Shot Clock

by Blair Denholm

  But Jack was too quick.

  Hands placed on the glass desk top, he shot his foot to the left. He quickly brought his right leg in beside the left and wiggled up like he was doing the Time Warp. Yes. The woman was blocked. Jack smiled inwardly, a particularly rewarding petty victory. Of course, he could have flashed his badge and told the woman to bugger off, but his plan was to keep this chat discreet.

  The gangly clean-cut blonde man pushed a button on the till, gazed down upon Jack from a height of about 6’7”. He beamed the classic smile of the commission-earning employee. The name tag said Steven. On a scale of handsomeness, Jack would have rated the square-jawed Sarsby the equal of or higher than Collins. Welsh might have been on the money with his theory there was no sting in the ex-Scorpion’s tail.

  ‘How can I help you?’ said Sarsby. ‘After a new laptop, phone, computer game console? I can sort you out with whatever you need.’

  ‘Yeah, I need a new a laptop. What can you recommend?’

  ‘Depends what you want to use it for.’ Sarsby peered over a pair of round John Lennon glasses that afforded him a studious bearing. Well-muscled arms filled his white business shirt, reminding Jack that Sarsby was first and foremost an athlete. ‘Work or pleasure?’

  ‘Pleasure. My employer supplies me with one of them big computers.’ Jack pointed vaguely at a bank of monitors. ‘I can barely understand how the stupid thing works. We’ve got technical blokes for that.’

  ‘Sure, we’ve got a fine range of the latest gaming computers. Like the Alienware Aurora R11. That bad boy comes in at just over $3,500 with all the bells and whistles.’

  Do I look like I’m into fucking gaming? ‘Got any cheaper ones? I just want something simple.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ Sarsby could barely contain his disappointment. Clearly the higher the price, the better for him. He was going to be really pissed off when he found out Jack wasn’t buying anything. ‘What kind of resolution do you need?’

  ‘That’s what you’re here for.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘To find a resolution to my problem, innit?’

  Bewilderment expanded Sarsby’s blue eyes behind the glasses. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand. Do you want a laptop or not?’

  ‘No, Steve. I need to talk to you about the murder of your former coach, Dale Collins.’

  ‘What? Who the hell are you?’

  ‘Old Bill.’ Jack discretely laid his ID on the desktop, lowered his tone. ‘Yorkville Criminal Investigation Branch to you.’ Sarsby stared, nostrils flaring. ‘I have it on good authority you might be able to help me with our inquiries.’

  In the carpark, under a green sail cloth that flapped in the light breeze, Sarsby struggled to keep his hands still as he guided the flame of the Zippo lighter towards the cigarette. The ciggie resembled a toothpick resting in the fingers of his enormous hand. Heat mirages hovered above the asphalt, the insides of cars were reaching temperatures in the cake-baking range. DS Lisbon and Steve Sarsby sat sweating on a wooden bench in a loading zone with a charming view of a half-closed Roll-A-Door and an abandoned forklift. Cardboard boxes and blue plastic pallet strapping littered the ground around them.

  ‘What’s an elite athlete like you doing smoking?’ said Jack, chewing a Nicorette gum but angling his head to catch as much of the delicious second-hand smoke as he could. It wasn’t cheating if you inhaled smoke you didn’t pay for.

  ‘I’m not an elite athlete anymore. I’m playing reserves. Not sure I’ve got the drive left in me to claw my way back to the top.’

  ‘Either way, the smokes are a bad idea. I’m on these.’ Jack showed Sarsby his packet of nicotine gum. ‘You should try them.’

  Sarsby shook his head. ‘I’ll give up one day. Just not now. It’s never impacted my fitness much.’ The cough that followed told Jack that impact was just around the corner. Smoking was a more likely factor in his stalled career than the poor genes or lack of talent Welsh talked about. ‘A packet of low-tar durries does me a week or more these days. Anyway, what business is it of yours?’

  ‘None. Like I said, I’m here to talk to you about Dale Collins.’

  ‘A very sad business. Can you make it quick? I’m only allowed a couple of short breaks. I’ll get strips torn off me if I’m late back for my shift.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ll be quick. As long as you give me direct and honest answers.’

  ‘Sounds fair.’

