High Beam

by SJ Brown

  Toad was right in that respect. The media would have been interested and they would gladly have grabbed the wrong end of the stick. And pulled hard. As a young royal with hair the color of Gibson’s was learning, some figures were expected to always wear their public face. They were fair game to a world that just relished any opportunity to pour scorn on the slightest error of judgment. He and Kendall had been fortunate. Cursing his oversight, he resolved to constantly bear in mind the very warning issued just a few hours earlier. They were in the full beam of the headlights. It would be relentless.

  CHAPTER 18

  Saturday 13th March 11am

  There was one theory out the window. When Amanda had moved into her flat a little over two years ago, the landlord had assured her that, in his experience, it would be the odd-numbered years in this millennium that would yield clear summers. Thus far he had been pretty accurate.

  That first summer, ’08, had been mediocre while the next had been a big improvement but this year was just brilliant. Sunshine with little humidity – long clear days. And this Saturday was not going to break the pattern. Amanda packed her sports bag with beach towel, sun block, iPod and all the associated paraphernalia for a session at Cremorne Beach. She loved it there. Not really a surf beach, it was good for swimming and walking. As an afterthought, she popped two deck chairs in the boot of her Suzuki hatchback. Perhaps Brad would fancy a trip down too. She was not able to reach him on his mobile so she decided to simply zip over to his place and check out his plans.

  When she arrived there was an unfamiliar car in the drive. As soon as Amanda started towards the front door, a woman sprung out of the blue Mitsubishi Pajero. Sunglasses perched atop her chestnut hair, she was wearing a breezy summer dress that left no doubt as to just how tanned her full breasts were. Obviously an acquaintance of Brad’s. Amanda wished she had her own sunnies with her. The huge smile was nearly as dazzling as the most impressive rock on her ring finger.

  “Hi, are you a friend of Brad’s?”

  Amanda nodded. “And you?”

  “Yes, Felicity.” She extended her hand.

  Amanda shook it, introduced herself and politely wondered if she could help in some way.

  “I was so hoping to see Brad this morning but he doesn’t seem to be in. All the curtains are open and I can’t spy anyone inside.”

  She was right. All the rooms of the basement flat he rented below a family house in South Hobart faced the front. Amanda stuck her nose up against the slightly grimy glass and peered into the far corners of the interior. The door to the bathroom was open but there was no light on or movement discernible there. In the foreground was a particularly tidy bedroom. Although very masculine in most respects, Brad was a bit of a stickler when it came to keeping his own place looking respectable. Obviously did not want any of his visitors thinking him to be a secret slob. Even the kitchen and bathroom were kept clean. They had certainly broken the mold with this one.

  Amanda turned to the buxom visitor. “Well, it looks like the Mary Celeste.”

  “Yes, yes, it does. I called and texted him yesterday but no response.”

  Increasingly, it seemed obvious this woman was rather attached to Brad. She may be a bit more mature than his usual choice of playmate but the superficial attraction was clear, apart from the teeth that is.

  Amanda could not resist taking a little more wind out of her sails. “I shouldn’t worry too much. Knowing Brad, he’s probably just giving the white shorts an airing.”

  The woman looked befuddled.

  “You know, playing away from home. He’s always good for a dirty stop-out.”

  That did the trick. The breeziness gave way to rueful anxiety. But she put on a brave face. “I imagine so. He is rather handsome, isn’t he?”

  Amanda merely nodded. Her earlier guess was spot on.

  “I don’t suppose there’s a spare key somewhere?”

  There certainly was but Amanda feigned ignorance as to its whereabouts. “Did you leave something here?”

  “No, not really. Brad said he’d found some good fitness material for me and I could collect it here.”

  Yeah, right. As if, calculated Amanda.

  “Well, I guess we’re a bit stymied then. You’ll have to catch him another time. As will I. See you.”

  She purposefully walked away down the drive. At her car, she looked up to see the curious visitor tapping away on her mobile. Good luck to her. She looked like she would need it.

