Shattered

by Gabrielle Lord

  ‘She was very withdrawn,’ said Alison. ‘She didn’t want to hang with us any more. I knew something was worrying her but she refused to talk about it. She’d just clam up if me or Jen asked any questions.’

  Neither of them, Alison said, had any idea where she’d go. And no, she said, it wasn’t boyfriend trouble. As far as they knew, there were no boys.

  Gemma looked up the number for Kings Cross police station and found Karen Lucky working a late shift. Karen remembered her and had a few moments to spare. Gemma mentioned the second runaway she was looking for and was about to launch into a long explanation but Karen beat her to it. ‘You’re going to ask me about that murdered superintendent’s daughter, aren’t you? The Finn girl?’

  A noise outside proved to be Angie, stumbling down the steps from the road, balancing two large cartons.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Gemma, returning her attention to her phone call. ‘Jade Finn. Age sixteen.’

  ‘At sixteen they can legally leave home. There’s nothing much I can do for you. I’ve already spoken to Angie McDonald about it. She’s only been gone a day so far anyway, hasn’t she? I don’t know where she is.’

  Gemma thanked Karen and rang off. She hoped Jade wouldn’t end up at the Cross. Kids went there, she knew, for what they thought was freedom. Easy, quick money. Thirteen dollars an hour as a junior receptionist. Eighty dollars an hour in a parlour. She raced to open the door as Angie and the two large cartons almost fell into the hallway.

  ‘I was just about to knock,’ said Angie, carrying the cartons down the hall. ‘Hello, Hugo. Keeping out of trouble?’

  ‘Why?’ said Hugo, looking guilty.

  ‘Put the boxes on the dining-room table,’ Gemma said. ‘My office is too cluttered.’

  ‘I’ve got two more in the car,’ said Angie, looking meaningfully at Hugo slumped on the couch.

  The two of them returned a few moments later, each carrying a carton.

  ‘It’s so nice to be here,’ Angie said. ‘Work is a total madhouse. It’s ages since we’ve had a senior officer murdered like this and I’d forgotten how deranged everyone gets.’

  ‘Here, Hugo,’ said Gemma, pointing to the dining-room table. Angie put her carton down and hung her jacket over the back of a chair.

  ‘We’re interviewing Dan Galleone sometime in the next forty-eight hours,’ Angie went on, once Hugo had retreated to the TV. ‘I can organise for you to be in the crime manager’s office. That way, you can watch the monitor. Are you coming to Superintendent Finn’s funeral?’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘Ten tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, I will. Natalie could do with some support.’

  ‘Especially now Jade’s run away,’ said Angie. ‘Was there a fight?’

  Gemma shrugged. ‘You saw how it was when we were at Natalie’s place. She showed me the note Jade left. Says she hates her mother and is never coming back.’

  ‘Sad,’ said Angie. ‘I wonder if she knows something we don’t. That reminds me.’ She pulled an audio cassette out of her pocket. ‘Where’s your tape deck?’

  Gemma indicated her cassette radio in the kitchen and Angie fetched it out and put the tape in it.

  ‘This is Natalie’s call to emergency services – made just after she’d arrived at the murder scene.’

  Angie depressed the play button. At first, all that could be heard was the faint hum of the turning tape, then came the harsh sounds of Natalie’s sharp breathing and panicky voice.

  ‘Ambulance required! Hurry, please! My son is bleeding to death!’

  The calm, steady voice of the operator cut in, requesting more details: that the caller identify herself, and give the address and information about the injuries. ‘How many casualties?’ asked the operator.

  ‘Three,’ sobbed Natalie. ‘My son, my sister-in-law and my husband. I think they’re both dead. Donny must get to hospital or he’ll die too. You must hurry! Please!’

  Angie replayed the tape. ‘What do you think?’ she asked, walking back to the table.

  Gemma shrugged. ‘Nothing helpful there that I can see. She puts her husband last, but given that the marriage was on the rocks, that’s probably where he figured in her mind that night.’

  ‘What about Jade Finn?’ Angie asked.

  ‘I’ve offered to find her for Natalie. I fear that she’s seeking out questionable company.’ She told Angie about the mobile number she’d found in Jade’s room and how she’d called it.

