by SJ Brown
Mahoney chipped in after a pause. “And Ronny Coutts.”
“That prick. Couldn’t trust him as far…”
He pulled his tongue in before it totally ran away from him. Looked from one officer to the other before dropping his head into his hands again. “Fuck.”
Any fight had dissipated from the exasperated sigh. Tired and beaten.
Anything from now they should get on the record. “Roger Sproule, I’m arresting you in connection with the homicide of Bradley Finch.” As Munro delivered the familiar spiel, Sproule glared out the window before rising from his chair.
In contrast to their entrance, Sproule was almost sedate throughout their departure. He did not gather anything nor did he turn off any lights. Just walked with his head bowed down the steps to the police car. As Munro got into the driver’s side, Mahoney opened the rear door and gestured for the suspect to get in. He was not handcuffed so he did not touch his head to guide him. On television police officers did this regardless of a long history of people being able to get into a car unaided for the most of their lives. Munro could never fathom why this was necessary. Habit? Convention? Who knows? He did know that the planned leading jab had opened Sproule up beautifully for the blow Mahoney really wanted to land.
Their suspect now knew that they knew that he knew. Under interrogation, when faced with the evidence from his own mobile phone, he could hardly deny his role in proceedings. He may even cough up valuable information about the involvement of another but that could be an ambit hope.
* * *
Back at the station, Sproule was accommodated in the main interview room. The holding cells were beginning to fill with the detritus of Hobart’s drinking houses. Besides, Mahoney wanted to press on immediately with the questioning. His feeling was that if Sproule slept on matters he may not be so forthcoming in the morning. Strike while the iron is hot.
He and Munro entered the room. At night the space was even less welcoming than during daylight hours. Sproule was seated with his head slumped over folded arms on the table. The two officers sat. Munro switched on the recording equipment and went through the customary preamble. Only when he finished did Sproule look up. His eyes were red-rimmed and watery. Munro fleetingly wondered if his boss would offer him one of the pair of pressed handkerchiefs he knew the Beekeeper always carried in his trouser pockets. (“One to wipe my own nose and the other to offer people who may need it. I would have thought that was obvious. Perfectly natural.”) None was forthcoming. Sproule sat up straight and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “I’ll forego the offer of a solicitor. I can speak for myself.”
Mahoney nodded. “Very well. Let’s start in the middle. On the night Brad Finch met his end. Before you say anything, you need to know that we’re not on a fishing trip. We would not be in this place if we didn’t have reasonable grounds to suspect you so please carefully consider your answers.”
The businessman shifted his weight on the chair. “Fair enough. Do your worst.” His face had assumed a look of weary resignation.
“After training, Finch went to the Metz on Sandy Bay Road. A popular bar for some of the players. Presumably you knew this.”
“Could have.” A flicker of combativeness registered in Sproule’s voice.
“Well, he did and for the rest of his evening to make sense I would safely say you did. You went to Dr. Randall’s house for a meeting about club affairs?”
“So? Completely normal if I did. If I did.” He was not giving up the ghost too easily.
“No if about it. Randall has made a statement to that fact and is himself facing a charge of obstructing an official inquiry. He could well be an accessory to a larger crime but that’s another matter.”
“What’s the poor bugger supposed to have done then?”
“Either wittingly or unwittingly lured Finch to his death.” Silence. “Using your phone.”
“And you’ll be proving that how?”
“His sworn statement for a start.”
“Just his word? He could be saying anything.”
“Quite so. Though he certainly seems credible to me. The sort of witness juries will believe.” Before an indignant interruption, Mahoney pressed on. “But of course we don’t just have his word for it. Your presence at his property has been verified by other means.” The DI reached into his pocket and produced a plastic bag containing a mobile phone and placed it in front of him. “Do you recognize this item?”
“It’s a phone.” The sneer was back.
