by SJ Brown
Similarly, talking to a witness at a place of their choosing was generally preferable as it helped them to relax and be more forthcoming. Of course, all such rules were flexible and could be jettisoned in different circumstances. But you could be pretty damned certain that the least desirable scenario was to have to go to a venue nominated by a person of interest to interview the aforesaid person at a time of choosing… in the presence of the best criminal solicitor in the state.
So here they were in Rory Fotheringham’s office. He and Munro had been there for over half an hour being stonewalled by one of the best in the business. Giles Martinson looked like he’d walked straight out of the Temple Fields barristers’ set. Such was his attire – 3-piece navy suit with a faint white pinstripe, crisp white shirt with cufflinks, claret and royal blue striped tie, black brogues, and an affectatious fob watch – that Mahoney was half surprised he was not sporting spats.
As the conversation ground on, it became clearer to Munro that the conclusion was inevitable: they could not lay a finger on this man. Sproule may well have unwittingly implicated Fotheringham in the botched scheme to fix the problem that was Brad Finch but, apart from this, there was no concrete evidence to link the two men. Aside from the obvious fact they would have obviously encountered each other in Hobart’s small business community and Felicity Sproule’s testimony, there was precious little to connect the two alpha males in any sort of criminal venture. The boys’ club had clammed tighter than a crustacean’s shell. One would be hard pressed to find any corroboration that they even knew each other.
And now Fotheringham was giving a passable imitation of a barnacle. Munro considered why they were here at all. The case was pretty much wrapped up. Perpetrators and conspirators alike were in custody and the Public Prosecution Service was already assembling a virtually watertight case to bring to court. And Fotheringham was clearly enjoying the show. Martinson was his unflappable best but he must be wondering why the Detective Inspector was persisting with what was palpably a fruitless line of enquiry. But Mahoney did persist. Munro could tell when his boss had the bit between his teeth and he was witnessing it now. Did he have something, anything, up his sleeve? Nothing that Munro was aware of. The only semblance of insight was that when he asked, on the way to Fotheringham’s office what their aim was, Mahoney had simply smiled and with his fists made a shaking motion in front of his chest. Go figure, thought Munro.
The only glimmer of a fresh insight sparking was when Fotheringham was asked about his relationship with Felicity Sproule. He blithely admitted to having flirted with her on one occasion. “Had a few to drink so I tested the water. No harm in that, surely. Obviously, I wasn’t in her target market.”
Before Mahoney was able to tease out what exactly he meant by ‘obviously’, a quick warning cough from his legal eagle alerted him to the potential peril of his answer so he temporarily clammed up again. On a later run-through of the same material, the same arrogance betrayed him.
“Look, it hardly matters does it? She’s flown the coop. Good luck to her. Selfish bitch. Bit of support for her provider wouldn’t go astray.” So a healthy misogynistic streak lay just underneath the controlled exterior.
Munro made one of his few allotted interjections. “How do you know Mrs. Sproule is not around, Sir?”
A slight hesitation with an accompanying shoulder shrug of false modesty. “Just have my finger on the pulse of things, I suppose.”
As that very hand clasps the jugular, thought Mahoney. Right through the interview Fotheringham had played a mostly straight bat to any query his vigilant brief had allowed to be bowled to him. No tension was generated. No further slips emerged. Yet Mahoney kept to his appointed task without looking the slightest bit disheartened. If anything, he appeared to be relishing the subtle clash more than the expert lawyer and his smug client. After a time, Martinson said, “It would seem my client has helped you as much as he is capable, Inspector. Might I suggest he be permitted to resume his busy schedule?”
It could not be so busy if he could indulge an expensive power play in the middle of his afternoon, thought Munro.
“There would seem to be no discernible link between Mr. Fotheringham and the untimely death of Bradley Finch.”
Mahoney stood so Munro followed suit.
