by SJ Brown
* * *
Ronny Coutts was a suspect who, in a previous era, would have been a prime candidate for a hefty dose of old style rough justice. As a junior constable, Mahoney encountered a handful of detectives who believed wholeheartedly in the concept of noble corruption. These men were not on the take as such. That brand of unethical behavior involving bribe taking belonged more to the bigger cities on the mainland. In fact, they were some of the straightest coppers in the local force. They did not excuse mates who were caught over the alcohol limit as some traffic police did. They did not enjoy the various sexual services offered to members of the Vice Squad who turned a blind eye to the existence of illegal brothels dotted around the inner suburbs of Hobart. They were straight. Unsullied by graft.
But they were not impeccable. They prided themselves on belonging to the old school. Criminals in their eyes were invariably guilty and simply needed to be nudged towards divulging the truth. One raging bull of a detective, Reg Varney, built a legendary status for himself through the ’60s and ’70s by not so much nudging suspects as “belting the living suitcase out of them”, as one of Mahoney’s mentors enthusiastically described it. Rarely did the subject of interrogation refuse to sign the statement that had been scrupulously prepared by the investigative team.
By the ’80s, practices had mellowed somewhat. Brutality was now deemed illegal but sheer physical intimidation was still considered a useful strategy in some cases. But it became clear to many detectives that there were surer ways of extracting the truth. The example of the Monsignor reinforced this. An unprepossessing DI standing five and a half feet and weighting sixty kilograms wringing wet, “Monsignor” Darcy Rogers possessed an enviable strike rate in the interrogation room.
When he lectured the police cadets in Mahoney’s graduation year, the class was meticulously taken through his methodology. It was no miracle that suspects were struck with an overwhelming desire to confess. It was simply that Rogers appreciated one salient fact: many people involved in wrongdoing wished to unburden themselves at some point. It was getting them to that point that required the skill. Wearing a suspect down was still par for the course but the process of attrition should be mental and emotional rather than physical.
Having filed into the academy classroom prepared to be underwhelmed, the cohort of forty-three cadets began to hang on every word of the Detective Inspector’s lecture. The presentation was impeccably prepared, which was exactly what every interrogator who strode into an interview room should be, asserted the mild looking detective. Although he dressed in the sort of mid-range off the rack suit that suggested mediocrity, Rogers soon convinced even the most skeptical cadet that being totally in command of all the available evidence was the most basic preliminary for any discussion with a suspect.
Behind the metal-framed bifocal glasses was clearly a mind that functioned like a computer. Become versed in the tell-tale quirks of body language and verbal patterns, he encouraged the class. Ask your questions matter-of-factly, do not be afraid of silences and listen as attentively as humanly possible to each and every response. The greatest skill of all was to get the criminal to come to terms with his guilt. And then to sell the idea that the truth of the matter, if divulged, will suit the suspect. The class was a resounding success. It formed part of a new policy adopted by the Executive of the State Police Force to formally tutor embryonic officers rather than leave it to senior officers to pass on the secrets through a process of (mis)trial and error.
The times were changing. As courts, and the public at large, began to demand a more accountable means of delivering all forms of evidence to court, so the police had to amend their approach to interrogations in particular. Still, the evolution was neither consistent nor popularly embraced by all detectives. Mahoney regularly heard tales, some wildly exaggerated, of how some officers went about the business of seeking the confession they wanted. In one Melbourne police station there was even a sign that read, “You enter here with good looks and the truth. You can’t leave with both.”
As recently as a few years before, there had been a short-lived scandal over comments made by the Premier when visiting a refurbished station. Having commented favorably on the fresh conditions in the holding cells, he wryly commented that something was missing from the new interview suites. “What was that?” queried the accompanying Superintendent. Just within earshot of a journalist, the Premier smilingly said, “Phonebooks, of course.” Nobody laughed aloud. And there were precious few guffaws in the Commissioner’s office upon reading it in the next day’s paper. The old days were gone but the force was not going to be allowed to forget their often sullied heritage.
