Jason was going to feel bad about this, I thought. But I’d been a copper too long not to move on quickly to the next thought. Murder was a family affair. Wherever there was a relationship, there was potential for murder. We needed to find Jason.
I frowned, seeing a faint impression in the dust. ‘There’s a bootprint over there,’ I called to Brian. ‘Or at least a partial. Could be important.’
Brian brought his camera for still shots while I filmed it. Though it might turn out to be nothing, the fact that it was within the perimeters of the disturbed area gave me a little hope. After we’d finished our respective shots, Brian sprayed the print to fix it—a large, clear front sole imprint and a partial of the heel impression.
Sofia Verstoek approached. ‘You should have let me take samples from that bootprint. Before you fixed it. You could have lost valuable evidence,’ she said. ‘I should always get priority before other procedures.’
Brian’s thick brows formed an ominous line. ‘Ma’am,’ he said, with pointed courtesy, ‘I’ve been getting convictions for years without your birds and bees stuff.’
‘I want a section of that print,’ she snapped. ‘I only need very small amounts.’ I wondered why she didn’t do the female thing and try to wrap Brian round her little finger. God knows he’s an easy enough mark. We all were.
Brian stared her down without answering. I felt mean because inside I was silently cheering him. I had to remind myself that I was a man of science and shouldn’t let personal animosity get in the way.
‘Is anyone going to turn her over?’ Sofia asked. ‘I want to take samples from right underneath the body.’
We’d finished recording the body in situ, so Brian and I lifted the body, carefully, so as not to miss anything. That’s when we saw the half-smoked reefer that had been lying just under her stiff right hand. I stood back while Brian took a few close-up shots of it, noting the lipstick stains on one end. Once he was out of the way, I used the video to shoot this new angle, then I carefully tweezered it up and bagged and labelled it aware of Sofia watching every move. If Tianna had shared a joint with her assailant, there might be valuable traces of him captured on the thin paper of the joint.
‘Has anyone had a look in there?’ she asked, her attention moving to the small beaded evening bag lying near the body.
‘How do you think we knew who she was?’ Brian said, picking up the bag and showing her the contents—a small wallet with driver’s licence, a key ring with several keys and a squashed twenty-dollar bill.
‘That’s odd,’ Sofia said, peering inside the small bag, then touching the gleaming silver and black beads that decorated it.
‘What’s odd?’ said Brian. ‘No one’s nicked anything.’
Sofia glared at him then turned back to the body on the ground. With a puzzled frown, she unscrewed the lid from another sterile container and took more samples from beside the handbag. ‘Hasn’t anyone noticed what’s truly weird about the way this woman’s dressed?’
‘Truly weird?’ I repeated, hearing her New Zealand accent more clearly. ‘You tell me what’s truly weird.’
‘You’re a man,’ she said, the sneer obvious. ‘Typical of you not to notice.’ She pointed to the sprawled body. ‘Look at her jacket. Then look at her top.’
I did and was none the wiser.
‘Look at her shoes. And her bag,’ Sofia went on. ‘Then take a look at her earrings.’
Tianna Richardson had worn narrow silver and black high-heeled sandals on her last outing. They matched the silver spangles on her cropped top and the flashy diamanté flower on her jacket.
‘Now look at that daggy skirt,’ said Sofia, ‘and tell me there’s nothing weird about what she’s wearing.’
Women’s fashion was not my forte. With my brain fogged up and the spacesuit becoming oppressive, I was in no mood to play clever dick with the likes of Sofia Verstoek.
‘Truly weird is your territory, Miss Verstoek,’ I replied, and continued my business with all of my usual caution, bagging the dead woman’s hands, leaving the clipping and cleaning of her fingernails to Harry Marshall, who’d send what he found over to me for analysis. Then, even though Brian had already done this, I collected samples from her clothing, face, hair and shoes, using whatever method suited the surface best, lifting, scraping and collecting fibres and particles with the small hand vacuum and tape from my box of tricks. I’d been in the job too long not to take duplicate samples for myself. Exhibits have been known to walk from even the best-secured areas.
