Sold to the Devil

by Blair Denholm

  ‘Good boy.’ She bent at the waist, a pair of lacy black knickers slid to the floor. ‘Now, come here.’

  He tossed his shirt onto the couch. The song Fern sang in the taxi on the way to Ed’s played on the radio. Images of the night of unfaithful debauchery with Fern and Selina exploded in his mind. Thoughts of two attractive naked women should have had an aphrodisiac effect. Instead, it nearly guilted him into a bout of erectile dysfunction. But not quite. You never knew when the root you had before you would be your last.

  They both went at the task with an enthusiasm unmatched since their first time together. When they were spent, Gary reached across and stroked Tracey’s cheek, tinged with the fresh blush of sex. She mouthed good night and turned over. He must stop using her as a commodity, someone to satisfy his lust, a handy means to get him out of trouble. She deserved better.

  A tattoo banged in his head, his mouth was sticky dry. He opened the bar fridge, pulled out a Peroni and skolled it with a couple of aspirin. He let out a belch, tucked himself into bed beside the sleeping waif and thumped the pillow.

  Starting from tomorrow, Dylan Wagner would be a man worthy of Tracey’s love. Even if he had to kill a dozen other Eds to prove it.

  Nothing would stand in his way.

  Chapter 36

  Scandinavian backpackers, Ilpo, Daniel and Jessica, turned off Kellevie Road towards Wielangta Forest. They hadn’t planned on visiting Tasmania as part of their Australian bird-watching odyssey but changed their minds when the Antarctic weather event struck. The coldest Australian winter on record turned out to be a fizzer. Northern Hemisphere winters were much fiercer.

  ‘I think the walking path is coming up soon,’ said Daniel, a self-proclaimed wizard with a map. The original idea was to use a phone app to navigate, but the costs of travelling around Australia were eating up their funds. Old-fashioned paper maps would have to do. ‘Yes, here it is.’

  Jessica eased the rented Kombi van onto the shoulder. ‘Thank God we’ve arrived. This road could dislocate joints.’

  ‘Did someone say they had a joint?’ Ilpo yawned and scratched his armpits.

  ‘Man, do you think of anything else?’ asked Jessica with a chuckle.

  ‘Yeah, sleeping. Remind me why we’re doing this?’

  ‘Because,’ said Daniel as he folded up the map, ‘we only have two days left before our visas run out. And this is our last chance to see the endangered swift parrot.’

  ‘Sorry I don’t share your enthusiasm. I’ve seen enough parrots to last a lifetime.’

  ‘Yes.’ Daniel tapped a massive telephoto lens. ‘But no one has photographed the swift parrot in the wild for years. And this forest is the most likely place to spot one. National Geographic will pay big money for exclusive shots.’

  ‘Okay, you two. Enough chat. Let’s get moving.’ Jessica handed Daniel and Ilpo small bags with provisions for the day trip. ‘Oh, look. Someone even left a red ribbon tied to a tree to show us the way.’

  ‘Hooray,’ said Ilpo with the enthusiasm of a stoned sloth.

  ‘Shut up and get a move on.’ Jessica gave Ilpo a shove. Despite his apparent lack of interest, Ilpo’s face was sure to light up if they spied the parrot. His photographs had graced the pages of many nature magazines around the world.

  The trio trudged through the bracken, pushed aside face-height wattle branches. Patches of uneven sludgy ground made the going hard. Especially since their attention wasn’t focused on the track but on the tree canopy.

  After a few minutes, a clearing emerged. ‘Let’s stop for a minute,’ said Daniel, stuffing a wad of snus, Swedish tobacco, under his top lip. ‘I need to readjust the light filter.’ He dropped his canvas bag on the ground. Something glistened in the gloom and caught his eye. A gold coin. Two dollars. ‘Wow. My lucky day. Found some money.’

  ‘It’s a sign,’ said Jessica. ‘We’re sure to see a swift parrot today.’

  ‘Is this a sign, too?’ Ilpo held up a filthy ruddy brown cloth, glimpses of pale blue and crawling with ants.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Jessica.

  ‘Not sure. I found it over there.’ Ilpo pointed to a tree stump lying next to a piece of flat ground surrounded by native grasses.

  Daniel extended a hand. ‘May I?’

