High Beam

by SJ Brown

  “No looks about it.” Mahoney had walked onto the front path with Gibson remaining just outside the low brick fence. “I’m DI Mahoney. We’ve just spoken a few minutes ago. Thought I’d get down here as soon as practicable. This is Constable Gibson. He’s here because I don’t carry my own handcuffs.” The remark caused the intended effect.

  Randall’s complexion turned ashen as he started to bluster. “What on earth do you mean? I’m blameless in all this. I wasn’t really involved.” As he looked anxiously from Mahoney to Gibson, it seemed to the latter he certainly sounded guilty.

  The former knew it and pressed on. “Let’s just unpack that claim, shall we? It is all a matter of degree but whether the charge is obstructing the course of an investigation or conspiracy to commit murder is up to you and depends on your level of co-operation in the next few minutes.” Mahoney paused briefly to let that sink in. Then, in a low voice, “You’ll be cuffed and whisked off to the station or you’ll be tending your flower bed. Entirely up to you. But if I think you’re dissembling then the embarrassment I can generate for you will be unbounded. Please do not discount that eventuality.”

  Gibson was a little unsure of the import of the warning but it was clear Randall knew the score. His arms now hung limply by his sides. “Alright, how can I assist you?”

  “Do you want to have this discussion here or…?” Mahoney gestured to the balcony where an outdoor dining setting was placed.

  “No, here is fine. Ask your questions. I’ll tell you all I can.”

  About time, thought the Inspector. “When did you first hear that Brad Finch was dead?”

  “On the Saturday morning. Last weekend.”

  “What were your movements on the Thursday evening immediately preceding that?”

  “I was here. Dined at home. And stayed in for the entirety of the evening.”

  It was still like getting blood from a stone but at least he was talking.

  “Did you receive any visitors?” There was a long pause as the man stared at his feet. “You are not under caution but you will be if the whole truth is not forthcoming pretty soon.” Mahoney’s voice had a very distinctive edge and the effect was immediate.

  “Yes, one.”

  “Who?”

  “Roger Sproule. The President of the Devils.”

  “Don’t worry, Dr. Randall. We know just what his position is. That’s why we’re here.” The look on the man’s face betrayed his inner knowledge that he was in the dry corner of room with a floor that was freshly painted. No escape. Would he fight a rear-guard action or take the proffered hand? “And why was the President here exactly?”

  “To discuss some ideas for functions during the season. Coterie Club, sponsorships etc.”

  The tooth was resisting extraction, still.

  “And?” Mahoney’s patience was sorely tested.

  “Out of the blue, he says he wants to speak to Finch. I had the number and he used his mobile to call him. Put me on for some reason and I persuaded the lad to pop down from the Metz.”

  “Who suggested the short cut?”

  “Roger. I had no idea what he was up to.”

  Too clever by half, thought Mahoney. Sproule would have thought Randall to be an impeccable alibi for his presence at the time of the assault and by using his mobile instead of the landline he would have control of the phone record.

  Mice and men.

  “When Finch didn’t show what did you think?”

  “That he’d found something more appealing to do.”

  “Did you really believe Finch wouldn’t show after the rollicking he’d received from you the week before? Of course he’d front up. He was answerable to you, and Sproule, in a number of ways. He’d be a fool to go AWOL. You both knew that. That’s how you knew he’d drop everything and come.”

  “Well, yes, I suppose I did but when he didn’t arrive soon after the call, Roger was unperturbed. So we simply went on with the other business we had.”

  “And Sproule left when?”

  “Just before midnight. Look, I swear I thought it was all legitimate.” Desperation in his quavering voice.

  Cut no ice with Mahoney. “Legitimate. Interesting word. At what stage of the investigation did you decide that the police did not have a legitimate right to this vital information? And don’t dare say ‘because we didn’t ask’.”

  Randall was suitably hangdog. He took off his gardening gloves and held them bunched tight in his hands. “I’m sorry. I did think it was relevant but Roger cajoled me to hold my peace. Said it was most likely a random attack by thugs and we couldn’t afford any adverse publicity for the club. Such a big season you see. And he’s a very influential President.”

  “You mean he’s directly, and indirectly, injecting a great deal of money into the enterprise that would be greatly missed without him.”

  “Yes, that is what I mean.”

  Mahoney could not hide his disgust. “The club has proven to be worth a lot more than one individual, wouldn’t you say?”

  Randall looked his accuser in the eye for the first time. “You are right to berate me. I’ve allowed myself to be corrupted by the supposed glory of getting the club up and running. Chasing success. A lot of dreams were wrapped up in this venture. But I was wrong to stand by in this instance and pretend it wasn’t relevant.”

  “I’m not your judge but you must realize a young man’s life has not only been lost but has also been cheapened by your behavior.” Mahoney gestured towards the police car. “You will need to provide a statement at headquarters. Now would be a good time.”

  CHAPTER 35

  Thursday 18th March 9pm

  Roger Sproule was not sure how he should be feeling. As he sat in a leather recliner staring at the lights of Hobart, he was strangely moribund. His house felt very empty and the view of the Tasman Bridge above the dark river did not cheer him. The enormous picture window allowed him to see the expanse of the city that he had begun to dominate. But tonight he did not feel dominant. Anything but. He stared through the glass but saw little. How were things going so wrong?

