The Price of Silence

By Ulla Håkanson

Trying to put an abusive relationship behind her, Amy Robinson joins her cousin on a kayaking trip into the wilderness of British Columbia. Together, she and her fellow kayakers bond as they face the thrill of rapids, unpredictable weather, and hungry bears.

But Amy faces a greater danger, and it has nothing to do with nature.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ulla Hakanson
• Release date: Apr 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9781773740980

Ulla Håkanson

ULLA HÅKANSON grew up in Umeå, Sweden. She worked at The Royal Institute of Technology in Stockholm as a draftsperson for six years before moving to Toronto, Canada, where she studied Commercial Art and opened her graphic design business. Upon retiring, she moved with her husband to Vancouver Island, where she turned to writing fiction.Flight Across Waters is a self-standing sequel to The Price of Silence.www.ullahakanson.comIf you are an aspiring author, don't forget to check out Ulla's blog for great tips on how to write a thriller! www.ullahakanson.com/blogs

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Praise for the Price of Silence

Lately, I noticed that I’m beginning to read more female thriller/ mystery authors. They have something what many male authors lack. It’s very hard to put your finger on that something, but I would call it atmosphere, the feel" of a novel. Ulla Hakanson’s debut, The Price of Silence, is an excellent example of this. Whether she describes the wild beauty of British Columbia, the tension of legal battles in a courtroom, the blossoming love between characters, family relations, the unpredictable nature of a drug addict, the ruthlessness of a gang-boss, the betrayal of a police partner, or a gruesome fight to the death, Mrs. Hakanson is always in tune with the situation. In a crisp, no-nonsense style, very suitable for this epic adventure, and often in short, fast-paced chapters, Hakanson leads the reader into a maze of situations that unexpectedly turn vicious. A convincing debut that proves that modern thriller-writing is a synonym for damn good writing."

—Bob Van Laerhoven, Award-winning Author of Baudelaire’s Revenge and Alejandro’s Lie

"As an author and biographer, I know how difficult it is to achieve such a fine piece of writing. The Price of Silence is fast paced. The characters are well developed, the language is vivid, the BC settings are described accurately in splendiferous terms, and the plot is well-constructed. Ulla Hakanson does a fine job of this fast-developing story, a surprise in page after page. This is a thriller par excellence; highly recommended."

—Robert Popple, Author of Cold War Warrior: Canadian MI-6 Agent Lawrence Fox

"The Price of Silence is an intimate thriller populated by people you feel you could meet on the street any day; people who have unwillingly been thrown into dire circumstances and reach into their very souls to find the means to survive. Hakanson takes the reader on that journey of transition, of personal strife, with an aplomb that belies this being her debut novel."

—Eric J. Gates, Author of the Outsourced Series

Hakanson does a fine job in creating believable characters, especially with Tyler, a nightmarish killer who stalks Amy with desperate intent. This is a well-written, fast-paced tale with enough twists and turns to keep me guessing ‘til the end. I’d read more from this author.

—Glen Barrera, Author of A Capable and Wide Revenge

This is one of those thrillers you pick up and swallow as fast as possible: no mushiness, no sentimentality, no illogical romance scenes. You can smell the fear, the reek of evil, and hear the pace of a scared but determined heart of a young woman fighting for her life. Action is swift, intelligent and clear. A definite page-turner with a sense of justice gratified!

—Anita Kovacevic, Author of The Threshold

"The Price of Silence is a psychological thriller that is frighteningly real, but also a balanced tale, refraining from immature rants and gratuitous recriminations. Hakanson had the writer’s craft to take me to a deeper level at the same time I burned speedily through the pages."

—Mark Fine, Author of The Zebra Affair

There is something for everyone in this novel. Fans of Romance will love the burgeoning relationship between Ben and Amy, Thrill seekers will enjoy the tense, nail-biting scenes of drug-fueled violence and criminality, and those looking for a journey of personal development and visual beauty will have their senses filled as well. Overall, a very good show I would highly recommend.

