Sold to the Devil

by Blair Denholm

  Well prepared and deflecting attention to Selina, or telling the truth? He was inclined to believe the former.

  ‘Just for the record, Ms Cooke. Did you have any physical contact with Ed Hurst after that phone call? Emails?’

  ‘None. Now, tell me something for my record. Is Ed Hurst dead?’

  ‘Yes, Ms Cooke,’ interjected Brandt, affecting a look of deepest sympathy. Not hard for a cop who’d delivered countless death notices. Including as recently as yesterday. ‘We’ve found him. There’ll be a press conference tonight.’

  ‘Where did you find him?’

  ‘We’re so sorry,’ said Turrell, lowering his tone. ‘That’s all we can say at this point.’ A slight change in her face, a creeping pallor. The tiniest of tear drops formed in the corners of her eyes.

  ‘I understand.’ She waved fingers in front of her face in a vain attempt to dry the tears now tumbling down her cheeks. ‘But surely…a hint? Was he…murdered?’

  ‘Again,’ said Turrell. ‘We can’t elaborate at this juncture.’

  ‘Well, if he was, I had nothing to do with it.’ She straightened a pleat in her skirt. ‘You have to believe me.’

  Brandt stood, signalled for Turrell to do the same. ‘Thanks for your time, Ms Cooke. We’ll be in touch.’

  ‘The abnormal number of phone calls between Cooke and Hurst has my alarm bells ringing. Way too many for an occasional visit by a personal trainer.’ Brandt buckled his seatbelt, turned on the police radio. ‘She wasn’t being entirely truthful with us. She’s upset her gigolo’s dead, but more concerned about her own arse.’

  ‘I agree, Mickey. Hard as flint, that one. Let’s grill her next time, show we mean business.’

  ‘Agreed. Cooke mentioned Ed was having an issue with his girlfriend. Maybe Selina’s involved? If she got wind her macho man was fiddling about with nanna, she’d be angry. Maybe enough to bump him off. And how many times does it turn out the one who reports them missing is the culprit, huh? Plenty.’

  ‘How was Selina when you did the death knock?’

  ‘Like a zombie. Hard to gauge. Not the first time I’ve seen that reaction, though. Angie can interview her later, once it’s all sunk in. A woman’s touch might get us further.’

  ‘That’s true.’ Turrell got the iPad out again. ‘Cooke might have been telling the truth about Ed having dramas with Selina. The record shows the girlfriend placed a call to him about 20 minutes before his last call to Cooke. A very short one.’ Turrell scrolled up and down the spreadsheet. ‘Hang on. Here’s something might interest you, Mickey.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Record of a text from someone to Ed. SIM card is registered to a Dylan Wagner.’

  ‘It’s a shame we can’t read the context of these damn things.’

  ‘Hang on a minute. I’ll check in the drivers licence database.’ Turrell logged onto the system, entered the name. ‘Yes!’

  ‘Got him?’

  ‘Yep. Address has recently been changed from Risdon Vale to Wattle Hill.’

  ‘That’s near where Ed’s remains were found, isn’t it?’

  ‘In the same general area, yeah. And get this. The same guy also made a quick call to Ed minutes before sending the SMS.’

  ‘Let’s pay that address a visit.’

  ‘The press briefing’s in two hours away. We ought to be getting ready. Maybe send someone else to the Wattle Hill address now, Bluey or Angie?’

  ‘Shit no. I’m smelling something strong with this lead. I don’t want the kindergarten cops getting the glory. We’ll go there this evening, after the press conference.’

  Turrell sighed. Please let this be a lead to the real killer.

  Chapter 40

  ‘Hey, come here Dylan. There’s gonna be a police news conference in a minute. About a missing person.’ Jordie called from the lounge room. ‘Hurry up, you’ll miss it.’

  Soft footsteps grew louder like rolling thunder. Gary’s face, eyes big as bin lids, appeared at the end of the corridor. ‘Oh my dear Lord. It’s gotta be Ed. Don’t tell me they’ve spotted the Megane somewhere?’

  ‘Not possible.’ Shifty munched on an energy bar. ‘Jimbo’s rebirthed cars never get found.’

  ‘Prob’ly an update to say they’ve still got nuthin,’ Jordie snickered.

  ‘Nuh-uh. Something’s not right.’ Gary reached between his legs, suddenly overcome with an urge to scratch his itchy crotch.

  ‘Shush. Someone’s about to speak.’ Tracey turned up the volume on the remote.

