by SJ Brown
“We, as in the people who care for this state and make it run.” He had leaned into Newman so the sharp whisper was clearly audible to the policeman. “Does this guy know enough to target the right suspects and leave well enough alone?”
Newman hedged his bets. “Possibly not.”
“Well, he needs to be informed, as Bill would say, PDQ. I hear an innocent academic has been grilled recently. I’m telling you the heat’s being applied in the wrong place.”
“Are you referring to Cartwright?” How did Fotheringham know this?
“Maybe.” Very cagey. “I’ll just say you’re not a million miles away there. This seems more of a low-life crime to me.”
And you’re a shit-hot criminologist now, are you? “Point taken. I’ll do my best to guide the investigation along the right lines.”
Fotheringham stood to leave. “Make sure your best is good enough. Evening, gentlemen. I’ll leave you to a convivial drink.”
Fat chance, they both thought.
CHAPTER 29
Tuesday 16th March 8pm
Forty-seven channels and nothing on. Was that the refrain in the Springsteen song? John Mahoney could not remember. Regardless, he did know there were far more channels accessible to him courtesy of his satellite TV box. Having resisted the lure for a substantial time, he finally acceded to the advertising offers so he could access Premier League Football. The record function had also proven to be a boon.
Tonight, among the myriad offerings, he opted for one of the property shows. A very chipper male presenter was doing his best to relocate a cashed-up couple from London into their dream rural bolt-hole in Devon but without much success. The sticking point wasn’t so much the desirability of the houses but that Mr. and Mrs. Moneybags turned out to have wildly divergent ideas on what constituted their dream home. He wanted thatch; she wanted tile. He wanted outbuildings; she insisted on views. A degree of tension developed. They needed a counsellor more than a house hunter.
The emerging bitchiness suited Mahoney’s mood. It had not been the best of times. In truth it had been perilously close to the worst. Mahoney switched the television off, poured himself a finger or three of whisky and sank into his favorite chair. Normally, he wasn’t a great drinker of Scotch but every so often when he needed to mull things over he liked the fiery taste of a Highland Malt. On a holiday to Scotland five years ago, Mahoney had ventured over to the Isle of Arran. The distillery production, then just over a decade old, was unusual in that there was no peat in the malt. The local water was judged to be suitable enough by itself. Traditional connoisseurs may choke on their sporrans but for many this refreshing, sharply sweet brew was just the ticket.
As he sipped, the detective began to consider the direction in which he was heading. When pressed, he would readily admit his worst habit was to look at life from the vantage of a rear view mirror, a habit he was gradually learning to counteract. ‘If’ was a simple word laden with complex difficulties. ‘If only’ compounded the problematic mindset. You made mistakes, errors of judgment. Everyone did. The trick, easier said than done, was to glean any positives from experience and to move on.
No matter how much you turned things over in your mind, the past was not going to change. Not one jot. But you could learn to turn negative experiences to your advantage. Analyze a bad result and objectively assess how to improve from then on. As they said at AA, doing the same stuff over and over, expecting a different result, was insanity.
Over time, Mahoney had gradually changed the things it was in his power to change. Became better at listening to what people were really saying; acquired the skill of asking the questions that unlocked the reserve of others. The pity was, and didn’t he know it only too well, he increasingly built barriers around his innermost feelings. If he were to be asked “Are you OK?” a few platitudes would be the best anyone could get.
The dialogue was unfailingly in his head. It wasn’t so much he needed to get out more, although that wouldn’t hurt. It was surely that he needed to get out of his own mind more. What were the chances of that? You would get better odds on England winning the Football World Cup. He bottled stuff up and kept the cork in nice and tight. Often enough, he’d counselled others on the advisability of controlling their emotions. Damage limitation. Think things through, he told them. Yet he knew his self-control was vice-like, constricting.
And look what had happened. He had drip fed the poison tree for two decades and finally he had spewed his bile over Newman. To what end? An own goal if ever there was one. He had succumbed to his rage over the long cherished grievance and belittled himself. Newman, being Newman, would brush it off. Some egos were impenetrable. Mahoney had felt temporarily better but then just a little bit impotent.
