by Robert Sims
‘Who’s heading it?’ Rita asked.
‘Same guy who was up here before, Bob Sutcliffe. Detective senior sergeant.’
‘What’s he like?’
‘Not as friendly as he looks. And he’s got ambitions. I reckon he’s got his eye on promotion by cracking this case.’
‘You don’t sound happy, Jarrett.’
‘Bryce took a break from the review to haul me into his office for a lecture. That’s after Sutcliffe phoned me from Brisbane. Gave my lughole a bashing.’
‘Over what?’
‘Billy Bowers: why isn’t he under arrest? Why haven’t I applied for search warrants? Why aren’t we tearing apart his home and office? I’m being told I’ve fumbled the first decent lead in the investigation. What do you think?’
Rita wasn’t sure what to say, though she’d thought herself that Jarrett had been a bit too cosy with Billy.
‘No,’ she answered at last. ‘I don’t think we miscalculated. Bowers is smart. He’s also lawyered up and came in of his own accord.
And he’s right about what we’ve got on him. It’s circumstantial at best. But if the squad detectives want to get tough with him that’s fine by me.’
‘Yeah. We can let them run with it. Looks like Billy’s in for a real grilling when he gets back from the island.’
‘I hope that’s not misplaced sympathy.’
‘Only for myself. I should’ve put more pressure on him. By the way, Sutcliffe wants to see a detailed profile from you when he arrives.’
‘No problem. I’ll update the one I’ve been working on. What’s on your agenda?’
‘Oh, that’s easy,’ grumbled Jarrett. ‘I get to play shit-kicker to the boys from Brisbane.’
Rita busied herself for the next couple of hours in refining the profile. It pointed to a serial killer on a mission of vengeance; an intelligent, organised sociopath; a tall, powerfully built man trained in the use of violence; a self-appointed executioner targeting specific individuals perceived as a threat to his way of life.
When she printed it, the full outline covered two A4 pages.
It was clear, well argued and consistent with four brutal murders while referring to the pertinent facts of the crimes. What it didn’t refer to was the broader context, and it didn’t need to. The job of a criminal profiler was to focus on the perpetrator and Rita had done just that. But she knew it wasn’t the complete picture.
That would have to include things she wasn’t supposed to know.
Things like a link to the research base and the role of national security. Things like the murder of Steinberg.
She was still puzzling over it all when a man pushed open the door and sauntered in, coffee cup in hand, his eyes casually scanning the room before looking steadily at Rita.
‘So this is where they’ve got you holed up,’ he said, a sly smile on his face.
Though she’d never encountered him before, she saw immediately that this man was relaxed and confident in his abilities. That was thanks in part to a mental toughness that showed in the line of his jaw and an unwavering gaze. Somewhere in his late thirties, he had a friendly face and a personable manner, along with a stocky build and ruffled sandy hair. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt and chinos, and it was only his bearing that gave him away as a fellow police officer.
‘Welcome to my lair,’ said Rita, returning the smile as he pulled up a chair and sat across the desk from her. ‘You’re DSS
Bob Sutcliffe, I take it.’
‘Yep, that’s me.’ He reached over and shook her hand. ‘Nice to meet you, Van Hassel. I’m looking forward to working with you.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘I’ve read your background and I’m impressed. I’m glad you’re here.’
‘Unlike some senior officers.’
‘Forget the local wallopers. This is my case for the duration now, and we’re gonna get on like a house on fire.’
‘Steve Jarrett’s done some good work,’ she put in.
‘Jarrett blew it,’ said Sutcliffe. ‘Instead of sweating a prime suspect, he got chummy and let him stroll off. I’ve just listened to the tape. I prefer your style - in the bastard’s face.’ He put down the cup and gestured at the printed sheets on her desk. ‘If that’s the profile, can I take a look?’
‘Of course.’
She handed him the two pages and watched him read them, a frown of concentration on his face. When he’d finished he replaced them on the desk, picked up the cup and drank from it without looking at her, his mind digesting the implications of her findings.