  Ilpo handed the cloth to Daniel who turned it over in his hands. ‘I can tell you what it is. A business shirt covered in mud.’ He paused, held the shirt up to the light. ‘And blood. The thing must have been soaked in it. Look. There’s a huge hole in the shoulder. And…are these bite marks?’

  ‘Maybe someone’s injured and needs help,’ said Jessica.

  ‘Or killed.’ Ilpo’s voice shook. ‘Jesus, we oughta get the hell out of here. I read a story about this crazy dude called Milat. Murdered a shitload of backpackers like us in the Australian bush.’

  ‘No,’ said Daniel. ‘Not until we’ve had a look around. What if it was you lying hurt in the forest and no one bothered to search?’

  Ilpo shrugged. ‘I’m not happy. But let’s be quick. This place is starting to give me the creeps.’

  ‘Okay.’ Daniel checked his watch. ‘Don’t venture more than, say, 100 paces from this spot. Let’s meet back here in ten minutes. After that, we drive back to Hobart and tell the police we found something suspicious in the bush. Agreed?’

  The other two nodded.

  Three minutes later Jessica was trudging through thick bracken, scanning left and right. Counted steps as she went. Like Ilpo, the eerie bush was starting to frighten her. With shaking hands she parted a pair of fern fronds to step over a small log. Something in the mud caught her eye. A long, thin, gleaming white sliver.

  What the hell is that?

  She bent down slowly to get a better view. Her heart pounded as she understood exactly what she was looking at.

  Hands cupped to her mouth, she was about to call out to her friends when a sudden thought froze her. Whoever – or whatever – did this might still be lurking nearby.

  She spun around and lumbered back to the meeting spot.

  They had to call the cops. Now.

  Chapter 37

  Turrell tilted back his head and gazed at the stippled ceiling. He gathered his thoughts for the unpleasant task at hand. Tried to ignore the foul stink of body odour around him, the mumbled words and coughing, the scraping of chairs on concrete.

  He couldn’t block those things out; they only reinforced how much police work sucked balls. He’d realised that years ago. Yet here he was, stuck in the hateful job he signed up for as a teenager in the early 1990s. He quickly glanced sideways at Brandt, his contemporary at the Rokeby Police Academy. And here Turrell was still yoked to the officious turd. At the academy Brandt had to make himself learn, but for Turrell study came naturally. He passed all subjects with distinctions. Legal modules, firearms, forensics, physical training, even dreary report writing. Back then, he was sure life in uniform was the right career choice.

  That idealism went out the window not long after he hit the streets. He quickly learned the real world of lies and violence and pain was shit.

  Lack of variety wasn’t the main problem with policing. The clowns across the table at today’s interview were proof of that. For senior detectives, the job was never repetitive. But none of the work produced a warm glow of fulfilment. Mainly he dealt with scumbags; on both sides of the law and hovering on the margins.

  Today was another one of those days.

  On the other side of the interview table big Kyle Dunn, a brutish enforcer from New Zealand, slumped in a chair beside his equally loathsome mate, Jerome Kemp. The pair did all kinds of dirty work for organised crime bosses in Tasmania. Anything, anytime, like the old 1970s TV show The Goodies. Only Kyle and Jerome were The Baddies.

  The Kiwi crims had retained one of the best defence lawyers in Hobart, Peter Grieves QC. The brief was a total prat known for despising the old-school-tie network of Hobart lawyers, those who attended the best private schools, got a leg up from rich parents. L
ast year Grieves boasted in a newspaper feature how he rose to the top by hard work, not privilege. This only made his fake upper-class-twit persona even more irritating. Grieves’s legion of do-gooder fans called him the Protector of the Innocent. Members of Tasmania Police called him the Cunt in a Suit.

  Turrell watched Grieves closely. Sitting there all superior, as if a gold ingot was shoved up his arse. His Manila folders were spread all over the table, probably some pathetic show of territorial dominance.

  ‘I fail to see where your line of questioning is taking the investigation,’ the lawyer said through clenched teeth. If Grieves’s body language was annoying, his actual language made Turrell want to puke. The legal harlot spoke with the plummy accent of an Oxford University graduate but in reality he grew up on the mean streets of working-class Risdon Vale, Hobart. Tosser.

