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A framed navigational chart took up most of the wall behind Sonya’s desk. It had been enlarged to show only the Broughtons, and colored squares indicated the location of the various fish farms. Knudsen and his daughter watched silently as Dan moved around the counter to look at it more closely.
“Can you show me exactly where the farm Jules and Manual worked on is located?” he asked.
“Sure!” Dan’s question snapped Matti Knudsen back to reality. “We’ve only got three. There are two up here off North Broughton, near Sullivan Bay.” He indicated two small orange squares before running his finger down until it was pointing to a spot near Minstrel Island. “The other one’s down here in Tribune. That’s where they were.”
Dan leaned over and studied the chart more closely. It was familiar territory. He had been up and down every one of those channels many times and he knew exactly which farm Knudsen was pointing at. It was the same one he and Walker had tied up to the night they had gone to visit Arne.
He stepped back, picturing the other farm he had visited, where Reg Johnson had told him about the white Sea-Ray.
“You hear about Colin Farnsworth?” he asked.
“The kid that had the accident on the barge? Yeah. That was terrible. Reuben said he was a really nice kid.” Knudsen shook his head.
“You know Reuben?” For some reason the information surprised Dan, although it shouldn’t have. Port Hardy was a small town and it made sense that people who worked in the same industry would all know each other.
“Sure. Known him most of my life. We use those barges all the time.”
“I talked to him yesterday. He said he thought there was a damaged tote of fish food sitting on the float at one of the farms. That happen often?”
“Once is too damn often,” Knudsen grimaced. “That stuff costs a lot of money, and it takes time to get it up here. We have to bring it up from Vancouver.”
“Has it happened to you?”
“Yeah. Just that once.”
“Recently?” An idea was forming in Dan’s mind. It was linked to the odor of dead fish he had experienced at Reg Johnson’s farm.
“Yeah. Why?”
“Just wondering. Does the food have a strong smell?”
Knudsen laughed. “You could say that. It’s mostly made from fish oil and fish meal. I can get you a sample if you want.”
Dan shook his head and smiled. “I’ll pass thanks.”
Knudsen laughed again and nodded. “Good choice. Well I’m really sorry to hear about Billy Jules. Hope you catch the guy that did it.” He glanced towards a door on the other side of the room. “Anything else I can help you with? I’ve got a couple of calls I need to make.”
“I don’t want to keep you, but there is one more thing,” Dan answered. “I was wondering of you’ve had any visitors out at that farm recently?” Dan watched Knudsen closely for any sign of a reaction to the question, but the man seemed barely interested.
“You mean tours? Nah. Some of the big companies offer them, but we don’t have the staff.”
“How about investors or business partners? Maybe people from some of the companies you buy equipment or fish food from who want to check things out?”
“This is a family business, just me and two of my brothers. We don’t have any investors or business partners. Might have a buyer or a salesman drop by, but you would have to ask Bob Steiger about that. He’s in charge of operations. I’m just the office guy.”
“Steiger around?”
“Should be. Probably out on the dock or in the warehouse.”
“Mind if I talk to him?
“Fine with me, but you might want to wait until they’re finished unloading the truck. He’s checking the totes as they come off and that takes time. It makes the drivers mad—throws off their schedule—but with those damaged totes we have to be sure.”
“Sounds like you’re talking about pretty major damage.”
Knudsen nodded. “Enough that it makes loading the food into the hoppers difficult. It’s more than just a little rip. It’s like a goddamn hole’s been punched in the side. It means they can’t use the equipment to lift them up and dump them. If they do, half the food gets wasted. They have to do it by hand.”
“So you think the damage happens on the truck?”
“Could be. That’s what Steiger’s checking. If it’s not there then it has to be on the barge.”
Dan glanced over at the chart again.
“So do you happen to know if the farm where Farnsworth had his . . . accident had a damaged tote? Reuben said he thought it did, but he wasn’t sure.”
“Hadn’t heard, but I wouldn’t be surprised. A lot of us use the same trucking companies and the same barges as well.”
There was nothing else he could offer.
***
OUT IN THE YARD, DAN leaned against the hood of his SUV and watched the totes coming off the truck. A man—probably the truck driver because he looked seriously impatient—jockeyed the totes onto a pallet, attached a hook to the straps and used the winch to swing it over and lower it to the ground. Another man, this one not much more than a teenager and with the same white hair as Sonya, operated a forklift, moving the pallets inside the building. In between the two activities, a third man whom Dan figured had to be Steiger, walked around checking each one.
Steiger was short and solid with a skull covered with gray-brown stubble and a rough beard that looked as if he hadn’t shaved for a couple of days. To Dan’s eyes, the inspection he was giving the totes seemed cursory, but then any damage of the type Knudsen had described would be pretty easy to spot.
The last tote disappeared into the warehouse and the driver climbed into the truck, slammed the door and turned on the engine without speaking to either of the other two men. Dan pushed himself up off the hood of his vehicle and walked over to where Steiger stood writing something on a clipboard.
“Bob Steiger?”
The man narrowed his eyes and stared at him. “You talk to the office? This yard is off-limits.”
“Matti Knudsen sent me out. I need to ask you a few questions.”
“You a cop?”
Dan hadn’t shown him any ID, but it was probably a fair assumption. “Yeah. Knudsen said you would be the one to ask about any visitors going out to the farms.”
Steiger’s face changed and took on a furtive look. “We don’t allow visitors.” The tone was brusque and Steiger’s eyes refused to meet Dan’s. The man was nervous.
“Not even people from the companies you deal with?”
Steiger’s eyes slid sideways and Dan could see his hands clenching and unclenching. “No way. Not unless they’ve got work to do out there.”
“So no one from the company that supplies the food went out to look at the damaged tote?”
A sheen of perspiration had appeared on Steiger’s face. “I already told you. No visitors.” He started walking towards the warehouse. “I gotta go. I’ve got work to do.”
Dan watched him for a few seconds then went back to his car and started the engine. As he drove through the gate he looked at the rearview mirror. Steiger was standing in the warehouse doorway watching him.