by SJ Brown
“Morning, John. I’ve just arrived myself. Any particular stuff you need?”
“Jim, thanks for being prompt. Though you always are, aren’t you?”
McLeod smiled. “Yes John, I always snap to it. Boom boom. Now we’ve done the Basil Brush routine, shall we start?”
Mahoney nodded. “Yeah. OK. Usual stuff but could you also take some broader location shots of all entrances and exits and fence lines. We will need to know how anybody got in or out of here. I’m assuming the gates are locked out of hours.”
“Yes, they are. Don’t want hoodlums traipsing all over my greens.” This from a short nuggetty man dressed in old style white tennis shorts and little else. George Hamilton would have swooned to see his tan. His skin was the shade of dark brown boot leather and quite possibly the same texture. His acquisitive eyes were even darker beneath a pair of eyebrows to which Lord Kitchener would have given the seal of approval. His wispy grey hair could not cover a couple of impressive sunspots.
“Bloody kids get in and stuff up all my good work. Need the buckle, some of ’em, if you ask me.” Mahoney guessed he was being addressed by the curator and introduced himself while McLeod strolled off to follow instructions. “I’m Fred Cooper, as in barrel.” He held out a large knuckly hand which Mahoney shook. “Looks like a bit of a punch up. How come so many of you fellas swooped down?”
Mahoney always figured on a need to know basis. “There was a report of some trouble we have to follow up. Could be related to an ongoing inquiry. Sorry to mince words but I can’t say too much.”
The senior man nodded wisely and tapped his nose a touch theatrically. “No worries, Inspector. I’m no gossip. Go for your life. No matches on today so it’s pretty free. Just a bunch of blokes having a stags do about 4 o’clock. All the go these days. Barefoot bowls and cheap beers. Can put ’em off, if you like.”
Mahoney got the feeling Mr. Cooper would like nothing better than to jettison the booze-up. “I’ll let you know in a while if that’s OK.” He made to walk off but hesitated. “Apart from the blood you saw, were there any other signs of something odd?”
“Yeah, too right. After I called the cops I sort of stood guard near the spot. That’s how I spied it.”
“What?”
“My work shovel was tossed down near the end of the rink. Wouldn’t leave it there. Bloody untidy, I reckon. Didn’t touch it. Told the pretty lass when she arrived.”
“Thank you, Fred. If any of this lot stuff up, I’ll get you in. Could do with sharp eyes.” Mahoney winked and continued into the club.
At the far end of the nearest rink a small open-sided tent was being set up. There might be little chance of rain to contaminate the scene but this was part of the established process and needed to be done. It helped demarcate the immediate area of interest and alerted all personnel not to go wandering near what could be vital trace evidence. Lyn Manning was in front of the clubhouse delegating various tasks to the three uniforms at her disposal. He would need to speak to her later for an update on any information than might have been gleaned from the site at Kingston.
But first Kendall commanded his attention. He walked down the smoothly grassed rink to where she stood with a man in white overalls who was pointing downwards to some dark splotches on the ground. Mahoney stopped at the edge of the enclosure.
“Good morning, Sir. Sergeant Wall was just about to start looking more closely.” Kendall was astute. No doubt. She knew to be formal in front of the officers and was canny enough to hold off initial examination so he could be present but she was still unfamiliar with the correct identities of many of the personnel with whom she would be working.
“Thank you, Constable Kendall. Before that may I re-introduce you to one of the Forensics officers?” He gestured to a grinning face that was gaunt to say the least. “This is Sergeant Don Baxter. Bit of a gun triathlete, hence, the lean and hungry look. I thought by now he might have foregone the offensive nickname but there you go. We can’t all be sensitive to new norms of sexuality in our community.” Mahoney was terse. It had the requisite effect. The grin was gone.
“Sorry, Sir. Sorry, Constable Kendall. I just thought I’d have a bit of a lend of you. You being obviously new and everything.”