  ‘You know exactly where it’s taking the investigation, Grieves,’ said Brandt. ‘On a path leading your clients straight to Risdon Prison.’ Touché. ‘I reckon they might end up in maximum security next to Martin Bryant, if they’re lucky.’

  Grieves plucked a handkerchief from the pocket of his pinstriped jacket. The stench of cologne filled the room as the lawyer slowly unfolded his scented rag and rubbed perspiration from his brow. He folded the handkerchief, took an eternity to make a perfect square, and popped it back in his pocket. He levelled his reptilian gaze at Brandt.

  ‘Your choice of words does you a disservice, Detective Inspector. How do you expect my clients to cooperate when you make outrageous and unfounded predictions. Moreover–’

  Brandt made a stop gesture with his hand. ‘Just can it, Grieves.’ Turrell noticed his partner’s nostrils flaring. ‘You’re giving me a migraine. Now,’ he said and turned his focus to the accused Dunn. ‘One more time, Kyle. Why did you threaten to hurt the insurance broker’s receptionist?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘We’ve got CCTV footage of you intimidating her. Waving your fists about,’ Brandt continued. ‘There’s no sound unfortunately, but look at the physical actions. Pure aggression. Those pictures, combined with the witness statements, mean any jury’s going to side with her. You can save a lot of time by admitting the truth.’

  Grieves played with a pair of rimless glasses, tapped the arms on the table. Turrell’s head throbbed; the poncy prat was being deliberately annoying. One more fucking tap and he’d rip the glasses from Grieves’s hand and ram them down his throat. Thankfully, Grieves stopped, and with a flourish, wrapped the specs around his ears.

  ‘My client has repeatedly said “no comment”. Either you charge him with something, or you let him go. The so-called evidence you have is worthless, and you clueless coppers know it.’

  ‘There’s no reason for the woman to lie.’ Brandt jabbed the table with a pen. ‘Admit it, for God’s sake. You threatened to maim her and kill her boss.’

  ‘Detective Inspector, you’re the one being threatening. Why are you continuing with these pointless questions? I demand you release Mr Dunn immediately.’

  Brandt’s face reddened. He spread his arms wide like he wanted to take flight and escape. Or squeeze the life out of Grieves in a bearhug. Turrell visualised cogs turning in his partner’s mind. Perhaps Brandt would try another, conciliatory tack with Grieves. Why not? Nothing else was working. Brandt opened his mouth to speak, but closed it when a loud tap on the door interrupted proceedings.

  Constable Angie Shaw poked her face inside the room. She nodded to her two superiors, ignored the other men.

  ‘Sorry for interrupting but I need a word. It’s important?’

  Turrell tossed a notepad on the table, went over to Shaw. ‘For God’s sake, what is it?’ he asked from the threshold, palms pushed against either side of the doorframe.

  ‘There’s been a breakthrough in that Missing Person case.’

  ‘Which one?’ Turrell gulped. He already knew the answer.

  ‘The catering company guy. Ed Hurst.’

  Fuck. He knew evidence would turn up sooner or later. Probably the guy’s car.

  ‘What’s the breakthrough?’ he asked. ‘Better be good, ‘cos we’re conducting an important interview here.’

  ‘It’s a biggie. The body’s been found. Bits of it anyway.’

  He held his breath. Christ, his membership of RandyRooters.com would be all over the papers. And his dalliances with the deceased and his girlfriend. How he’d…Jesus. He might even be a suspect if the truth emerged.

  A proper fucking nightmare.

  With Hurst now dead, the investigation would go deep. Way deep. Managing the process was key. As the most experienced detectives in the state, he and Brandt would handle the case. He had to be proactive. Find Hurst’s mobile and computer. Get hold of digital records, control how they were used and interpreted. If some Forensic Services geek joined the dots of Hurst’s contacts via Randies, they’d find a path leading right to his door. That must not happen. Hopefully, the case could be cracked quickly using old-school investigative methods. First things first, though. Get all the details. ‘Where? And how do we even know it’s him?’

  ‘Wielangta Forest. Some backpackers just called it in. They found a bloodied monogramed shirt. EH on the cuffs, apparently. And…body parts. They’ve been told to wait until you two arrive. The forensics team’s already on its way.’

  ‘Hey guys, either shut the door or shut the fuck up!’ Brandt stood, exhaled deeply. ‘Constable. Give us five minutes to wrap up this interview.’ He locked eyes on Turrell. ‘Now we’ve divulged vital details with these cockheads present. Details that should’ve remained confidential.’

