by Peter Klein
They don’t miss much, whether it’s fish and chips from tourists or baitfish getting rounded up by predators. Between the sets I thought about the girl who had been killed yesterday. She was the third in about a month. Bloody scary stuff. Some nutter out there picking off young girls. But strappers; he was targeting female strappers. Kate said the police thought it was the same person, but didn’t have a clue who it was. And what else had she said? That’s right, find his motive and you find the killer. But why would someone kill three young strappers?
After a couple of hours I’d had my fill of waves, so I came back in and showered off in the car park. When I’d changed and packed my ski and things into my van, I called the hospital and asked if they could put me through to Maxine’s room. The receptionist let it ring half a dozen times before it switched back to her phone.
‘Not answering, I’m afraid,’ she said. Would I like to leave a message?
‘Just tell her I called, please, and I’ll try her again later.’
I thought I might drop by the hospital on the way back into town if Maxine was feeling up to it, but I didn’t want to if her old man was around. Not that I was taking his warning off seriously; I just wanted some time alone with her without her father’s aggro.
My stomach said ‘feed me’ as it always did after a surf, so I figured I may as well head to Gino’s. I could get some dinner there and catch up with Billy, then afterwards swing by the hospital and see Maxine on the way home. It was a bitch driving back into town. It had been a hot day, everyone had hit the beaches and now they were returning home at crawling speed. By the time I made Glenhuntly Road, it was almost seven.
Gino’s was humming when I walked in the door. The big poster of Santa and his flying pizza held pride of place on the front window. People outside were looking at it while waiting for their tram. I smiled to myself; it was a hit. There were a couple of casuals manning the ovens and making pizzas and some new waitress Billy had put on was busily running drinks from the bar to customers’ tables. I stole a quick look at the orders; always a good indication of how we were travelling. There were twenty-odd yellow post-it notes queued up on the counter and Jason, the young guy on cook’s duty, was picking them up and laying them down about as fast he could possibly go. Billy chipped in to help in between manning the cash register and together they were a formidable team, making up a pizza in thirty seconds flat. They had a good system and were coping with the rush, but even so, I sometimes felt tempted to roll up my sleeves and get behind the counter to help out on a busy night like tonight. I’d seriously thought about it, dropping the silent partner bit and going public that I owned the place. But Gino’s was my bolthole. Nobody but Billy knew it was mine and I didn’t want to be a slave to the business like I knew I surely would if I became actively involved.
Billy looked up over the counter and gave me a grin.
‘G’day, Punter. Usual table? Usual pizza?’
The place was full but there’s always a little table down the back that Billy keeps reserved for me in the evenings. It’s the only extravagance I afford myself; after all, what’s the point of owning a restaurant if you can’t get a table?
‘You got it, Billy. A coldie wouldn’t go astray either.’
‘One Seafood Delight and a Beck’s to table seventeen,’ he said, writing down the order and putting it at the front of the pile. Jumping the queue was another advantage that came your way when you owned your own joint. Billy brought over my beer and a lemon squash for himself and joined me.
‘Don’t let me stop you if you’re busy,’ I said.
‘Nah, we’ve stemmed the tide. It’ll ease off now till about eight before it starts picking up again. I may as well take a break now, while I can.’
Billy took a gulp of his squash and wiped his mouth with his hand. ‘Hey, guess who called me back yesterday?’
‘Let me guess. Mr Protector?’
Billy nodded. ‘He asked if I’d had a chance to think through his proposal.’
‘No kidding. What did you tell him?’
‘I gave him the same answer as before. Told him to piss off.’
‘Good.’
We chewed the fat while waiting for my pizza. Billy and I are careful not to talk business openly in front of staff if I drop by during working hours, so we usually confine our conversation to the horses. To them, I’m just a regular customer and a punting mate of Billy’s.
‘Hey, did you hear about that other strapper who got murdered?’ he said. ‘That’s the third one. What the hell’s goin’ on out there?’
I shook my head. ‘Some crazy, that’s for sure.’
‘The second one worked for your old man, didn’t she?’
‘Yeah. Carmen Leek.’
‘She just lived around the corner. Used to drop by here regularly. A lovely kid; she didn’t deserve to die like that.’
‘None of them did, Billy.’
When I got back to my van I called the hospital again and asked to be put through to Maxine. There was a short delay, then the receptionist apologised.
‘I’m afraid Ms Henshaw has checked out,’ she said. Made it sound like a hotel.
‘She’s left?’ I must have sounded like the none-too-well-informed boyfriend, which indeed I was.
‘I’m sorry . . . you’re family, a friend of hers?’
‘Friend. I was going to drop around and visit her tonight.’
‘Yes, well, she signed out earlier this evening. Her father took her home, I believe.’
Her father, for Christ sake.
‘So she’s quite okay then?’
‘We wouldn’t release her unless she was.’
I thanked the receptionist and hung up. Bloody Henshaw, whisking his daughter home before I could see her again. Cantankerous old fool. I sank back into my seat. Hadn’t started the engine up yet, just sulked over the way he was getting on my goat. Hang on a minute, why was he shitting me? Why was I letting him? Put aside the fact I’d decked him; he’d started that himself. But he was Maxine’s father, and he was entitled to take her home and make sure she was okay. I thought about it for a moment before it materialised. Why hadn’t I been told? That was the real reason, wasn’t it? Maxine hadn’t told me she was leaving the hospital and I felt I was the one who should have been there to take her home, not her overbearing, protective wanker of a father. Stuff him, I’d call her at home, let her know I was there for her.
