I'll See You in My Dreams: An Arthur Beauchamp Novel by William Deverell Page A

Sullivan? – at one of the camps. I watched some of the trial; you were smooth. I said to myself, here’s a fella to watch.”
    I turned, observed an old yellowed bruise on his cheek. Gabriel had indeed got his licks in, though it would be counter-productive to raise that issue here. “I’m complimented, Staff. I’m here to interview the Joseph family. Individually and in private.”
    â€œLook, we want to do what’s right,” Knepp said. “Normally I’d say no big deal, talk to anyone you want. Doug Wall told us you were here, by the way. I want to be open about that.”
    â€œDid he mention I accused him of having a licence to bootleg?”
    Knepp shrugged that off, still smiling. “Come on, counsellor, we deal in the real world. If he doesn’t sell hooch, some even slimier asshole will. Hey, he came to us with information, what can I say? We want to be straight with you, Mr. Beauchamp … That’s awful formal – is it Arthur or Artie?” He was battling to save his grin.
    â€œArthur.”
    â€œThe situation here … Well, Chief Ben and his family, they told me explicitly they don’t want to talk to you. These folks don’t talk much anyway to whites. Maybe you don’t understand their culture – you’re dealing with people who are withdrawn. It’s in their nature. I’m not saying you’d do anything wrong, Arthur, but some people aren’t too quick, if you get my meaning, and their words get twisted. And they’re afraid of that, and frankly they told me they won’t answer the door to you.”
    â€œCyrus Smythe-Baldwin won’t condone this.”
    â€œWell, come on down to the station, you can call him on our phone. We got Smitty’s private home number, Brad?”
    â€œHave it somewhere. I’ll look around.” Jettles honked into a Kleenex. “Crap, I hope I’m not coming down with something.”
    â€œFollow us in, Arthur. We can talk, show you things. We’re playing slow-pitch here, not hardball. We’re just country cops looking after folks’ safety and trying to be fair.”

    The Red Ensign hung limp and dripping in front of the police station. A few officers and clerical staff looked me over as I entered. I tried to avoid Jettles and his worsening cold, but he and Knepp smothered me with affection, helping me off with my rain slicker, hanging my jacket by the radiator, offering coffee. Would I like to try calling Mr. Smythe-Baldwin now? Did I need a visit to the gents’ room?
    After a piss and prolonged hand-washing, I joined Knepp in the squad room. He had his jacket off but his gloves still on, so I surmised his knuckles had got banged up by contact with Gabriel’s face. Jettles was at his desk, as was another constable whom Knepp introduced as Gene Borachuk.
    â€œI won’t bother Mr. Smythe-Baldwin now,” I said. “Instead I’ll take it up with the magistrate.” On Tuesday, the remand date.
    Knepp looked apologetic. “Walker’s off next week. We got a lay magistrate subbing – the local jeweller. A legal argument may be out of his league.” To Jettles: “Those serum reports in yet?”
    â€œLab says it’s going to take a couple of days. They want to take a careful look at the pink panties.”
    Knepp laid a file of photographs before me. “The item here depicted went down to Heather Street on Thursday.” RCMP forensics in Vancouver. “Looks like someone tried to toss it in the water and missed.”
    The first photo showed what looked like a small pink garment caught in the root mass of a windblown tree that had slid down a riverbank. “That’s only a few feet below where we found Mulligan’s clothes,” Knepp said. “Couldn’t see it behind the tangle. It was only when the ident guys came back a few days ago, one of them spotted it.”
    A closer