—Michael Lynes, Author of There is a Reaper

Having been involved in hundreds of the most serious investigations in British Columbia I can say Ulla has developed realistic and thoughtful twists that will challenge her characters and excite her readers. Ulla continually challenges me with realistic and intriguing questions! It is incredible to watch as she builds the story detail and background. Her depth of thought, energy and effort is fascinating, and it is my privilege to be a small part of the process!

—Doug Kiloh, Superintendent (Ret.) RCMP Private Contractor, British Columbia, Canada, Security and Investigations

THE PRICE OF SILENCE

Copyright (c) 2021 by Ulla Håkanson

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

ISBN: 978-1-77374-097-3 (Print)

ISBN: 978-1-77374-098-0 (Ebook)

Typeset and cover design by Edge of Water Designs, edgeofwater.com

Dedication

For Ingrid and Ulf

Acknowledgements

I ventured into the world of fiction intending to write an adventure story. However, when the story veered off on its own accord into a dark and dangerous place that I knew nothing about, my curiosity took over, and I took off after it.

It wasn’t long before I realized I needed help. So when I found John Robert Marlow at The Editorial Department, I knew I’d found my mentor. His never-ending belief in my book and encouragement to stretch beyond what I thought was possible were most inspiring.

Next, I want to thank the people in my writers’ group, Pat Smekal, Madeleine Nattrass, Bert Wolfe, Dan Lundine, and Joanna Qureshij, for their friendship, wisdom, encouragement, and relentless patience with my limited English.

There is a wealth of talent in the community around me, good friends who have supported me for years. I want to thank my author friend, Gail Crease, who spent hours reading passages of my novel and then giving me her honest and valuable critique. Thanks to BC poet Bernice Lever, my second copy editor, for pointing out my discrepancies and helping me repair them. Thanks to my young readers, my daughter Ingrid and her friend Becky Clarke, for their thoughtful comments and editing suggestions.

I’m immensely grateful to Police Inspector Gordon Kiloh, Forensic Lab Staff Sergeant Brent Wladichuk, Judge Brian R. Klaver, Criminal Defense Lawyer Paul Ferguson, Counsellor Susan Croskery, and registered Respiratory Therapist Ingrid Hakanson for sharing their professional knowledge with me. Without them, the story wouldn’t be as exciting.

I want to thank my publisher Mike Roscoe of BroadPen Books in St. Albans, Hertfordshire, in the UK, for bringing the first edition into the world. But I wanted to make some changes to it. So I removed it from places of sale and put it in the capable hands of Cascadia Author Services. There it has come to life again as an improved second edition by the excellent minds of Ben Coles, Michelle Balfour, Marla Thompson, Richard Coles, Amie Kaczmarski, and Marcelo Beilin.

And for you, Bo, my love, my sounding board, and my strength. Thank you for everything.

Prologue

A rust-riddled Dodge crept into a lonely gas station, its wide tires crunching over loose gravel. Its headlights were off, and its dark shape blended with the night until it reached the light left on at the pumps. The driver cut the motor by the station’s phone booth and scanned the area. He slipped from the car.

The phone booth’s light flickered on above his unkempt hair, highlighting his blood-covered face as he reached up to smash the bulb with the butt of his pistol. His haunted eyes probed the darkness. No traffic on the road, no movement from the store: no sign of life to disturb him.

He spat blood on the floor and picked up the receiver with a shaking hand. Squinting at the keypad in the weak light from the pumps, he dialled a number. He cursed as the answering machine kicked in and slammed the phone down. He waited, peering into the night to see if anyone might be creeping up on him. After a moment, he dialled again. No answer. Woozy and not thinking clearly, he soon got caught in a loop: call, hang up, scan the roadside, repeat. All the while, one foot tapped a nervous rhythm on the floor.

Out of change, he slammed the receiver down one last time, surveyed the empty street, and then slipped back into his car.

He drove south through the night, fretting about why his contact hadn’t picked up. He needed somewhere to hole up for a time. Going back to his rented room in Vancouver was not an option: they’d be waiting for him there.