“Yes, thank you. In fact it’s your phone. I appreciate many of these mobiles all look the same but it’s definitely yours. And, as it was willingly given to us, it will be fully admissible as evidence in court.” He let Sproule digest that for a moment. Could practically see the little men digging away.
“Bitch.”
“You may well think that but I don’t agree. Anyway, we’ll get to your wife in due course. For now we’ll concentrate on this little gadget.” Mahoney tapped the iPhone. “These things are really quite amazing. Veritable computers they are. Precious few people even know the half of what they can do. For instance, there’s a downloadable application that enables a caller to find by GPS the exact location of the person being contacted. That could put the cat among the pigeons in a few relationships. Few privacy issues there, I daresay. Anyway, back to this particular phone. It has the usual capacity to switch to ‘number withheld’ when making a call. So obviously the recipient doesn’t know the number of the caller and the phone companies won’t release that information for privacy reasons. Brad Finch’s last call received was just such an example. So you see our problem. We can’t determine the ID of whoever spoke to him for seventy-five seconds that night.”
Sproule looked suitably unimpressed. “My heart bleeds for you.”
“Well, we couldn’t, that is, until we obtained your phone. A real mine of information it was. Bear with me here. I’ll just walk you through it. There is no obvious record of a call sent to Finch at that time. Deleted almost certainly. So no cigar. But, and this is a beautiful but, we don’t need it. This phone was used at that time to call Finch from Dr. Randall’s house in Queechy Lane.”
“Yeah, right.” The bravado was still there.
“No sarcasm required, Mr. Sproule. I’ll let Sergeant Munro explain. He’s up on all the wizardry.”
Munro assembled his thoughts. “First, the location. Whenever a mobile is turned on, it seeks the nearest phone tower, so to speak. It transmits a signal to that base station so it can be used as needs be. This very short ‘ping’ contains the digital fingerprint of the handset. With that information, you can determine where that phone is and at what time it’s there.”
Mahoney chipped in. “There’s a whole lot of other stuff about identification codes and serial numbers. And triangulating the signal among phone towers to pinpoint a spot. But that can wait to the court case. Unless you want me to lay it all out.”
Sproule did not. He was silently cursing himself. Bloody gadgets. It had seemed foolproof. Still, he was not going to lie down. “So, my phone was there. Go on.”
Munro recommenced. “Assuming it was with you, and Dr. Randall confirms it was, then you were in Queechy Lane at the time of the call.”
“What call?”
Mahoney recognized the stubbornness but decided the clutching at straws had gone on for long enough. “The call that’s registered on his handset.” He held up a hand as a stop signal. “Don’t bother with the rebuttal. On your iPhone is another application that records everything that was tapped onto the keypad. Not only does it clearly record the number for Finch being tapped in but you also neglected to wipe the call duration record. A call to Finch’s number was made from your phone that lasted seventy-five seconds. Hard to cover every detail, isn’t it?”
No answer. Sproule had run out of objections. He stared through the two officers to
the end of the road. “I’ll take that as a yes. This very same keyboard device reveals the exact details of each and every text you sent to Rory Fotheringham.” He produced from his other suit pocket two folded sheets of A4 paper. Flattened them out. “Would you like me to read aloud the transcripts?” The question lingered in the stillness. Finally a reaction. “No, no need. I know when I’m stuffed.”
Munro knew how to react. Barely at all. An admission of defeat was not an admission of culpability. He knew Mahoney would want to keep the exchange going for a variety of reasons. A confession on tape was not essential but it would make a conviction that much easier to obtain. Also, his boss was a stickler for endeavoring to determine the victim’s motivation for action. They thought they knew but external perceptions could simply be assumptions.
So, without hinting at any game plan other than the satisfaction of curiosity, Mahoney took up the conversation. “To be honest, that’s a fair summation. But by helping us you could help yourself. As you are obviously aware, there are other people either charged or soon to be apprehended in this case. A straight version of your complicity will ensure you’re not dragged down further.” This variety of carrot offered less than it really promised or delivered. Still, it often worked because it sounded good. As now.