Mahoney was not finished. “Don, we know you’re valuable and I’m grateful you’re back from leave a day early.” Baxter’s eyes were wide with surprise. “Don’t gape. It was a calculated guess. Our superiors want a result here. Lots, as in tons, of pressure. So you’ve been dragged in. A good forensics person is needed. And that’s you.”
Baxter puffed up a little.
“But for God’s sake don’t piss about with change room humor. Kendall is new to my squad but she’s not green. Understood.” No question about it. “Right. So what can you tell me? Apart from there’s blood.”
“Not much, yet. I just got here and togged up. I’ll get to it now.”
“Good. Meanwhile Detective Constable Kendall and I will be talking to DC Manning.”
Mahoney took Kate by the crook of the elbow and they stepped up onto the central pathway that separated the normally pristine patches of lawn and started walking to the clubhouse.
“Thank you. What was all that with the names about?”
“Frat house jokes. Baxter is competent. No doubt about that. Skilled and careful. But a bit insecure maybe. Was quite plump for a few years. Working in the lab, not much active work. Very ordinary diet. Then he decided to get fit. Twelve months later he’s competing in triathlons and his skin folds are unbelievably good. He feels better and life is on the up. But he’s still not totally sure of himself. Body’s great but his self-esteem hasn’t quite caught up. So when some buffoons from the Clarence Station start asking him if he’s got AIDS, to explain the weight loss, instead of telling them to grow up he plays along. Goes along with the daft nickname. Baxter the Wall. The height of wit.”
“Blokes.” Kate’s voice conveyed all anyone needed to know about her attitude to bullying of any kind.
They were now standing under the clubhouse veranda. Manning joined them. Introductions done, Mahoney asked for an update from her. “I’ve managed to snare three probationers who weren’t out on the booze hunt last night.”
To help curb the late night outbreaks of damaging violence that was cursing the waterfront nightspots, an increased number of uniforms had been patrolling the city streets on Saturday nights. The net result was a dramatic increase in arrests for disorderly conduct but not, as yet, a commensurate decrease in trouble. Perhaps the proposed restriction on licensing hours would help alleviate that if the powerful hotel lobby could be acquiesced. Apparently, serving intoxicating beverages to young people was not the reason frustrated teenagers started belting people at all hours of the night. Seemed cut and dried to the police but what would they know.
“They’re checking the perimeters and the surrounding laneways for anything that might be left. I’m assuming, Sir, that this could be the scene of the initial assault from last Thursday.”
“Correct. We’ll work on the basis that if this is the scene it happened then. Baxter will provide that link, I hope. And something could turn up in the surrounds.”
“We’ve been lucky in one respect then. The old fella that looks after everything told me that there have been very few people here lately. The club was closed to players for the past three days while he did some essential upkeep on the surface. So nobody clumping about much at all.”
Kate did not want to state the obvious but decided being shy was not the reason she was included in the enquiry. “Why would Finch be here? It fits with the last confirmed sighting of him just up the road at the Metz. But his flat is back up the hill off Huon Road. Was he here for some alfresco fun or en route to something similar nearby?”
Mahoney breathed deeply and slowly exhaled. “That’s the nub of the problem. My guess is he was going somewhere else
. This was a short cut.” He gestured behind him. “The way the streets run around here this club provides a quick way down to the houses on Marieville Esplanade and the Yacht Club.”
Manning was watching the uniforms scouring the grounds. She turned back to the detectives. “One of the football people perhaps.” She pointed towards the river. “Just over there is a house belonging to the Vice-President of the Devils.” She had their full attention. A small shrug of the shoulders and a half smile. “I just know because my boyfriend, he’s a horticulture teacher, and I visited an open garden day there a fortnight ago. Beautiful property. Belongs to this university guy. Um, yeah, Dr. Bruce Randall. He could have been going there. I mean, it could be a start.”