  ‘Why did you murder Dale Collins?’

  ‘What the fuck did you just say?’

  ‘You heard me perfectly well. Why did–’

  ‘I don’t have to put up with this bullshit. If you thought I’d done him in you’d be arresting me.’ Sarsby stood, blinking rapidly. He crushed the glowing cigarette butt under size 15 black leather shoes that reminded Jack of canoes. ‘I’ve got nothing to say to you with an attitude like that.’ He managed one stride before Jack grabbed him firmly above the elbow, squeezed hard.

  ‘What’s the problem, big boy? Got something to hide?’

  ‘Let go of me, or I’ll make that ugly nose of yours even uglier.’ The man’s eyes were ablaze. Jack had a feeling he might make good on the promise if further provoked. There’d be over 2,000 Newtons of force behind a punch thrown by the giant Sarsby, lack of experience as a fighter notwithstanding. Hell, maybe he had been in a brawl or two. Jack had seen basketball fights on TV, some of them serious affairs. Welsh’s insinuation Sarsby was a coward was looking like a poor assessment.

  ‘Don’t even think about it, sunshine.’ Jack smiled broadly and let go of Sarsby’s arm. ‘Let’s sit down and we’ll start over.’

  Sarsby glanced at his watch as his buttocks reconnected with the bench, which groaned under the weight of two large men. ‘I was as shocked and upset by what happened to Collins as anyone.’

  ‘He dropped you from the team a couple of seasons back. I can’t imagine you had a lot of love for him.’

  Sarsby shrugged. ‘I was playing badly and Collins did what any smart coach would have done. People get cut all the time. Doesn’t mean they have to murder the person who fired them. You never been sacked from a job?’ He had a point: Jack had been “asked to leave” by the London Met but it hadn’t incited him to kill his boss.

  Let’s get him where it hurts. ‘What about the fact Dale Collins was sleeping with your lovely wife?’ Taylor had shown Jack a couple of Instagram posts of Helen Sarsby in swimwear. Lovely was an understatement. Ten minutes ago Jack had dropped DC Taylor off at the wife’s place of work, an upmarket fashion store downtown. Taylor would grill Helen the same time Jack handled her husband. The plan – give them no warning, hit them with the same questions, compare answers.

  A sideways glance and a sardonic smile from Sarsby. ‘Did Welsh tell you that crock of shit?’

  ‘It’s not true then?’

  ‘No. Why would Helen be having it off with a bloke old enough to be her father?’

  ‘Because he was rather attractive despite his age. And because you couldn’t get it up.’

  The belly laugh that erupted from Sarsby’s stomach wasn’t the reaction Jack expected. ‘Are you fucking kidding me? It’s the opposite, if anything.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Our sex life is great. Never been better. We’ve never had any issues. Welsh is making up stories to get back at me.’

  ‘For what?’

  A peach flush coloured Sarsby’s cheeks. ‘Because I used to go out with his missus. It was long before I met Helen, I was only a teenager. Cheryl bloody stalks me these days. I had to block her on social media. The woman’s a menace who needs locking up.’

  ‘So the account I heard is a fabrication?’

  ‘You mean the one where Welsh went back to the stadium and walked in on Helen and Dale getting it on?’

  ‘Yes, that story. But I’m not revealing who I heard it from.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s a fabrication. Dale was a devout Mormon with old-fashioned values. And I’ve got no reason to believe H
elen would cheat on me.’

  ‘Why would someone make up such a story?’

  ‘Listen.’ Sarsby’s mouth tightened. ‘Martin Welsh might be a hero in the town’s eyes for getting the Scorpions into the playoffs, but to me he’s a fucking worm. He probably thinks getting me into trouble will stop Cheryl from…’ Sarsby glanced at his watch. ‘Look, I gotta go back to work.’

  ‘Will you come to the station and make a formal statement? We may need fingerprints, hair and saliva samples to eliminate you as a suspect.’

  ‘No problem. I’ve got nothing to hide.’ The man’s face was as unreadable as ancient Sanskrit.

  Jack handed Sarsby his card. ‘Call me anytime if you hear of anything we ought to know about.’

  Back in the air-conditioned comfort of the Kia Stinger, Jack wondered how his partner’s interview with Steve Sarsby’s better half had gone. He didn’t have to wait long. The dash monitor lit up. An SMS from DC Taylor.