Blood oozed from a deep gash along his jaw. The pain played games with his vision. It took all his concentration just to stay on the road. After his second near crash, he pulled onto the shoulder and stretched out on the seat, still shivering from shock.

A whiff of damp leather mixed with the stink of blood jolted him upright again to stop his stomach from turning. He switched on the reading light. Parts of his black leather jacket gleamed. He touched it and held his fingers up to the light to see they were a dark shade of red. Splotches on his jeans and boots told him he was covered with blood spatters. He flipped the visor down to check his face in the mirror, then quickly flipped it back up. He was alive—he didn’t need to see the damage. Shaking, he took a deep breath and slowly lowered himself back down.

It’d been a close call. He’d been warned of the danger, and even so had barely survived. His excellent hearing and reaction time had saved him, as it had many times before. His mind roiled with images of the assault: how he’d picked up on that special sound that didn’t belong. He’d dropped his body a few centimetres the instant before an arm tightened around his neck. It had been low enough to cause the attacker to miss his throat and carve a deep cut in his jaw instead. It was a dark night. The pain was excruciating, but he’d collapsed to the ground without a sound and stopped moving. The assailant must have thought they’d succeeded in cutting his throat. Heavy footsteps had pounded away from him, followed by the screech of a car speeding off.

He stared into the darkness outside the car window, wondering what the hell he was doing with his life.

Chapter 1

Amy Robinson waved to her last customer of the day and locked the door to Tresses, her beauty salon in the Kitsilano area of Vancouver. She flipped the sign in the window to Closed, watching her customer jaywalk through the stop-and-go rush-hour traffic on Fourth Avenue, coat over her head to shield her new do from the rain.

Amy swept the floor, made a few notes in the ledger, collected the used towels and smocks, and put them in the washing machine. Eventually, she admitted that everything was done. It had been a long day, busier than usual, and her feet were tired. She sank down in a chair, kicked her shoes off, and stretched out her long, slender legs with a sigh of relief. Standing all day was more tiring than a workout at the gym. She pulled the elastic out of her long, thick hair and shook it loose with her fingers. She was proud of her business. It had grown swiftly over the past two years. It wouldn’t be long until she’d be able to pay off the loan from her father. Then Tresses would be all hers.

Her co-worker, Meg, was singing along with Britney Spears on the radio, cleaning combs and brushes over a sink. Her blonde hair was done in a short style that curled around her ears, and even after a long day she still sported a wide smile.

Meg had walked in off the street one day looking for a job. She’d explained that her last job, at a Unisex salon in the small town of Castlegar, watching Air Canada flights through the front glass window made her yearn for Vancouver action. So when George, her boss, started to become too friendly, she opted for a change. She’d been with Amy for five months now. Good with people, great with hair, and easy to work with.

You’re all set for next week? Amy asked for the fourth time that day.

Yes, I am. Meg put the brushes and combs on a rack and wiped her hands. I rescheduled three customers. The rest I can handle.

Amy nodded. She knew that; Meg was a capable woman, and Amy was lucky to have her. Yes. Yes, of course, she said. You know, in two years I’ve never left the store in someone else’s hands? But with you, I think I’m all right with it. I can actually feel excited about going away.

Wow. Meg blushed. Thanks, that’s nice to hear.

I’m glad. Amy pushed her feet back in her shoes, then went to the kitchenette and picked up some chicken sandwiches and drinks she’d bought at Tim Hortons next door. Let’s eat and do the inventory, then call it a night.

They finished inventory by ten and left through the back door. Have a lovely time, Amy, Meg said. Don’t worry about things. Everything will be fine.

I’m sure it will … you have the number to the lodge, in case you want to reach me?

Meg patted her shoulder bag with a patient smile. Right here. She gave Amy a quick hug and ducked into her car.

Amy enjoyed the brisk, twenty-minute walk back to her apartment. The rain had stopped. A few stars were visible in the night sky. It looked like a promising start for her mini vacation.

Weeks earlier, Amy’s cousin Willa had asked her to come along with six of her friends on a kayaking trip in Bowron Lake Provincial Park, about eight hundred kilometres northeast of Vancouver. We’ll be moving across several interconnecting lakes and rivers that go in a circuit inside the park, she said. I hear the scenery is stunning, and we’ll see plenty of wildlife.

