by Mark Stewart
CLAIRE PARKED her car at a 24-hour convenience store and watched businessmen and women standing outside office buildings. Glancing at her watch, she mumbled.
“3:30pm.”
“Our lunch, their smoko time,” Kendal announced.
The two Detectives entered the building through automatic opening doors and marched to the rear of the store. Kendal stood in front of the coffee machine imitating an expectant father, waiting for the arrival of his first-born child. Claire raided the large glass door fridge for a cold bottle of water.
“Health fanatic,” he taunted.
Claire patted her partner’s stomach. “Need I say more?” She glanced at the front counter. “Sugar, forget the coffee, look who’s come in out of the cold.”
Kendal looked to where Claire was pointing. He spied a man starting to count $100 bills. The man behind the counter seemed unperturbed and kept serving customers.
“Claire, walk up the window side to the front of the store, I’ll flank the other side.”
She hid her gun between folded arms and walked up behind the man, still busy counting money.
Kendal pulled his revolver from his shoulder holster and moved fast. He knew he must reach the front of the store before the man spied either of them.
At the shelf, closest to the counter, Kendal spied tins of dog and cat food. He counted to five and hoped Claire was in position. He switched his gun safety switch off then needed to wait patiently for an elderly male customer to finish paying for his petrol and leave.
Kendal stepped away from the food shelf.
“G’day Weakom; I want you to start explaining what you sold to receive so much money?”
Weakom looked up and saw the detective’s sly grin. He proceeded to stuff the money in his coat pocket and prepared to leave the store.
“Leaving so soon? And not even a goodbye,” snarled Claire.
“Detectives, hi, fancy meeting you here.”
“Yes, fancy us meeting here at this time,” growled Kendal. “Start talking about the money.”
“What money?”
“The few thou’ you stuffed into your pockets,” blurted Claire.
Weakom slipped a hand inside his coat and pulled out a semi-automatic Glock. Reaching out he grabbed hold of Claire.
“Nobody move or Claire will accept a bullet.”
“I’ve heard those exact words before,” advised Kendal, raising his gun.
The elderly male customer shuffled back into the store. He was concentrating on recounting his change for the third time and didn’t see the developing disturbance. Weakom pushed Clair away and grabbed the man by the shirt collar, thrusting him in front for protection.
“Checkmate,” Weakom advised, walking backwards to the door.
Clutching his chest, the elderly man dropped his change. His breathing sounded laborious. The automatic sliding glass doors opened. The elderly man closed his eyes. Weakom dropped him and ran.
“Claire, go,” yelled Kendal.
She sprinted for the door, gun raised. She saw Weakom running down the road. He turned, leveled his gun and fired. Brick mortar exploded out of the convenience store’s brickwork. Claire dived behind an old rusting Ute. A second bullet smashed the car’s passenger window. Glass fragments showered the ground. Seconds later a car’s engine roared to life. A moment later, the vehicle sped off. She gave chase on foot, aimed her gun, and fired twice. The first bullet smashed the rear window. The second went through the trunk.
Without slowing, the car entered an intersection and turned left.
Claire sprinted down the road and into the next. She slowed and stopped in the middle of a roundabout looking down four empty streets. An old man sleeping on the bench in a glass bus stop sat up, stroked his long grey beard and waved at her. She waved back. The homeless man lay prone, grabbed the coffee-stained newspaper and used it as if it were a blanket. She raised her hands in frustration, turned tail and trotted back to the convenience store.
Upon entering the store, she found Kendal giving the elderly man CPR. One look at her face, Kendal knew Weakom had escaped, yet again.
“We need an ambulance,” he yelled.
Seeing the man opening his eyes, Kendal took the man’s pulse.
“Welcome back. You’ll be okay. The ambulance is on its way.”
Claire’s red painted fingernails stabbed the buttons on her mobile phone.
After the ambulance had arrived, the ambos took over. Satisfied the man was stable, they bundled him into the ambulance. Finally seeing the ambulance leaving, Kendal followed Claire back into the store. Kendal glared at the nineteen-year-old standing behind the cash register. He flashed his police badge under the lad’s nose.
“Start talking, buddy.”
“About what?” he asked.
“Talk to me about the bloke counting the money.” Kendal raised his finger to his forehead. “I’ll give you a moment to collate your thoughts. I’ll return in a moment.” Walking towards the rear of the store he winked at Claire.