‘I didn’t need convincing,’ he said at last. ‘But that profile fits Bowers to a tee.’
‘It’s not deliberate,’ she said quickly. ‘I’m not pointing the finger at him. I’ve gone out of my way to be objective in compiling that outline. And remember, it’s just a type that’s indicated, not a particular individual. A profile isn’t evidence.’
‘I’m aware of that. But it narrows the field and, right now, I’m looking at a field of one. My team will find the evidence.’ He turned to her with a serious expression. ‘You’ve got this history with Bowers. So, tell me, is he capable of killing?’
‘No doubt at all,’ she answered. ‘And without compunction. At least one homicide in Melbourne was down to him, but I couldn’t prove it. These murders, though, they’re of a different scale and complexity. There are factors that elude me.’
‘Ah.’ He sighed. ‘The bee in your bonnet about the research base. Bryce filled me in. And what’s all this about trying to put Bowers and Captain Maddox together as buddies? Was the lawyer right? Were you just fishing?’
‘Maybe. But I got a bite!’
‘Well, it’s one you’re going to have to toss back.’
‘So you’ve been told too,’ suggested Rita. ‘No muddying the water and so on.’
‘That’s the gist of it,’ Sutcliffe admitted. ‘Whitley Sands is off-limits to this case. And that comes from a much higher level than me. Anyway, I don’t see that as a problem. In my opinion, Rachel’s head being stuck on a pole facing the gates was a ploy to make us think someone inside the base was the killer. If you look at it that way, it’s a deliberate distraction.’
‘You’re right, I suppose, from the point of view of the investigation,’ agreed Rita. ‘You’ve got an obvious candidate in your sights. Billy the Beast incarnate.’
‘Yeah, and I don’t want to screw up.’ He nodded. ‘You know, I was never a fan of his. Not even when he was basking in glory as a world champion. To me, there was something wrong about him. An arrogance. His celebrity status in Melbourne’s gangland doesn’t surprise me at all.’ Sutcliffe gave a grunt of frustration.
‘Talking of which, Jarrett’s given him the all-clear to lord it among his underworld pals on Hamilton Island.’
‘The wedding he’s going to,’ asked Rita, ‘is it Vic Barrano’s?’
‘That’s right. I’d haul Bowers’ arse straight back for more questioning if I could, but I’d need another warrant just to get through the gate of Barrano’s villa. And that ain’t going to happen.’
‘I don’t know if it helps,’ she said. ‘But I can get through the gate.’
‘How?’
‘My best friend, Lola. She works for the magazine covering the wedding. Exclusive rights. She’s offered me a pass.’
‘Is that so?’ Sutcliffe hunched forward in thought, idly tapping his knuckle against his lips. ‘That’s an opportunity we shouldn’t waste.’
‘What have you got in mind?’
‘A pincer movement,’ he answered. ‘My boys are in the process of executing warrants on Billy’s properties in Whitley. We’ll turn over everything. But it’d be handy to keep tabs on him at the same time.’
‘Are you saying you want me to go? Become a wedding crasher?’
‘Why not?’ He eased back in the chair, hands behind his head.
‘But stay in the background as long as you can. Mingle - keep your ear to the g
round. Billy and his chums will be in their comfort zone, getting drunk, shooting their mouths off. They could let something slip. If you can get anything on him - any line on where his funds come from, how he bankrolls his schemes - we can dig deeper. It’d also give me another pressure point when I drag him back in for a proper grilling.’
‘And when he spots me there?’ asked Rita. ‘Should I rattle his cage?’
‘Yeah, go for it,’ nodded Sutcliffe. ‘And let’s face it - you’re perfect for that job.’
38
The short flight on Saturday morning almost felt like an escape. As the twin-engine aircraft touched down on Hamilton Island a strange sense of detachment washed over Rita. It was as if she could set aside the claustrophobic intensity she’d been working under in Whitley and take something of a break in what was, after all, simply a holiday resort surrounded by the Coral Sea.
She’d forewarned Lola that her visit would include some work.
