‘How’s it going, Inspector?’ he said between breaths, flipping his head to clear a strand of dark brown hair from his eyes. He wore shiny black shoes, pressed jeans and a starched white shirt.
Monty smiled. ‘Better than you by the sound of it. How’s the course?’
‘Good. I got an A for that last assignment you helped me with.’
Monty clapped the boy on the back. ‘Let’s make the next one an A plus then. Come see me again when this murder’s been cleared up.’
Justin frowned. ‘Sure, but look, Dad’s told me all about it. If there’s anything I can do to help...’
‘Get that uniform and you’ll be the first I ask.’
‘I know you’re all stretched pretty tight over this. Tell Stevie I’m happy to babysit again.’
Monty suspected the relationship was mutually agreeable, with Justin glad of an excuse to get away from his overbearing father.
‘I think she might take you up on that. I’ll tell her to call if she’s stuck.’
Justin replied with a strained smile, nodded goodbye to Christine and headed towards the lifts.
Monty caught a flicker of movement in the doorjamb. He winked at Christine before calling out to the superintendent, ‘It’s all right, Sir, he’s gone, you can come out now.’ Christine hid a smile behind her hand. The super appeared, pulling at the sleeves of his jacket as if he’d just sorted out a major altercation. His moon face and flabby body could have belonged to a stand-up comic, features that seemed incongruous in an unhappy man in a job that stretched him beyond his capabilities. His brownnosing talents were the only things Monty could find to explain his rise through the ranks.
‘Sorry about all that noise, Christine,’ Baggly said.
‘That’s all right, Sir, it’s nothing I haven’t heard before.’
Baggly rolled his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Kids. You’re lucky you never had them, Monty.’
‘I don’t see it like that, Sir.’
‘No, well, it’s the luck of the draw I suppose. I mean, I buy the boy everything for God’s sake and he just wants more. His mother spoiled him rotten, I’m afraid.’
Monty said, ‘Sir, something’s come up in the Poser case. We need to talk.’
‘Of course, I shouldn’t be inflicting my personal problems on you. Come on in and sit down.’
He ushered Monty into his office and gestured him to the leather Chesterfield. While the super fussed around making coffee, Monty took in the framed photos on the wall. John Baggly beaming with the East Perth Under-Fourteen footy team, John Baggly opening the district’s latest blue light disco, John Baggly receiving an award from the Catholic Women’s Auxiliary for his advocacy of the family unit. The only picture on the wall that wasn’t about work was a framed photo of a younger Justin, posed in the backyard with the family dog.
He took the proffered coffee. ‘We’ve got the results back from the hair that was found on Royce’s body. It was in the police personal file, the one we use to exclude our DNA from crime scenes...’
‘Get on with it, man.’ The super ladled sugar into his coffee and didn’t look up. Monty took a deep breath. Here goes nothing. ‘It belongs to the police commissioner.’
The silver sugar bowl fell from Baggly’s hand with a clatter and crystals sprinkled the antique sideboard like a sudden coating of frost. He looked at Monty with the expression of a man who couldn’t believe his ears.
The door flew open and Christine rushed into the room. ‘Is everything all right, Sir?’
‘Everything’s fine. For God’s sake, Christine, go away,’ Baggly said.
She tiptoed out of the office, looking disappointed. The superintendent waited for the door to close before saying, ‘There has to be some kind of a mistake.’
‘I’ve triple checked. It’s no mistake.’
‘But the commissioner’s been on leave for the last two weeks.’ He swiped at the sugar crystals on his shirt and zeroed his small, angry eyes on Monty. ‘On his honeymoon in Fiji for Christ’s sake!’
‘I don’t suspect the commissioner for a moment: I believe the hair was planted, it was the only one we found. I was suspicious about it before I even had it matched. Someone obviously wanted us to find it. It was carefully stuck to the paint with the skin tag left clear and undamaged.’
‘Someone’s playing games with us?’
Monty nodded. Baggly sank his bulk into the squeaking desk chair. ‘It would be easy to obtain one of the commissioner’s hairs; all it needs is access to his hairbrush—he probably keeps one in his car and his office. But that also means it could be an inside job.’
