us.’

  The girl was crumpled on the road now, in front of their car. The bright halogen glare of the headlights made her face appear ghostly white an
d highlighted her long dishevelled hair. She was missing one high-heeled pump, and her short miniskirt and halter top were both torn.

  The left side of her face was covered in blood.

  ‘Jesus,’ Felicia gasped.

  She dropped to one knee in front of the girl.

  Striker moved in front of them, shielding both with his body as he scanned the smoky haze of the concrete plant and, beyond that, the rumbling waves of the Fraser River. Everything out there was dark. Quiet. Unmoving.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Felicia asked.

  ‘He’s after me! He’s after me!’

  ‘Who’s after you?’

  The girl started to cry. She looked back over her shoulder. At the other end of the lot was a small steel barn with an orange exterior lamp. The light looked unnatural in the smoky darkness.

  ‘He’s got her in there! In the steel barn!’

  Striker’s eyes narrowed at the comment, and a coldness spilt through him. He turned around and met the girl’s stare.

  ‘Got who in there?’

  ‘Some woman. A black woman – she’s tied to a chair.’ The girl let out a sob. ‘He’s going to kill her.’

  Four

  The girl’s words ended any hope of waiting for backup.

  ‘I’m checking it out,’ Striker said. ‘Stay here with the girl.’

  Felicia frowned. ‘Forget that – I’m coming with you.’

  ‘You can’t.’ He gestured to the bloodied girl. ‘You need to protect her until Patrol arrives. She can’t be left alone and she can’t come with me.’

  ‘Then wait, Jacob. You need cover.’

  ‘No manpower, no time.’

  Before Felicia could fight him on the issue, Striker wheeled about.

  As he crossed the lot, the air grew thicker. Loose cement powder and gravel dust floated in the air and stuck to his face. Everywhere he looked, there was only darkness, blurred by the desperate light of industrial lamps.

  He rounded a row of cement trucks and the steel barn came back into view. Now at this closer distance, Striker could see that the building was on a separate lot, nestled in between the concrete plant and the Fraser River. Thick blackberry bushes covered the perimeter, and surrounding the lot was a tall chain-link fence.

  An odd spot.

  Wasting no time, Striker climbed the fence, landed on the other side, and kept moving. When he reached the entrance to the barn, he stopped hard.