“Well, we shall just have to agree to disagree there. At this point we shall not be seeking to interview your client again even though I believe he is more intimately linked to this than he is prepared to admit. We’ll sort out how his wife’s number wormed its way onto Finch’s contact list another day.”
Munro had never mentally measured a nanosecond before.
“What the fuck? You piece of scum” Rory Fotheringham was up and out of his chair, advancing on Mahoney. Martinson was startled.
“Rory, settle down. I implore you.”
Munro tensed himself but Fotheringham halted two steps short of Mahoney.
Spittle flecked his lips as he pointed at Mahoney’s chest. “You’re just another bitter fucked-up public servant, aren’t you?” The snarl brutalized the man’s features. “Another nowhere bloke who squats to piss, I reckon. You and your poofy model offsider. Makes me sick. People who make things happen always get shit from losers who can’t even put a foot on the ladder.” The snarl morphed into a sneer. He was losing steam in the face of the stoic DI. Mahoney simply held his ground. Fotheringham waved an arm and turned back to his desk. “Piss ants, the lot of ya.”
Mahoney turned to leave. Munro was delegated the farewell. “Thank you for your time, gentlemen. That was very interesting. A carbon copy of Roger Sproule’s initial reaction to us. Another connection, you might say.” He then gave the full 100 watt smile and followed his superior through the door.
Munro held his curiosity till they reached the car. “But her name wasn’t on Brad Finch’s mobile contact list, was it?”
Mahoney smiled as he repeated the earlier gesture. “No, I don’t think so. But it certainly rattled his cage. We may never nail the smug bastard but now he’s a lot less smug and shiny. And that meltdown will irritate him immensely. Almost as much, to be honest, as it satisfied me. Job done.”
CHAPTER 39
Friday 19th March 6pm
Mahoney decided to play along. “Alright, Tim. I give in. Why are you waving your hands in front of your face like that?”
“Just clearing the moths away.” A big grin.
“I can just as easily put my wallet away if you like. Your loss.” Mock severity.
Munro played his role. “Oh no, Sir. Just kidding.”
Kate chipped in. “Just a bit socially excited, Sir. And very relieved, to be honest.”
“Fair enough, too. You have both worked bloody hard on this one, and very effectively. The truth of it is, there will be a next time, probably sooner rather than later, and I’ll be glad to have you both on board. Until then, enjoy this one.”
“Sounds good. I’m thirsty and I’ve got a leave pass. Our match was postponed till Sunday.” Munro rubbed his hands together. “Hey Kate, is Captain Corruption swinging by this evening?” An exaggerated wink.
Kate smiled at the joshing. “If by that do you mean will my new man be making an entry?” She wiggled her eyebrows. “Well, that’s my secret, my dear Timothy. But I can tell you he will be joining us soon for a drink.”
“Good one. I’m always keen to see what’s in fashion for dilettantes this year.”
Kate mimed the action of a whip cracking. “Cut to the quick, Oscar. You are sharp tonight. Let me hold my sides in.” Grinning all the while.
Mahoney interrupted the sparring. “If you can spare me from the Algonquin Circle for a sec, I’ve just spied an old colleague. Won’t be long. The next few are on me.” He sauntered off leaving a fifty dollar note on the dark oak bar. Called to his cobber, “Kevin, how’s tricks?” Hand extended.
“John, not bad.” Handshake happi
ly reciprocated. Mahoney and soon-to-be-retired Sergeant Kevin Salmon began yarning away in the far corner of the Ocean Child Hotel. Adjacent to the Central Fire Station and a block from Police HQ, it was one of the inner-city pubs that managed to spurn pokies and avoid garish refurbishment. A pub for drinking, talking and the odd game of pool or darts.
Presently, Kate’s new dandy appeared. Aside from the rainbow scarf, the most striking feature of his eclectic ensemble was the brown fedora hat atop his head. It appeared that he had shaved his raffish beard with geometrical precision. Reacting to Munro’s smirk, he announced, “It’s something called style. I don’t anticipate everyone will understand.” Turning to Kate. “Special K, greetings.”