  ‘You should set something up,’ said Angie.

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m going to do. I’ll ask Mike to make the phone call.’

  ‘Well, we’d better get a start on these,’ said Angie, looking towards the boxes. ‘Here, catch!’ She threw a pair of police-issue rubber gloves at Gemma.

  Taking a carton each, the two women worked methodically through the papers found at the late superintendent’s flat, sorting them into some order – a pile for the work-related documents, domestic accounts and bills in another, and anything that looked to be personal into a third pile. Then they further refined their classification. There were personal papers, old résumés, copies of job applications, some police briefs, copies of memos and intranet emails covering several years. There were recent birthday cards from colleagues and an uncle and aunt, a couple of unpaid bills, and a bank statement showing a large overdraft.

  A copy of a recent Police Service Weekly was dog-eared at the page advertising the position of Region Commander, North Region – the position both Bryson Finn and Dan Galleone had been chasing.

  Angie pulled out the fattest of the police briefs. ‘What’s that all about?’ asked Gemma.

  ‘It’s one of the prosecutions resulting from Skylark,’ Angie said. ‘It shouldn’t ever have left the office. Brief of evidence against one of the cops who was on Fayed’s payroll, Dwight Ashton. That name ring any bells?’

  Gemma considered as Angie flicked through the brief. ‘It does,’ she replied, ‘but I don’t know why.’

  ‘There are witness statements, and then scads of transcripts from phone taps,’ Angie said. She skimmed a couple of pages. ‘God, they’re morons, these guys. Listen to this.’

  ASHTON: I told the fuckin’ prick that if he didn’t do the right fuckin’ thing and cough up a couple of big fuckin’ drinks, as well as split the gear from . . . [inaudible] he’d be fuckin’ wearing a murder charge.

  SAWYER: Fuckin’ prick. Fuck him.

  ASHTON: And the prick fuckin’ threatens me with . . . [inaudible] corruption. Fuckin’ crim!

  SAWYER: Fuck him. I heard you and . . . [inaudible] fixed him up good and fuckin’ proper.

  ASHTON: Fuckin’ bastard. Threatening me. Fucked him right over. (Laughs) And his fuckin’ missus. He’s in the fuckin’ Bay. Dunno where she is.

  SAWYER: She was a good root, too. (Laughs) Bit of a prawn but a fuckin’ great body.

  ‘Where are those silver-tongued cuties now?’ Gemma asked, taking the pages from Angie.

  ‘Ashton was remanded. Mick Sawyer’s disappeared. Word is that he was the informer who rolled over for Police Integrity.’

  ‘I guess he’s vanished into witness protection,’ Gemma said. ‘Or he’s dead. Are you thinking that these clowns might be involved with Finn’s murder?’

  Angie gathered up the pages of transcript. ‘There’d be no point in killing the officer in charge of the investigation. Although these turkeys are so stupid that they might think it could help their case.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Gemma. ‘If Ashton was going to off anyone, it’d be Mick Sawyer who went dog on him. What about Sawyer though? If he’s not in witness protection, he might want to get revenge on the officer who’s ruined his career.’

  ‘I’ll get someone to go out to the Bay and talk to Dwight Ashton,’ said Ang
ie. ‘He might know if there’s the chance of underworld involvement with Bryson Finn’s death. We might get some cooperation if we talk about a deal. But as you say, Ashton’s involvement seems unlikely. And why organise it to happen at someone else’s house, with someone else around?’

  ‘So why do you think Bryson Finn has this transcript in his box of goodies?’ Gemma asked, puzzled. She looked closely at the photocopied pages. ‘Look, he’s underlined that part.’

  ‘Which part?’ Angie shifted her chair closer to see. Sure enough, the last few lines were underlined almost imperceptibly, as if a reader had unconsciously run his pencil under the words.

  ‘They must be significant in some way. Everything in these boxes has a meaning.’

  ‘Sure, Sherlock, but what?’

  ‘Look the other way, Angie,’ Gemma commanded as she picked up the transcript pages and took them into her office to make a copy.

  ‘What else have you got in there?’ Gemma asked as she returned to find Angie rooting through the third carton.

