HELL'S HALF ACRE a gripping murder mystery full of twists (Coffin Cove Mysteries Book 2) by JACKIE ELLIOTT (classic literature books .txt) 📗

Vega was still irritated at being dispatched to Coffin Cove to help the local detachment with a missing person’s enquiry. The local cops were perfectly capable of dealing with the incident. It was purely a PR exercise, thanks to Dennis Havers’ string-pulling, and a complete waste of his time.

“This came across my desk yesterday,” Sinclair said, gesturing to the file. “The decomposed body of a male was discovered yesterday in a derelict chapel in Coffin Cove. Forensics are out there now with the coroner, but as yet we don’t have an ID on the body, and we don’t know if it’s a homicide.” She paused and looked at Vega. “But a preliminary report suggests the body has been there for a while. They’ve recovered several items which fit with the description of Ricky’s clothing.”

“A derelict church?” Vega asked. He didn’t recall any buildings like that, and the search teams had done a thorough examination of the area. Supposedly.

“Apparently, it’s hidden in dense woodland, and it’s on private land. The local historical society were on a field trip or something and one of them found the body.”

“Ah, nasty.” Vega pulled a face.

“Yes, and although the local guys asked them to keep it all quiet . . . well, it seems the local gossip factory has been working overtime, hence a call to my office. And now you’re here.”

Shit rolls downhill, Vega thought, but kept his face expressionless.

“Should we get a team out there, ma’am?” he asked.

“I’d like you to go first, Andrew,” she said.

Vega was surprised. Superintendent Sinclair rarely dropped formalities and used his first name. Before he could answer, she asked another question.

“You’re familiar with Coffin Cove, right?”

He nodded. Apart from the visit to follow up on Ricky Havers’ disappearance, Vega had led a team investigating the murder of a controversial environmentalist. The investigation was complex and was eventually linked to two other murders — one of them a cold case from decades ago. Although two arrests were made, and the results considered a success, a journalist had been shot and seriously wounded. Vega had warned her about interfering with the investigation, but like all journalists, she considered it her God-given right to ferret around in things that didn’t concern her. “Uncovering the truth,” she’d called it. “Taking unnecessary risks,” he’d told her.

Despite his annoyance, Vega half smiled at the thought of Andi Silvers. He had to admit that some of her investigative journalism had been useful. Details she had managed to uncover had helped with the court cases which came afterwards. Also, he liked her. Well, maybe more than liked her . . .

Vega dragged his attention away from Andi Silvers and back to the superintendent.

“I’ve never been to Coffin Cove. But Emma knows the town quite well,” she was saying.

Vega was amazed but didn’t dare let it show on his face. Superintendent Sharon Sinclair lived with her partner, Emma Ross, who’d retired from the RCMP a few years ago. Sinclair never mentioned her private life. So this must be important.

“When Emma first joined the force, she was a member at the Nanaimo detachment and covered Coffin Cove. She was out there regularly. It’s an unpleasant little town, apparently,” Sinclair continued.

“Can’t argue with that, ma’am,” Vega said with feeling.

“Emma’s recollection is that Coffin Cove had a horrible drug problem. Not just weed, either. For about five years in the late eighties, there was some kind of acid going around. LSD was pretty rare outside of the cities, but somehow it reached Coffin Cove and started a trend up and down the island. The Nanaimo team were sure that Coffin Cove was ground zero for the supply, but they could never get to the bottom of it. Because there’s only one road in and out, and it takes an hour to get there from Nanaimo, they were never quick enough to respond to any tips that could have helped. And the acid was lethal. Several kids died. Emma says they were certain a gang of bikers were organizing the distribution network, but they intimidated anyone who spoke out, and they could never infiltrate the gang. It was such a small community, and they were suspicious of new faces. It was really bad while it lasted.”

Sinclair paused, and it looked to Vega as though she was weighing up whether to continue. Then she started talking again.

“But that’s not what prompted Emma to give me this file. Some cases stay with you, don’t they? Back in those days, Emma had a call-out to Hope Island. It’s a tiny island just off Coffin Cove. Back then, Hope Island used to be home to what the locals called ‘The Commune’. It was an all-female ‘alternative living’ experiment, I suppose that’s how we’d refer to it now. Back then, it was quite famous — well, infamous, I suppose. Women used it as a refuge of sorts.” She hesitated, as if choosing her words carefully. “Back then, violence against women wasn’t taken seriously.” She sighed. “Even now, we need to do far better, but then . . . well, let’s just say that domestic violence was seen as a normal reaction to a disobedient woman.” She spoke the words slowly and pressed her lips together in an angry line.

It was a rare display of emotion for Superintendent Sinclair. Vega waited for her to continue.

“On the way out to Hope Island,” Sinclair said, “Emma remembers quite clearly the sergeant joking with the boat owner about dirty lesbians getting what they deserved.” She continued without looking at Vega to see his reaction. “When she got there, they found one older woman who had a black eye and other bruises . . . and a young girl. God, Emma says she was really roughed up. It took a while, but the girl did start to open up. Emma believes, to this day, she knew something about the new drug we were trying to get a handle on,