“Listen to what I’m about to say. My partner has a very short fuse. His daughter was kidnapped, and the clock is ticking. We need answers to our questions.”
“Good cop, bad cop, Eh!”
Kendal returned carrying his coffee and a bottle of cold water for Claire.
“Now you’ve had a moment to devour my question, tell me everything you know,” jeered Kendal.
The young man displayed a ‘who cares attitude’ by shrugging his shoulder.
Kendal leaned over the counter, grabbing the teenager by his shirt collar.
“Tell me everything. I’m running out of time.”
The lad gasped for air. His eyes bulged as he spoke.
“The man you saw counting the money came in ten minutes before you. He was standing in the rear of the store talking to my boss on the phone when you walked in. I heard the offer. It was a great deal.”
“What was the deal?”
“It’s not my place to say.”
“We can take you to Police Headquarters to finish your story.”
The young man raised an eyebrow. He answered in a low voice.
“The deal went something like this. The man would supply twenty-thousand dollars of brand named cigarettes for eight-grand.”
“Good discount,” said Claire.
“Black market more likely,” reported the teenager.
“You seem to be in the know,” probed Claire.
“I know a black-market deal when I hear it. I suppose you’ll want to take the evidence?”
“Keep it under wraps for now,” suggested Kendal. “I’ll have Detective Philips swing past and collect them and your statement. The man counting the money was Weakom. Daniel Weakom. If you see him again, call the police. Tell them to contact Detective Kendal or Ambroso. One of us will be here in minutes.”
The Detectives shook the boy’s hand and walked out.
“Sugar, where to now?”
“I think it’s time we had a chat to Phil Mason.”
Kendal parked his car outside the small house not far from the Royal Children’s Hospital. The house displayed a plain front garden, a white picket fence, and a small rusting metal gate. He glanced at the position of his watch hands.
“4:00pm,” he announced, loud enough for Claire to hear. “A quick interview in here and a record three minutes to the hospital will see us in Dr. Clarke’s office on time.” He looked up and down the street. “All the houses are dog boxes. Who’d want to live here?”
“They’re beautiful. They have great character. All are worth a fortune.”
Claire’s enthusiastic comment took Kendal by surprise. He leaned his thumb against the doorbell.
“I’d never want my house touching my neighbours,” he groaned.
The front door slowly opened. A short, frail man stood in the doorway.
“You look like cops,” he jeered.
Kendal flashed his police badge. “Detective’s Kendal and Ambroso, may we come in
?”
The man nodded and led the way down a narrow hall.
Claire noted the walls were in need of a paint job. Looking into each room as they walked past a door she saw the first room mirrored the hallway. The house comprised of two bedrooms. The TV in the lounge was showing a re-run of an old western. A small lamp was pouring light on a chair in one corner.
“I like the formal voice,” she whispered, stepping into the kitchen.
Kendal glared at his giggling partner.
“Your cap falls the wrong way,” he teased.
They sat on chairs at a rickety unpainted table. Kendal sat grinning at Claire’s vanity. Her hands were clutching her French cap trying to make it sit properly. He certainly didn’t have the nerve to tell her it looked perfect.
“Drink of something?” asked the man.
“No thanks.” Kendal looked at the remnant of a meal still on the table. “We’re not interrupting your dinner?”
“No, I’ve just finished. Please, sit.” He swiped the remaining meal into the sink, snatched up his can of beer off the table and sank into a chair.
“I’ll come straight to the point. Are you Mr. Mason?”
“The last time I checked my birth certificate, I was.”
“Do you have a son, Philip?”
“What’s he done now?”
“We need to locate your son,” cut in Claire. “Do you know of his where-a-bouts?”
“Why?”
“We hope he can shed some light on our investigation.”
“I don’t know where he is. He comes and goes when he wants.”
“Does he have many close friends? Or maybe a girlfriend?” asked Kendal.
“The band he plays in turn up on the odd occasion. They jam for a few hours, pack their gear and leave. They’ve just cut a new CD. I must confess I don’t like their style of music, however, each to their own. On the subject of girlfriends, I’d have to say there aren’t any. There’s his cousin he talks to, though. He says she’s his music critic.”
“What’s her name?” asked Claire.