“Don’t mind Tim, he’s actually a big fan.”
Munro rolled his eyes but stayed quiet.
“It seems you have the taste of success to savor. The Beekeeper looks especially chuffed. Mind you, he is with one of the all-time greats, Sockeye Salmon.”
Kate glanced in the direction of her boss. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him laugh like that.” There were tears running down Mahoney’s cheeks.
Rex hazarded a guess. “Possibly the old chestnut about the body in West Hobart.”
“Please explain.” Kate asked.
“Well, the guts of it goes like this. Sockeye and the team are called out to check over a corpse that’s been found in West Hobart in somebody’s house. They give it a quick once over and the body’s released to the morgue. End of the shift they’re down at the pub and a call comes through from one of the attendants. Apparently there are three bullet holes in the corpse.”
Munro was the first to react. “Strewth, what happened then?”
“That’s just what I asked at the time.” Rex put on a mock-squeaky voice in impersonation of the legend. “What do you reckon, you silly bugger. Finished our beers, took the body back and started taking photos, of course. You a screw loose or something?”
The group dissolved in mirth. It was going to be a good, good night.
* * *
What sort of eyes did Bette Davis have? Luminous? Sparkling? Come-to-bed?
He could not truly remember if Kim Carnes ever told him when he used to watch her video clip on Countdown. Presumably they were alluring. Or perhaps not. The hook line of the pop song stayed with him but he was unsure if he remembered or even understood the underlying point of the hit single. His old bunch of friends from decades hence, cadets and their girlfriends, had sung it lustily at boozy beach parties but it was now consigned to the past.
And it could comfortably stay there as far as he was concerned. Some memories were just that, snapshots of an era: of a time at the Training Academy when the teenage cadets were relishing the freedom of being out of home and earning money. Sure, the weeks were filled with study, training and a pretty Spartan physical regimen. But the weekends were…well, they were a different matter entirely.
By the summer at the end of the first twelve months of the two-year course, just about everybody was in proud possession of a driver’s license and some sort of automobile. While most had borrowed to fund the purchase of a panel van or a sleekish saloon, trainee Mahoney had transferred his savings thus far for a Volkswagen camper van. It certainly did not zip down the highway like the late model cars of his classmates but it was a much better sleeping option for when they reached their favorite camping spots on the East Coast that long, hot summer.
He was seeing a senior high school student from Rosny College whose parents had no objection to her being taken away to surf, swim and whatever “young folks do these days”. Lisa was intending to matriculate and go on to university to study commerce. She was smart, confident and keen on Mahoney. He was smart, keen on her and gaining in confidence as the training course progressed. Having learned that following others rendered him a sheep, he trod a slightly different path at the Academy.
Although very competent at high school, he wanted out of the religious education system. The police force provided that. All cadets were required to study some Higher School Certificate classes. Mahoney asked, and was allowed, to be admitted to the courses that would enable him to matriculate and thereby potentially go on to study law. It meant a greater sacrifice of time to hit the books and it probably was not going to enhance his prospects of promotion down the track. But he genuinely enjoyed the rigors of study and this amendment to his cadetship was the clincher that finally got the grudging agreement of his father to permit the sixteen year old to sign up. In an Australian history class at Rosny College he had met Lisa. As the vivacious blonde with a cute, slightly snub nose and a smattering of freckles on her cheeks did not see him as a plodding cadet but a likely boyfriend they hooked up.
That summer break from study and the Academy cemented their friendship. Unlike almost all of their friends, the partnership continued unabated into early adulthood. Both went to the local university campus to study their intended courses. She was full-time and consequently graduated ahead of her partner. When she started work at the Reserve Bank as a graduate economist, the pair decided to purchase an inner-city cottage and live together. They were busy, fairly solvent and very happy. Until the day that John Mahoney brutally discovered that love and trust may be golden virtues but they were not beyond being irreparably tainted.
