Light shone from under the front door; two small windows on either side of it were heavily curtained. They moved silently across the moss covered paving, following a small, unfenced path along the side of the building, the only margin between the rough walled chateau and the lake.
A floating jetty fingered its way from the path. Stevie could just make out the shape of a diving board at its end and a tethered rowboat. A fish jumped and broke the stillness of the dark water, sending out ripples of silver bangles. From across the lake, she heard the low muttering of roosting chooks. Perhaps the boat was used to row to the island to gather eggs. This place would be a paradise for kids. No wonder Emma used it as her home base for Katy Enigma.
They crept towards the back of the Chateau and came across a small paved barbecue area accessed by some partially closed French doors through which a sheet of light flooded. Water lapped at some semi-submerged steps leading from the paving into the lake. Under the surface, the shadows of great fish glided like submarines.
The detectives stood on either side of the French doors and watched Stoppard move about the room, walking between a stereo system and a large oak table on which several cardboard boxes had been placed. The delicate strains of Pachelbel’s Canon floated past them, tripping over the golden light before disappearing into the darkness of the lake beyond, while the deep bass steps of the cello lingered on.
The ceilings of the room were as high as a medieval banquet hall, but instead of shields and weapons, the walls were covered with hanging masks: gargoyle heads with horns and pointy beards, bared fangs and mouths shaped in silent screams. Price tags dangled from the masks. A huge carved wooden throne with a red and white ‘special’ sign sat in a corner.
Stevie shivered.
Tash gripped her arm. ‘You ready?’ she mouthed.
Stevie straightened from her crouch, counted to ten, then opened the French doors with a flourish.
‘Bloody hell!’ Stoppard dropped the box he’d just lifted from the table.
‘Good evening Mr Stoppard,’ she said, shutting the doors behind them.
Tash moved to the stereo and turned the music off. She took a moment to gaze around the room, her eyes settling on the table covered in boxes. ‘What’ve you got here, thinking about moving house?’ Tash delved into a box and pulled out a fistful of CDs and DVDs. Another box clearly contained photographic equipment, a tripod leaning against the table next to it.
Stoppard’s eyes widened. ‘Hey, wait, what the hell do you think you’re doing?’
‘We have reason to believe Emma Breightling’s here somewhere in this house,’ Stevie said.
‘Well I can assure you she’s not. I’d appreciate it if you took your sticky paws off of my things; some of my equipment is very delicate. You can’t just barge into a man’s house like this and start rummaging around with his things.’ His mother tongue became more emphasised as his diction sped up, Stevie noticed; he was saying wiv, not with, and fings.
‘We can if we have reason to believe a life might be in danger.’
‘Crap!’
Stevie pointed to the table. ‘What’s all this stuff for, anyway?’
Stoppard managed to call back some of his composure, reverting once more to an Australian rhythm of speech. He dismissed her question with a casual wave. ‘It’s a corporate video I’m having filmed here. Some footage has already been taken. The crew are coming back next weekend to finish it off.’
‘For the showroom? Interesting.’ Stevie looked at the numbered covers of the DVDs. ‘Not much on the labels, but I guess you must have some kind of an index of what’s what.’ She gazed around the room, seeing no sign of a TV. It would have been interesting to see what was on those DVDs.
‘There’s an index somewhere around. Maybe one of the crew has it.’ He smiled, fingered the curl behind his ear and looked her in the eyes. ‘You still haven’t told me what this is all about.’
Stevie tilted her head to Tash. ‘Carry on.’
Tash climbed some wooden stairs leading up out of the hall. They heard a thump on the floor above their heads, the sound of a door creaking open.
‘Sit down, Mr Stoppard,’ Stevie pointed to a heavy backed chair at the table. ‘We need to question you further about the disappearance of Emma Breightling.’
Stoppard dropped into the chair, folded his arms and crossed his legs. His white pants were streaked with what appeared to be mud.
‘What’s that from?’ Stevie indicated the dirt.
‘Burying bodies, what do you think?’ When Stevie didn’t return his smile, he sighed. ‘A bit of impromptu gardening—c’mon officer, I’ve already told you what I know.’