  The four sat squeezed together on the couch like The Simpsons’ opening credits. Gary slugged bourbon straight from a bottle of Jack Daniels. The only one not puffing away on cigarettes was Shifty. Compared to the others, Shifty was a health freak, only drank beer on special occasions, hated smoking. He squinted and wrinkled his nose as a curtain of tobacco smoke rose before him.

  On the TV a middle-aged man, dressed in a well-tailored suit and sporting a slicked-down hairstyle with a knife-edge part, tapped a microphone. On his left stood a signing interpreter, hands itching to go like she was in Wild West duel. On the right, another cop stared at his shoes.

  Gary tipped the bottle, glugged and spluttered. ‘Oh, Jesus.’

  ‘What are you worried about?’ asked Tracey. ‘You said everything was being taken care of.’

  ‘Just shut up and listen, okay?’

  An unseen newscaster announced: ‘Ladies and gentlemen. I’m Detective Inspector Michael Brandt, Hobart CIB. There’s been a development in the case of missing Hobart businessman, Edward Charles Hurst. As many of you will recall, Mr Hurst was reported missing on Saturday the first of September. Yesterday, some clothing and human remains were recovered from a remote section of the Wielangta Forest. DNA tests on the remains have confirmed the man’s identity. The cause of death is undetermined at this early stage.’

  A young reporter from a local TV station leapt to her feet, waved a microphone at the cops. ‘What have you found, exactly? You said body parts have been recovered. Can you be more specific? Are there witnesses?’

  Brandt looked up from the statement, picked out the journo. ‘My colleague DI Turrell will be taking questions at the end of the press conference.’ Brandt’s frown was mimicked by the interpreter. Brandt nodded towards the second cop who looked like he’d rather be sorting turds on a conveyor belt.

  Brandt waffled for another half a minute, gave general details about Ed’s car, business, involvement with body building. No mention of suspects, ‘persons of interest’ or who found the evidence. At 6:20pm, he looked at his watch and wrapped up proceedings. ‘We’re pursuing a number of avenues of enquiry, but we’re calling for public assistance to wrap up this matter as fast as possible. If anyone has any information about the movements of Mr Hurst on Saturday the first of September, please call Crime Stoppers or the Hobart CIB direct. DI Turrell will now try to answer your questions.’

  Gary watched the TV screen mesmerised as Turrell deflected and obfuscated with consummate skill. Experience had taught the veteran how to speak “cop” at maximum fluency. He mesmerised the journalists into stupefaction with a wave of words.

  ‘At this juncture of time we cannot rule anything in or out until we gather more intelligence leading to the perpetrator or perpetrators.’

  Enthusiasm levels among the press quickly dropped, and by 6:35pm the conference was over.

  ‘What do you make of that?’ asked Tracey.

  ‘Like Jordie said, they’ve got nothing,’ Gary said with less confidence than he tried to imbue. ‘I don’t think we need to worry.’

  Shifty nodded like a dashboard dog. ‘Car’s in Melbourne, far as I know.’

  ‘Excellent news,’ Gary’s eyes brightened. ‘I might’ve left some DNA in the Megane after my…encounter…with the Arsehole. If it’s lost in an ocean of other cars, I’m safe.’

  ‘You’ve probably left a trail of DNA all over the place.’ Tracey squeezed herself out of the couch scrum and plopped herself in a kitch
en chair. ‘But that’s only an issue if yours is in a database somewhere. Is it?’

  ‘Course not. Why would it be? I’ve never been convicted of a crime, so there’s no fucken DNA.’

  ‘Hey, attitude, mate.’

  ‘Sorry, Trace, but the whole “finding of clothes” thing’s got me a bit rattled. All clues were meant to be eliminated.’

  ‘It’s bullshit,’ said Jordie. He licked a rollie paper, sealed it carefully. ‘That cop said cloves and some ever-dence. If he was for real he woulda said zackly what they found.’

  ‘And where,’ added Shifty. ‘The police always say where they found the body’. Gary arched a knowing eyebrow, as if to say yeah, that’s right. He initially wavered over taking the burglar into his confidence. But the guy’s willingness to do what was demanded without question, plus Jordie’s say so, meant Kosta Fukakarkas, aka Shifty, was now part of the inner sanctum. Better still was Shifty’s offer to house Gary and Tracey in his auntie’s empty Bellerive apartment while she toured the country in a campervan. Shifty showed Tracey photos of the flat on his phone and she squealed with delight. Next week they’d be moving in. Finally, she’d be out of this oversized shithouse.