  Amanda could not be bothered hanging around to see if Brad would turn up so she drove off down Washington Street. Just past the soccer ground she pulled over. A takeaway coffee from Magnolia would not go astray. As she approached the counter, two strapping men in dark suits turned away from the barista machine with their coffees.

  An incongruous sight of a Saturday in this area, she assumed they must be detectives. Mormons did not wear jackets door-to-door and the pair looked a bit hunky to be that zealous. Unlikely to be a real estate duo. They usually stalked solo unless there was an auction nearby. Probably detectives though. Had that look. As she made her order, she wondered what brought them to this neck of the woods. Maybe a break-in at the Lost Sock Launderette.

  As the two detectives got into the car, Farrell could not resist a comment. “Did you clock that sort who walked in after us?”

  “Yep, nice way to spend the weekend, I reckon. Marks out of one?”

  “Shapely. Sparky eyes. Good tan. Yeah, I’d give her one.”

  Munro smiled to himself. Going anywhere with Farrell, even a funeral home, generated this level of banter. He figured it was easier to play along with the gags than have a go at his colleague. He wondered if the irredeemable one ever approached any of his targets of fancy. In his experience, the constable was a ‘gunna’. Gunna do this; gunna do that.

  He knew Mahoney found the whole routine puerile and had torn strips off the subordinate quite recently. He had asked the Beekeeper for an HB pencil so he could take notes. When asked why he needed that pencil specifically, the gormless fool had said it seemed right for their interview with the manager of a modelling agency who was being subjected to stalking by a disgruntled client. Farrell had described her as a horn bag. The Beekeeper had given him the full angry hornets’ nest treatment. It obviously did not seem to have improved the most un-PC PC going around. Still, he possessed some good qualities. Not many, but some. And one of those was he followed instructions clearly.

  So when they arrived at Finch’s address there was no need to emphasize the requirement for proper procedure. The drive was deserted, as was the flat, seemingly. They found a spare key underneath a garishly colored gnome so entry was uneventful. The front door opened straight into a compact lounge room decorated without any acknowledgement to interior design trends of the past decade. Opposite a wood frame sofa with beige upholstery was a large flat-screen TV perched atop a low hardwood table. Beneath it were a digital receiver and small DVD player. And that was it. No posters, lamps or shelving save a free-standing electric panel heater underneath the window next to the front door.

  Separating this space from a functional kitchenette was a waist high bench with a lurid orange Formica top. A solitary stool stood on the lounge side of the bench. The appliances in the kitchen space looked like they were still there from the original installation, sometime in the 1980s. Everything, the policemen noticed, was spotless. Farrell was incredulous. “Well, either he’s batting for the other team or someone’s been through here to clean up any traces.”

  Unsure whether to first address the homophobia or the predilection for the CSI entertainment franchise, Munro reserved judgment. “Perhaps he didn’t want to live in a pigpen. Some people have a bit of pride in their dwellings.” Despite a well-founded reputation for sloppiness in the police section house, his offsider did not flinch. The man’s an armadillo, thought Munro. “You go through everything in here and
I’ll sort out the bed and bathroom.” His partner looked a touch aggrieved. Probably hoped he would find a wardrobe full of lubricant and sex toys. Best leave him with the pots and pans.

  Munro walked through the open door into the double bedroom. Again it was a fairly Spartan environment. Next to the made-up bed was a table on which were a black metal lamp and an iPod dock. Opposite the bed on his immediate right hand side, Munro found the built-in wardrobe. He opened the mirrored sliding doors to reveal the clothes of somebody who had a place for everything and liked everything in its place. He made a mental note to make sure he kept a blank face when he told this to Mahoney.

  A window similar in size to the living room area let in light to the room. As in there, a timber pelmet was sitting above the curtain rail: a practical nod to the need to retain warmth in the flat. A sliding wooden slat door opened into a bathroom-come-laundry. No towels on the floor. No soiled clothing dumped in the corner. Finch might be a gun sportsman but he was also Mister Neat. Nothing wrong with that. Munro just secretly hoped the guy did not wax his eyebrows. That really would tip the sympathy barrow over the edge.