I was finalising the last of my list of samples, when, sensing someone approaching, I looked up to see Sofia Verstoek back again.
‘In future, I insist on first go at the pollen traps,’ she said. ‘And I want Harry Marshall to let me have the clothes as soon as he’s finished with them.’
I bridled, and thought of Genevieve saying ‘what’s the magic word?’ all those years ago to our children. For one childish moment myself I wanted to say: Stuff you, you’re not getting hold of my samples.
‘You’ll have to ask him that yourself,’ I said, knowing Harry was more than capable of putting someone like Sofia Verstoek in her place. ‘Clothing goes to Vic or Florence first, so they can examine for trace evidence.’
‘And what do you think pollen is?’ she said. ‘It’s my trace evidence. I don’t want you washing out clothes or doing other procedures that might compromise my findings.’
It was time to let her have one barrel. ‘You know as well as I do that pollen is extremely tough and resistant,’ I said. ‘Washing’s not going to dislodge all of it and, even if it did, I’d find it in the filters.’
She didn’t look impressed enough, so I fired the second barrel. ‘And if I do happen to find any palynomorphs, you’ll be the first to know.’ I couldn’t resist continuing: ‘Or any acritarchs or phytoliths.’
She blinked.
‘I’ll centrifuge the whole damn lot to concentrate the pollen assemblage and send it on to you. Okay?’
I was going to have to invite Sofia Verstoek into my office soon for a chief scientist ‘we all work as a team here’ chat. I reminded myself that this applied to me too, and stopped myself from any further escalation.
If my saying my bit had impressed her, Sofia gave no indication. She pointed a pen at the body on the ground. ‘I heard she’s the wife of a New South Wales police officer.’
‘Ex-police,’ I said. ‘He’s been running his own business for some years.’
‘No doubt he thinks he’ll get special treatment.’
There was no missing the contempt in her voice and something in her manner again reminded me of Genevieve. Before I could stop myself, and despite my earlier intentions, I let my irritation get the better of me. ‘What is it with you?’ I said. ‘Are you always this difficult?’
The large brown eyes widened and her face paled. I noticed her gloved hands clench and for an unbelievable split-second I thought she might hit me. Then, suddenly, sun lighting the fine hair of her brows created a golden aura over her cheekbones and I found myself speculating how I could best capture it in paint. You look like a honey bee, I thought, fuzzy gold, and you’ll sting anyone who comes near.
Sofia Verstoek stood uncertain a moment longer, then turned on her heel and strode away.
‘Hey,’ I called after her. ‘You haven’t told me about the earrings. Or the skirt.’
She turned and gave me a look. As if, it said. As I stared after her departing back, I regretted my words but this woman riled me and I no longer had the patience to remain professional every minute of the day and night. According to my brother Charlie, I was heading for burnout.
Turning my attention back to my work, I decided I’d do a more thorough examination of Tianna Richardson’s clothing back at Forensic Services before passing on anything interesting to the relevant expert
s, including the latest ungracious addition to our staff.
I was sealing and documenting packages back near my wagon when my mobile rang.
‘I can’t talk to you, Earl,’ I said as soon as I recognised his voice, wishing like crazy I’d never let him talk me into this. I could still be in bed with Iona, looking forward to a relaxing day together instead of logging endless crime scene items and dealing with an uppity young scientist.
‘Now you’re doing it too,’ he said. ‘Treating me like a suspect.’
‘You know the ropes, Earl,’ I said, irritated. ‘Everyone close to the victim is potentially a suspect in this sort of thing. I can’t have any contact with you.’ I didn’t add ‘of all people’, which was better left unsaid. I paused in my lecture, feeling sorry for the poor bastard. Now that he was on the line, I might as well put it to good use. ‘We’re going to have to talk to your son, Jason. How can we get in touch with him?’