Thanks, Willa, but I don’t think so, Amy had said. I have enough drama in my life. Exposing myself to rapids, bears, and cougars doesn’t sound like my idea of getting away from it all.

But Willa wouldn’t take no for an answer. She knew about Amy’s break-up with her fiancé four months ago and could tell she was going through a hard time. She trotted out scenic pictures and glowing articles. Finally, Amy had agreed.

Amy smiled at the thought of the tip-and-recovery course Willa had insisted they take. The course took place in a sheltered bay. They both had their own kayak; they’d tipped it and learnt how to turn it upright again with the help of paddles and floats. That course hooked Amy on kayaking. Now her waterproof dry bags were packed. She couldn’t wait to go.

Back in her apartment, Amy pushed the blinking message button on her landline. There was a brief sound of movement, then the line went dead. The rest of the messages were blank. She poured herself a glass of juice.

Her cell phone rang. She flipped it open. Yeah?

Hi.

No, not again. Amy’s heart sped up. What do you want?

I’m in trouble. I need to borrow some money.

Not my problem.

Dammit, Amy, you have to help me.

You’re out of your mind. We’re finished. Stop calling me. Amy hung up and tossed the cell on the sofa. Leave me alone, she thought. She clutched her T-shirt with damp hands, trying to calm down. It drove her crazy that her ex-fiancé kept calling after all this time.

Feeling in need of fresh air, she looked around for her cigarettes and moved onto the balcony. Looking out over the bay, where cargo ships from different parts of the world had anchored for the night, she thought back to when she and Tyler had first met. It was early January; four months after she’d opened her salon business. Heavy, wet snow had fallen since noon, reducing the four-lane street to one lane in each direction. Traffic was inching its way, cars honking, braking, sliding.

She’d been about to close for the day when a well-dressed, good-looking man entered, asking if he could have a haircut without an appointment. He’d made her heart skip with his charm, his baritone voice, and light, friendly smile.

Seven months later, they got engaged. They rented a small apartment on Pine Street in Kitsilano and moved in together. All Tyler brought from his old place was his desk and office chair, which he placed in the small den to use as his office. He told Amy she could do whatever she wanted with the rest of the place.

Amy donated her used furniture to the Salvation Army, then went to Ikea in Richmond and bought a white area rug, a shark-grey sofa, two burgundy armchairs, and a dining set to match. In another store, she found a set of three big Art Deco posters of women with extreme hairdos. She had them framed and hung them in a row on a wall. The posters and her ficus tree fit right in.

Tyler made good money in his investment business, and Amy’s salon was growing. She longed for a baby, to have a close family. But when she brought it up with Tyler, he thought it was too early. The pill had never agreed with Amy, so they always used condoms. Three-and-a-half months later, she found out she was pregnant. Even though it was an accident, she’d never been happier.

Six weeks into her pregnancy, things started to go wrong. Tyler lost a lot of money on a land deal. I’m off to Winnipeg to meet with the investor, he said. We’ll straighten it out.

Two days later he came back, restless and edgy. Amy tried to comfort him, but he pulled away. Eventually, he asked if she could lend him some money to tide him over for a month.

What happened?

Someone’s trying to pull out of the deal. Money is coming, but it’ll be a few weeks.

Amy wanted to suggest he ask his family for a loan, but realized that wouldn’t happen. His upper-middle-class parents had cut him off, and he refused to talk about it.

But honey, after paying my share of groceries and rent, I don’t have any extra cash, she said. You know whatever I have left goes to paying off the loan from my father.

Yeah, but you’ve money in your business account, don’t you?

Because I have running costs for my business: inventory, taxes, rent, unexpected expenses—

This is an unexpected expense.

Unexpected business expenses.

Can’t your father wait on the payments for a few months? Give us a break?

He might. But you’ll have to ask him.

Fine.

The next evening, he stormed into the apartment, his face a dark mask. Your precious father is playing games with me, he said, crashing down on the sofa beside her.

