Living in Waldo, DS Hook never got into the church-going habit. Father and Mother attended for social reasons only, as did everybody—what else was there to do on a Sunday?
The only church in town was Waldo Church—basically a wooden house rounded at one end to suggest an apse—and it was firmly non-denominational, since nobody in Waldo could agree on the time of day, much less how to get to heaven. As a result, Pastor Uphill spoke about whatever happened to be on his mind that week—usually something uplifting about someone in the village who did something nice for someone else or an appeal to help out a neighbour who lost a body part in the sawmill.
Jeanie’s family are dyed-in-the-wool Methodists. For Methodists, church-going is a sacred duty, and she gets chippy if he doesn’t join her at Grandview Methodist on a Sunday morning.
All in all, he doesn’t mind. It’s a chance to wear his good suit, and Jeanie dolls up nice. The music is tuneful and well sung by the choir, and he finds he has taken to some of the hymns: “Holy, Holy, Holy” has a soft sweetness to it, though he finds “Before Jehovah’s Awful Throne” a bit ominous, and “Onward, Christian Soldiers” calls up memories of doomed, over-the-top assaults ordered by the likes of Victor Newson.
Still, at Grandview Methodist, the primary challenge for Hook is the effort it takes to stay awake during the sermon. More than once, Reverend Sutherland’s ministerial drone has occasioned a sharp elbow from Jeanie, when a too-conspicuous snore escaped from his nostrils.
This week, Sutherland’s sermon is based on the theme “Love Thy Neighbour”:
…In the current civic atmosphere of suspicion—when neighbours spy on neighbours, when undercover policemen prowl the streets, the gaols are filled with the accused, and when every week it seems a new public enemy is uncovered—it behooves us to pay attention to the words of Leviticus 19:16–18:
Thou shalt not go up and down as a slanderer among thy people; neither shalt thou stand idly by when thy neighbour’s life is at stake. Thou shalt not hate thy brother in thine heart, but reprove him openly. Thou shalt not bear any grudge against the children of thy people, but thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself…
To DS Hook, the upshot of it is that every last person in Vancouver is going to hell, except for Jeanie.
Which is fine with him.
After the obligatory handshake with the minister, Hook and Jeanie hop on the BSA, which is parked around the corner, and roar away together, her arms around him as they speed straight down Fourth Avenue (deserted, stores and bank closed), then along Marine Drive to Spanish Banks.
As with many memories, one of their first encounters has become a marital tradition. Italian fishermen tending their nets recognize the pair and wave.
Walking down to the beach, he hoists her onto a waist-high log and they look across the water at the city, muffled in a greyish-brown cloud, with the Birks clock and the cornice of the Sun Tower and the sawtooth mountains looming above them. In the streets of the city, ant-like shapes whiz about to the hum of tyres, the croak of auto horns and the harsh, kazoo-like moan of a St Paul’s ambulance.
“Ducky, I have something to tell you.”
Hook inhales deeply, bracing for what, to judge by her serious expression, is not good news.
Jeanie continues, staring at her hands folded at her waist. “I don’t know how to say it, love, so I’ll say it right out. I’m not up the duff.”
Hook takes a minute to absorb this. He is surprised by the pang of sadness he feels beneath his rib cage.
“If there is more to tell, pet, please tell me.”
“Aye, there is more. I’ve been searching my mind for the right words. Men are awful squeamish. Most don’t want the bloody details.”
“Don’t forget the war, pet. There’s not much left that will make me squeamish.”
She pauses and looks down at her hands again.
“There was something in the toilet, ducky. Never mind what it was. And there was blood. Gina Corelli’s sister Chiara is a midwife, and she told me what it was. Called it a ‘blighted womb.’ It sounds like a disease. Ducky, it isn’t like we lost someone—there was nobody there in the first place.” Tears form in her eyes, more wistful than sad. “I’m not blarting, ducky, don’t worry.”
“Is there more, pet? Does this mean you can’t… in the future…?”
“Oh blimey, no! Chiara said it happened to one of her women and she went on to have a dozen.”
“Well, I wouldn’t want to go that far.”
“They’re Catholics, ducky. Being Protestant, you can make use of your barber.”
She half-smiles: “Something for the weekend, sir?”
Every week after church, maybe as a gesture of rebellion against her dour parents, Jeanie likes to have a good time on “the holiday.”
And for Sunday entertainment, there is nothing to compare with Happyland.
Situated in a park at the eastern edge of the city, Happyland enjoyed only modest attendance when first constructed; now, thanks to the new electric tramline, the park is bursting with visitors—especially on a Sunday afternoon, when stores and theatres are dark and radio is nothing but sermons and hymns.
For his part, Hook likes nothing better than to bring Jeanie to Happyland, where the dimples appear when she smiles, and he hears her laugh out loud.
Hook could do with a bit of happiness right now. He has barely made a dent in the Cunning case, has run poor Mrs Crombie into the ground and has double-crossed his ex-partner. In return he has a bottle of wood alcohol in a staff locker, whose obvious purpose was to throw them off the track. (It would take a remarkably lax murderer to leave the poison behind.)
But to throw them off what track?
The question itches him like one of Quam’s impenetrable thoughts. Was it some sort of hoax? What was he intended to think?
That, and the martini glass.
Otherwise, there’s little to refute the suggestion that both victims died of natural causes. Certainly nothing that will persuade Barfoot to dig them up for analysis…
While Hook broods, Jeanie squeals with delight.
They are on the Ferris Wheel, at whose apex the city lies before them, bounded by endless sea, endless forest and a wall of mountains with spikes on top; then, before the thrill has had time to set in, you are brought back to earth, to repeat the cycle until the motor winds down and you descend in jerks, back to where you started.
Hook can’t enjoy the ride properly. It reminds him too much of work.
He also endures Shoot the Chutes, on which, having stood in line for a half-hour, they ride down an artificial waterfall, which is rather pleasant except for the wet clothes.
Then they visit the Educated Horse, a snake charmer and the Ganges River crocodile. They don’t venture into the bingo tent, because neither of them holds with gambling—Jeanie by Methodist tradition, Hook because he never wins.
By prior agreement, they save the best for last: the new Giant Dipper roller coaster, which features a sixty-foot drop at a speed of over forty miles an hour—fast enough to make Jeanie squeal with delight, with no trace of sadness at all.