Sproule looked intently at the thumbs of his clasped hands as if viewing them for the first time. Perhaps he was trying to figure out what the pale crescent at the base of the nail was for. Munro tried to recall what they were called. Lunula? Lord knows. Whilst still in mediation mode, he spoke abruptly. “She was fucking him. That’s it really. Because it was her and because it was him.”
“Her?” Mahoney coaxed.
“You know, Felicity. The woman I married. My wife.” His voice was without derision. Just matter of fact, if anything. “The wife I had to have.” Mahoney pondered this Keatingesque remark. Was Sproule referring to her ripe sensuality? Did he need a partner to share his deeper imaginings? The truth was more banal. “A bloke in my position has to be married, really. Don’t want folks calling you a shirt-lifter behind your back.”
Or a Lothario to your face, thought Munro.
“You gotta have a wife to be respected. Goes with the territory. And she was a sparkler. Always looked good when we were out. Too good probably.” He rested his chin on his palm. The brutal energy seemed to have morphed into reflective calm. “At different functions blokes’d be drooling. One snoozer at the club nearly tripped over his tongue. Shoulda seen the look his old battle-axe gave him. As they say, priceless.” A half smile faded quickly. “Not much hope of me keeping a woman like that on the straight and narrow. Not with the time I put in elsewhere.” Sproule sat up straight. Crossed his arms. Head slightly tilted as he looked past Mahoney. “Understandable, really.”
“What’s that?” Keep nudging him forward.
“Her. Flic. Getting some fun. Wearing the white shorts. Why did it have to be with that peacock?”
Munro was at a loss until he realized Sproule was referring to his wife playing away from home and to Finch. “What did you think your wife and Finch were up to?”
Sproule snorted. “Attending bleeding Mensa nights! What the fuck do ya reckon? Having a real good go at the horizontal folk dancing, you silly bugger. Christ almighty. The look she gave him at the Season Launch would have set your jocks on fire. Believe me, they were at it. Well and truly.”
“And that was a problem?” Mahoney kept his voice in neutral.
“Apart from the obvious, yeah. You need to know this. I never strayed. Not once. Not even when I was on buying trips to Asia and the club hostesses are practically thrown in your lap. So I wasn’t too keen on my wife’s legs turning to butter with one of the players, if you catch my drift.” Munro did and had to bite his lip. His boss maintained the customary deadpan. Maybe he suffers from Parkinson’s, he thought. Regardless, Sproule barreled on. “And with the gun recruit of all people.” His voice became belligerent. “Couldn’t let that happen. Players find out. Supporters. Sponsors. Pretty soon half of bloody Hobart will know. Can’t have that.”
Mahoney measured a beat. “He needed a lesson taught?”
“Too bloody right.” Any half-decent solicitor would have stepped right in and told Sproule to keep his mouth well and truly shut. Accepting involvement was bad enough but admitting to being of a mind to commit violence was very, very damning. “Some of these young blokes get it all dished up to ’em. Publicity, money, great training facilities. You name it they get the lot. Buggered if my missus was coming to him on a platter. Couldn’t have that.”
Mahoney could sense the bloody-minded determination that created the adult. Could also detect the rigid mindset that would only afford one solution. “Who helped you get this done?”
Sproule’s gaze narrowed. “Me. Asked around for some likely types. Then set it up.”
“Who did you ask? Fotheringham?”
Sproule’s face was now a mask. “No, he’s a business contact. Good man to know but he wasn’t involved here. And you can look as skeptical as you like but that’s it. Found the low-life Coutts all by myself. Stupid buffoon. Give him a seeing to, he was told. Didn’t know they’d off the kid. Still, there you are. Whole thing’s gone to shit now. Don’t suppose they’ll be backing me as President much longer.”