‘You were told by the officers that we might need to contact you again. You gave them a mobile phone number that you have not been answering. You said you would either be at your city office or your apartment, but you weren’t at either of those places when they called around.’
‘I asked if I could go home, they said yes. This is my home too.’
‘You gave me your card, but you never mentioned this place to anyone else. I’ll bet you’re kicking yourself now about giving it to me. A bit over confident, weren’t you?’
Stoppard pursed his lips. ‘I’ve nothing to hide.’
‘Yes you do. You’ve been abusing Emma Breightling.’
He threw his eyes to the ceiling. ‘For God’s sake, where did you get that from, her father? Nothing but the ranting of a desperate man whose child is missing. I’ve never touched Emma and I’ll sue anyone for slander who says I did. You’ve no bloody proof.’
He was right: other than the mysterious circumstances surrounding Emma’s disappearance, all Stevie had was an ambiguous poem on a web page which she couldn’t even prove was written by Emma.
‘The officer at the Breightlings’ house said you and Mr Breightling had words, that he hit you.’ Stevie indicated the bruise on Stoppard’s cheek.
‘And I told your officer that Breightling’s action was of no concern to me. I told him to put the outburst down to anxiety over his missing daughter. I won’t press charges.’
‘How very compassionate of you. But I understood it had more to do with the affair you’ve been having with his wife, to whom you’ve also been supplying cocaine.’
Stoppard moistened his lips. ‘He’s not the first man to have been cuckolded. Maybe if he’d given her a bit more attention it wouldn’t have happened. He’s no one but himself to blame.
As for the coke, well...’ he spread his palms to indicate its insignificance.
‘Did Emma come here, Stoppard, is she hidden somewhere in the Chateau?’
‘Why the hell would she want to come here?’
‘I understand the chateau means a lot to her; she knows the place well and has been visiting it all her life. She even writes stories about it.’ Stevie made a show of spinning around to admire her surroundings. ‘It’s a wonderful place, a fantasy place. You must have invested a lot of time and money in it.’
‘With the help of a very talented architect and an artist friend of mine,’ Stoppard said with false modesty. ‘An escape from the city, but less than an hour’s drive away. A place for people to bring their families, picnic and enjoy the art in a relaxing environment—and hopefully leave with lighter cheque books.’ A thin-lipped smile worthy of the St Trinian’s spiv flickered across his mouth.
‘I’ll bet the kids love it.’ Stevie didn’t bother to restrain her sarcasm.
Stoppard looked at her and tented his fingers. ‘You don’t give up do you?’
‘Emma has an active imagination. She might see this place as some kind of sanctuary.’
‘Well yes, that’s true, but please listen, officer. One, she’s never been here without Miranda or Chris. Two, she’s just a kid—how would she get up here? Three, if she was here I would have told her parents or the police immediately.’
‘You were in a hurry to get up here yourself.’ Stevie indicated to the boxes.
‘I tol
d you I needed to get things ready for the film crew.’
Just then there was a shout as Tash came crashing down the stairs and triumphantly thumped a felt-wrapped bundle on the table in front of Stoppard.
Stoppard sucked in a breath.
‘Scalpels, Stevie, Breightling’s missing scalpels. In a bedside cabinet in one of the upstairs bedrooms,’ Tash said in an excited rush.
Stevie opened the bundle and the silver blades tumbled into her hands.
‘I’ve never seen those things before in my life,’ Stoppard said. ‘They must have been left there by a guest...’
Something inside Stevie snapped. ‘You’re a fucking perverted bastard, Stoppard, who preys on the weak and vulnerable, on kids who can’t fight back.’ Slamming her hands on the table she rammed her face into his. ‘Where is she, Stoppard, God damnit!’
Tash pulled her away from the table. ‘Easy, Stevie, easy. Why don’t I have a word with him while you continue the search? I’ve done upstairs, you can look downstairs and in the yard.’
Stevie nodded, wiped the sweat from her forehead, took a breath and tried to calm herself. ‘I’ll phone Central, tell Angus about the scalpels. That will get the whole team up here.’
31
Wayne sat in an interview room waiting for the arrival of Sammy Nguyen and the social worker. He drained his cup of coffee, leaned back in the chair and yawned.