Mahoney knew it was tenuous, but did not say so. A cloak of confidence was necessary in order to encourage people to think and to proffer ideas. There was precious little use in playing safe. The man lived nearby and a quick visit would not be untenable given his link to the player. “Jane, that’s a good suggestion. As soon as we have confirmation Finch was here, I’ll contact him. There’s always a chain. We just need more of the links.”
Mahoney’s mobile rang. He answered. “DI Mahoney speaking.”
“Inspector, hello. I know it’s Sunday but I needed to speak to you. About Brad.”
The voice was not one he knew. “Don’t worry about the day. They’re all work now. But could you tell me who you are?”
“Oh, sorry. My name’s Amanda Pattison. I’ve just heard about Brad’s death. I was a close friend. It’s horrible. It’s suspicious, isn’t it? That’s what they said on the radio.” The phrases tumbled out. Emotional.
“That is certainly what we presume. But why have you been given my number? How can you help?”
“Sorry. I badgered the officer on the phone to give me your number. I’m away down the Tasman Peninsula today but I know I can help. A few weird things have been happening lately that might be part of this, this horrible mess.”
Her tone was urgent. And Mahoney’s antennae were alert. “I certainly want to speak to you as soon as you can arrange it. As you can guess we need to gather as much information as we can about Brad’s movements prior to whatever it is that’s happened. So anything you have is appreciated.”
Her voice was now more level and, if anything, more steely. “I can definitely do that, Inspector. I will be back in town tomorrow morning.”
“OK. Does 8am at Kafe Kara suit you? You know it?”
“Yes, yes. That’s fine. I’ll be there.”
Could be nothing. But if it was something it could only help.
CHAPTER 20
Sunday 14th March Noon
So this is what a crisis meeting is like, thought Bruce Randall. In times of emergency – invasion, natural disaster, economic collapse – the powerbrokers assembled and decided what was to be done. This was hardly one of the aforementioned catastrophes but from the demeanor of Roger Sproule you could be excused for thinking so. From the moment he’d arrived at the Football Club offices he had been edgy. The customary arrogance was nowhere to be seen. Rory Fotheringham was behaving true to form. Unflappable, brisk and in command of the situation. Cold-blooded didn’t quite cover it.
Just the three of them. When Sproule had called him one hour earlier, he had stressed that it was best if just the executive be there. They were seated in the boardroom; all three oblivious to the southerly view of the Derwent River as it ran out into Storm Bay.
The club’s base was here. On the site of the former Tasmanian Cricket Association Oval the new stadium was a testimony to how a vision could be transformed into a stunning actuality. Two decades before, the Cricket Council had transferred operations over the river to Clarence. It was believed that revamping the existing Bellerive oval would give the capital a much better chance of hosting Test matches. And so it had proved. Blundstone Arena was now the home of cricket in Tasmania: a regular schedule of Test and one-day matches were now a staple part of Hobart’s summer. This nettled the sensibilities of sports followers in the north of the state but that was part and parcel of the senseless parochialism that infected the place.
The TCA ground had moldered for a number of years. Local cricket matches in summer and some football games in winter. Deciding to use it as a major part of the bid to bring an AFL club into existence had been a masterstroke. Randall knew the kernel of the idea had stemmed from Fotheringham. He was a callous manipulator but he definitely had an eye for the main chance. And knew how to bring a scheme to fruition.
In retrospect, it seemed that the current structure seemed perfectly placed but no one else had seen it at the time. Fotheringham had. The ground was perched on the plateau atop the Queen’s Domain, a large area of land on the edge of central Hobart. Apart from the small suburb of Glebe in a corner of the precinct the area was mainly bushland. Government House and the Botanical Gardens occupied prime position on the eastern side of the hills facing the river. Within one kilometer of the oval were the Domain Tennis Centre, Hobart Aquatic Centre and the Athletics Track. The whole area was bordered by the principal arterial highways that fed traffic into and out of Hobart. From the airport to the ground took fifteen minutes by car: a fact not lost on the marketing firm that drafted the submission to government and the AFL Commission.