  The garish store was a sea of seething humanity. Expressions on faces varied from the beaming smiles of joyful shopaholics to the desperate blank stares of men who’d rather be somewhere else.

  DC Taylor pondered the universal fact of life that all big department stores locate the perfumery and cosmetics section right at the front entrance. You couldn’t visit any other parts of the store without passing through it. Today, Taylor wasn’t going to gripe over the design rationale because it made the search for Helen Sarsby a cinch.

  ‘You Helen Sarsby?’ It was a moot question. Taylor had already viewed dozens of photos of her online. The woman placing little boxes on shelves, the statuesque Mrs Sarsby, loved the camera. Especially taking duck-faced selfies with hardly any clothes on. Must be something to it, she had a shit-load of followers.

  ‘Yeah. Can I help you with something?’ Helen Sarsby wore a crisp white blouse, black skirt and half a kilo of foundation. Eyebrows tattooed on, something injected into her lips to inflate them to double the normal size, a generous application of glossy fire-engine red lipstick. The modern trend to fake it up as much as possible grated on Taylor. This woman was naturally beautiful, she didn’t need to bow to the dictates of fashion. But what can you do? People are conformist sheep.

  ‘You sure can. I’d just like you to confirm a couple of things for me.’

  ‘Are you from head office?’ The nasally voice and the glamourous physical appearance were a total mismatch. ‘I haven’t done anything wrong. If that bitch Desiree’s dobbed me in for anything, I swear I’ll–‘

  Taylor held up a hand. ‘No, no. Nothing like that.’ She discretely showed her ID. ‘I’m here on business.’

  Helen read it with a half-frown then looked up challengingly. ‘You’re a cop. What could you possibly want from me?’

  ‘I’d like to hear your version of something that’s come to our attention.’

  ‘Everything OK here?’ A thin woman in her mid-forties sporting a jet-black slicked-down hairdo appeared at the saleswoman’s side. ‘You sounded a bit flustered, Helen.’

  ‘No,’ said Taylor. ‘Everything’s fine. Helen here is giving me some tips on what makeup I should wear to my sister’s wedding.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right Desiree. So if you don’t mind…’ Helen shooed her away with a flick of her hand, nail polish glinting under the bright fluorescent lights.

  The older woman hurried off, heels clacking busily on the tiles.

  ‘You handled that well,’ said Taylor.

  ‘She gives me the shits, always poking her face in. I don’t understand why the old cow still works here. Anyway, what do you want?’

  ‘It’s interesting both you and your husband work in retail. Unusual.’

  ‘Maybe. But that’s not a question.’

  Taylor smiled to ease the tension. ‘No, you’re right. I won’t beat around the bush. Someone’s provided us with information regarding the hit-and-run murder of Dale Collins. We’ve heard there was a…connection…between you and the deceased.’

  ‘And I bet I know where that came from. That bitch Cheryl Welsh, right?’

  ‘I’m not at liberty to say.’

  ‘You don’t have to. If it ain’t her, it’s her creepy husband Martin. They’re a pair of arseholes.’

  Helen’s voice attracted the attention of two elderly women eyeing the latest scents behind a glass cabinet. ‘I don’t take too kindly to that sort of language,’ protested one, her purple perm shaking disapproval.

  ‘And I don’t take too kindly to nosey pensioners.’ Helen glared at them and they shuffled away, muttering under their breath. ‘Move along, that’s it.’

  From the safety of five metres away, the second one turned around. ‘I’ll be making a complaint to management about your rudeness.’

  Helen waved at them with a grin. ‘Wonderful. Merry Christmas, ladies!’

  Taylor wondered how a woman with such a spiteful attitude could hold down a job dealing with the public. ‘Is there somewhere we can go and speak more privately?’

  ‘Not now there isn’t. Can’t you see how busy the store is?’

  ‘This might take more than five minutes.’

  ‘Tell you what.’ Helen handed Taylor a box of Chanel No. 5. ‘Buy this off me, I’ll take my time ringing up the sale.’ There were three customers, arms laden with boxes, lined up to pay for their purchase. ‘Just ask me what you want to know.’

