The body on the beach, p.1
The Body on the Beach, page 1
Contents
Title page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
The Body on the Beach
Patrick J. Collins
Flanker Press Limited
st. john’s
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Title: The body on the beach : a novel / Patrick J. Collins.
Names: Collins, Patrick J., 1953- author.
Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20210291672 | Canadiana (ebook) 20210291702 | ISBN
9781774570685 (softcover) | ISBN 9781774570692 (EPUB) | ISBN 9781774570708 (PDF)
Classification: LCC PS8605.O4683 B63 2021 | DDC C813/.6—dc23
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© 2021 by Patrick J. Collins
All Rights Rreserved. No part of the work covered by the copyright hereon may be reproduced or used in any form or by any means—graphic, electronic or mechanical—without the written permission of the publisher. Any request for photocopying, recording, taping, or information storage and retrieval systems of any part of this book shall be directed to Access Copyright, The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency, 1 Yonge Street, Suite 800, Toronto, ON M5E 1E5. This applies to classroom use as well.
Printed in Canada
Cover Design by Graham Blair
Flanker Press Ltd.
PO Box 2522, Station C
St. John’s, NL
Canada
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We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund (CBF) and the Government of Newfoundland and Labrador, Department of Tourism, Culture, Industry and Innovation for our publishing activities. We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts, which last year invested $157 million to bring the arts to Canadians throughout the country. Nous remercions le Conseil des arts du Canada de son soutien. L’an dernier, le Conseil a investi 157 millions de dollars pour mettre de l’art dans la vie des Canadiennes et des Canadiens de tout le pays.
In memory of Alice Williams (1877–1902), aged twenty-five, a woman whose life and tragic death inspired this story.
1
It was a call he didn’t expect nor desire. Not on a lazy Sunday morning in July. His head pounded. Temperance couldn’t deter this thirsty man from drinking. Even the straight razor was a challenge this morning. The seasoned policeman had been only two weeks at his new post at Harbour Grace.
Constable Frank Fallon had to fight the 1913 Model T’s insistence to pull to the right. The dilapidated vehicle handed down from the Constabulary headquarters in St. John’s was one example of the force’s neglect, reassigning worn-out equipment to outlying stations. He knew the double standard well. St. John’s had the best of everything. Although he had grown up in Harbour Grace, it wasn’t his choice to end up in his hometown after fifteen years in the capital city.
Three weeks earlier, the Attorney General and Chief Inspector Sullivan officially sanctioned him, for behaviour unbecoming an officer, in the partaking of an alcoholic beverage in defiance of the Prohibition Act in the Dominion of Newfoundland. Before Prohibition came into effect, he was known to take a drink. And hours before he went to work, he did imbibe with a small shot of hooch. The sergeant said he could smell it. There was no proof of his indiscretion, but that didn’t prevent the inspector from exercising his authority. As a result, he was demoted.
Frank believed his loss of rank and transfer were for a very different reason. He blamed it on his tense relationship with Chief Inspector John Sullivan. Months earlier, he had second-guessed some shoddy work completed by the Constabulary on a file personally overseen by Sullivan. No one questioned the brass in that organization without retribution. Now, finding himself ranked again as a constable, having once achieved the status of corporal, Officer Frank Fallon was feeling nothing short of bitter and devalued.
As it was a Sunday morning, the seasoned officer had anticipated a fairly slow day, with most folk getting ready to attend church, something he’d neglected for years. When the phone rang, a raspy male voice simply said, “There’s a w-woman’s b-body b-behind Frost’s Store on M-M-Martin’s Beach.” Although the caller had difficulty enunciating, Frank didn’t sense real panic or urgency in his voice.
“Your name, sir?” Fallon asked.
Click. The caller hung up.
Pushing his chair away from the desk, he rose from his seat, donned his cap, and headed for the street. Most probably a prank, he surmised. He thought he’d break the boredom and check it out, anyway.
Securing his vehicle at the bottom of Noad Street, Fallon was surprised to find no one in sight. Not a soul. The only signs of life were seagulls, circling, scavenging Martin’s Beach and cawing as they continued their endless quest for food. Oblivious to his presence, the whole town appeared to be sleeping, unaware of any reported incident. A lark? he wondered.
“Guess I’m right, most likely a hoax,” he mumbled. Aware that he might encounter evidence, he pulled on his gloves before exiting the car.
Stepping a short distance away from his vehicle, he scanned a waist-high rock wall, one of two that defined either side of Alcock’s Lane. Lots of memories here. His eyes studied the immediate area, searching and scanning the landscape for signs someone might be watching him. Suddenly, from behind Alcock’s Store, he heard a noise. The officer froze. Something had moved. Training his eyes on the grassy pathway leading from the building, he saw a silhouette moving against the white cladding. To his relief, it was only a cat. “Christ,” he swore. The tabby leaped to the top of the flagstones, took a second to glare at him, and slinked away, ignoring the police officer.