  ‘This file seems to be material he’s photocopied for his promotion interview, and this one . . .’ She lifted it out and leafed through it. ‘Hey, this is interesting. Remember the sexual harassment allegation against Dan Galleone? This is the paperwork.’

  ‘Let’s have a look,’ said Gemma. The first piece of paper was a statement issued at the Police Centre by Senior Constable Leanne Morrison from Parramatta.

  ‘Ange, listen to this!’ Gemma began to read aloud. ‘“During the exercise, Superintendent Galleone came up behind me and pressed himself against my back, especially my buttocks, making a sound. It was the sort of sound that people make when they’re in the presence of something they enjoy eating. It was clear he’d had too much to drink during the lunch break. I asked him to stop and he called me a spoilsport and a prickteaser.”’

  ‘I should teach the girl a fancy piece of footwork that deals with an approach from behind,’ said Angie. ‘I’m surprised she hasn’t learned it in training.’

  ‘Ange, that particular move would put the poor bastard in hospital,’ said Gemma. ‘Maybe she didn’t want to go that far.’

  Angie grunted.

  ‘Listen to this.’ Gemma went on reading. ‘“Superintendent Galleone said my husband was a lucky man to have such a love machine at his disposal. Several of my colleagues and junior members from other squads were standing nearby and heard this. I felt my professionalism was seriously undermined by this remark and the name-calling.”’

  Gemma sifted through the papers and pulled out another one. ‘And here’s an email from the harassed Leanne to her champion, Bryson Finn: “Thanks so much for all your support,”’ Gemma read. ‘“I would never have had the courage to complain about this matter without your input.”’

  Angie dived for the statement. ‘And guess who’s signed Leanne’s statement. None other than Bryson Finn.’

  ‘Then that explains it!’ said Gemma. ‘Bryson Finn put her up to this. No junior officer would take on a superintendent – not without some pretty heavy big guns on her side. It’d be suicide as far as her career goes.’

  Angie frowned. ‘It looks like Bryson Finn made sure there would be this outstanding matter hanging over Dan Galleone’s head when they both went for the promotion interview.’

  ‘That knocks Galleone off the promotions list as surely as if he’d withdrawn his application,’ said Gemma.

  Angie tapped the end of her slim silver pen against her teeth as Gemma walked to the sliding doors and looked out to the starlit sea. ‘I guess people have been murdered for less than that,’ she said.

  ‘I think I’ve met Dwight Ashton,’ said Gemma slowly. ‘Years ago, when I was still in the job. There aren’t many Dwights around.’

  Angie upended the almost empty carton onto the table and a small battered teddy bear tumbled out among receipts and scraps of paper. Half-hidden under a receipt lay a memory card in its box.

  ‘Bryson Finn took his teddy with him when he left home! Look, it’s all lopsided.’

  ‘Looks like one ear’s been cut off,’ said Gemma.

  ‘Just goes to show that even the toughest men are just little boys at heart,’ said Angie. ‘Like Trevor.’

  ‘Angie, you don’t need a little boy,’ said Gemma. She picked up the memory card. ‘I wonder what’s on this. One way to find out.’

  Angie followed her into her office and waited while Gemma booted her PC and installed the memory card. ‘There doesn’t seem to be much on it,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t a big download. Let’s have a look.’

  The images appeared. Ten of them. The first six were shots of Jade and Donovan Finn in the garden at Lane Cove and at school functions. It was the last four images that caught Gemma’s attention: high-quality, high-resolution shots of two men in what looked to be a municipal park. In the first image, the heavyset older man had pulled out a folded newspaper. In the second, he passed it to the younger man. In the third, the older man was already turning away, while the younger examined the contents of the newspaper. In the fourth, the older man had disappeared while the younger one now turned his face all unwittingly towards the camera. He was smiling hugely.

  Gemma zoomed in on the third image, enlarging the area of the younger man’s interest.

  ‘There must be ten grand in that lot,’ said Angie over her shoulder. ‘Not bad for a day’s work.’

  ‘Who are they?’ Gemma asked.

  ‘The older guy is none other than Louis Fayed. You don’t recognise him?’

  ‘He looks different from the photo in the newspapers,’ Gemma said.

  ‘So do most people.’

  ‘But these are private shots,’ said Gemma. ‘They don’t look like they’re from a police operation.’