‘Not necessarily, it could be anyone.’ The super chewed his moustache for a moment. ‘If the press get hold of this, it’ll be a disaster.’
‘My people will be discreet, but someone will have to talk to the commissioner. I know he’s honeymooning, but he’ll still have to be approached. We have to make his alibi official.’
‘Yes, yes, of course, leave that to me.’ Baggly took a sip of coffee and regarded Monty with scepticism. ‘This case seems to be lurching from bad to worse. How’s your witch doctor going? Has he finished consulting his crystal ball yet?’
Monty stared right back at him. ‘I don’t think witch doctors use crystal balls, Sir.’
‘Don’t be a smart arse. You know what I mean.’
‘He’s at the scene with DS Hooper now. He hasn’t given us anything yet, but these things take time. The less we pressure him, the more likely he is to give us an accurate profile.’
‘It’s a waste of our resources if you ask me, especially for a single murder. They’re always on about spending cuts and then they foist this on me. The only reason I didn’t kick up a fuss was to get you off my back.’
‘Yes, you made that perfectly clear, Sir, but I still say it’s worth a try.’
‘He could be just sending us off on a wild goose chase.’
‘Well, we’re not chasing anything at the moment, we have nothing to lose.’ Monty paused for a moment, trying to choose the right words for what he had to say next. But there were none, so he cut to the chase. ‘I’d like your authorisation to reopen the KP murder cases.’
Baggly thumped the desk. ‘Did your ex-wife put you up to this?’
Monty didn’t flinch. ‘Michelle has nothing to do with it, though I do agree with her that there are similarities in the cases that should not be overlooked.’
‘Well, thank God you didn’t mention that to the press.’ Baggly’s voice dripped sarcasm like a cut lemon. He never seemed to tire of reminding Monty of his former indiscretion, though it never stopped him delegating press conferences when it suited.
‘You didn’t even work the KP murders, weren’t even in the country. What makes you think they might be linked?’
‘The posing of the bodies for one, but I’m not familiar with all the details.’ He decided not to mention Michelle’s allegations of a police cover-up. ‘I’ve only had a quick check of the archived files. I plan on signing them out and taking them home tonight so I can give them a thorough going over.’
Baggly fixed his gaze to the ceiling, almost speaking to himself. ‘We were lucky. We got egg over our faces on that one, but most of it fell away with the death of the chief suspect.’
‘Yes, that was very convenient, wasn’t it?’
‘I don’t like your tone, Inspector. Mistakes were made, heads rolled and now it’s over. The suspect died in a car accident.’
Monty fought to keep his voice even. ‘You can stop me from reopening the case, but you can’t stop me from accessing the files.’
The super ran a hand across his comb-over and looked back at Monty with a hard glint in his eye. ‘No, I suppose I can’t, but watch your step.’ He raised a pudgy finger, ‘If so much as a squeak gets out to the press you’ll find yourself walking on very thin ice.’ He paused. ‘Just remember what happened to Inspector Sbresni.’
Monty felt his face redden. The vacuous lump of whale blubber was thre
atening him. He clenched his jaw to stop himself from biting back. The super began to busy himself with papers on his desk. The meeting was over.
6
The killer’s hunting ground will most likely be located within his own comfort zone, either near where he lives or in another area he is familiar with.
De Vakey, The Pursuit of Evil
A tinny bell sounded as Wayne and Barry stepped over the threshold of Sherman the German’s Hobbies and Collectables.
Barry spoke through the side of his mouth to Wayne. ‘You’d think our guy would have chosen one of the bigger chain stores for his purchase, somewhere he’d be more anonymous.’
‘Nah. You have to be registered and show ID to buy spray paint in the bigger outlets these days. It hampers the graffiti artists.’
They lapsed into silence as they took in their surroundings. Shelves bulging with untidy contents seemed to undulate up from the floor. A carefully placed electric fan made the model aeroplanes hanging from the ceiling rock languidly. On the walls, ocean liners and battleships sailed side by side on glassy seas. Whichever way you looked the effect was one of rippling movement. Wayne loosened his collar and closed his eyes for a moment, battling against a rising tide of motion sickness.