  A fortnight before, his affairs were in order. No, more than that. He was hurtling along the crest of a fantastic wave. When he saw photos in the paper of the big wave surfers at Shipstern Bluff defying all notions of self-preservation, he believed he could comprehend their exhilaration. Theirs was not drunken bravado. It was a yearning to test the limits. To break through the conventional restrictions of what people expected you to be able to do. What they allowed you to do. The exhilaration of barreling down the face of an avalanche of ocean was the reward. But the actual attempt was what intrigued Sproule. To have the balls to get out there in the first place, knowing that the attempt invited peril. To be prepared to defy the conventions of what was sensible behavior. If you got crunched, so what. At least you got in and had a go. Show all the pedestrian bastards anything was possible with a bit of ticker.

  As he had done. Born in Triabunna on the East Coast, his future could easily have been nicely mapped out for him. Follow his old man into a job at the pulp mill. Play footy for the country league team. Get a boat to fish the waters around Maria Island. Marry a classmate from the District High School. Spend his weekends punting on the nags and pottering around the vegetable garden. Just like his dad. Nothing wrong with that. His parents were happy. They had brought up five children with nary a worry. No one went without the essentials and all had grown up in one piece. And all, bar one, still lived in Triabunna.

  Except the youngest, Roger. The seminal moment came the year following high school. His girlfriend had moved to Hobart to continue her schooling at Elizabeth College. She was a real looker. They continued to see each other on weekends when she came home from the student hostel. Sproule had remained in Triabunna to start an apprenticeship as a mechanic. He wanted to play footy in the big smoke but no clubs came calling so h
e stayed put. Halfway through the year Sally won a modelling competition. She was off to Sydney and that was that. Suddenly Sproule’s world seemed very small and constricting.

  At seventeen he realized that he need not tread in the footsteps of everyone else. Although not very bookish he had retained the school texts from the year before. One novel had appealed to him. Some Yankee bloke who decided to pull himself up by the bootstraps. Sproule dug the paperback out and found ‘the schedule’. He sat down and compiled his own. Apart from Technical College units for his apprenticeship, he enrolled in a Business Studies Course. Learned the basics of bookkeeping and the practices of the commercial world. Started putting money away. Did up an old bomb from scratch instead of blowing his cash on a flash car.

  Another eye-opener came late the next year. He was drinking with some mates on a typical Friday night at the Blue Waters Hotel. The big landholder for the area, Harvey Maddox, was there with his son. The squire’s boy was eighteen, the same age as Roger, but he was educated at boarding school in Hobart. Home for the weekend, James Maddox was still dressed in his school uniform as his father introduced him to a few of the fawning locals.

  Roger could see here was a contemporary with his future laid out for him. A path without obstacles, thanks to the privileged largesse of his family. That much of the wealth was directly attributable to a generous grant of prime agricultural land to a fortunate ancestor over a hundred years before was conveniently overlooked. These guys carried on as if it was their innate superiority that merited their power and influence. Tomorrow belonged to the private schoolboy. For the likes of him, Struggle Street would never be on the horizon.

  Roger Sproule determined then and there that he would build a life for himself that put these people in the shade. He had a chip on his shoulder and he did not really give a stuff who knew it. So, for twenty years he beavered away. Before he had finished his apprenticeship he purchased a log truck. Stitched up a good contract with a logging company and the empire started. Next was the purchase of acreage with plenty of mature trees. Cleared that for a healthy profit and started plantation farming. A combination of tax breaks and subsidies made his venture a veritable cash cow. When the hardware shop in Triabunna fell on tough times he swooped. He turned it into the building supply depot just as the economy was shifting gear and sea changers were building on the East Coast.

  He kept debt low and turnover high. Profits went to the acquisition of other supply depots throughout Southern Tasmania. The property boom was predicated on an appetite for refurbishment. His competitors could not match his prices or range so he swallowed them whole. His stores made hardware sexy. He was on a roll. With his commercial gains came social acumen. He knew success did not have a destination but his election to the board of the Colonial Club the year before last was a nice staging post though. Especially as it was James Maddox who nominated him. In modern Australian society nouveau riche was just a poncey French phrase. These guys respected power and Sproule’s money afforded him plenty of that.

  Over a series of lunches within the oak-paneled dining room, he had established a formidable array of contacts. The Fixer had been one of those. Another bloke who got stuff done. Two fists in velvet gloves, the pair of them. Together they worked away at the government for financial support for the AFL franchise. The best day of his forty years had been when the national executive formally agreed to the entry of the Devils into the 2010 competition. In terms of publicity and bonhomie it put all his other attainments and achievements in the shade. Roger Sproule was the toast of his home state.

  Even his wife seemed genuinely pleased for him. Theirs was not the most loving of relationships. Admittedly, they had started well and the energy they shared was exciting. But eight years later and childless their shared experiences were dwindling. Owing to an adolescent bout of mumps, his testicles were about as fertile as the desert. He refused to adopt even though he knew his wife deeply desired a nurturing role. And a sperm donor was out of the question. If they could not have children that were a full genetic product of both parents then he was not interested.