  Turrell frowned, tried to look apologetic. He shouldn’t have pressed the constable for more information. Not with the door wide open. Stupid of him. If not for his personal stake in this shitstorm, he never would have fucked up like that. Now he wanted to wipe the smug smiles off the faces of Grieves and his client.

  ‘Don’t worry, officers,’ said Grieves, grinning like he’d been appointed Chief Justice of Tasmania. ‘Mum’s the word. Although I’ll be keeping a close eye on this case. I think my niece used Hurst’s catering company for her engagement party. She’s a right little bitch, so if and when you bungling fools manage to charge someone for Edward Hurst’s murder, I’ll be happy to defend the accused. If they can afford me.’

  Brandt shot Grieves a look that could reduce a diamond to carbon dust. ‘The lot of you can piss off now. We’ll deal with this matter later. And you two,’ he said and poked a finger at Dunn and Kemp, placid behind their face tattoos, ‘don’t even think about breathing a word of what you heard to anyone or I’ll have you for perverting the course of justice. And don’t leave town.’

  ‘Right you are, sheriff!’ said Dunn, tipping fingers to an invisible Stetson.

  The jovial laughter of Grieves and his client as they walked the corridor to the exit echoed in Turrell’s head.

  ‘Come on, Josh.’ Brandt’s tone softened once their guests had departed. ‘Let’s see what all the fuss is about.’

  The forensics team had already set up two tents. Rain pattered gently on the plastic roof as Turrell watched two uniforms enter the smaller tent. Blue and white crime scene tape cordoned off a triangle around the clearing. The detectives ducked under a guy rope and entered the second tent containing the field lab. Inside, two scientists used forceps to place samples of tiny strands into paper bags. Two long bones lay on a sheet of plastic. Turrell knew in his gut they were human femurs. Ed’s.

  ‘I’ll have a word with the boffins,’ said Brandt. ‘Get the backpackers to tell you what they can.’

  ‘Gottcha.’

  ‘Ask them to go to the station with you.’ Brandt ran a hand over his jaw. ‘You might get more out of them away from the scene.’

  ‘Will do.’ Let Brandt take the lead in the investigation. Playing second fiddle would be the best approach. He needed to concentrate on acquiring phone records and Internet browsing history, downplay its significance. Bury it if he had
to. Should be easy enough to do. He was the go-to guy for managing that kind of minutiae, which Brandt hated anyway.

  He stepped out of the tent and watched officers methodically picking over stones, bark, leaves. Two uniforms appeared with German shepherds straining on leads. Other officers worked in the scrub taking soil samples, searching for crushed undergrowth. White heads bobbed up and down as the search for more clues continued. Their disposable Tyvek suits made him think of astronauts. More people would have been in outer space than in this part of the forest. Until today.

  The backpackers huddled by a camp table, blankets over their shoulders. He jogged up to them.

  ‘Who found him?’

  ‘Me.’ The woman whispered. She fidgeted with the toggle of her jacket. ‘Well, it was just some bones and…’ Her eyes glistened. ‘We looked for more…parts. Couldn’t find anything else.’

  ‘I found the shirt.’ Ilpo raised his hand like a schoolboy answering a question.

  ‘I appreciate your cooperation.’ Turrell gave a half smile. ‘Do you mind if I check you all over? Purely routine.’

  Silent, nodding heads.

  Turrell performed a perfunctory physical examination of the tourists. No blood, scratches or anything to suggest they were involved in anything other than birdwatching.

  ‘Would you all be kind enough to accompany me to the police station in about half an hour?’

  ‘Why?’ said Daniel.

  ‘You might remember important details after bit of time has passed to process what’s happened. Plus you’ll get a free coffee. Sound like a deal?’

  ‘Sure,’ Jessica nodded. ‘But I don’t think any of us is capable of driving the van.’

  ‘That’s fine. I’ll drive it. Then drop you wherever you want.’ As they were buckling their seatbelts, Turrell added: ‘You’ll all need to provide fingerprints and DNA samples.’

  ‘But we didn’t touch anything,’ said Ilpo, a trace of concern in his voice. ‘Apart from the shirt.’ He facepalmed. ‘Damn. I should have left it lying on the ground.’