High Beam

by SJ Brown

  Up there, in Mahoney’s mind, with that Japanese Olympic gymnast who took gold at the Tokyo games. Going into the final apparatus, he needed a strong routine culminating in a steady landing. Which he did. That he did it having gone into the rings section with a fractured ankle turned the meritorious into miraculous.

  For Mahoney, his great football moment came on a balmy evening in Istanbul in May 2005. By paying way above the odds for Champions League final ticket, he had transformed a package holiday into an abiding memory. At half-time, 3-0 down to AC Milan, it had seemed the night would be a bitter anticlimax. The interval transformed proceedings. There was singing of a kind he had never believed possible. Liverpool supporters, en masse, gave a rendition of “You’ll Never Walk Alone” that reduced him to tears. Tears of joy that such spirit could find voice. Who could be afraid of the dark after hearing that? More significantly at the time, there was song elsewhere. As the Liverpool FC players trudged into their change room, they could hear, from along the corridor, opposition players engaging in a celebratory chant. No one should piss on a dead man. Especially, if there are signs of life.

  And then the coach spoke. All Liverpudlians discovered what he said as, within weeks, commemorative posters of the inspiring speech appeared in every second pub on Merseyside. The bit that stuck with Mahoney was the coda: “Believe you can do it and we will. Give yourselves the chance to be heroes.” The red shirts started the second half as if possessed. Gerrard was a Viking Berzerker. Pundits routinely opined about players who could assert their will upon a contest. When Stevie G rose to power a header into the Milan net, he appeared ten feet tall. As he ran back to position, he waved his arms upwards in such an emphatic manner even St Thomas would not have doubted one of the great comebacks was happening. A legend was forged. Liverpool FC triumphed.

  Never before or after had John Mahoney witnessed anything like it. If only such euphoria could be bottled. It transformed Gerrard’s career but it also lifted people’s lives. Belief in the irrepressible spirit of humans could take many forms.

  Alas, Finch’s flame would never flicker again.

  And here was the assembled throng to mourn his passing. From the beginning of the burial service, it had been glaringly obvious that very few attendees were in any way familiar with the routine of a full Anglican mass. The Cathedral had been made available probably on the condition that a proper air of solemnity be maintained. Mahoney could imagine the Dean refusing to give ground on the principle that this holy place would not be hosting a ‘celebration of life’ but would be quite prepared for a proper funeral mass to be conducted. St David’s was the most prestigious church in the diocese and should be treated accordingly. Perhaps the Dean knew deep down that it was a convenient site to maximize exposure that drove the decision to hold the service there. Regardless, whoever organized the ‘event’ had not reckoned with the decorum demanded by the Cathedral. No cameras inside or even on the precinct at all.

  The complete memorial service or none at all.

  It proved to be a bit much for some of the players from the Devils, particularly the one in a flash new designer suit and dark glasses perched on his coiffured exuberance of hair. After about ten minutes he was staring around the stone walls looking for stimulation. A bit later he hazarded a wink at Amanda Pattison who was seated across the aisle. She shot him a look that could have frozen lava. He blushed and turned away, the moronic grin binned for now.

  The congregation slowly acceded to the cadences of the traditional service. If there had been any intention for it to be hijacked by anybody looking to publicize the club or their political prospects then they received a rude shock as the Dean drew his homily to a close. “At the request of Mr. and Mrs. Finch there will be no eulogy given today. I have spoken of the goodness their son exhibited in his life. It is their preferred wish, and one that I fully respect, that their son be commemorated without fanfare. That he be remembered in our hearts for the good man he was.”

  And so, half-an-hour later, the time came for the six pall-bearers to carry the coffin down the long central aisle to the rear exit, and then into the waiting hearse. No favorite songs of the deceased. No pieces of memorabilia placed on the coffin. Old school and all the better for it, thought Mahoney as he too exited the cathedral with all the others.