Barry seemed to have no such problem. He pointed to a display of sci-fi figures. ‘Hey, look! An original Star Wars Admiral Akbar!’ In two strides he was bending over the display and steaming up the glass of the cabinet with his breath.
‘Jesus Christ.’ Wayne looked to the heavens and wiped his sweaty palms over the thighs of his polyester bellbottoms. He turned when a man with unkempt shoulder-length hair and a beard clacked through a back entrance of glass beads.
The man pushed a pair of thick-rimmed glasses up the greasy bridge of his nose. His face fell when he realised who they were.
‘You must be the cops. Sherman said you might be coming round.’ His voice had the same watery grey tone as his T-shirt.
Wayne put out his hand, ‘Mr Thompson? I’m DS Wayne Pickering and this is DS Barry Snow.’ He tilted his head in Barry’s direction. Still absorbed in the Star Wars figures, Barry waved a greeting without looking up.
‘I spoke with Mr Sherman on the phone last night. Apparently you sold a large quantity of spray-on bronze fabric paint last Friday.’
Thompson responded with a nod and a grunt, giving Wayne the impression that if it hadn’t been for the conscientious Tom Sherman, they would never have got this lead in the first place.
Thompson hefted a cardboard box onto a space he’d cleared on the counter top and began sorting through boxes of model aeroplanes. Another blasé witness who watched too many TV cop shows, Wayne thought. If you had to talk to the cops at all, you had to be cool and impassive, and if possible carry on with your business while you were being questioned.
Wayne said, ‘Can you describe the man you sold the paint to?’
‘Tallish.’
‘Fat, thin?’
‘Kinda medium to tall build.’
‘Old, young?’
‘Middling, twenty to forty.’
‘Eyes?’
‘Sunglasses.’
‘Hair colour?’
‘Dunno. He was wearing a baseball cap.’
‘What colour hat? Did it have a logo?’
Thompson gave a shrug.
Jeez, this was like speaking to a pile of bricks. Wayne took a deep breath. Thompson turned around and began arranging the boxes on the shelf behind the counter. Wayne raised his voice, trying to penetrate the man’s back.
‘Can you describe what he was wearing?’
Thompson shrugged and looked back over his shoulder. ‘Jeans, I guess.’
Barry ambled over from the display cabinet to join them at the counter. He pointed to one of the aeroplane kits in Sherman’s hand. ‘I made that very Lancaster when I was a kid. You could hardly see it for glue, the props wouldn’t even turn.’
Thompson turned from the shelves and said to Wayne, ‘A yellow Eagles windcheater.’ Then to Barry he said, ‘It’s a difficult model for a young kid. You should have got your dad to help.’
‘Didn’t have one.’ Barry never ceased to surprise Wayne. Only the other day he was complaining about his miserly arsehole of a father.
‘That’s too bad,’ Thompson said.
‘Maybe I’ll have another go at it.’ Barry took out his wallet and handed over a twenty.
Thompson gave him the box and some change. ‘There’s glue in the box. Come back when you’re done and I’ll fix you up with some paint,’ he said.
Barry beamed back; it was the kind of smile a twelve-year-old would use to wangle money from his unsuspecting grandmother.
When they began to discuss the differences between the old Airfix models and the newer equivalent, Wayne wandered off to inspect a model train set.
On a structure that looked like four joined ping-pong tables, a complicated system of rails carved their way through alpine scenery and bucolic European farmland. This is more like it, Wayne thought. Three red buttons he assumed were there to be pressed, controlled the model railway. He tried to work out which one would send the old steam loco across the bridge spanning the thick painted river. Lured by the middle button, his hand reached for it, only to be beaten to it by a cane held in the hand of an old man of eighty, if he was a day.
He watched as the model train nipped around the track like a zip fastener and he grew dizzy: so much for trying to keep his interests on terra firma. He nodded to the old man and swayed his way back to the counter just as Thompson was handing Barry a can of bronze spray paint.