Barry poked his head around the door. ‘What are you still doing here?’
‘I’m waiting for the Asian kid. I was supposed to see him earlier, but had to put him off when I went with Monty to the hospital.’
‘Don’t get me wrong mate, but that’s not part of the job description is it?’
‘Listen you wanker, I did it for Stevie. She wouldn’t have left otherwise.’
Barry ran his hand across his shaved scalp and straddled a chair. ‘Is Mont going to be okay?’
‘They think so.’
‘Has Stevie called in?’
‘Yep. She’s located Stoppard and thinks Emma’s somewhere at his place. They’ve found Dr Breightling’s scalpels and think Emma must have taken them from the safe. Angus is organising a warrant and the local cops should be on their way there.’
A constable showed Sammy and the social worker into the interview room. Sammy’s face lit up when he saw Wayne.
‘This is my colleague DS Barry Pickering,’ Wayne said to the new arrivals. ‘He was just leaving.’ Wayne nodded to the door and told Barry he’d see him in the morning.
The social worker, Mrs Jenkins, fussed over Sammy, pulled his chair out for him and asked if he wanted something from the vending machine in the corridor, to which he shook his head. She emphasised the lateness of the hour to Wayne and told them she had to have Sammy back at the hostel by nine thirty.
The boy glanced at Wayne and rolled his eyes. Kids like Sammy Nguyen were creatures of the night. He’d just be waking up now.
Wayne shot Sammy a wink before turning to the tape. ‘Interview with Sammy Nguyen, 18 February, 20:35 hours, those present...’ They stated their names for the tape. Wayne told Sam he wasn’t under arrest, explained his rights to him and thanked him for his cooperation. Then he folded his hands on the table in front of him and began.
‘Sam, we had a little chat yesterday and you started to tell me things but then you stopped, worried I think, that you might get into trouble?’
‘Yeah, but then you said I wouldn’t, that I was too young. You said if I helped you, you’d help me.’
‘That’s right. But in order for you to help us properly, I need to tape this talk in front of a witness, so we can use what you have to say in court, do you understand?’
Sammy nodded.
‘You have to speak for the tape,’ Wayne said.
‘Yeah, I’m cool with it.’
‘And no one is forcing you to talk are they, Sammy?’ Mrs Jenkins said.
‘Nah,’ said Sam.
‘Okay, tell us what you started to tell me yesterday.’ Wayne lifted encouraging eyebrows.
The boy scratched his thin arm. ‘I was living on the street, dossing with mates under the Narrows Bridge, when I heard someone say that some rich Chinese guy had just landed and was looking for someone to interpret for him. I speak Mandarin, Cantonese and my own Vietnamese dialect as well as bloody good English, right? I knew I was the man for the job. I got in touch with the dude, and he seemed fine, treated me good and I got to interpret his business dealings for him.’
‘What did this man do, Sam?’ Wayne asked.
‘He was a moneylender, name of Zhang Li. He was rolling in it, you should have seen all the bling, the posh hotels he stayed at. I started giving him English lessons too, and he picked it up fine. I was worried if I taught him too well he wouldn’t need me any more, so I slowed the lessons down a bit. Gave him wrong words every now and then.’ Sam sniggered at the memory. Wayne and the social worker exchanged smiles.
‘Tell us some more about this man Zhang Li,’ Wayne said.
‘He could be one rough bastard. He wasn’t well; I learned to stay clear of him when he was in one of his moods. Sometimes he’d get real aggro when people were late with their repayments. He carried a knife, once I saw him cut a bloke’s finger off with it.’ Sam made a scissor shape with his fingers. Mrs Jenkins winced and Sam capitalised on the effect by making geyser-like motions with his hands.
‘Tell us what happened on the night of the 27th of January,’ Wayne said.
‘Ummm ... when?’
Wayne pulled out a pocket diary and pointed to the date. ‘The day after Australia Day. You were at the river in Maylands.’
‘Oh yeah, then. We were out collecting a debt. Li said he was getting fed up with this prick who was way behind with his payments. Said that after we’d seen him, we’d visit the fella who put him onto us, because it looked like he’d given us a bum steer.’