And his outburst may have adversely affected the case. Just when the squad needed allies in high places, Mahoney had given a superior the perfect excuse to doubt his judgment. For a person who could run the workshop ‘Dealing with Difficult People’, his stupidity really stuck in his craw. Perhaps there were other options? An alternative path to take. Forget his superannuation plan and get out. Try something else. Volunteer work. Travel writing. Don’t think, do. Do something else. But what?
He got up, stretched, and went again to his excuse for a drinks cabinet. Another small one wouldn’t hurt so he poured it. As he put the bottle back, he saw the Hawthorn Footy Club stubby holder. A former coach, a true legend in sports circles, had addressed a management conference of officers in the Protective Services. For practically every officer there from the Ambulance, Fire, Rescue and the Police Services, it had been the only highlight amidst the bureaucratic gobbledygook they had been expected to wade through.
The speaker’s ideas on leadership were succinct but redolent with great anecdotal insights. One centered on the scenario of a young male driver who routinely raced off from a traffic light only to find himself having to wait impatiently at the very next one. And so on. The other driver took off at a moderate speed, maintained it and consequently cruised through a succession of intersections with minimal frustration and the output of significantly less energy. Better result and more in reserve. A story Mahoney routinely relayed to probationary constables.
But it was one of the stories that Mahoney now turned over in his mind. Quite simply, it involved a driver at a crossroad in the countryside in search of a previously unvisited destination. The signpost had been knocked and was skew-whiff in the soil. How could it help to chart the way? Simple. Turn it so one destination was correct. Which one? The pointer which indicated where you had just come from. With that going the right way, you could easily work out where you needed to go. Mahoney well knew how he had gotten to where he was now. He would dearly love to know just exactly where he was meant to be going. That wasn’t too much to ask. Surely.
And his private life, such as it was. In this, he was guarded. On the rare occasions he went on a date, he was always asked if he played poker. Not a cards game person, he replied. Why do you ask? Because you have the right face for it and you give very little away. And they were right. As much as he tried to engage, he had a perfectly constructed retaining wall around his emotional core. Had the hurt and betrayal of decades ago been so powerful to stifle any attempts to fall for another person? Well, yes. His love life, though it could hardly be genuinely called that, was like a rugby scrum: set, touch, engage.
But he would never put any real oomph into it. He might look like he was trying but his heart was never really in it. Sure, he could involve himself, but whenever it came to anything serious being at stake, he would trot on to a different pasture. He assured himself he was not promiscuous but a series of fleeting relationships was hardly the mark of an emotionally intelligent and stable adult. He just found it easier to go to the cinema or whatever by himself. He had resigned himself to being a solo invitation to social gatherings. Went on holidays alone yet wished he had a special someone to share the experien
ce with. And he was sick of it. Fed up.
Standing on the periphery observing the lives of others was useful for a detective but as a human it left you two-dimensional at best. Aside from his career and his cherished cultural life, he had what…not much. Paintings, albeit good ones, on the walls and shelves stuffed with books were signs of cultivation but he felt like an empty shell. He had begun to ghost through life. Being well read was fine. But so was Adolf Hitler apparently.
Investigations should be tidy and thorough but maybe his life needed to be just a bit messy. Some sense of the unpredictable. Take a chance here and there. Open up a touch. Maybe a lot. He knew the song. Dance like nobody’s watching. Laugh often. Dive into life. To be able to have something on his tombstone other than Capable Detective. And then his thoughts returned inexorably to the case.
CHAPTER 30
Wednesday 17th March 7am
The query completely bewildered Kate. Bamboozled her in a number of ways. Should not have, but it did. “So what time for Mr. Buzzy this morning?” Part of it was that it came from someone in her own bed. It was a long, long time since there had been a conversation there. And as she was quite talkative, this indicated a lengthy period of abstinence. As things now stood, she was glad and relieved. Glad she had encountered this particular partner who stimulated her. And relieved she could enjoy the fulfilling pleasure they created together. Last night she was dog-tired but a tender foot rub from Rex led to further tender stroking and before long the bedroom pentathlon was in full swing.