As Mahoney rehearsed his opening preamble for his meeting with Coutts, he mouthed again his formulaic ABC “Always Be Calm”. In the same manner that salesmen should “Always Be Closing”, he decided to follow the classic structure of the archetypal insurance agent’s meeting with clients: Relax, Disturb, Relieve. He would assuage Coutts’ obvious anger, point out carefully the trouble the suspect was in and then offer him a solution. Although he could not script the interview, Mahoney felt confident he and Munro would prise the truth from him.
So both officers walked into the interview feeling that the investigation was at a tipping point. Over an hour later they walked out with the shared conclusion the encounter had been an anticlimax. Initially, Coutts had been full of bluster and smarmy denial. At about the twenty minute mark, DC Herrick interrupted proceedings with a very helpful piece of information; one of the shoes Coutts had been wearing was an exact match for one of the distinctive prints at the Kingston site. Faced with the sort of fact even this very shifty character had to accept was incontrovertible, the bull dust blew away.
Previous denials of Mahoney’s assertions were grudgingly reversed. Yes, he knew Knapp. Had recently recruited him for a bit of business that had come his way. And it had gone pretty much as Mahoney outlined it. Some rough stuff gone wrong, badly wrong. It seemed the garrulous thug was now relishing the opportunity to spill the beans. And then it became clear why the switch from dissembler to plain dealer: Coutts believed the death was not his fault. Admittedly he did smack Finch round the head but it was the stupid bugger’s own fault for thumping Knapp. That fallacy was immediately stripped from his reckoning. The disposal of the body could hardly be forwarded as the action of blameless men.
Sensing that a plea of self-defense wasn’t going to fly, Coutts shifted tack. It wasn’t really his responsibility because he was put up to it by another bloke. At this point Mahoney sensed a distinct shift in the wind. The link between this pair and the victim was the tenuous link in the chain. But when pressed for further details Coutts could offer little verifiable material.
Last week he took a short call to his mobile: a gravelly voice told him to check his mother’s letter box for an envelope that would show the level of the caller’s intent. Two hundred dollars got his attention. Five minutes later another call from the same man. Was he interested in keeping that down payment plus tenfold that amount for a bit of physical work? Coutts certainly was.
He was instructed to recruit another male and be prepared to ‘teach some bloke a lesson’. More instructions followed via a series of short calls in the next few days. The chosen places for the altercation and subsequent dumping of the body, the timing of the encounter and the ID of the victim were laid out. The man had identified himself simply as “the Colonel” and caller ID showed number withheld. Coutts deleted all call records as instructed.
So Coutts and Knapp had carried out their end of the bargain with disastrous results. It had all gone very pear-shaped. And to rub salt in the wound neither had seen any of the money. The phone calls ceased and the promised second envelope hadn’t turned up in the letter box and probably wouldn’t now. Stitched up good and proper. So he would love to cough up who this guy was but he had no idea. Knew it sounded flimsy but there you go. Why else would he get involved in all this?
And that is exactly what puzzled Mahoney. Why else? They had two assailants under arrest and their motivation was clear: money and fear respectively. But it was still a mystery as to who had a motive for harming this particular victim that could also feasibly arrange this sort of crime. Having prized Knapp and Coutts open, Mahoney was still left with a can of worms.
CHAPTER 27
Tuesday 16th March 5pm
Kate felt good in the passenger seat as Munro drove up Liverpool Street. The traffic gradually thinned as motorists branched off to the major arterial roads that drained the city of the evening rush hour traffic. Back at the station, Mahoney had quickly briefed them. Kate was tasked with the few simple questions. Munro was to ride shotgun and annoy their quarry simply by being there, the quarry being Dr. James Cartwright.
Munro pulled the sedan into the curb outside the academic’s residence. They got out and walked up to the impressive wooden door. Munro knocked loudly and then stepped slightly back and aside so Kendall would be the first person to be seen. They waited patiently. A Skoda was in the driveway so presumably the occupant was home.