  For the next forty-five minutes, the group threw up more and more scenarios. Positive and negative. Gary’s mood shifted from confidence to pessimism; grins were followed by furrowed brows, back to smiles again. Tracey lobbed in a new theory.

  ‘What if they really have nothing? What if he’s merely still a missing person and the police’re trying something left of centre to flush out information?’ Tracey cradled her chin between thumb and forefinger. ‘Could all just be a ruse.’

  ‘Roos? Mainly wallabies out there,’ said Jordie. Gary made a mental note to buy his mate a dictionary for Christmas.

  ‘Everything’s gonna come up smellin’ of roses, I reckon,’ said Shifty.

  ‘I like your optimism, fella,’ Gary stood and slapped Shifty on the back, headed for the humming fridge. ‘That deserves a beer.’

  ‘Thanks, mate, but no.’ He bent close to Gary’s ear, whispered. ‘I’m meeting some dudes in Sorell. They promised to buy all the speed we found. Top dollar.’ He stretched out a hand to Gary. ‘I’ll grab it from the garage on me way out. I’d better get cracking, they don’t like to be kept wait–’

  KNOCK KNOCK.

  ‘What the fuck!’ Gary jumped like a startled rabbit.

  ‘The door,’ Tracey whispered. ‘Someone’s there.’

  ‘Shifty, take a peek through the venetians in the bathroom; you can see the front porch from there.’

  KOCK KNOCK. ‘Dylan Wagner? Open up. It’s the police.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it, Shifty. I’ve got it.’ Gary forced a half-smile as two granite-faced policemen stared back at him.

  Chapter 41

  By the time the cops tumbled through the door out of the chilly night the lounge room morphed into a smoke-choked phone booth. Already cramped inside with four people, six along with the wood burner created a prickly heat.

  ‘Detective Inspector Brandt.’ He flashed his ID and a set of perfect white teeth. ‘This is my colleague, DI Turrell.’ The second cop thrust out a chiselled jaw. He sniffed disapprovingly as he took in the tobacco stink. Bugger him and his smarmy mate if they don’t like it.

  ‘We just seen youse pricks on the TV,’ blurted Jordie, uncharacteristically feisty. ‘Dunno why youse are here, but we ain’t sayin’ nuffin.’

  Gary stared daggers. What the fuck was Jordie thinking? ‘Hang on, mate. No need to take it out on these guys. They’re just doing their job.’

  ‘Perhaps I should be going,’ said Shifty, rising from the couch.

  ‘Yeah, me too.’ Jordie latched onto the tail of Shifty’s flanno.

  ‘Don’t leave on our account, gentlemen.’ Turrell’s tone was almost convivial. ‘You might learn something.’

  ‘We’re hoping you can help us with our enquiries.’ Gary recognised Brandt from the press conference. Slick looking prick.

  ‘Nah, gotta go. Work to do ‘n that.’ Shifty only managed one short stride before Brandt grabbed his shoulder, thrust him back down. The burglar’s legs flew up in the air. He landed hard on the seat. Jordie, still attached, followed.

  ‘Hey, what the fuck?’ cried Shifty. ‘Police brutality!’

  ‘Shut up, numb nuts,’ said Brandt. He surveyed the room through squinted eyes like a special ops commander. ‘I’d like everyone to remain where they are.’

  ‘Please, take a seat detectives,’ said Tracey. ‘Over here in the kitchen. More room.’ Gary could see she wanted to defuse a potentially volatile situation. Shifty writhed on the sofa like a sack full of cranky snakes, cracked his knuckles one after the other. Tracey pointed at the fridge. ‘Can I offer you gentlemen something to drink?’

  ‘No thanks,’ said Turrell in a clipped tone. ‘And we’d rather stand, if you don’t mind.’

  Gary knew perfectly well what was going on here; maintain the advantage by occupying a higher physical position. A pair of megalomaniacal Feds back at Coolangatta once used the same tactics on him and his best mate Foss.

  ‘Okay,’ said Gary. ‘Tell us what you want. It’s not every day the constabulary pays a visit.’ He rose from his armchair, determined not to let the authorities maintain the power imbalance. He took a position in the middle of the room, thrust hands in pockets, squared his shoulders.

  ‘Which one of you is Dylan Wagner?’ barked Slick.

  ‘That’d be me.’ Play a straight bat. Answer all questions as close to the truth as possible; don’t tangle yourself up. ‘What do you want? Can’t be anything about that guy who got murdered, can it?’