Having observed nothing of significance, Fallon crossed the street and negotiated his way down a rickety set of steps to the beach. This stretch of the shoreline was most frequented by folks living and working in the area of the West End Mercantile Establishment, a row of three-storey houses and businesses on the harbourside. There, sprawled face down on the beach, right at the water’s edge, was a body. It appeared to be a male.
Picking up the pace, his feet slipped and rolled over the wet rocks until he reached the hardened, well-packed sand. The tide had already begun to retreat. Reaching the body, he was surprised to see that it was actually a woman. Bending down more closely, he touched her cold neck for a pulse.
“No need for a doctor,” he said. “This is no longer an emergency.” Fallon had a habit of speaking to himself, sometimes even gaining the attention of others. Most times, though, he just whispered to himself, silently mouthing the words.
The woman’s hair looked only slightly damp, so he dismissed his first thought that this might be a drowning. Barefoot, the woman wore dark cotton pants and a fashionable jacket. Looking up the beach, he saw two faded sets of footprints in the sand, already eroding by the wave action. He quickly spotted a pair of low-cut lady’s leather boots with socks tucked inside. It appeared they had been pushed off her feet as she walked eastward toward Pumphrey’s finger pier. Barely traceable, very faint, a trail of boot prints veered off toward the steps he had just descended. Clearly, the tracks belonged to a person who had accompanied this woman, or perhaps to the individual who reported the body.
Although the tide continued to recede, he was compelled to move the body a little farther away from the water’s edge. Grasping her by the ankles, he pulled the body to a grassy area just above the rocks and sand. Her arms reached back to the sea as he dragged her the short distance to higher ground. Frail and skinny, she resembled a rag doll. He noticed her trousers weren’t the least bit damp. He decided to turn her head slightly to see if an identification was possible.
“My Lord. Oh my God. It’s Marie.”
There weren’t many things that could shock this police officer. Overcome with emotion, he felt faint and staggered back. Grief-stricken, the hardened officer dropped to his knees.
“Oh God, how could this have happened?”
Seeing the love of his life, the woman he once hoped to marry, a victim, sprawled lifeless and cold, was too much to bear. Too crushing. He wanted to hold her. Cradle her. Comfort her. Save her. But he knew it was futile. It was too late.
He was numb with shock, his face buried in his hands. But he had to come to his senses. He was a policeman. As Frank rose to his feet, he glanced around, hoping that he hadn’t been seen. Thankfully, it appeared he was still alone.
Now and then, in years past, Marie had often entered his mind, bringing back bittersweet memories. Yet he hadn’t seen or spoken to her since leaving the town fifteen years earlier. He had known Marie Callahan for most all his life, ever since their school days. In fact, they attended St. Patrick’s Free School together until graduation from high school.
Frank took a few deep breaths. He had to get control of himself. Stay on task. “Come on, Frank. Get a grip.” He spotted a red coin purse clasped in Marie’s hand. It was a cardinal rule to preserve any evidence until a thorough examination could be undertaken. Although he was curious of its contents, he decided not to tamper with the purse until he could get an evidence bag from the car.
It wasn’t long before Frank heard the unmistakable growl of Head Constable Roberts’s Harley Davidson. The pop, pop, pop sound reverberated between the buildings as the bike idled to a stop. Certainly everyone in the east end would be alerted, he pondered. Clearly, someone had alerted his boss, Jack Roberts. Unlike the old Model T, the Harley was recently purchased and assigned to the head constable. No other officer was permitted to drive it.
Frank watched the large, imposing man clumsily dismount the bike and strut across Water Street, stopping as he signalled to Constable Daniel Peters. The rookie officer appeared with the police wagon, pulled by two huge Clydesdales. Roberts motioned for Constable Peters to pull the horse-drawn wagon as close as possible to the wooden boardwalk that ran the full length of the Mercantile Establishment. Peters had obviously tackled the two white Clydesdales earlier, in readiness to carry out other police duties, but had been redirected to the scene at the beach. Curious onlookers who had seen the wagon or heard the motorcycle were now gathering on Water Street.
As he approached, Roberts called out to Frank Fallon. “Who is this? Do you know him?” There was urgency in his voice.
“It’s a woman, sir.” He waited until the head constable came closer. “It’s an old friend. I knew her years ago.” Not wanting to show that he was trembling, Fallon struggled to maintain his professional demeanour.
At first, Roberts stood over the body, then knelt on one knee to get a closer view of her face.
“That’s the woman who boards at MacKay’s. I’ve seen her walking here on this beach several times. A beachcomber, I think one would call her. Usually she carries a steel bucket to carry her findings. I’ve watched her stroll up and down this area searching for rocks or maybe pieces of glass. Folks make a hobby of that nowadays, you know.” Taking her chin in his hand, he slightly moved her head, at first to the right and then to the left. The head constable continued to converse as he carried out an initial examination.