  ‘The superintendent must have decided he’d get out on the street too,’ said Angie.

  Gemma looked more closely at the younger man. ‘I think I recognise him,’ she said, examining the final image. ‘I think that’s Dwight Ashton.’

  ‘Caught red-handed,’ said Angie. ‘What else have we got here?’ She returned to the dining-room table and felt around the bottom of the third carton. A pink envelope housed in a plastic sleeve was partly concealed by the cardboard folding flap at the carton’s base. Angie withdrew the sleeve and carefully slid the envelope out, opening it to reveal a piece of pink notepaper, folded in half.

  ‘Love letters!’ said Gemma.

  Angie scanned it. ‘Close. “I think he knows,”’ she read. ‘“Need to meet you to discuss damage control. We’re going to the Association dinner. Let’s try and meet there. Don’t call or email.”’

  Gemma picked the envelope up and turned it over. ‘It hasn’t been addressed. Must have been left in a postbox or hand-delivered.’ She looked closely at the paper. ‘It’s very zhooshy notepaper,’ she said. ‘With this lovely pink pearl finish.’

  Angie silently reread the missive. ‘The Association dinner was last month,’ she said. ‘This sounds as if Bryson was having an affair with a married woman whose husband was starting to get suspicious.’

  ‘Findlay Finn?’ Gemma asked. ‘We could try and discover whose handwriting it is.’

  Angie put the letter down. ‘Findlay and Bettina wouldn’t have gone to a Police Association dinner. But it was attended by hundreds of people. No way we could pin down a woman who wanted to catch up with Bryson Finn there.’

  Sighing, she picked up another item. Then, frowning, she studied it before passing it over to Gemma. ‘What’s this? Is it what I think it is?’

  Gemma studied the account. ‘“Genoservices: DNA bio services. One DNA Standard Peace of Mind Paternity Test: result negative. Paid in full; amount $745.”’ She looked up from her reading. ‘It’s dated month before last. This is getting very interesting.’

  Angie stood up and paced a
bout the room, eventually turning to face Gemma again. ‘So that’s it. Bryson’s not only been having an affair with this woman, there’s also a baby. Bryson’s decided to make sure she’s telling the truth. We’ve got to find this woman. Now, more than ever.’

  ‘A jealous husband,’ said Gemma. ‘Is that what happened at Killara?’

  ‘Could be. I’m going to call this Genoservices mob first thing tomorrow. They might have the woman’s name on record.’

  Angie dived back into the other boxes. ‘There’s got to be some trace of her. You can’t have an affair without leaving some evidence. Every contact leaves a trace, that’s what they taught us at detective school.’

  ‘Yeah, and a whole lot of other things,’ said Gemma. ‘As Detectives Ashton and Sawyer demonstrated.’

  ‘We’re not all like those clowns, thank you,’ said Angie, stacking the papers into a neat pile again. ‘We took boxes of documents from the marital home straight after the murders. But we can’t get a fix on this woman. I’m still hoping something will turn up to throw some light on her identity, though.’

  ‘Cagey men like Bryson Finn don’t leave anything obvious lying around at home,’ Gemma reminded her. ‘Not when they’re married to a woman like Natalie.’

  Angie leaned back in her seat. ‘Why the hell would Bryson keep this particular note? It’s not like he’s got a whole bundle of perfumed letters tied up with pink string stashed away. Or if he has, he didn’t keep it at home or at work. Cops don’t like things on paper. They’re too dangerous. It’s out of character for him to keep this.’

  ‘And his office has been thoroughly searched?’

  ‘Checked and double-checked.’ Angie indicated the brief. ‘He’d signed for this a few days ago. Otherwise, everything was in order. Same for his locker. And his sports bag.’

  ‘So,’ said Gemma slowly, thinking aloud, ‘these items here’ – she touched the brief, the pink stationery and pointed to the teddy bear – ‘all have some sort of significance for Bryson Finn.’ She frowned. ‘Why has he kept that transcript, for instance? All these things are telling us something, Angie. They’re important enough for Bryson Finn to gather together and take with him when he set up his bachelor flat, or to hang onto if he only got hold of them after moving.’ She pointed to the pink letter.