Eventually, the front door opened. “You again.” Not the warmest of welcomes.
“Good evening, sir. I’m DC Kendall, and DS Munro I think you know.”
“Yes, I do.”
Good. His voice was on edge already. “We thought for a moment there you were sporting your oak.” She indicated the door with a small wave of her hand.
He softened slightly. “You’ve studied then, Detective. Which university?”
“Not me, sir. The sergeant was telling me about the old university custom while we were waiting.”
Cartwright looked as if he’d bitten into silver foil. He didn’t acknowledge Munro: there was no chance he’d let that buffoon get one over him. “I see. And what can I do for you, young lady?”
Invite us in. “We have a couple of queries arising from findings in the homicide of Bradley Finch. You’re familiar with that, I’m sure.”
She was so straight as to be almost sincere so Cartwright had little wriggle room. “As I’m sure you know from your colleague, I am aware a man by that name is dead. Neither I nor my solicitor are sure why you consider me a person of interest.”
Seeing as you’ve contacted a lawyer is a pretty good reason, thought Munro. He said lightly, “I don’t know I’d go that far, sir. Just background.”
“Oh, really. And that’s why you came and badgered me yesterday? And why you’re here now on my doorstep embarrassing my neighbors?”
Take us inside then. You’re the one getting antsy. The sergeant kept his voice very level. “Our apologies if you feel that, sir, but we have our jobs to do.”
“Then do them and stop harassing me.”
No wonder we’re here, thought Kate. He doth protest too much. “Could we just start again here, Dr. Cartwright? DI Mahoney simply wants to tidy things away from yesterday so we can move on with the main thrust of the case.”
“He couldn’t just call me?”
Of course he could. But you are again proving to be a very interesting kettle of fish. So here we are. “He is tied up with a suspect at present. This is a routine matter so we decided to clear it up in person.” Her tone mollified the man in the doorway a touch. “So, to confirm, we have a suspect in custody and we wish to eliminate you from our enquiries. Normal procedure.”
“Nice try, constable. But nowhere near good enough. That phrase is a furphy.”
“I beg your pardon, sir.”
An exaggerated aerial twitching of his index fingers. “‘Eliminate from our enquiries.’ Sounds good but it’s absolutely meaningless if you’re talking to an innocent man.”
If.
“You can eliminate me from your enquiries because I had nothing to do, whatsoever with any bashing. I am wholly innocent. Nothing, repeat nothing, to do with this case has anything remotely to do with me. Is that clear for your enquiries?”
Bashing?
“I understand your position, sir. You put it well. But I’m sure you’ll agree we’re in a bit of a spot. Under authority, if you will. Our boss is such a stickler. He was pleased to meet you, by the way. Admires your writing. Anyway, he’s wondering if you’ve met Amanda Pattison recently? We understand she’s one of your students.”
“Yes, I have. You know that already.”
“Yes, yes, you’re right. Clumsy of me. You did say that the other day. What I meant to say was have you met up with her socially at all in the past fortnight?”
“Yes, I have.” He felt like saying and you know that already as well. He knew it was prudent to stick to the absolute essentials now.
“Was that last Thursday night?”
Great question, thought Munro. A few birds with one stone.
Cartwright blinked rapidly. Where was that going? Breathe. Frown. Look like you’re thinking calmly. “Ah, no. It was the other weekend. A Saturday. We had dinner. Just a chance to enjoy some different company.”
Yeah, right.
“Didn’t the death occur last Thursday?”
“Yes, that’s right sir. Where were you that evening? Just to tick the box.”
“Burnie.” He made very sure he didn’t betray any relief. “I was due to speak to a group of students at the Cradle Coast campus early on the Friday so I drove up Thursday evening and stayed overnight.”
“Nice accommodation?” Munro had picked up on the idea of throwing in a random question. Prevent Cartwright from settling on what was obviously a rehearsed spiel of responses.