‘That little bastard,’ said his father. ‘No idea.’
‘That’s a hard line for a daily communicant to take.’
‘You don’t know what he’s like,’ said Earl. ‘I’ve washed my hands of him.’
‘Like Pilate?’ I said, unable to resist.
‘He drives around Australia in a shaggin’ wagon—wouldn’t work in an iron lung. Bludges off his grandmother. Smokes dope and God knows what other drugs. Swore at my spiritual director. Father Basil was a gent about it, but I was ropeable. Thinks he can just lob up at my mother’s place or my place any time and sleep on the floor,’ said Earl, his tone becoming more and more heated. ‘You know I’ve had to leave my nice house down there and live in a rented place?’
I took down the details out of habit. Glebe Point Road was a major thoroughfare these days and must be noisy, I thought, compared to the bungalow in Kincaid Street, Deakin.
‘I wouldn’t know how to contact Jason, anyway,’ Earl added.
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Brian Kruger will be in touch then to get further details. And you must not call me again. Everything’s being done according to the book. I was there myself and I can assure you of that. So from now on, no more contact, okay?’
‘But I’m really scared they’re going to come after me. You’ve got to make sure the scene and the expert analysis is handled properly. My bloody life could depend on it! Jack, we were friends!’
‘We were what?’
That did it. Despite Earl Richardson’s delusions about the state of the past relationship between us, I had done what he’d asked. Getting religion must have softened his brain worse than I’d believed and the bad head cold I had must have softened mine even more. ‘I’ve gotta go,’ I said, and tucked my mobile back on my belt.
I waved at Harry who was also about to leave. ‘Will you do something for me?’ I asked. ‘Get those earrings over to Cec Peabody, the jeweller, before they’re returned to the family? I want to know what he says about them.’
I’d been piqued, more than I was prepared to admit, by the blonde palynologist’s observations.
Harry gave me a long stare. ‘You don’t look too well, Jack. How long since you had a check-up?’
I laughed and brushed off his concern. ‘You should talk.’
I’d packed my wagon, bundled everything up for disposal and was about to start the drive to work when I remembered something. I walked over to Brian.
‘That comment you made about Tianna Richardson liking a bit of rough? Was it recent?’ I asked.
Brian’s eyebrows reached their highest altitude. ‘I can’t remember.’
‘Think.’
Brian shook his head. ‘I think it was at a conference. Or in the meal room.’
‘Why was Tianna Richardson the subject of gossip in a police meal room?’ I asked.
‘Search me,’ said Brian. ‘Crime scene people don’t get to have meals.’
Back in my wagon, I wondered if the rumour had any substance and puzzled about why a woman might seek out rough handling. One for my brother Charlie, the clinical psychologist, I decided.
Three
On the drive out to Weston, I thought about Earl Richardson and whether he was capable of killing Tianna in a fit of jealousy or anger. Finding myself on this mental trajectory about men and their estranged wives, I realised it had been a while since I’d heard from Genevieve. I’d spoken to her a couple of times a few months ago, about the kids. Greg, now twenty-one, was living in a communal house in Stanmore while studying for a Communications degree at the University of Technology Sydney. Despite the bad times she’d endured, nineteen-year-old Jacinta had begun her first year of a science degree this year. At fifteen she’d run away and lived on the streets of Kings Cross. I’d eventually tracked her down and she’d finally come home and got clean and sober shortly after, going on to spend time at a rural rehabilitation establishment in Queensland where, between milking cows and putting in fence strainers, she’d begun to learn how to get on with other human beings, starting the long road home towards healing mind, body and soul. It was much the same journey I’d been forced to undertake years before, when I’d faced up to my alcoholism and stopped drinking. Now she lived at Malabar, in the house I’d bought after the divorce.