It all goes back to you, thought Mahoney. Another alpha male who could not give a bit of ground. Saw their personal domain as just another battlefield. Right throughout history the collateral damage caused by such figures was not only regrettable but surely avoidable. They had the T-shirt: it’s all about ME.
Munro could sense his superior wanted some evidence of further collaboration. A check of the phone revealed Fotheringham there as a contact and record of recent correspondence. But the messages were all from Sproule to the other man. They had nothing of any substance to actually tie the Fixer to the conspiracy. So Mahoney’s gut feeling was just that, without any other corroboration from Sproule.
So they wrapped things up. It was a result. A good one, thought Munro, for the detectives at least. As he was rapidly learning, it would never be much of a result for the bereaved. And the fallout from this particular arrest would be enormous. But the squad did not deal the cards. They just tallied the correct score.
CHAPTER 36
Friday 19th March 9am
The team was assembled in the incident room. Word had rapidly spread regarding the successful interview with another suspect. A positive atmosphere permeated the space. Not quite euphoria but certainly a big step up from preceding days. Just as Mahoney prepared to address the squad, Assistant Commissioner Newman entered. No one could be sure why he had descended: to congratulate or cajole? Who could tell how the weather vane would go. He stood to the side of the group.
He gave a hint. “DI Mahoney, I understand there may have been a development.”
“Yes sir, definite progress. I believe we have the perpetrators of the assault. A clear timeline of events from the last sighting of Finch on the Thursday to the discovery of the body. Forensic evidence to support the chronology for each step of the events that occurred. And the rationale behind the whole grisly business.”
“Good, excellent. We can clear this up, and then I’ll get the media liaison officer to draft another press release. An expeditious result.” Newman shot his cuffs as he spoke. He seemed to be preening himself. A paternalistic gaze swept the room. “Well done, all of you.” He turned to leave.
“Not quite yet, Sir.” That stopped the peacock in his tracks.
“How so?” Instantly his bonhomie had evaporated. All eyes turned to Mahoney. This was not insubordination but it took a resolute man to confront a superior officer in such a situation.
“Well, we’ve established a connection between the two perpetrators and some other parties who may have had good reason to be rid of the deceased.”
Munro considered dropping a paper clip to
test the acoustics. Decided against it. “And this is necessary?”
Kendall thought that Newman must surely appreciate his query to be rhetorical but the man was either too proud or intransigent to avoid the stand-off. There must be something more to the dynamic between her two superior officers.
Mahoney, she noted, very deliberately stood facing Newman with his feet straight below his hips. Completely grounded. “Yes. The principal officers in this case firmly believe there is evidence of a conspiracy here. Coutts and Knapp were doing the bidding of others. I’m sure you’d agree we should thoroughly follow this course.”
In other words, FYP.
To give him credit, Newman’s only visible reaction to a psychological smashing was to blink a few times. He maintained eye contact with Mahoney. He was a survivor. “Of course. Carry on and keep me informed.” A dignified retreat.
Just as the door clicked shut, Mahoney continued as if the preceding scene had never occurred. “Our current state of play: Coutts and Knapp admit to accosting Finch at the Bowls Club. They claim there was no mens rea. And I’m inclined to believe them. Coutts is a small-time thug, an opportunist, and Knapp, to all intents and purposes, was an unwilling participant. It was an attempt to intimidate that rapidly went pear-shaped. The plan, such as it was, was to bully Finch a bit, tie him up and dump him down at Kingston. Put the wind right up him.”
A hand was raised at the back of the room – no doubt a constable trying to show some initiative. Mahoney waved it down. “I’ll get to the why in a moment. Now, it seems Finch was no pushover. He resisted and in the confusion and panic one of his assailants clobbered him with a spade: our conclusion is it was Coutts, given the wound from Finch’s fist was to Knapp’s face. Regardless, Finch is killed. They’ve got a dead body. For some reason they think it’s cleverer to not leave him there but to transfer his corpse to the building site at Kingston as per the original plan. And this is where it gets quite interesting.” He gestured to the photo board.