  ‘What the hell do you think it’s about? Fund raising for the Policeman’s Ball?’ Brandt turned a shit-eating grin towards his partner.

  Turrell remained impassive. Joke fail, dickhead.

  Brandt cleared his throat and continued. ‘We’ve got clues all pointing to you. The victim’s clothes and femurs, for starters.’ The cop paused. ‘You’ve got some explaining to do, son.’

  Gary shuffled his feet, tried to lock eyes with Brandt but felt his gaze wandering. Focus. ‘You explain first. Dunno what you’re talking about. So you found some bones. What the fuck’s that got to do with me?’

  ‘Let me put it another way, Dylan,’ said Turrell softly. Big Jaw, the good cop in the clichéd partnership. ‘In addition to the physical evidence, we have records of texts and phone calls between you and the victim. One of them was…let me see,’ he said and finger-scrolled an iPad, ‘oh, yeah. The second-last call ever made to him. And a text.’

  ‘Piss off.’

  ‘It didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to track down the owner of the SIM. You, mate. We don’t have the resources of the FBI here in sleepy Hobart, but you don’t need them these days. Technology is a wonderful thing, don’t you think? So, why would you call and text him right before he vanishes?’

  Christ, he hadn’t seen that one coming. Bloody phone records. Devlin said to get rid of Ed’s phone. Stupid marsupial didn’t know telcos can provide data to the law. Or maybe he did and neglected to remind Gary of that inconvenient fact. He’d be having stern words with the little prick.

  ‘Ed wanted to bring me something. What was it again?’ Think of something, dammit. ‘Oh yeah, a couple of CDs. Me and Tracey met him and his girlfriend at the Republic a few months ago. Got talking and found out we like the same bands.’

  ‘What bands would they be?’

  ‘Does it matter? Fucks sake, you’re investigating a murder and you want to talk about what kind of music people like?’

  ‘Hey, calm down. Sounds like you’ve got something to hide. Have you got something to hide?’ Turrell spoke with the coolness of a psychologist. Gary’s eyes flitted between him and Brandt. Slick stood a metre away but it felt like he had a foot pressed hard against Gary’s throat. The room went quiet for a moment, Jordie’s ratchety breathing the only sound.

  ‘Course not. But I just to
ld you the answer then you veer off on this weird musical detour.’

  ‘I don’t believe a word this wanker’s saying, do you?’ said Brandt, turning to Turrell. ‘Let’s bring him to the station for a formal interview.’

  ‘You can’t take him anywhere unless he’s under arrest.’ Tracey stood shoulder to shoulder with Gary, her eyes blazing, hands defiantly on hips. ‘And you’re mistaken if you think a text message like that is sufficient grounds.’

  ‘Hang on.’ Turrell wasn’t giving up on this avenue yet. ‘Here’s an earlier text message from Ed to Dylan. “We need to talk”. Hear that? Need. Not, how’s about a chat. Sounds suss to me.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Brandt.

  ‘Forget it. That could be about anything. I’m going to ask you two to leave.’ Tracey was handling this superbly. Gary let out a soft sigh. She had years of experience dealing with hard-arse cops in Kings Cross. These Tassie bumpkins were out of their depth.

  Brandt’s face turned blank after Tracey’s timely intervention. The two detectives exchanged a beaten look that gave Gary a micron of hope. Turrell tucked the iPad under his wing.

  ‘Okay, young lady,’ said Brandt, dripping condescension. ‘Very admirable sticking up for your boyfriend…or whatever he is to you. However, before we leave I’m getting the names and addresses of everyone in this room. Uh-uh.’ He held up a hand as Tracey opened her mouth to object. ‘We have every right under the Act to collect such information. And one last word to you oxygen thieves: don’t even think about leaving town. You’re all under suspicion of involvement in the murder of Edward Charles Hurst.’

  ‘We should’ve prepared better for that encounter. She got one over on us, Mickey.’

  ‘Not at all.’ Brandt wriggled the seatbelt tongue into its buckle. Turrell knew the man was being disingenuous. He was stinging after the smartarse woman schooled him in Suspects’ Rights 101. ‘They’re nervous. I’ll be keeping a close eye on the lot of them. First thing, we get a warrant to search the property. Instinct tells me Dylan Wagner’s our man. Those fat lips look ridiculous, like he’s been to Bangkok for cheap cosmetic surgery. Clearly hiding something. And if it ain’t him, could be one of the others and Wagner’s covering for them. The little fat guy, Jordan Rixon. He was nervous as hell.’