  So he and Felicity had gone on sharing a beautiful house and a pretty hectic social life but precious little else. They used to make love all the time. Now they had sex every now and then when Sproule was not meeting his myriad of commitments. His passion was power. He no longer really lusted for sex. He supposed Felicity continued to yearn for the physical enjoyment and he guessed she discreetly met her needs. He genuinely did not mind.

  Or at least he had not minded until recently. At a recent fundraiser for the club, it became obvious to him that she must have a thing going with the gun recruit. Superficially, he doubted anyone could tell, but he could. The smile, the shared joke and the way they whispered something as he was leaving spoke volumes. There was no way he’d allow this to continue. No way was he having any players or supporters snickering behind his back. Finch might be the marquee player for the team but Roger Sproule was numero uno. He was the one who had created this Club. The young buck needed to be taken down a peg or two. So he hatched a plan and Rory Fotheringham provided the manpower.

  But it had gone horrifically wrong. A potential champion was now food for worms. His wife gone. Her letter simply claimed she was tired of being an attachment: no mention of Finch. Perhaps she did not link him to it at all. He hoped so. But his guts would not calm. Thought about a drink but decided against it. He was wound up too tight and needed to think. Would any link shatter? Were his tracks covered? Where the bloody hell was his iPhone? All his contacts were on the damned thing. Including the unlisted mobile number of the Fixer. He needed to talk. Wanted to be assured it would be alright. A pair of headlights caught his attention. As they dimmed he caught sight of the tell-tale checked patchwork. Police. He went immediately to his front door.

  “What the fuck is this? Who are you clowns?” Sproule was not laying out the welcome mat. Mahoney’s decision to accord the man the respect of going to his house was not being reciprocated with any appreciation. So much for that.

  The businessman was at his front door bellowing at them. Neighbors would soon be wondering. Munro had never witnessed a man turn purple quite so rapidly. Under the harsh porch light, an oversized knobbly beetroot was about to explode. Mahoney introduced himself and Munro and briefly explained the purpose of the visit.

  “The fuck you are. Sneaking up to a bloke’s house on a Thursday night. Gutless turds. Fuck off.”

  Discretion was hurled out the window. Mahoney tried. “Our intention is to speak to you privately. In your best interests. You are making a scene and it’s not helping anyone.”

  Sproule’s home phone started ringing. Perhaps a neighbor querying the noise. It was ignored. “I bet it was. Smart alec fucking copper.” A pause in the tirade. The vein in his forehead subsided a touch. Sproule looked at them anew. “I bet you’re here at the princely hour of ten pm coz you know my lawyer will be pissed to the eyeballs. Smart fuckers.”

  He was right but no one was going to officially admit that. “No, Mr. Sproule, we’re here to ask for your co-operation as a matter of priority. We don’t usually conduct business at this hour ourselves. If you want the spotlight we can provide it. Don’t tell me you fancy a trip to the station?”

  That Sproule stepped back and refrained from spluttering more abuse indicated that the inquiry had been rhetorical. “Alright, come inside if you have to. The nosey sticky beaks have seen enough.”

  Hardly their fault, thought Munro. They followed Sproule up an ostentatiously carved mahogany staircase that led to an atrium with various doors leading off it. They were led through the nearest door into a plush lounge room. Care was taken to negotiate the obstacle course of furniture. How many easy chairs did one room, admittedly fairly capacious, need? It resembled a reflexology lounge. On the coffee table near a lava lamp was a cut glass tumbler and an untouched bottle of Glenmorangie Scotch. Straight away their host poured himself a
measure. Munro had rarely seen anyone drink liquor neat, apart from on television that is.

  Sproule sprawled on the lounge. “You want one?”

  The detectives declined and remained standing.

  “What’s this? Bad cop, prick cop.” Sproule took a slug of his drink.

  There would be little point in cautioning him now if he started knocking it back at this rate. Munro bit his lip. He knew anything he said at this point would be pouring oil onto the flame. Best leave it to the man in charge.

  “You can regard us any way you like, Mr. Sproule. Believe me; it is neither here nor there to us. We’ve come to do our job, simple as that. Frankly, you being obstructive actually makes it a hell of a lot easier for us. So unless you want Sergeant Munro to cuff you while I call the divvy van I’d advise you to cut the tough remarks.”

  The flat delivery appeared to quell the noise. Sproule lurched forward in his chair and buried his head in his hands. A low guttural groan before he sat back again in the recliner. The drink pushed away.

  “Alright. Fair enough. What do you want?”

  Munro could not be sure if the businessman was on the level. They for sure were not there to discuss any company tax issues he might have. He spoke for the first time. “We want to get your reaction to some information that has been passed to us from another party.

  “Who?” Not what.

  “Rory Fotheringham.”

  Sproule looked as if Mike Tyson had belted his solar plexus. “No, no. He wouldn’t say squat. Not Rory. I don’t believe you.” His eyes and voice suggested otherwise. The little men in his cortex must be digging feverishly.