Raincoast Noir 01 The White Angel by John MacLachlan Gray

Author:John MacLachlan Gray [Gray, John MacLachlan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: literary fiction, Janet Smith, Vancouver, 1920s, Fiction, true crime
ISBN: 9781771621472
Publisher: Douglas and McIntyre (2013) Ltd.
Published: 2017-09-09T00:00:00+00:00

19

Like throwing stones at a man in a well.

At the Point Grey constabulary, the two officers escort Dawson to his cell, relieve him of any means of suicide (including his trousers) and lock the barred door, then beetle straight for the chief’s office to lodge separate complaints, leaving the prisoner sobbing into his shirt front.

Quigley sits behind his desk smoking a pipeful of what smells like horse manure, while scratching an eczema spot on his forehead. “Gentlemen, I believe it’s customary to knock before entering the office of a superior.”

Hook tells himself that he must hold his temper at all costs. “I beg your pardon, sir, but we have an urgent problem.”

“I disagree that it’s a problem at all,” Gorman counters. “Constable Hook here is making a mountain out of a molehill.”

“Perhaps so, gentlemen, but whether we do or don’t have a problem, I see no reason not to follow protocol.”

“Sir, on the Janet Stewart case we have a person of interest in the cell, but Constable Gorman has made a mess of him.”

“A mess, Constable Hook?”

“A psychological mess, sir.”

“And what sort of a mess is that?”

Gorman lights one of his disgusting Black Cat cigarettes, striking the match with a yellow horn of a thumbnail. “It’s the sort of thing universities dream up, sir. Constable Hook was about to serve the suspect afternoon tea.”

“Ha! Good crack, Mr. Gorman!”

Hook doesn’t find it the least bit funny. “Sir, I was securing his confidence in order to extract information he might not otherwise reveal. It was part of our training in the army—but of course Mr. Gorman wouldn’t know about military interrogation techniques, having never served.”

“I take offence to that,” Gorman says. “Back home, many civilians served with valour and distinction.”

“But not you, Constable Gorman.”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, let’s not sink to petty bickering. Continue, Constable Hook.”

“Sir, my colleague here informed the suspect that his fiancée is dead without giving him any preparation whatsoever. In the service I interrogated looters, smugglers, rapists, thugs, embezzlers and attempted suicides...”

“Good heavens! Among our own troops?”

“Put bluntly, yes. And from experience I tell you that you can’t shock a man like that and expect a single word that comes out of him to be of any use at all.”

“You are saying Constable Gorman could have been more tactful.”

“To put it mildly, sir.”

The chief scratches another spot on his head, whose bulbous shape makes his ears look as if they have slipped down. “And what do you have to say, Constable Gorman?”

“Sir, I protest Mr. Hook’s characterization of events. In my long experience with the Provincial Police I have snagged many a miscreant with a good shock, a good sharp jab to the kidneys just to see what he has to say. A piece of terrible news is no less effective than a nightstick.”

“Like a fast leg bowl, you mean.”

“Correct sir, well put.”

“This is not entirely cricket, though. Constable Hook, in your experience with military methods, where do we go from here?”

“I should like to speak with Mr. Dawson alone, sir.

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