  Taylor leaned in close, lowered her voice. ‘My expense account won’t allow it.’

  ‘It’s OK. I’ll cancel the sale before you leave.’

  The woman can think on her feet, Taylor noted. ‘Would your husband have been jealous enough to murder Dale Collins?’

  ‘Jealous for what reason?’

  ‘You were sleeping with Dale Collins and Steve found out about it. That’s plenty of motive for your husband to murder Collins.’ You’ve been partnered with DS Lisbon too long, Taylor realised. Making accusations instead of asking questions.

  ‘Didn’t you hear what I said before? The Welshes are liars.’

  A middle-aged man behind Taylor coughed loudly. She turned to him, jaw set. ‘Won’t be a minute, OK?’ He sneered back but lacked the courage to continue the argument.

  Back to Helen. ‘Why are they liars?’

  ‘Cheryl’s a nutcase. She’s obsessed with Steve. They were an item years ago and she never got over it. When Steve got cut from the Scorpions, Martin Welsh made up some bullshit about me and Dale having sex in the dressing rooms at the stadium. As if! It’s fucking laughable. Steve certainly never believed him.’

  ‘Why would Welsh make up something like that?’

  ‘How the hell would I know? He’s unhinged. Maybe he saw Steve as a threat to his pathetic relationship with Cheryl. If he had half a brain he’d ditch her.’

  ‘Welsh hinted Steve might’ve been having some issues with…you know…erectile dysfunction.’

  Helen burst out laughing. ‘That’s a good one. I have to beat him off with a stick sometimes. If anyone’s got problems in that area, it’d be Martin Welsh. Now I come to think of it,’ she gave Taylor a lascivious grin, ‘that could explain why Cheryl’s stuck on Steve.’

  ‘Will your husband corroborate your version of this?’

  ‘You bet he will. Call him now if you like.’ Helen dug around her handbag, handed Taylor a business card with Steve Sarsby’s picture and contact number.

  ‘I don’t think that will be necessary. Thanks for your time.’

  Taylor walked to the exit, texting Jack as she walked. I’m finished here. Come and get me.

  Chapter 15

  ‘What information did you get out of the happy couple?’ Batista sat on the edge of his seat, twisting a paper clip like he was winding up a watch. ‘A typed and signed confession to premeditated murder witnessed by a JP?’

  ‘We got confirmation,’ said Jack dryly. On the way back to the station he and Taylor compared notes. The conclusions made for a sombre mood. Nobody likes having their time wasted.

  ‘Of what?�
�

  ‘Exactly what you said, Guv. The Sarsbys are indeed a happy couple. Seems Martin Welsh sent us on a wild goose chase.’

  ‘He had you two convinced the information was genuine, didn’t he?’

  ‘He sold it well.’ Taylor glanced at the Spirax notebook in her lap. ‘When I put it to Helen Sarsby she was having an affair with Dale Collins, her denial was what you might call vehement. I quote. As if! She sussed the information we had came from either Martin or Cheryl Welsh.’

  ‘The husband was singing from the same song sheet, sir,’ said Jack. ‘They had no time to get their stories straight if they were lying.’

  ‘That’s a good thing isn’t it? We can scratch them from our list of suspects.’

  ‘Bleedin’ lovely. Only twenty or so to go!’ Jack rolled up his left sleeve.

  ‘Surely we can narrow it down to less than that?’ said Batista.

  ‘Afraid not.’ Taylor readjusted her scrunchie. ‘We’ve still got many more people to question. There’s another thing. Just because the Sarsbys told the same story, doesn’t mean they hadn’t agreed to it beforehand. This case is huge, they would have been following it. They may’ve anticipated we’d rock up with questions sooner or later.’

  ‘DC Taylor is technically right about the Sarsbys. They could’ve prepped for questioning,’ said Jack. ‘But my instinct tells me they’re telling the truth. Steve wanted to take a swing at me for making insinuations about his wife’s virtue. He’s also willing to provide DNA swabs to see if they match the three samples from the unknown men that forensics lifted from the Camry. That’s not the behaviour of a guilty man.’

  ‘I’m with Jack,’ Taylor closed her notebook. ‘I say we take another look at the widow, she’s lied once already. It’s also imperative we make further enquiries of the current and past player lists. Staff too.’