COFFIN COVE a gripping murder mystery full of twists (Coffin Cove Mysteries Book 1) by JACKIE ELLIOTT (tharntype novel english .txt) 📗

room, which was as impersonal and gloomy as his office. He didn’t get a glass, he just took swigs of vodka straight from the bottle and festered about the unfairness of his life. It had been so good at first. Where had it gone wrong? He’d been top of the heap! Now he was in this cruddy apartment and pushing fucking paper around all day long. This wasn’t what he signed up for, no sir, and it wasn’t what he deserved either, not by a long shot. As the booze took hold, so did the self-pity, and he started to blubber a little, not bothering to wipe away the tears or mucus that dripped from his chin.

He’d started his career with such high hopes, and he was good too. He’d joined as a second mate and soon been promoted to first mate, then relief captain and finally captain. He was so proud. He’d risen quicker than most through the ranks of the Canadian Coast Guard and soon took a move to the Department of Fisheries and Oceans. He’d had a pretty young wife who loved being married to a captain. They were members of the prestigious Yacht Club and had their own little cabin cruiser that they took out on weekends, just putting around the Gulf Islands, mooring for lunches and cocktail hours. Life was good.

Just one bad decision changed everything. He moaned slightly as he remembered and took another gulp of vodka, hoping to dull his memory. But no matter how much booze he drank, that afternoon was still clear in his mind.

It was the first salmon opening of the season. Back then, the fishing fleet was over a thousand purse-seiners, all competing for the largest hauls of the prized sockeye salmon. There were no aircraft in those days to monitor the fleet and make sure that fishermen stayed in their boundaries and didn’t fish over the scheduled time.

“And they were bloody cowboys,” he said aloud in the dark.

How were they supposed to make sure all those fuckers followed the rules?

He’d decided to check on a packer vessel. The packer was buying fish for cash straight off the fishermen. It was useful when there was a short opening. They could offload their catch to the packer, get cash immediately and carry on fishing. The packer transported the fish to the processors and made their money selling it.

At least, that was how it was supposed to work. Roberts had got a tip-off that there was something not right about this vessel.

The King of Cash. He watched for most of the day. Fishing boats, their hulls low in water, loaded with salmon, pumped their precious catch into the hatches on the packer and headed back out to the fishing grounds to do it all again. An hour before the opening was due to finish, he ordered his vessel alongside the King of Cash and told the skipper he was coming aboard, and to have his tally slips ready for inspection.

Roberts had heard rumours about the skipper, Stan Hilstead, and his son. Some said they were working for the bikers. Stan was a short man, with large forearms covered with faded tattoos. When he grinned at Roberts and said, “Welcome aboard, Captain, what can I do for you?” and then laughed as if he’d told a hilarious joke, Roberts could see the glint of a gold tooth.

Roberts ignored him. He stepped into the galley and found Steve Hilstead, Stan’s son, sitting behind the biggest stack of cash Roberts had ever seen. For a second it mesmerized him. Then he saw white bundles piled up beside the cash. He must have looked startled.

“What’s the matter, Captain?” Steve Hilstead drawled. “Never seen top-grade coke before?” and he too threw back his head and laughed. Gerry Roberts had replayed that moment over and over in his head all these years. Hilstead must have been high. But Gerry was stone-cold sober, and there was no excuse for what happened next.

“So what’ll it be, Captain? Coke or cash? We’ve got lots of both.” Hilstead grinned brazenly, making no attempt to hide.

Gerry Roberts said nothing. He was trying to process this. He knew what he should do, of course, but the cash . . . His wife liked nice things. She wanted a bigger boat, a golf course membership and a motorhome so they could winter in Arizona. And the problem was, despite the badge on his arm, his salary wasn’t enough.

As if Hilstead was reading his mind, he tossed Gerry an envelope.

“Have this on me, Captain, no questions asked,” he said, and tapped the side of his nose. “Buy the wife something nice, eh?”

The rest of that day was a blur. The envelope contained thousands of dollars. For weeks, Gerry kept the envelope under his mattress at home, worried that he’d get called into the office. If he didn’t touch it, he could just say he was gathering evidence, right? Just about to hand it in, report the matter. He’d get away with it. No harm, no foul. But weeks passed and then a month, and nothing. He began to relax.

One evening, he took his wife out to dinner at the golf club. He presented her with membership documents. As she flung her arms round his neck, he murmured, “Christmas in Mexico this year?”

He spent all the cash.

A few months later, as the fall fishing season started, his phone rang.

“Captain Gerry Roberts, how are ya?” a familiar voice drawled.

And that was it. Just a few favours at first. Make sure his enforcement vessels avoided this area at this time. Turn a blind eye. Make sure that discrepancies on paperwork were overlooked. Nothing big, Gerry told himself. Nobody gets hurt. And to reward every small favour, an envelope would appear, sometimes on the front seat of his car, sometimes hand-delivered to his home and left in the mailbox. A thank