That particular memory from the past was not one he could leave in a foreign country. The strategy of actually moving to another country did not really help him deal with it. It ate at his insides. It colored his view of emotions and for years it had kept his heart boarded up. The necessity of controlling such an internal rage had meant he became so controlling of his deeper emotions that he was hamstrung in any attempt to foster a relationship with any female who endeavored to be more than a passing interest.
But sitting here now on a comfortably padded chair in the upper level of Mures Waterfront Restaurant, he distinctly felt a shift in his attitude. The case was part of it. Of course it was. Confronting Newman was an exorcism of sorts. And his pursuit of an inconvenient truth was, any false modesty aside, indicative of a fresh resolution he had developed to his role. Dorothy’s lion he was not. But was he a Tin Man? Perhaps no longer.
Not with the shining eyes of Susan Hart upon him. She had allowed him to ramble through a potted history of his time in England. A few questions here and there but mainly it was Mahoney doing the talking. He noticed no discomfort in revealing a side of himself very few people glimpsed. And he thought he was an adept listener. She was beautiful to his eyes and he felt he would gladly pursue her through any forest one could name. A door to his inner chamber was easing open and he did not mind the sensation. Not one little bit.
CHAPTER 40
Saturday 20th March 11am
The great and the good were in attendance. Mahoney wished he could avoid irony in applying that epithet to all who had come to pay their respects. He could not. He was not a cynical man but it was beyond skepticism to believe anywhere near this number of people would be attending the funeral if was held in Finch’s hometown of Smithton. Or if the deceased had not been a star footballer. Mahoney had arrived early and sat quietly in one of the wooden pews to the side of the church alone with his thoughts. It would be an interesting exercise to ask people as they came in what they actually knew of Finch: beyond his record as a sportsman, that is.
Would they know his parents had already farewelled a daughter, Rosemary, to the grave? Four years older than Bradley, she had lost her life in a horrific car accident the night of her seventeenth birthday. Out with friends on a celebratory spree, she was in the passenger seat as the driver lost control overtaking a truck on a back road. The Falcon lost purchase on the gravel and slammed sideways into a eucalyptus tree at ninety kilometers an hour. When the Jaws of Life truck arrived to enable access to the warped chassis, three dead young people were what had been salvaged. Laughing one second, toast the next.
That had very probably cas
t a long shadow over Brad’s own teenage years. Hadn’t Amanda said the father was ‘old-school’ in the manner of his son’s upbringing? Perhaps Mr. Finch had tightened the reins in the hope he wouldn’t lose his only other child to youthful shenanigans.
The crucial role of the parents was enduring. Normally, Mahoney eschewed the biographies of sportspeople but recently he had read a compelling book on the recommendation of Sergeant Duigan. The subject of the autobiography was a recently retired Victorian footballer who was, sometimes grudgingly, admitted by supporters of every color to be a genuine champion of the code. The really intriguing aspect of the story, for Mahoney, had been the relationship between the father and son. Growing up, the player regularly received uncompromising feedback from his dad in the form of exhaustive letters. Even though they lived in a stable nuclear family under the one roof, the father believed these critiques would be digested most effectively in this unorthodox way.
Finch Snr must have exerted a similarly strong influence. You didn’t walk out of a country town into the big league on the back of pure talent. You needed drive and determination and dedication: characteristics that had been instilled into Finch Jnr. The more the DI learned, the more he fervently wished the young man was still alive. To laugh, to prosper and to inspire people through his efforts on the field of play.
Mahoney genuinely admired those good enough to play top level sport. No time for the prima donnas who seemed to think they were the be-all and end-all of the English Premier League. No regard, whatsoever, for the waster from one club who thought setting off a load of fireworks in the bathroom of his luxury Manchester apartment would be a good laugh. But there was undiluted admiration for Steven Gerrard, the talismanic captain of his beloved Liverpool Football Club. Stevie G was the lynchpin of one of the great moments of football history.