Clocking the crooks, was how she’d described it.
‘I don’t give a flying fuck,’ was Lola’s response. ‘As long as we do plenty of drinking.’
Rita collected the keys to her cabin, dumped her laptop and flight bags, and strolled under palm trees to the Beach House Restaurant, where Lola was waiting on the deck above the sand with chilled white wine and oysters. Shrieking with delight, Lola jumped up and hugged Rita before pushing her into a chair and pouring a glass of wine.
‘I got an outside table so we can watch the tourists going arse over tit on their jet skis,’ she explained, raising her glass. ‘Cheers!’
‘Cheers!’ echoed Rita. ‘I need to decompress.’
‘Okay. Before anything else, get it off your chest,’ insisted Lola.
‘What’s stressing you out?’
Rita thought before answering. ‘Simulation.’
‘Oh my God!’ Lola groaned. ‘I should never expect a simple answer from you!’
‘Ever read Through the Looking-Glass?’
‘The Alice story? I was brought up on it. My English nanny tormented me with the book when I was a kid in Ecuador. It gave me the creeps. Still does.’
‘Why?’
‘Nothing is what it seems. It’s full of perverse logic. And every little fucker in it is some kind of freak or wacko. As a story to help kids make sense of the world, it sucks!’
‘I seem to have touched a raw nerve,’ observed Rita.
‘Lewis Carroll must’ve been an uptight geek with a warped view of life.’
‘He was a mathematician.’
‘Huh! Speaks for itself.’ Lola took a big gulp of wine. ‘Anyway, what’s your point?’
‘I’m dealing with the same sort of distorted reality,’ Rita replied.
‘People determined to maintain a fake version of events.’
‘Like the weirdos through the looking-glass. I get it!’
‘Yes,’ said Rita. ‘There’s another reason I’m reminded of Alice’s adventures. Byron referred to them in a convention speech he made just over a week ago.’
‘Plugging the virtual future again?’
‘Variations on a theme, yes. He goes on about how simulation could make fantasies indistinguishable from reality. I seem to have hit the same problem in Whitley. Which is why it’s so refreshing to be with you.’
”Cos I’m as straight and frigging open as the Pope!’
‘But not quite as celibate,’ laughed Rita. ‘And talking about straight, am I going to meet your girlfriend at last?’
‘Not till after she’s shot the wedding,’ said Lola. ‘Right now Morgan’s brainstorming on Hayman with some project managers.’
‘So she’s doing a double-header.’
‘Yes, but watch your language. We’re invited to join her on Whitehaven beach tomorrow after she’s done a shoot with a new Italian car and a couple of models.’
‘How does she get on with them?’
‘The models? She doesn’t lust after them, if that’s what you’re asking. They’re anorexic airheads, not her type. She likes smart women with boobs, which is why I’m so popular.’
‘Are you still having rows?’
‘Of course - because I like men.’
‘And she doesn’t?’
‘Uh-uh,’ Lola said, wagging her finger. ‘You’re missing the finer points of dyke ideology. It’s not hetero men, gay men or hetero women who piss her off - but bisexual women like me.’
‘On both sides of the bed at once.’ Rita nodded. ‘Trust you to explore new frontiers of infidelity. I can see this is going to be a distracting weekend.’
‘Good. Drink up. We’ve got lots to get through, including a wild wedding party.’
‘While we’re on the subject, what should I wear?’ asked Rita.
‘Would my red halter-neck be okay?’
‘The one with the low back and high hemline?’
‘Too revealing?’
‘You’ve got to be kidding! The style for this evening will be full-blown, in-your-face sex. The clubland girls up from Melbourne don’t need much excuse anyway. But this being the tropics, there’ll be more bare flesh than fashion. Everything will be hanging out - tits, bums and tongues! So, yes - show off your legs and figure.
I will be.’
It was still early afternoon and the wedding wasn’t scheduled to start until five but Lola had drunk too much wine and needed a siesta. Rita hopped into the passenger seat and her friend drove one of the complimentary electric buggies carelessly along the narrow lanes of the resort. Rita got off outside her palm bungalow and watched Lola head off up the hill in the direction of the villa rented by her girlfriend.