A private consortium took a bold proposal to the State Government. Let us take over the site of the TCA oval and we will deliver an AFL team to Tasmania. The case for a team was compelling: tourism numbers would surge and an underused venue would be revitalized for the benefit of the local community. The public consultation process was duly carried out but in this football-mad area, little real opposition emerged. In truth, it was simply a bloody good idea. The transport infrastructure was largely already in place. Plenty of room next to the ground for car parking. Shuttle buses from the CBD and the two suburban transport hubs had easy access to the site. And what was music to the ears of government was that a spanking new facility would come into being with a minimal outlay of public funds. A piece of public infrastructure that wouldn’t become a white elephant. Hobart City Council and the State Government clambered to get on board. More crucially, so did investors.
The masterstroke there had been the provision for a state-of-the-art hotel and convention center. The southern end of the ground would be flanked by a sweeping grandstand that could seat twenty five thousand patrons. Behind the terraced seats would be an outer ring of buildings to house club facilities, offices and a two hundred room hotel. The topography of the site meant that guests would enjoy views of the Tasman Bridge, Derwent River, Hobart’s waterfront or Mount Wellington depending on their choice of room. Given its proximity to the sights of the State’s south occupancy levels would be high all year round. And so it was proving. Since the end of construction the previous August, the Royal Domain Hotel had been very nearly full for the whole summer. Within weeks of opening, the Conference Centre had been deluged with booking requests. The home football matches would guarantee a solid income stream during the traditionally slower winter months.
Geography greatly assisted the oval itself. The tall grandstands at the southern end would shelter the playing surface from the sharp prevailing winds during the season. The northern 180 degrees of the ground’s boundary was flanked by smaller grandstands built at a height to ensure the sun could still hit all areas of the turf from April to September. Every seat in the house had a great view and the curators experienced none of the constant resurfacing issues that plagued the roofed Docklands Stadium in Melbourne.
The beauty of the deal for the Tassie Devils Club was that use of the oval, training facilities and corporate offices were available at a peppercorn rent on a long lease. This had been a tipping point in the consortium’s pitch to both the government and the AFL Commission.
Start-up costs for infrastructure would be unusually low which meant revenue could be directed to ensuring the club would have a solid platform
on which to build. Due to the restrictions imposed by the salary cap, the Devils couldn’t just lure whatever players they wanted with hefty contracts. But the list they had assembled was still pretty formidable for a start-up team.
The recruitment manager, Colin Thompson, had a two-pronged approach. Firstly, he pointed out to targeted players that although the money on offer was not better than available in the mainland capitals, it was absolutely no worse and that sort of money goes a long way in Hobart. On your contract, son, you’ll be a property magnate in no time. Try that in Sydney. The particular players targeted were not the marquee players of their competitors. Rather, Thompson adopted the money ball strategy that had been so successful for the Oakland Athletics Baseball franchise in the United States. While his craggy features dictated he would never be played by Brad Pitt if Hollywood showed any interest, Thompson knew how to assess underlying value.
At trade time the previous October, he had worked the phones arduously, looking for players with a couple of season’s experience who could hold their own but were considered expendable by their existing employers. Guys whose salaries wouldn’t be rocketing up when their turn came to sign. Players who knew, come contract re-negotiation time, it would be take it or leave it. So why not take a good offer and go to Hobart. Thompson’s expertise was that he sourced the players who were solid mid-range performers with a team ethos. Mix a majority of such personnel with a few higher-level performers and you had the makings of a competitive team. And the Devils had used their selections in the national draft wisely so that the younger players coming on board exhibited strong potential and were injury-free. Season preview articles in the mainland media had heralded Thompson’s recruitment period as the shrewdest smash and grab raid in the previous decade. Pundits had them as odds-on chances to make the finals: a bold prediction given the initial fortunes of the other two most recent expansion clubs in NSW and Queensland.