Just before she drifted off to sleep, Rex had said he felt as if he had been kissed in a rare place by a fairy. Well, she felt fortunate too and slept six dreamless hours. She awoke feeling bright and alert and ready to wrestle him all morning. But the job called. Still, as she looked at the slumbering figure next to her, she knew there would be more times like this. Plenty more.
And then he awoke, kissed her, and asked the question. She turned crimson. Why was he asking about her vibrator? How on earth did he even know? What did she say last night? Her mind was racing.
“What’s wrong? It’s not that warm in here?”
“Nothing.” Quick think. “I’m fine. It’s just such a pleasant surprise to find you here this morning.” Phew.
“Snap. I guess you have to resume the trail this morning. Mr. Buzzy the Beekeeper will be expecting you. Can’t keep the big boss waiting.”
Oh, thank the Lord for that. Her favorite toy was still to be introduced. Something else to look forward to next time they played. She smiled. “Definitely not. I wouldn’t want him angry with me. May get disciplined by Internal Affairs.” She winked at him and his eyebrows nearly took off.
A theatrically grave voice. “Mmm, yes. You’d be cuffed and mercilessly interrogated by whoever is on call. Almost certainly me, I’d say. I think a feather would be particularly effective in your case.” He stroked her shoulder.
It was patently obvious the prospect excited him. His baton was very ready to be brought into action. So Kate gently flicked it and then whispered in his ear. “As soon as this case is done we’ll book a weekend at Freycinet so we can verbal each other and conduct a series of probing interviews.” That and a fulsome kiss on his lips left Rex moaning softly as she got out of bed to shower. Kate was genuinely unsure if this day could get any better.
* * *
As Kate entered DI Mahoney’s office, she immediately realized her musings had been rhetorical. By the grave look on her boss’s face, her day was not going to improve. If anything, it was about to become appreciably worse. He gestured for her to sit. Munro was already in the other visitors’ chair looking hangdog. Another cock-up? Surely not.
Munro had been fully onside as far as she knew. What else? They had organized formal transcripts of yesterday’s crucial interview. Notebooks were up to date. All in order. There were avenues to explore but the principal perpetrators were locked up. All good. So why was Mahoney looking agitated as he jabbed at his keyboard. With a final flourish, he finished slamming away and turned to face his subordinates.
“We’ve been butt-fucked.” The tone was resigned. The volume moderate. The reaction was shock. Neither could imagine Mahoney employing such language nor could they contemplate him exhibiting any sign of defeat. This guy was Mr. Resilience and Mr. Composure in one. What on earth could have happened?
“Let me give you the abridged version. Last night I received a text. ‘Well done on quick result. Brief me at 7am. CP.’ So the Commissioner has heard and he wants a verbal report ASAP. So far, no problem. I don’t know what you did last night but I took a couple of hours off.” Kate sat extra still hoping Munro was not looking at her. “So I sat back and mentally reviewed our case.” A slight smile creased his face. “I know, great relaxation. Anyway, I got to thinking that we may, no strike that, we do have further exploration to undertake.”
He lifted his index finger. “First, the two guys we have next door in remand have no motive to harm this particular victim. They are motivated to commit a crime, but why Finch? Neither even knew who he was. I doubt they’d have agreed if they had. So, second, according to Coutts he was put up to it by this Colonel person. Now Coutts is a slimy piece of work but his claim is plausible. Tenuous, but plausible. If the calls were made from a public phone then tracing the caller is practically impossible. We can check Coutts’ mobile but I doubt it would help us.”
At this point Mahoney paused, looked in turn at each of his subordinates, then slowly and very deliberately raised a third finger. “And most damning of all….the meeting upstairs concluded half an hour ago. Present were myself, Assistant Commissioner Newman and the Commissioner. I updated them on the progress thus far and my ongoing suspicions. Not playing favorites but I’ll ask Tim this one. Why does that worry me?”