The simplicity of the bungalow suited Rita. She kicked off her shoes, splashed her face with cold water and brewed some coffee to counter the effects of the lunch. Then she logged on to her laptop to send an email to Byron to find he was already online.
After messaging him, she plugged in the webcam, opened the audio channel and watched his face appear on the screen, moving with the slightly jerky movements of the video link.
‘What are you doing online at this time on a Saturday afternoon?’
she asked. ‘Don’t tell me you’re working.’
‘Not work, no,’ he answered, a partial grin on his face. ‘I’m writing the campus footy report on this morning’s match. We won, I kicked a goal, then drank approximately four beers in the pub.’
‘Approximately?’
‘Yes. Research needs to be done on the incompatibility of alcohol and mathematics. There’s a point at which you lose the ability to count accurately.’
‘I passed that point at lunch with Lola.’
‘So how’s Hamilton Island?’
‘A welcome break from Whitley.’
‘I still can’t get over what happened to poor old Steinberg.’
Byron frowned. ‘It’s like bad karma after I went on about my connections up there.’
‘You have more connections than you realise,’ she told him.
‘I’ve met one of your fellow Cambridge students, Paul Giles.’
‘Ah, so he’s there too. The recruiters at Whitley Sands cast a wide net.’
‘He asked me to pass on his greetings. What’s your opinion of him?’
‘A natural grasp of cybernetics. Very quick. Very full-on.’
‘But?’
‘Well, speaking candidly,’ replied Byron, ‘I didn’t enjoy his company. He wasn’t a friend of mine so much as a rival.’
‘In more ways than one.’
Byron paused, throwing her a puzzled look, then caught on.
‘He’s there with Audrey,’ he said. ‘I’m surprised the relationship has survived.’
‘Why?’
‘Too one-sided. I heard they got together in Brussels and thought at the time it was a bad match.’
‘Explain.’
‘Audrey’s too cold and aloof for Giles, and he’s too intense for her - one of those people who burns over-bright then goes down in flames. He had some so
rt of nervous breakdown at Cambridge.
That’s when Audrey took him under her wing. After that he didn’t look back, of course.’
‘I’ve also had a fleeting encounter with your ex,’ said Rita.
Byron grimaced. ‘Not embarrassing, I hope.’
‘I didn’t mention I’m your current bonk, if that’s what you’re referring to.’ She saw him blush. ‘I see what you mean by cold and aloof. She’s one of those women who’re naturally intimidating.’
‘Not the only one I know.’
‘Is that so? Lucky I’ve got a sense of humour. Does Audrey have one?’
‘Not that I noticed.’
Rita was distracted by an icon flashing in the toolbar display.
It was telling her that Audrey Zillman was trying to contact her for a live conversation.
‘Spooky timing,’ she murmured, then told Byron, ‘Got to go, mate. There’s another caller online.’
‘Okay. Don’t let Lola get you plastered.’
‘Are you worried I’ll stray?’
‘That’s a trap question, so I’m not answering.’
‘You’re learning.’
‘Yes, and I’m getting back to my footy report.’
As Byron signed off, Rita clicked the flashing icon. Audrey appeared on the screen, the stilted movements of the webcam image adding an unnatural menace to the austere expression on her face.
‘Hello, Detective Sergeant Marita Van Hassel,’ she said. ‘I see from my online checks that you’re spending the weekend on Hamilton Island. How very pleasant for you.’
‘And I’m hoping to keep it that way. What’s prompted your call, Audrey?’
‘I’ve been accessing your files.’
‘What files?’
‘All of them,’ Audrey replied. ‘Everything relevant to your background. Under security guidelines you’re subject to positive vetting.’
‘I see.’ Rita rubbed her forehead as the effects of the wine kicked in again. ‘That’s something I could do without.’
‘Is there a problem?’
‘You tell me.’
‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ Audrey said evenly. ‘You’ve passed all the criteria.’