  Proceedings at the Hobart cemetery were conducted in exactly the same vein. Absolutely no fuss and not the slightest deviation from the official order of service. Mahoney stood a few meters back from the family as the Dean intoned the opening words, “Man that is born of woman, hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down like a flower; he fleeth as if it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay”. So not the happy-clappy version then. It was a sad occasion: a remorseful day. As it was meant to be. And it was fitting.

  At the end, Finch’s parents thanked the church officials and then abruptly left for their car. They looked devastated, as well they might. Two children lost in the beginning of their prime. Who could feel like making small talk in such a circumstance.

  The remainder of the crowd stood around wondering what to do. Mahoney could see AC Newman in close conversation with Rory Fotheringham and the Minister for Sport, Bill Rhode. Stuff it, he thought, why not stir the pot a bit. He walked over.

  “Gentlemen, a moving service, don’t you think?”

  “Who are you?” Rhode blurted out.

  Newman smoothly announced, “This is Detective Inspector John Mahoney, the investigating officer on the homicide case.”

  Rhode’s reputation for not standing on dignity surfaced quickly. “So you’re to blame for this mess?”

  Mahoney had expected some niggle but not from this quarter. “What do you mean by that? I thought it was a fine memorial to the young man.”

  “Piss off. You know what I’m getting at. Dragging all and sundry into your little witch-hunt. You’ve scuppered a few good men with your vigilante shit.”

  “A Few Good Men. Good film. Didn’t the mouthy one in that show himself as the most evil prick of the lot. Is this a hint I should be looking at you as well?”

  Rhode looked daggers. He turned to Newman. “Tell your mutt to heel. He’s pissing down my leg.”

  “Shut up, Bill,” Fotheringham said in a voice short on volume but high on menace. “DI Mahoney did his job. We don’t necessarily like where it took him but that’s as it is.”

  Newman suddenly needed to speak to Commissioner Phillips and slid off. Rhode looked like he’d been pistol-whipped. “What are you sticking up for him for? Bloody filth.”

  Fotheringham took the politician’s arm just above the elbow. The grip made Rhode wince. “Listen to me very carefully. I can see you’re tetchy. Two hours without a drink is a long time for you. I understand that. But I wouldn’t be alienating this guy if I was you.” The grip released. “Now shuffle off and badger someone else. The adults need to talk.” There was nowhere to go here so Rhode followed the instruction.

  If this little scene was intended as a show of strength, it didn’t do much for the detective. “You don’t need to belittle people on my account.”

  “I didn’t. Damage limitation. Don’t need a loose cannon going off right now. His nose is out of joint because none of the pollies or footy people got to speak today. He’d promised some good PR time to a few people. The Finches pulled the rug on that by insisting on a fair dinkum service without the gloss.”

  “You knew that was their intention?”

  “Yep.”

  “And you didn’t share that information?”

  “Nope”

  The mushroom strategy. Keep them in the dark and feed them fertilizer. Mahoney mentally tipped his hat to the Fixer. A complete and utter bastard but a very effective one. “I hear you’re stepping into the President’s chair now Roger Sproule is unable to carry out his duties.”

  “An interim measure. I’ve n
o interest in that role beyond the time it takes to find a suitable replacement. Won’t be easy seeing as Doc Randall has also withdrawn from the executive. We’ll find someone.”

  “I’m sure you will. A few casualties but I somehow doubt it is a mortal blow for the club.”

  Fotheringham cricked his neck. “No, it won’t be. Nor will the absence of Finch, to be honest. The club is bigger than that.” He looked away to the burial plot. “Life can be very random. Being emotional about it strips you of the little control we have of our own destiny. Cop the worst on the chin and move on, is what I say.”

  Easy to say if you’re standing above ground. “Very stoic.”

  “Not really.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “That’s not exactly what the original Stoics believed. They believed passion should be rigidly subdued right enough. But they also held that the highest good was virtue. I doubt you believe that of me, Inspector.”