What are you talking about?

I asked him for a loan. A small one. I even promised not to ask again. Tyler let his head flop back and stared at the ceiling. "He told me he’d think about it—after he’d had a look at my business plan. Bloody insulting."

The sound of a distant ship’s siren snapped Amy back to the present. A large cruise ship, lit up like a giant carnival float, slowly moved across the bay on its way to Alaska. She shivered. The wind had turned cold. Muffled voices seeped through open windows. Footsteps echoed on the pavement below. She felt lonely.

I’ve got to quit these things. She pushed the cigarette butt into a sand-filled can on the floor. Tired of thinking, she called it a day.

Chapter 2

The man in the car jerked awake at the sound of a passing semi. What the hell was he doing, sleeping in a stolen vehicle with half of his face hanging down his neck? A cop might come by anytime and check him out.

He swallowed a couple of amphetamines and got back on the road. He drove south, thinking about how things had changed. Only a week ago it seemed he’d been able to get away with anything…

He’d first met Ken Ross, a member of a Vancouver drug gang, at a nightclub. They’d hit it off, and a few weeks later Ken had a business proposition for him. They met at a waterfront warehouse the following night. There, he learnt that Ken was skimming from his gang, but now needed help from an outsider to funnel the money. They reached an agreement and started their skimming operation.

Feeling like he needed protection, he’d joined a small gang in Squamish, just north of Vancouver. When he told Ken about this, Ken flew into a rage.

What the fuck were you thinking, Don? he yelled. You’re jeopardizing our business—you joined a rival gang, for fuck’s sake. How long do you think it’ll take someone to figure that out? That doesn’t help our business.

I have no intention of skimming from them: their drug business is too small, anyway. Besides, they look out for each other, man. More than you’re able to do for me, that’s for sure.

"Look out for each other, eh? Only if you’re fucking careful with what you’re saying from now on. You don’t want to give them any reason to check you out. You screw up once, you’re dead. Once." Ken slapped Don on the forehead.

"Hey, don’t worry. I gave them another name; they won’t be able to connect the two. Our business is as important to me as it is to you."

He and Ken had skimmed for months without a hitch. Then, out of the blue, Ken called, warning him that Ken’s boss in Vancouver was on their tail. Moments later, some thug tried to slash Don’s throat, putting him on the run and forcing him to sleep in a stolen car on the side of some goddamned country road in the middle of nowhere.

He needed to get hold of Mike Polanco, the leader of his gang in Squamish. Mike had connections, knew where to hide out, how to arrange for false IDs, and get people across borders. Two nights ago, he’d called Mike, telling him he needed to disappear. Mike had heard rumours about the skimming.

I hear Tony Matzera is looking for you, he’d said. Matzera ran the gang he and Ken had been skimming from.

Will you help me?

For a price.

All I have is my stash.

How big?

Three kilos. Coke.

Bring it and twenty thousand dollars. Cash. I hear you have a new name. There was amusement in Mike’s voice. He knew Don hadn’t trusted Ken enough to give him his real name. Which one do I use on the documents?

Don Hedley. I was adopted.

Make laughed. I’ll let you know where and when. He hung up.

That was two days ago. Don cursed the phone company for cutting him off for something as stupid as a few late payments. He needed to get a burner phone, but that meant he’d have to go into a Radio Shack or the likes. Doing that the way he looked right now was not an option. But without a phone, he had no way of knowing if Mike had tried to reach him or not.

He had to find Mike. Don knew he liked to hang out in a specific nightclub whenever he was in Vancouver, and decided to start looking there. Otherwise, he could always call him from the club.

It was eleven-thirty. If he stepped on it, he should make it down there in about two and a half hours, well before they closed.

Chapter 3

Amy woke up at dawn on Friday morning, full of energy. After downing coffee and a fruit yogurt, she changed into her exercise clothes and jogged to the gym. A half-hour session with her trainer followed.

Back home, she showered and changed into loose, comfortable clothes for the drive. She pulled her hair into a ponytail and put small silver rings