‘Take this, too. It’s from the same batch I sold to the guy. And this is the kind of wooden dowel I sell.’ Thompson gave Barry a dowel and an affable grin; the change in the man was amazing. Wayne could only look at his younger partner and marvel.
‘Hey, you didn’t see what kind of car the bloke drove off in did you?’ Barry asked.
‘Yeah, I did. A new-looking blue Commodore. He parked it right outside the shop. Sorry but I didn’t get a look at the plate,’ Thompson said.
Barry handed him his card, said it was okay, that he was being a big help anyway. ‘If you think of anything else you can reach me on this number.’
Thompson called out as they were heading for the door.
‘Hey, I don’t know if it helps, but he bought a dozen each of gold and silver paint, too.’
***
The killer was going to strike again. Wayne broke the news to Monty from the car. There was no need for him to hold the phone out for Barry to hear the explosive reaction. When Monty had calmed down, he gave him the details of the Thompson interview and received, in turn, a list of further instructions. Wayne pocketed his phone and wiped his brow with a mustard-yellow handkerchief. ‘It’s going to be a long day,’ he said, ‘we’ll need inner strength to get through this.’
Soon they were pushing their way through the lunchtime crowd of their favourite watering hole. The pub in James Street was a popular soaking spot for a heavy cop clientele. Barry went to get their drinks and was still getting them by the time Wayne had completed two more phone calls. Given Barry’s propensity to stop and banter with every person at every table in passing, Wayne wondered just how cold the beer would be when it finally arrived.
Rule of thumb: a dead body will cool to the surrounding temperature at approximately one degree per hour. It stands to reason, therefore, that a cold beer will warm to its environment at the same rate. To kill time, Wayne reached for his pen and notebook and began scratching calculations.
‘Have you organised the artist for the composite sketch?’ Barry asked, interrupting Wayne’s train of thought. He sat down at the table and pushed a glass of beer towards his partner. Some of it slopped over the side and a pattern of foaming threads trickled onto the plastic table.
‘Yeah.’ Wayne slicked his fingers through the drips and made a point of rubbing them on his sleeve. ‘No wedges?’
‘They’re coming.’<
br />
Wayne took a gulp of beer and gazed around the room, checking out the patrons with the mug shots he’d lined up in his mind. This habit used to annoy the hell out of his wife, though her complaints about him never being off duty were usually accompanied by an understanding smile. The woman had put up with a lot.
Oh shit. A familiar face he did not wish to see. He slid further down his seat.
Noticing his reaction, Barry followed his gaze, squinting through the smoke haze. ‘Who’s that then?’
‘Tyrone Davis,’ Wayne said. ‘Before your time, probably. Stop staring. If he sees you he’ll see me, and be over here in a flash.’
‘What’s the problem?’
Wayne spoke from the side of his mouth. ‘Nothing, except the man’s a crystal-dicked fuckwit with about as much conscience as a box jellyfish.’
A pause. ‘You don’t like him?’
Wayne snorted.
‘Crossed swords, did you?’ Barry persisted.
‘No, not exactly, I just don’t like hanging out with bent coppers.’
‘Tye Davis, Tye Davis,’ Barry repeated. ‘The name’s familiar.’
‘He’s the guy who knocked Stevie up. They were shacked up for a while until she threw him out. She blew the whistle on him for taking bribes when he was in Vice. There was an enquiry, he was dismissed.’
Barry blew out his cheeks. ‘That would’ve taken guts.’
‘She’s a tough chick.’
‘Then how come you’re always stirring her pot?’ Barry took a long draught of beer, his Adam’s apple bobbing with each swallow.
Wayne sighed. ‘I stir the pot because she expects me to stir the pot. I don’t like to disappoint.’ He wagged a disapproving finger at Barry. ‘And you got too carried away today. Subtlety, son, you got to learn subtlety.’
‘You self-righteous prick.’
Wayne’s mouth twitched into his first smile in hours. ‘She’s a good cop, but she’d be even better if she’d let go of some of the energy she uses to hold that chip on her shoulder and put it into her work.’
SH01 - An Easeful Death Page 5