“What did you say her name is?”
“I didn’t say, but it’s Marie Callahan.” Still shocked, Frank really didn’t want to say much.
As if he were doing something mundane or ordinary, Roberts continued to chat. “On one occasion, I actually spoke with her. It was a very rainy day. I was walking down the boardwalk, not far from here, when I met her carrying the bucket. It was driving rain, in fact. I approached her to see if she was okay. She was walking toward me, staggering just a little. It was getting near dark, and she seemed a bit absent-minded, if you know what I mean. Very distant. She just mumbled some kind of a response. I didn’t understand a word she said.”
Roberts grunted as he stood up. He took a quick scan around. “That’s strange. She usually has that shiny metal bucket. Poor thing.” Frank hated Roberts referring to her as a “thing.”
Knowing that the head constable was off shift this Sunday, Fallon asked, “How did you know I was here, sir? You were reached at home?”
“Yes.” Roberts nodded to a window on the second floor of MacKay’s apartments. Frank looked up to see Mr. MacKay, the owner, fully attired in his shirt and tie, standing at the window. Frank thought the old man must have been ready to leave for church. “Mr. MacKay called me a few minutes ago to tell me that he thought someone had fallen on the beach behind his building.”
Frank hadn’t seen MacKay for years and briefly wondered if that was who had called him at the station. He didn’t think it likely, since the voice sounded like that of a younger male.
Pulling out a rumpled handkerchief from his trousers pocket, Roberts patted his forehead. “Jesus, it’s getting hot already. Actually, it’s not a bad day for a walk on the beach.” Roberts grinned at his own words. “But not today for this poor friend, hey Frank?”
Fallon wasn’t amused.
“Did the caller leave a name?” asked Roberts.
“No, nothing. He just hung up. People hate to get involved these days,” Fallon said as he looked around. “There’s no obvious sign of foul play. I don’t see any blood or a weapon. There are footprints among those just made, but they are far too faint to be significant.” He paused to look down at Marie Callahan. Pointing to the coin purse, he said, “She had that clutched in her hand.”
“Well, pick it up and open it, Fallon,” ordered the head constable. “Let’s see what’s in it.”
Fallon was surprised that Roberts didn’t want to wait for him to retrieve the evidence bag from the car. In St. John’s, the detectives were beginning to do some fingerprinting at crime scenes involving possible homicides. As was the case with almost everything, the Harbour Grace constabulary station hadn’t yet received the necessary equipment and training to adequately undertake this process.
After removing the little purse from Marie’s fingers, Frank pulled off his gloves to unclip the hasp. Inserting his huge fingers, he pulled out a folded piece of stationery. The purse contained only a folded note.
Constable Fallon carefully unfolded the paper. Keeping his emotions in check, he managed to maintain his poker face. He wasn’t going to reveal any weakness here, especially not to Roberts. He read the typed note aloud.
“I can’t take it anymore. Beyond help. It’s time for me to take my leave from this godforsaken earth. I’m a failure. There is too much pain for me to stay. Marie.”
Fallon was moved by such a cry of desperation. Plainly, she was suffering. But a failure? No way. This wasn’t how he would have described the younger Marie Callahan.
“Well, that makes it pretty clear, Fallon. We won’t be needing much detective work here. A typed note. A premeditated act. It’s a matter of suicide. Don’t often see them typed, though.” He cupped his hands and shouted out to Constable Peters, who was up on the street, putting up barriers to keep people away from the scene. “Come down, Peters. Bring the stretcher.” Peters quickly moved to follow Roberts’s instructions.
“I guess we’d better get her to the Military Hospital,” said Roberts. “There’ll be an autopsy.” He pointed to the pair of upright boots in the sand. “She kicked those off as if she walked out of them. It’s odd that she would put them in order like that. I wonder why she took them off, knowing that she wasn’t long for this world?”
Fallon didn’t respond. He wondered if Roberts had noticed his distress. Among his police colleagues, showing emotion was a sure sign of weakness.
“It’s interesting,” Roberts continued. “When folks remove their shoes on the beach, it suggests to me one of two things: either they are wanting to relax and appreciate the softness of the sand, or they intend to step into the water, maybe go for a swim. This woman obviously didn’t intend to do either.”
Fallon was beginning to feel the heat of the morning sun. He removed his cap and ran his fingers through his thick locks of coal-black hair. This heat was highly unusual, even in July. Standing at six foot four, Fallon was a handsome man whose uniform was always spotlessly clean and neat. Although his masculinity gave him a five o’clock shadow irrespective of the time of day, Fallon took pride in his appearance.
“Okay, Peters, you and Frank load the corpse and take it over to the hospital for the autopsy. Dr. Lambert is the acting coroner this month, I believe. He might be on call today. If so, tell him we need a full report in case there is an inquiry. If he deems it as I believe, it won’t be necessary.”