  “I stand corrected. Yes, that Roman philosophy has been corrupted by modern usage. Not as much as our view of anarchists but still you’re right. In both respects.”

  Fotheringham smiled. “My pedantry and that virtue, for me, is just something you make of necessity.”

  “That’s about it, yeah. Though I would say there’s more passion surging in you than you let on.”

  “And you’d be right. Can we walk for a bit? There’s a short trail over to Cornelian Bay. Do you have time?”

  “I do. And you? What about the wake?”

  “Cancelled. The Finches didn’t want to know. Reckoned it would just be full of cameras and pissed hangers on. They’re driving straight home to Ulverstone. Can’t blame them really.”

  “Ah, I see.”

  They had reached a wooden bench placed on the riverside promontory overlooking the water. “Sit for a bit?”

  “Sure.” Doubtful that this man needed to get some guilt off his chest.

  “I want a brief period not surrounded by babbling fools. And you’re not one of them. Saw that in my office.”

  “And I saw raw emotion erupt for a moment.”

  “Touché. I do have emotions. Everyone does. But I’m not a slave to mine. If they surface, on rare occasions, they’re tucked away pretty quickly. Yesterday’s done and dusted. Move on. Don’t make the mistake again, then move on. Regrets are a waste. You can never, ever, repeat the past. That was Roger’s problem.”

  What did this man know? “How so? Seems he was a doer to me.”

  “Yeah, he dragged himself out of nowhere. I don’t reckon he ever got over his first romantic crush. A girl left him when he was younger. Went off to Sydney to be a model. Took up with a rugby international rep who worked in finance. Private school background, flash car, apartment on the beach at Manly, the works. Seems to me all Roger accomplished, and it was a fair bit, was designed to ensure that wouldn’t happen to him again.”

  So this was the original chip on the shoulder, thought Mahoney. “And you think that when it did occur the wheels came off?”

  “Yep. Couldn’t handle his wife giving her heart to a younger man. Ego, self-esteem, arrogance, call it what you like. Passion overrode his mental faculties. In the end, he couldn’t see that what he was needed to be divorced from how others saw him.”

  “And you can do that?”

  “Easy. The bit of me I let others see is the bit that makes sure they tow the line. Beyond that I don’t care if there’s no love lost. My satisfaction comes from turning the wheels that get things done.” His arm stretched up towards the Queen’s Domain. “Things like that stadium. That stuff doesn’t happen without the sort of dealing most people would shy away from. It’s a greater good.”

  “And that justifies any means?”

  “Good try. I know you suspect me of orchestrating things behind the scenes. As you’ve discovered, there is no provable link from any of that train wreck to me.” Fotheringham stood and walked off a couple of paces. Turned. “Now whether that’s because I’m innocent of any wrongdoing or untouchable, I’ll have to leave for you to run over in your busy mind.”

  Mahoney lifted himself off the bench. “Yes, leave it with me. All it needs is one dogged cop who won’t let it go. And that’s me, I’m afraid. So despite Newman’s, or whoever’s, best efforts, I reckon we’ll be seeing each other again one day.”

  CHAPTER 41

  Tuesday 23rd March 10am

  The two detectives waited patiently for their coffees in the outdoor seating area of T42. Named for the latitudinal line that ran across the island state, it was their favorite café bar on the waterfront. Not even the starkly hewn monstrosity at the northern end of Hunter Street could totally ruin the aspect from this spot on a sunny day. The apartment hotel was truly a blight on the landscape. Mahoney surmised that the designer had been told to completely ignore the architectural heritage of the remainder of a street which encompassed the sympathetic development of a former jam factory into an award winning hotel and the UTAS School of Art.

  That must surely have been the case. Otherwise how would anybody have thought a seven-story toilet block was appropriate? Perhaps the architect had not visited the site. Apparently, that was the case with the equally hideous Grand Chancellor Hotel adjacent to it on Davey Street. What must visitors approaching the city through this gateway think? That Oedipus had sketched the plans? Mahoney was pragmatic regarding development of the waterfront precinct: investment was essential in such a moderately sized economy but why did it have to be so jarring to the naked eye.

