She tried again. “C’mon, you bitch,” she hissed through her teeth. She cranked the engine for longer than was recommended, but it did not start.
“Be careful,” Del Tilley said. “You might flood it.”
She turned the ignition key to “On” and powered the window down an inch. “It’s fuel-injected,” she said coldly, hoping she remembered correctly that fuel-injected engines did not flood.
“Would you like me to try?” he asked.
“I’m quite capable of starting a car, Mr. Tilley,” she said.
“Yes, yes, of course you are. I’m sorry. I’m only trying to help.”
She followed the recommended procedure, cranking for five or six seconds, then letting the battery rest for ten seconds, then cranking again. She repeated the process five times, to no avail. She raised the window, removed the key from the ignition, and opened the door. Tilley stepped back as she got out of the car. In her half heels she looked straight into his yellow eyes.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Tilley. I didn’t mean to be snappish. I—it’s been a trying day.”
“I understand,” he said.
“Do you have a phone?” she said. “I want to call the CAA.”
He took a tiny cellphone out of his pocket, but he did not hand it to her.
“I’ll take you home,” he said. “And if you’ll give me your keys, I’ll have one of my staff arrange for the CAA to take care of the car.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“Please, Victoria,” he said. “Pardon me. Mrs. O’Neill. If Mr. Hammond was to learn I left you stranded down here, it would be my job.”
“Mr. Tilley,” Victoria said firmly, “I don’t want to be rude. Either let me use your phone to call the CAA or let me pass.”
He stared at her blankly for a second or two, then flipped the cellphone open. He pressed a button with his thumb. The phone beeped. He shook his head. “There’s no signal down here. You’ll have to call from the security office.”
“No, thank you,” she said. “I’ll use the payphone in the lobby.”
“You’ll have to meet the CAA truck down here,” he said reasonably. “It would make more sense for you to call from the security office.”
She shook her head.
“It’s this way.” He took a step toward her, reaching out to take her arm.
Victoria backed up a step. Her rump hit the side of the car. Tilley stared at her for a long moment, blinking slowly, lizard-like. He opened his mouth to saying something but was cut off by the sound of an approaching car. Mumbling unintelligibly, he turned abruptly on his heel and stalked away.
As Shoe drove slowly along the row of parking spaces reserved for Hammond Industries’ employees, he saw Del Tilley striding toward him. As he drove past him, Tilley stopped and watched the car go by, head swivelling, eyes shadowed and unreadable. There was no mistaking the hostility he radiated. It had an almost visible aura. What’s eating him? Shoe wondered.
When he pulled into his parking space, Victoria was standing beside her red BMW convertible, parked in Patrick’s spot. She had a brown leather knapsack slung over her shoulder. Her face was pale in the harsh glare of the overhead fluorescent lights.
“My car won’t start,” she said as he got out of his car.
“Do you want me to try?” he offered.
“If you like,” she said. “But, as I told Del Tilley, I’m quite capable of starting a car.”
“I’ll take your word for it then,” Shoe said.
“Can I trouble you for a ride home? I’ll call the CAA from there.”
“Of course,” Shoe said.
In the car, Victoria said, “You haven’t asked me what I was doing there.”
“No,” Shoe said.
“I went to see Bill. I know you’ll probably think I’m being irrational, but I’m convinced he knows why Patrick was killed.”
Shoe said, “Emotional, perhaps, but not irrational.”
“Whatever,” Victoria said with a shrug. “One way or another, though, he’s responsible for Patrick’s death. I know he is.”
There wasn’t anything to be gained by arguing with her, Shoe decided. Besides, he wasn’t sure she was wrong. They continued in silence until they reached the Lions Gate Bridge Causeway at the east entrance to Stanley Park.
“I like the way you drive,” Victoria said. “It’s very relaxed, like you don’t have to think about it at all.”
“I think about it,” he assured her.
“Patrick was a terrible driver,” she went on. “Like most bad drivers, though, he didn’t know it. He prided himself on always buying cars with standard transmissions, but he didn’t know how to drive them properly. He shifted up too soon and didn’t downshift soon enough. He never had an accident, though, which is more than I can say. I totalled that Corolla I bought after I started working for Hammond Industries.”
“I remember it,” Shoe said. “You called it Ethel.”
“Oh, god, that’s right. You helped me buy it, didn’t you? I’d forgotten.”
They were on the bridge now. She looked out over the wintry grey of Vancouver Harbour toward the high yellow mounds of sulphur at the bulk terminal on the north shore. Victoria might have forgotten, but Shoe remembered very clearly the day he took her shopping for a car. Her ponytails and exuberance had made her seem very young and the salesman had mistaken her for Shoe’s daughter, which had rankled. He was, after all, only fourteen years older than she. It didn’t seem like much of a difference now, but then it had been an insurmountable one.
When he parked the car in front of the house, she said, “I’ve been thinking a lot in the last couple of days,” she said without looking at him. “Remembering things. Mostly about my life and the complete hash I’ve made of it.” She raised her head and smiled slightly. “I guess that’s not so unusual, under the circumstances, is it?”
“No, I’m sure it’s not.”
“Patrick’s funeral will be on Monday,” she said. “At Hollyburn Funeral Services on Marine Drive.”
They discussed the schedule for a few minutes, then fell into an awkward silence.
“Do you recall Patrick ever mentioning the name Claire Powkowski?” Shoe asked.
“No. Who is she?”
“Evidently,” Shoe said, “she was Bill’s business partner back in the fifties, before he married Elizabeth Lindell and merged his company with her father’s.”
“How would Patrick know about her?” Victoria asked.
Shoe told her about Ramona Ross.
“I see,” Victoria said. She opened the car door. “Would you like to come in?” she asked. “Consuela called in sick today, but I might be able to manage to make some coffee.”
“Thanks,” he said, “but there’s something I have to do.”
“I’m sorry,” said the woman behind the teller’s window. “There are insufficient funds in that account.” Barbara stared at the teller as she slid Barbara’s paycheque back under the thick plastic barrier. “I’m sorry,” the woman said again.
“But what will I do?” Barbara asked, stomach knotted and fingers trembling as she picked up the cheque.
“I