  As the banging about continued in the other room, Munro carefully looked through the cabinet underneath the washbasin (toothpaste and brush, anti-perspirant deodorant, condoms, massage oil and band aids) and the wardrobe (jocks, socks and tops) before sitting on the bed. What had he expected to find? A diary. Incriminating letters. A Gladstone bag full of cash. Unlikely, really. This generation used a mobile phone device for everything. Why bother even with a laptop when an iPhone could do practically everything you wanted?

  Mahoney had told him a while ago that death stripped away a person’s privacy. And as a person’s private life could often open the way as to why they were killed then they should have no qualms about intruding on that privacy. Munro could see the logic of that but it was not going to be much help here. They had squat. Even the bed revealed little. Finch had obviously been intending to come home for a ‘clean-sheet’ night. The bed linen looked and still smelt freshly laundered. A batch of washing was out on the line fluttering in the light breeze. Even the fact that there was nothing, despite the evocation of sinister deeds, signified nothing. The guy was clean and tidy. Not much more to it. He hoped Herrick and the guys down at the Bay were having more luck.

  * * *

  In his office, Mahoney took a call from Constable Herrick. It lifted the gloom a little. The manager remembered seeing Finch there on Thursday evening. Couldn’t be sure how long for but he was sure of the night. Nobody else working at the Metz on Thursday night was there today. Herrick had the duty roster with accompanying contact numbers to be followed up. Aside from that, the canvassing of local businesses had produced nothing. With a terse instruction to call everyone on the employee list, Mahoney finished the call.

  Almost immediately Munro called through. Same scenario. No one in the dwelling above Finch’s flat or any of the neighbors had noticed anything untoward. The flat itself and the occupant’s car parked in the street had yielded nothing of consequence. The first twenty-four hours were generally held to be the most crucial in a homicide case. An initial velocity could be transformed into a momentum that would carry on to a positive result. They were certainly garnering a reasonable amount of information about the corpse but far too little material was forthcoming from the relevant scenes including, most worryingly, the building site in Kingston. They were fast becoming mired in a bog.

  The victim’s parents had been most understanding, despite their obvious distress. There were no hysterical demands for something to be done immediately or for any sort of miracle for that matter. Marron had informed him that they had not minded the routine questions he was obliged to ask. After all, living three hundred kilometers away, they were hardly suspects. Marron sensed that it was the father who was the most shaken by the events. A sense on the officer’s part that the father was immensely proud of the son but had never taken the opportunity to tell him. Now it was gone and would never come again.

  They sounded like good people and the least they deserved was for justice to be done. To find who had snuffed out the light. As Mahoney started to read the initial report from the building site, his phone distracted him again. Caller ID on the handset indicated Assistant Commissioner Newman was about to throw in his two cents worth. If only it was worth that much, thought Mahoney, as he contemplated ignoring the ringing tone. May as well take it. It could even be an offer of more resources. It was not.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “John?” Who on earth did he expect to be on the other end of the phone? A cadet from the Academy?

  “Yes, it is.” Mahoney waggled his jaw in an attempt to relax his voice. Moving house would be easier than conversing with this particular man.

  “Good. John, I’m just making a quick call to let you know I’m right behind you on this one.” Mahoney mentally debated whether this was because the AC was holding a knife or so his chief investigating officer could shield him if the offal came flying in their direction. Hard to say. “The Commissioner and I know the importance of this case and would not wish it in the hands of any other officer. Needless to say, there is already an unprecedented amount of interest and speculation so I exhort you to obtain a speedy result. Sergeant Gill has personally briefed me on the current situation and she and I will be conducting a doorstop shortly for the media. Is there anything else we can tell them?”

  Bugger off and let the real police get on with their job. “No, Sir. We are pursuing every angle as tightly as possible. All procedures are being followed to the letter. The squad is on to everything, I assure you.”

  “Well, that’s good, John. Keep Sergeant Gill in the loop. Must go. The Fourth Estate awaits.”