“Ah, yes, it was. Surprisingly so. A revamped hotel on the waterfront. The Harborview. I’m sure they’ll have a record of my stay.”
Of course they will. You’ve organized your alibi rather tidily, he thought. “We’ll take your word on that.” Not that they would. What was interesting was that he should break off from his work in Hobart to be so far away on that particular night. An odor of decaying crustaceans pervaded the arrangement. “Why surprising?”
“Well, Sergeant, Burnie hasn’t always enjoyed the most salubrious of reputations. Didn’t some rock band sing that it was a place without a postcard?”
Munro nodded. Midnight Oil. “Yeah, that’s right. You had to be up there even though the election’s in full swing? You weren’t needed here for a sound bite for the news?”
Kendall began to fully realize what Mahoney had meant earlier. Munro had a way of riling Cartwright when asking even an innocuous question. The hackles rose immediately.
“They do vote up there as well, you know. And for your information I do provide something more than sound bites on the radio. As your superior acknowledges.”
Kendall was straight in. “So you felt no ill will to Bradley Finch?”
“What?” The exaggerated frown returned. “How could I? He was a student, apparently, in my class. One of my classes. I lecture to a great many pupils. How can I be expected to be familiar with them all?”
Just the ones you publicly berate. Munro aimed one just under the rib cage. “It would be hard to be as close to them all as you are with young Miss Pattison.”
It was not often you genuinely saw hatred in someone’s eyes. As now. “How dare you. You come to my house to humiliate me. I don’t have to justify my behavior to the likes of you.”
Yes, you do, thought Kate. Seeing as you’ve been lying through your teeth to investigating officers. “Sorry, Dr. Cartwright. We’ve gotten a bit side-tracked here. Obviously, we don’t wish to intrude into your private life.” But we’ll trample all over it if you prove to be as implicated as you seem. “Your professional reputation is important to you. Rightly so. As I said earlier, we were just dispatched to clarify a few matters. I think we’ve done that.” You’re a liar and you’re very touchy whenever your possible connection to the homicide is mentioned. And a prickly prima donna. Yes, that had all been clarified.
“I don’t see how. It seems to me you’ve trotted up here to fire off a series of petty insults. You and your brute of a sidekick. Be assured I’ll be speaking to Detective Inspector Mahoney, among others, about this flagrant misuse of your powers.”
Munro smiled. “I’m sure he’ll welcome any information you can provide that helps move the case forward. We may need to see you again. Goodbye for now.”
From the look on Cartwright’s face, it didn’t seem to be a circumstance he would welcome. The two detectives returned to the car. As Munro started the ignition they looked back through the windscreen to the figure still standing at his front door. “Not a happy camper.”
Kendall agreed. “I see what you guys meant before. He’s shifty about the Pattison thing and even more so whenever Finch is mentioned. We may never have thought he did the deed but he’s a good chance to have organized it.”
Munro completed a three point turn in the narrow street. “I don’t think he’s got the balls for that. And a guy like Coutts is way removed from his circle. He’s in this up to his neck, yeah. Definitely hiding stuff. But I can’t see him as this Colonel guy. He’s linked in but we need someone else.”
The two detectives retraced their route back into town. As arranged, they met with Mahoney in the back bar of the Duke of Wellington Hotel. None of the trio had managed more than a quick coffee during the day so a debriefing over a meal was deemed a good move.
They walked in the Barrack Street entrance and saw their boss already seated at a table set for them. He was talking on his mobile but caught their eye and beckoned them over. As they sat he finished his call.
“I’ve ordered herb pizza bread for us and some water. I could do with a drink as could you, I presume. But alcohol consumption with Joe Public watching won’t go down too well. Fair enough?”
Kendall nodded. Munro said, “Kate, are you having anything else?”
“No thanks. I’m feeling a bit tired to have a full meal. I’ll just get a snack when I get home.”