Munro frowned. In for penny, in for a pound. “A few reasons, perhaps. How did the other two participants know so quickly? Why was it necessary for a top-level discussion for the case at this stage?” He hesitated here in a search for the most diplomatic phrasing. “Was the meeting a full stop instead of a comma?”
“Nicely put, Tim. Well, the first two are easy. A good result permeates to all floors of our building. This has been a high profile case with the Commissioner’s involvement from the start.” Mahoney hesitated as a very distasteful thought occurred to him and then continued. “Your final query. That is the most salient and in answering it I must insist on the cone of silence. You are both trusted and I’m sorry to have to ask but we are entering treacherous territory here. If either or both of you wish to leave now I would fully understand and you would duly receive commendations on your records.”
Munro eased his buttocks off the chair then sat down heavily and smiled. Good answer. Kate nodded and remained firmly seated. Mahoney continued, “Right. You weren’t here and we never had this conversation. Understood?”
“Crystal.” Another smile.
“Yes, most definitely.” Kate was resolute.
“The powers that be want this one put to bed and I’m not just referring to up there.” Index finger pointed to the ceiling. “Over there is interested too.” His hand gestured in the general direction of the Government quarter which housed Parliament and the Executive Offices. “The media shit storm will pass through now. We have the principal culprits. There’ll be articles about violence in our idyllic city but the full wattage limelight will dim. They’ll believe the Departmental media releases that Knapp and Coutts were acting independently; a random act of violence. Mugging gone wrong. Coutts’ connection to Colonel whoever will be ignored. Easy to do as there’s no evidence of collusion. It will be regarded as the delusional excuse of a desperate criminal. Case closed. Fish’s arse.” He clapped his palms together.
Kate spoke up. “But your, sorry our, feeling is the loose threads are un-ignorable.”
Mahoney rotated his shoulders and leaned forward. “Absolutely. The whole case goes back to
the victim. Why Finch? Nothing substantial links him to the other two unless we believe they were put up to it. If it was random they chose an unlikely mark. He was probably stronger than the both of them combined.”
“And even though it is a shortcut it’s hardly a place you could be sure of finding someone to do over.”
“Exactly, Tim. From all we know it clearly looks like an arranged encounter. Somebody wanted Finch sorted out at the very least.”
Kate tried to disguise her agitation. “So why do the big bosses want this one wrapped up so quickly, given there are obviously persons of interest we should be seeking and interviewing?”
Munro answered. “Partly for that reason, I guess. It’s a quick fix. They all love the spotlight when its highlighting their, or more usually their officers’, good work but this media frenzy is a bit of a blowtorch.”
Mahoney nodded. “There is definitely that element to it.”
“And?” prompted Kate.
“This is the tricky bit. The Rubicon for us.” An encompassing hand gesture. “This morning’s meeting covered just about everything including our visit to Cartwright. When I mentioned his name, Newman was unduly keen to know the academic’s role in the case. I downplayed it a bit, to be fair, and then he piped up with quote ‘It was only a small matter in the lecture theatre anyway’ unquote.” He let that nugget sink in.
A low whistle from Munro. “How did Big Bear react to that?”
“Well, he shuffled in his seat a bit but I ploughed on as if I hadn’t noticed the gaffe. So Cartwright or somebody else close to him has been in the ears of the upper echelon. I say somebody close because, bugger me, two minutes later Dar Commissar puts his foot in it. As tactfully as he can, he suggests we wrap things up soonest. Parliament Square is pleased there’s a result. Blah, blah. I can only presume, because he knows he’s waffling, he lets slip that we can safely overlook any conspiracy figures people might dream up. He was just a bit too casual, deliberately downbeat. Now Ted Phillips retains my respect. It’s a hell of a job he’s got but when he starts to flannel then my nostrils really do start to twitch.”