‘Can you remember the names of either of these men?’
‘Nah, mate.’
‘Anything about them at all?’
Sammy scratched his head.
‘Never mind, continue with your story, maybe something else will come to you.’
‘Li said he’d had enough of this guy’s bullshit, the guy who recommended the other guy as a good catch, I mean. Oh yeah, that guy, the one who gave us the bum steer, had poncy white shoes, that’s right.’
‘Good boy.’
‘White shoes told us this guy was a soft touch, and filthy rich. Don’t know why he was borrowing money if he was so rich, but that wasn’t my problem. Anyway, he wasn’t paying back, and it turned out he wasn’t soft at all.’ He stopped for a moment.
‘Go on, Sam,’ Wayne said.
‘So we go to meet this guy in the city. Li poked him in the ribs with his knife, told him to find his car so they could go for a little drive. Li make him drive us to the river in Maylands, near all the bamboo. He told the guy he was going to cut his finger off for not paying his debts, and the guy begged him not to. He was crying and carrying on, said he wouldn’t be able to work without a finger, said it was all a mistake, he’d get the money blah blah blah. Li got him on the ground. He wanted me to help hold him down, but I seen him do it before and it was gross, blood everywhere.’ He shot Mrs Jenkins a cheeky look. ‘Li yelled at me, said I was fired. Then the doc reached into his...’
Wayne straightened in his seat, ‘Wait a minute, kid, you said the doc—was this rich guy a doctor?’
‘Umm yeah, guess he was, guess I only just remembered,’ Sam rubbed his nose and glanced away.
Sure you did kid, and you’ve known both of the men’s names all along, but under all the cocky bluster, you’re too terrified to admit it. ‘Go on,’ Wayne prompted.
‘Yeah, he reached into his coat with his other hand, pulled out a gun and shot Li in the head—can you believe that? I mean just about no one in Perth carries handguns. If the bullet hadn’t killed him, poor old Li would’ve died of shock anyway I reckon.
‘I ran awa
y then, and he shouted at me, said I was going to get it too, said he knew where to find me. I nearly pissed myself, man.’
‘Did you see what the doc did with the gun?’
‘No, I guess he chucked it in the river.’
He can’t have chucked it in the river, Wayne thought, because it was used just over two weeks later to kill Miro Kusak.
The kid’s hand shook on the plastic cup of water and he almost missed his lips. He seemed to have suffered quite a considerable drop in confidence since he’d made the mistake of mentioning the ‘doc’.
‘Sam, would you mind having a look at some photos with me?’ It wouldn’t be too hard to find a photo of the once philanthropic plastic surgeon. The pathologist’s report on the body from the river had mentioned how the face had been removed with surgical skill. It had to be him.
‘If you’ll just come with me, Sam...’
Sam shook his head.
‘I think he’s had enough, Detective Pickering,’ Mrs Jenkins said. ‘The boy’s had a horrific experience. My job is to ensure that this interview is conducted in a proper and non-exploitive way and that’s what I intend to do.’
Wayne blew out a breath but had to agree. The strain was beginning to show on Sam’s pale face, despite the earlier bravado. He turned off the tape. ‘Okay, I suppose we have enough to get started.’ He’d be making no arrests tonight, he thought, feeling tired and defeated, and yet he was so close. He could only hope that Stevie was having more luck at the Chateau.
He moulded his mouth into a smile and patted Sammy on the back. ‘How’s the hostel going?’
‘It sucks and the food tastes like shit,’ Sam said.
‘But don’t forget, if you continue with the program, they’ll see if they can find you an apprenticeship,’ the social worker said.
‘Whoopee doo,’ Sammy said. ‘They keep crapping on to me about taking one day at a time—that’s what I’m gonna do.’
And that, Wayne decided, was what he was going to have to do too. ‘I want you to go back to the hostel now, Sam, have a good sleep and try to remember some more about that night, like the men’s names, or anything else about them.’ He turned to the social worker, ‘I’ll need to see him again in the morning. I’ll dig up some photos that might jog his memory.’
SH02 - Harum Scarum Page 21