My ex-wife was very suspicious about how I’d been able to afford to buy something so soon after the divorce and I’d told her my father had helped me. The last thing I ever wanted Genevieve to find out—the last thing I ever wanted anyone to find out—was that I’d used dealer’s money. Jacinta had come back into my life after a year and a half on the streets of Sydney, with hundreds of thousands of dollars in cash in her carrybag, smacked off her face and on the run from the dangerous dealer she’d robbed. So far, only my children, my brother and my old partner in the New South Wales police, Bob Edwards, knew about this money. Malabar, with its mix of housing commission, modest old-fashioned cottages and brand new faux-Tuscan villas was just the right suburb for me, far away enough from the demanding city, close to the ocean and the sandstone cliffs.
Lately, Jacinta was managing her academic load and her relationship with her boyfriend Andy well. I could always tell how things were going between them by keeping an eye on the velour and velcro toy lemurs Andy had given her for her last birthday. If the lemurs were twined together somewhere, all was well. Occasionally, I’d find the male lemur in disgrace, head first in the wastepaper basket. Only last week, when I’d spent a couple of days at Malabar, Jacinta had returned from a visit to Andy’s place, raced inside, ignored me, grabbed the lemurs from where they were hanging in a tangle from the light fitting, pulled their velcroed paws apart and hurled the black and white one out the window by his striped tail.
I felt relieved and happy that, despite the shenanigans of Genevieve and me, both our kids were travelling better than a lot of young people I knew about. Genevieve, a difficult woman, had been resentful that both kids had elected to live with me after we’d separated, but we’d finally come to an agreement for us both to give some financial help to the kids while they were students.
On the way back to work, I picked up a hamburger. As I munched it in the car, my eyes taking in the dry countryside, I thought about the crime scene I’d just left. Considering the half-smoked reefer I’d tweezered into an evidence bag, Brian Kruger’s reconstruction of the scuff marks could well prove to be correct. Tianna Richardson and her companion had probably slipped outside into the relative privacy of the parking area to share a joint. Maybe then the other party had decided that the invitation to share a joint extended to a more intimate exchange of body fluids. If we found traces of both people’s DNA on the reefer stub, and Harry Marshall found something similar when he took vaginal swabs, we might be well on the way to tracking down the other person. If the other party had form, we might already have him filed away on CrimTrak’s database. In my experience, murder was the last stage of a journey of violence that began in the offender’
s babyhood with violent parental assaults. Children learned violence—if violence was the language at home—as thoroughly as they learned speech. Violence became the automatic tool for conflict resolution—the first resort. Proceeding through a series of escalating assaults, the violent offender—because invariably that was what he’d become by now, and almost always he was male—arrived at the inevitable assault where someone died.
I was reasonably sure that whoever killed Tianna Richardson had either killed prior to this or, at the very least, had been involved in a serious assault or two. I felt sure he would have already served time for crimes of violence and that we’d have his genetic material on record to match against. And if it turned out that he owned a pair of boots that had made the print I’d noticed, we could lock him up and throw away the key. If, on the other hand, he hadn’t served time, he had the luck of the devil. And the investigators would have their work cut out for them.
By the time I’d arrived at Weston and disposed of my used gear, the threatening skies were flashing distant lightning. I still didn’t hold much hope for more rain; we’d seen this light show too often lately for my hopes to rise. My head had cleared a little and I hoped that my defences were winning against the virus.
Swiping myself into the building with my security ID, I logged and stowed the various bags and jars of physical evidence into the secure refrigerator where they would remain until analysis.
On the way down the corridor to my office, I saw Dr Florence Horsefall, who heads up Biological Criminalistics, coming out of one of the examination rooms, pulling off her white coat and shaking her bushy hair free of the cap that had restrained it. ‘Jack,’ she said, surprised. ‘I heard you went out to that crime scene at the nightclub. I thought you were supposed to be having some time off.’
Florence and I have a long history, some of it a little embarrassing due to a misunderstanding on my part. On the whole, however, we had a good working relationship and she was one of the best—fastidious, reliable and utterly trustworthy.
Dirty Weekend Page 3