  Lattes now in front of them, the waitress back inside the restaurant and the surrounding tables empty, Kate was eager to discover why her superior had convened this informal meeting. To all intents and purposes the Finch case was wrapped up and in the capable hands of the Public Prosecutor. Roger Sproule would certainly be serving a custodial sentence as would Ronny Coutts. How Cartwright, Owen and Knapp would go after their turn in the courtroom was more problematic but essentially real justice would be served on the main perpetrators of the crime. The ones they could construct a verifiable case against at least.

  “Thanks for the coffee. And I’m glad to be out of the office but why are we really here?” Kate was curious. She knew the Beekeeper had been working the phones the day before and using up more than his fair share of the midnight oil.

  Mahoney stirred in a carefully measured spoonful of sugar and took out his notepad and pencil, placing them on the table. “There’s a strand from the homicide that is still dangling in the wind. And you know I’m not one for untidiness.” She smiled at the acknowledgement.

  Kate asked, “But the impression I got from Tim was that Fotheringham would remain out of our reach. Not so much because of the influence but because his tracks were covered.”

  Mahoney nodded. “Regrettably that’s correct. Despite our best efforts, anything we suspect him of is, at the absolute best, circumstantial. No, that is probably a dead end. I’m thinking outside the square of the main case. Do you remember the visit to Jane Watson at Tranmere?”

  Kate could not but recall it. Flint would be softer. “Yes, to the black widow, so to speak.”

  “That is quite apt. The person I thought she may be exhibiting more grief for was her husband, Max Watson. Do you know at all how he died?” She shrugged. Could hardly be blamed for it not registering a blip on her radar. “That’s understandable, given nobody considered his death to be suspicious at the time.”

  Kate drew in. “But now you think it might be, given her involvement, sort of, in the Finch investigation?”

  “You’re partly right. I’m suspicious but not because of her link to Larry Owen: that is a tangent. It’s because she struck me as so completely callous when we spoke to her. A few things nagged at me, once I got to thinking about them. Bit of background first: in a nutshell, he was a builder working on a new construction at Acton. One morning, while doing some excavat
ing by himself he was bitten by jack jumpers. The resultant anaphylactic shock was fatal. A tragic accident, seemingly.”

  “Seemingly? Pretty hard to plant jack jumpers in a particular spot.” Kate hoped her disbelief did not register in her voice. He must have more.

  Mahoney was undeterred. “And you’d be right. Fiendishly difficult. But hear me out.” He took a sip and continued. “What I’m suggesting is again a complete hypothetical but an intriguing one. Autopsy notes suggest nothing unusual in the circumstances of the death apart from the very fact that it is unusual. Do you know why?”

  Kate thought she did. “Like on QI last night. You know the Stephen Fry thing. The TV panel show.” He did. It was hard to avoid the ubiquitous host these days. “There was a question about poisonous spiders in Australia. Apparently deaths are few and far between now due to advances in serums. So I guess the same is true for other insect bites. At risk people have epi-pens. My cousin does. She has one at home and one at her school.”

  “Yes, exactly. When I read about the death in the paper weeks ago, I thought it odd that the poor man hadn’t tried to use one. So there’s one thing. And once I spoke to various people who attended the scene a few other oddities surfaced.” He opened his pad revealing a neat sketch of a house site. “This is an approximation of the site where Watson was working that day.”

  He pointed to the page. “The body was discovered next to his vehicle by a bloke delivering a load of tiles. Given the amount of freshly dug earth near the bobcat, presumably he’d been excavating. Most likely for a pool. That’s what the plans show. One of the police officers had a look-see a bit later and found a good-sized nest of the venomous little critters. So one can safely assume that’s where he was bitten.”

  “So he races to the utility to get his epi-pen. But it’s not there. He’s forgotten it or whatever and he tries to phone for help.”