“Ashlee Clarke. Dr. Ashlee Clarke.”
“Does Phil know a bloke going by the name of Patrick?”
The old man dropped his can of beer on the floor. Staring at the two detectives, he resembled someone who feared for his life.
“How do you know Patrick?” he whispered.
“We need to talk to him,” said Claire.
For nearly a minute the elderly man rocked from side to side before he picked up his can of beer with trembling hands.
“I can’t tell you anything more. The walls have ears.”
Kendal leaned forward on his left elbow. “I can take you down to the police station where the walls can’t hear.”
The man bowed his head. He spoke in a low tone.
“Patrick lights fires. He always has and always will.”
“Go on,” urged Claire.
The man studied the room as if he was looking for someone. Settling his gaze back on Kendal he continued, speaking in whispers.
“Do you know the story about Phil and the house fire?”
Both detectives shook their heads.
“When Phil was a lad the police accused him of starting the house fire. When I asked him to tell me the truth he told me Patrick did it.”
“What’s the whole story?” asked Claire.
“I don’t know anything more.”
Kendal eyed the man suspiciously. It was clear he felt petrified of Patrick. He quickly changed tact.
“Do you have a picture of Phil?”
Mason nodded, stood, walked to a cupboard and grabbed a large photo of a smiling man out of a draw adjacent to the sink.
“Phil?” probed Kendal, studying the picture at length.
“Yeah, that’s him,” replied his father. “Hanging from his name is a long string of offences, ranging from, auto theft, robbery, breaking and entry, to assault and arson. Every one of those accusations is unfounded. None were ever proven. As they say, mud sticks. Deep down he’s a good bloke.”
“Tell us about Ashlee. I’m extremely interested?” asked Kendal, staring directly into the eyes of the man.
“Phil was a two-year-old tyke when Ashlee came into the world in the hospital not far from here. He took to her like a duck to takes to water. They’d play hide and seek all the time, ring each other every few days and see each other at least three times a week. He used to call her Doc.”
“Interesting,” mumbled Kendal.
“What did they talk about on the phone?” asked Claire.
“Teachers, school, the usual stuff kids talk about. They went to the same primary and secondary school. Ashlee stayed over here every Saturday night. They’d play games and listened to music all night. Phil loves music. He’s in a band you know. The group just cut a new CD.”
“You’ve mentioned the band,” advised Kendal.
“The CD will probably be another lead balloon.” The man exhaled. “I feel sorry for him. I’m positive his life would’ve been different if it wasn’t for the house fire he allegedly started all those years ago.”
“Mr. Mason, you mentioned Phil was a loner,” said Kendal.
“Please, call me Brian.”
“Brian, is it possible Phil has seen Ashlee Clarke lately?”
He pursed his lips. “I don’t know. She’s a doctor now. She got her break and was able to make something of her life.”
“You mentioned arson,” said Claire. “Care to explain?”
Showing no emotion, Mason stared at the two Detectives in turn.
“I’ve told my story to the cops too many times. If I tell you, the outcome won’t change.”
“Try me,” hinted Kendal.
The old man looked around the room again, swallowed a mouthful of beer and fidgeted on his seat.
“The story goes, when Phil was nine, he visited Ashlee Clarke at her house. A few hours later the house burnt to the ground. Phil told the police he didn’t do it. The local detective at the time, his name I can’t remember, hounded my son for months.” Brian sighed heavily. He swallowed the last mouthful of beer, squeezed the can and threw it into the sink. “Phil told me exactly what he told the cops.”
“That is?” asked Kendal, leaning closer to the man.
“Patrick started the fire. When I asked the same question a few years later, Phil clammed up and refused to talk about it.”
“What do you think is the truth?”
Mason leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I have a gut feeling Patrick started the fire and had been trying to frame Phil all his life.”
Kendal stood and extended his hand. “Thanks for giving us an insight. May I borrow the photo of Phillip?”
“Keep it.”
Away from the house, Kendal looked at Claire, noting the weather seemed to be cooling. Soon the temperature will be perfect for a house fire.
“Claire, what are you thinking?”
“Phil Mason is our man. He’s Patrick.”
“I’m not convinced.”
“Don’t swim against the current, Sugar.”
“If I do what you suggest, sometimes the waterfall is a long one. It’s time to visit Dr. Ashlee Clarke.”
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
