I left Ian’s place and drove back to the scene. I door-knocked and got lucky on the fifth house, a blue and white pre-fab dropped on a swampy piece of unevenly sodded ground. A bony old Scot, actually wearing a kilt below a plain white T-shirt, stepped out of the house—a toy dog inside was letting out a mighty yap—and spoke to me on his huge, unfinished, untreated deck that was already decaying at the edges. He looked like he was recovering from yesterday’s libations, but his brown eyes appeared intelligent and honest. He had a pencil-thin black moustache, and his hair was also dyed jet black.
I asked him if he’d seen or heard anything that might have had a bearing on Albert Sloan’s death.
“You know, I saw that fella here, wandering around over in the apple grove. I was out pulling some weeds, and I noticed him. Knew the face from his column in the paper. There was him and another fella.”
“Another fellow?”
“Biker looking, I’d describe him. Tall, tattoos, big arms on him, wee black leather vest, that shambling strut—you know: these boots are made for kicking. Mind you, a lot of them look that way these days. Could just as easily been a psychiatric nurse. Sounds like the poor bugger needed one badly.”
“When was this?”
“Oh, let me think. Before Canada Day, I know that,” he said, a touch of pride showing in his recollection, though it was probably of a wicked bender. “But not much before. Maybe two, three days. It was the end of June.”
“This biker, hair long or short?”
“Short. Almost a crew cut.”
“What colour?”
“Light brown, with some grey.”
“Beard?”
“Yes, but trimmed neat.”
“Age?”
“I’d guess late forties. Hard to tell with all that get-up.”
“What did it look like they were doing?”
“Milling around, looking at the property.”
“Did you tell this to the RCMP?”
“Probably ought to, eh?”
“You should. You got a pretty good look at the guy.”
“But the Sloan fella did himself in, from what they’re saying?”
“Who’s saying?”
“All the neighbours.” He pointed to the house on his right.
“You should still report it.”
He looked at me intently and took a man-size breath.
“That I will.”
* * *
Sloan’s house on Beach Road was an old summer cottage that had been extensively remodelled. It was built along a curved stretch where road and sea joined very close. Lush hedgerows lent the property an old country charm and kept all but the red-tiled roof hidden from passing traffic.
Jan answered the door and led me along the hall, not bothering to introduce me to the grieving relatives who had taken over the living room. I caught a glimpse of two sombre young men on the sofa and a very old, weathered and defeated version of Albert, sitting low in a recliner. They were all watching television. I heard women’s voices in the kitchen. I followed Jan to the study.
First, I told her about the biker. She said she had no idea who it could be. “Albert knew all kinds of Coast people.” I said it meant Albert had been down there at least twice before Friday and asked her to try to remember anything he’d said that could shed light on why.
Jan shook her head. “No, the first I heard of it was when the RCMP told me this morning. They said they’d found a witness, but it didn’t change anything in their minds. They won’t reopen the investigation. I called a staff meeting today, got everyone together in the composing room, and I put it to them. No one at the paper knows anything about what he was doing there or what he was working on.”
I didn’t mention the fact that Ian J. Cameron was the witness the RCMP had “found” and was glad she didn’t press for details. I figured Jan was behind the Mounties going to Ian’s house, and I didn’t want to give her more ammo to use against him. But I did tell her about my interviews in town that morning, choosing my words carefully. The truth is, I felt Jerome Charlie’s and Lars Lovedahl’s stories were very weak; unless Albert had grown senile since I knew him, he would never have faced off with either one armed with so little. Barlow I just didn’t get a good feeling from. What I told Jan was that their stories could have holes in them—maybe holes big enough to drive a truck through—but there was nothing definite to go on yet.
She didn’t look satisfied with that, but she had to accept it.
She loaded me up with a cardboard box filled with Virgil Wood’s writings, most of them in typewritten manuscript, crowning the stack with a videocassette documentary on the poet.
I carried it out to the car and drove home.