‘You guys switched to digital,’ he noted.

Wanda just shrugged. She used the mouse to navigate back through the video timeline.

Unlike most gas station security systems, the video for the Chevron at Hastings and Vernon was excellent. The new owner was a former military officer and, as such, took security very seriously. Striker had never met the man, but he sure appreciated all the benefits. He looked down at the timeline and said, ‘You’re getting close, Wanda. Slow the feed down.’

She did.

The machine read 1625 hours, and the angle of the exterior camera caught the northwest corner of the lot. This was the Vernon Drive entranceway. The camera had been placed there to catch the never-ending stream of Gas-n-Go fraudsters, which was becoming a pandemic nowadays. With any luck, the driver of the SUV would be driving tight to the kerb, and thereby visible. Any further out than that, and they’d be shit outta luck.

Striker watched the feed at normal speed.

‘I shoulda been a cop,’ Wanda said. ‘Or at least married one.’

‘You say that every time I see you.’

‘Because you never take the hint.’

Striker grinned. He was about to say something back, when he spotted a black SUV on the feed. The caller was right – the driver had been driving like an idiot. The vehicle raced down Vernon Drive, punched straight through the stop sign, and bulleted across East Hastings Street. It happened in less than two seconds. Given the time of day and the thickness of the rush-hour traffic, it was a wonder that no one was hurt. The vehicle was going so fast, Striker had to back up the video twice and slow down the speed to have any hope of making out the details. With the video in slow mode, the make and model of the SUV became apparent.

It was a Beamer, no doubt. And he had been right about the model.

An X5.

As for the driver, it was impossible to tell. The distance was too far and the angle bad. The speed of the vehicle also made the quality poor – not blurry, but definitely indistinct.

Striker doubted if the tech guys could even sharpen it.

‘It’s not very good, is it?’ Wanda asked, frowning.

‘It’s better than what I had coming down here.’

Wanda smiled at that.

The front door alarm buzzed – more customers trying to enter the gas station – so Striker told Wanda to go unlock the front door. She could leave the video with him. He knew how to work the system.

He spent the next ten minutes trying to magnify and sharpen the image. It wasn’t easy. But when he was done, he was fairly certain that the first letter in the licence plate was a J.

The rest of the letters and numbers were impossible to make out.

He snagged a disc from the shelf, slid it into the tray, and burned a copy of the feed for the Forensic Video Unit. They could do wonders with digital files nowadays, but Striker had little hope in what they could find. The problem wasn’t just the clarity – it was the angle.

J was likely as good as it would get.

He saved the file on the hard drive, started a new video timeline for the store, then left the office and closed the door behind him. He’d barely gotten three steps into the store before he ran right into Felicia, who was rushing in through the front doors.

‘You get anything?’ she asked.

He gave her a flat look. ‘It’s a Beamer. Dark, possibly black. An X5, just like we thought. The first letter in the plate looks like a J. But that’s as good as it gets.’ He looked at her hopefully. ‘Any video on your end?’

‘No,’ she said, then smiled. ‘But I did one better – I found us a witness.’

Fifteen

They drove two blocks down to the warehouse where Felicia had already gotten the business owner, John Gibson, to start writing up a proper witness statement. GPT Industries – Gibson Plastics & Tubing – was a square cement warehouse that sat on the corner of Vernon Drive and Franklin Street.

Striker knew this area well. They were dead smack in the heart of the Franklin industrial area. He had done a hundred stings here over the years, all related to sex and drugs because it was the hottest spot for all different flavours of the sex-trade industry. When someone on Franklin Street said they blew their tranny, they weren’t talking about the transmission of their Oldsmobile.

The warehouse was old, looked ready to crumble, and sat less than a hundred metres from the train tracks and overpass. Striker pulled their cruiser up front and parked in the gated lot. With Felicia by his side, he walked under the broken yellow neon sign that now read only GPT Indust and climbed the cement stairs.

Inside the warehouse, the air was no warmer than the freezing chill outside. All the workers had long gone home for the day, and because of that the place looked deserted. The air stank of diesel oil and some type of plastic glue. Together, the two scents produced a strange, caustic smell.

They entered the main office.

John Gibson was sitting behind an old monstrosity of a desk that looked to be made of metal. He was an older man, probably mid-sixties, with a short, wiry build and thinning grey hair. His hands were dirty and calloused, but they looked strong enough to tear phone books in half.

In front of him on the desk sat his statement, already written. Even from where Striker stood, the writing looked like chicken scratches on the page. It was full of spelling errors. Striker said nothing; it was typical for this area. And for all the bad grammar and spelling errors, he appreciated getting the statement. It was one more than they already had.

Gibson looked up with a pissed-off expression on his face. ‘Back already, huh?’

Felicia smiled. ‘Yes, we finished up with our other witnesses. This is Detective Striker.’

‘Nice to meet you,’ Striker said.

When John Gibson just grunted and gave a half nod, Striker grabbed the statement paper and read it over. The statement was brief, not even half a page long. Most of it was no more than a nonsensical rant. Clarification on many points was necessary. He skimmed down to the part about the driver and the licence plate.

What he saw made him smile.

The details on the driver were vague at best – the person was unidentified with no description – but whoever the driver was, he was definitely alone. And, more importantly, the last two numbers in the plate were listed.

Seven and nine.

Striker looked up at the old man. ‘Seven and nine? You’re sure about that, Mr Gibson?’

‘Damn right, I am. One hundred per cent. I remember it perfectly cuz that’s my kid’s birthday – seventy-nine.’

‘And you saw just one person inside the vehicle?’

‘Yeah, just the one – the cocksucker.’

‘Male or female?’ Striker asked.

‘Couldn’t tell either way.’ The man’s fingers clenched into fists. ‘Goddam prick was driving too fast again. Almost knocked the load right off my forklift.’ He jabbed a finger towards the front road. ‘He’s always driving too fast. He’s a fuckin’ nimrod. And I’ll tell ya this: he ever stops out front – even once – I’m gonna get him outta that truck and kick his fast-driving ass all over Franklin Street. Goddam cocksucker’s gonna kill someone one day, he keeps that up!’

Felicia stepped forward. ‘You said, again? Have you seen this vehicle before?’

‘Sure. Lotsa times. He’s always coming this way. Always driving like a fuckin’ nutcase.’

‘How often?’ Striker asked. ‘Any particular days?’

The older man thought about it for a long moment, then shook his head. ‘I can’t make no rhyme or reason outta it. Just seen him down here lots. Always driving too damn fast.’

Striker looked at Felicia and saw that she understood the significance, too. They had a pattern of driving behaviour here, and a regular route travelled. It was good news and bad – good because it would be easier to track this person down; bad because it made it less likely the man was connected to Mandy Gill’s suicide. For all they knew, the driver was just another John, coming down here to get his rocks off, then hauling ass to get out of the area.