  The unwitting subtext was obvious. The oily Newman was relieved it was someone else, preferably Mahoney, who would carry the can if things went wrong. The media may be pushing hard but that suited the prima donna upstairs beautifully. He could soon do his impression of the earnest and authoritative statesman. Sergeant Gill could not be trusted out of sight in a dust storm. Par for the course.

  But what really irked Mahoney was the gratingly false bonhomie of being addressed by his Christian name. Surely Newman must know how much ‘John’ loathed him. Perhaps not. Mahoney was always scrupulously careful to maintain a professional demeanor around the top brass. Especially around the very superior he truly had a strong reason to despise. Resolving to not give the smug bastard the satisfaction of seeing him fail, Mahoney bent to his task. Digging in the assembled reports for a speck of useful material. The grind continued.

  CHAPTER 19

  Sunday 14th March 9am

  Mahoney had woken early as always nowadays. Long gone were his days of youth when he would slumber till the late morning of a weekend. His body clock was locked-in to an early awakening, whether he was dog-tired or not. Today that was hardly a problem. A case such as this energized him and as he eased out of bed he knew why. Homicide was the ultimate crime for the victim, the perpetrator and those who sought to solve any mystery arising from it. As a detective, it meant putting all distractions, pleasures and most of life’s necessities aside until the case was closed. This required determination and skill if it was to be done correctly and expeditiously.

  Regardless of whether his squad attained a quick result or the investigation became an arduous marathon, it was necessary to grind relentlessly away at all aspects that should be covered. Luck could play a part but one could not, and should not, hope too much for it. As one of Mahoney’s sporting heroes had asserted, “Luck on the field of sporting endeavor is mighty helpful but I find that the harder I train and the more committed I am to the fray, the luckier I get.” Exactly.

  A DI had a multifarious role in any investigation. He need not be the marquee player, though that helped, but he had to be the captain in the field who led by example in the work of detection as well as being the able coach, who could
organize, delegate, cajole and inspire. He may not be as well paid or well known as Sir Alex Ferguson but the consequences of getting it wrong were far weightier. The victim’s family would certainly think so and the wider community definitely expected the thin blue line to do its job.

  Mahoney showered quickly and then dressed himself in his ‘uniform’ of black shoes, navy single-breasted suit, sky blue shirt and red tie. Although not the most practical attire at a crime scene, the principal investigating officer chiefly needed to look…Chiefly. Even on the occasions he didn’t necessarily feel it, he must look authoritative: his officers and public alike expected it. He may prefer to doff the jacket and roll up his sleeves but people desired a particular image and it always paid to look the part; to appear unflappable.

  As he was closing the front door behind him, his mobile rang. “Mahoney.”

  “Sir, it’s DC Kendall. Sorry to disturb you…”

  “Kate, stop. You’ve used up your one ‘sorry’ for the course of the investigation. I want you because I hear you do things properly so don’t apologize. What is it you have to tell me?”

  “Understood. We could have an original crime scene. Down at the Sandy Bay Bowls Club. The curator was there to do a final prep of the greens and spotted blood and hair on a concrete curb at the end of one rink. I’ve called McLeod, Libby and Lyn and they’re all on their way. I’m here and have informally sectioned the site to minimize fuss. It could be it. It’s very near the last sighting of him.”

  “Yes, good work. Call for some uniforms to close that street and move the cars that are within ten meters. I’ll be there shortly. Good stuff, Kate.”

  This was quick. Maybe a spot of luck wouldn’t go astray. From his flat in Dynnyrne, it was no more than five minutes at normal speed so Mahoney was there as soon as predicted. Another sparkling morning in a seemingly endless summer.

  Upon seeing his ID, the young uniformed constable let him drive through the roadblock. He parked in one of the spaces reserved for committee members. There would be precious little bowling today. Perhaps the club could re-schedule the pennant match if one was on. A minor matter but keeping people onside never hurt in the long run. As he got out, he was approached by McLeod.