I tried her mobile number, but it switched to her voice mail, so I left a message. Then I sent a follow-up text message, too. It was the longest text that clumsy-fingers me had ever sent her. Was there any more I could do tonight? Perhaps drop around to her apartment? If Henshaw was still there, then I definitely didn’t want another run-in with him. But I had her home number and I decided to call that and see if I could reach her. It was a no-go. All I got was her businesslike voice on the recorder inviting me to leave my name and number and she would return my call as soon as she was able. I pictured her as she spoke. Even if you’d never seen Maxine, you’d imagine her as pretty, vibrant and sexy, just from her voice.
I started to leave a message, but as soon as I mentioned my name the phone picked up at the other end. ‘Maxine, is that you? It’s Punter.’
‘No, it’s not.’
I didn’t need an introduction to know whose voice was on the other end of the line.
‘Oh goody, my favourite pa.’
‘Don’t you dare talk to me like that. You’ve caused enough trouble for today. What do you want?’
‘What, are you Maxine’s PA?’
‘Don’t be so bloody impertinent.’
‘I didn’t realise Maxine was checking out of the hospital today.’
‘Well, why would you? You’ve hardly been sighted the entire time she’s been there. Do you think we’re going to ask your permission?’
Ignore. ‘I want to speak to her.’
‘You can’t, she’s not available.’
‘Bullshit, put her on.’
‘Is she okay?’
‘She’ll be all right. No thanks to you.’
‘Is it any use asking you to tell her I called?’
A churlish snort was my response.
It was almost a dead heat to see who hung up first, but I think I won by a short half head. Jammed my thumb on the button and cut the stubborn bastard off before I had to endure another word. It was bloody hopeless, wasn’t it.
Next morning’s headlines just about screamed at me to read them immediately. The Herald Sun went for the sensational: ‘Strapper slaughter – serial killer runs amok’. It ran stories and photos over several pages, including the sports section, with commentary from several leading trainers, jockeys and administrators. They’d even asked my father what he thought:
Leading trainer David Punter, whose employee Carmen Leek was one of the recent murder victims said, ‘The police need to catch this madman and catch him quickly.’ Meanwhile Adrian Nicholls, Secretary of the Australian Workers Union, said he wanted to see some immediate action by the racing clubs to improve security, or else he’d have to consider recommending that stablehands take strike action. ‘You can’t expect our female strappers to work in an environment where a killer seems to be able to pick them off at will. The clubs need to get off their arses and do something before it’s too late. These are human lives we’re talking about.’ Melbourne Racing Club CEO, Morris Wilby, agreed that security needed to be improved, but added that talk of strikes by the union was premature. ‘Of course we’re working closely with police in all of this, but how far do you go, what exactly do you protect? You can’t just throw a cordon around every stable and every strapper working at the races. And talk of strikes is nonsense, you can’t just shut down an entire industry.’ Police have told the Herald Sun that they are currently investigating the murders of three female stablehands over the past month, and while they are pursuing several lines of inquiry, they would appreciate any information that the public may be able to provide.
The Age’s story, written by Kate and another reporter, covered similar ground. They’d interviewed some female strappers from around Caulfield stables and asked them what they thought. The response was predictable:
‘I’m scared to walk to work in the morning,’ said Jessica Railings, who works for local trainer Mick Price. ‘We’ve all arranged to car pool until this is over.’ Another strapper, who didn’t want to be named or photographed, had this to say: ‘It’s like someone’s hunting us. Am I scared? Of course I am, we all are. You’d be a fool not to be thinking about it.’
Kate had also interviewed a criminal psychologist, a professor Andrea Rose, and got her slant on who the killer might be.
‘It’s always interesting to speculate in these cases as to what sort of profile a killer may have. The public expect them to be readily identifiable monsters. But they’re not always the people we imagine them to be. The stereotype we have of them – bullied as kids, cruel to animals and pulled the wings off flies – doesn’t always apply. But they’re usually single, uneducated males who have had trouble forming long-term relationships. There are so many other factors and in this case, there’s simply not enough known at this point to make an accurate guess about the killer’s profile.’
Over breakfast, I read through all the articles again. Jesus, talk about media hype. I wondered if there would be the same coverage if three homeless people had been found stabbed to death by the river. Probably not, but then again they weren’t young and female and didn’t work in an industry which is constantly in the public eye.
My mobile rang. Maxine.
‘Hello stranger,’ she said.
‘Hi luv. You okay?’
‘I’m fine. Feels like I haven’t seen you for weeks, though.’
‘Yesterday morning, actually. But it hasn’t been from want of trying. That father of yours set up a cordon around you tighter than security at the White House.’
‘It’s about time you two learnt to get on.’
‘I must admit I’ve never dated a girl whose father I had to fight off.’
‘You two are like a cat and dog.’
‘I think we need a mediator.’
‘You’ll have to sort it out. You’re both adults.’
‘I thought we did.’
‘Yes, using my hospital room as a boxing ring. I heard you both got thrown out. Probably a good thing too. Dad’s got a black eye, you know; did you have to hit him so hard?’
I let it pass. ‘What are you doing today? How about I take you out for a nice long lunch?’
‘No, I’m working. Gotta get on top of things.’
‘You’re mad; you’ve only just come back from being knocked out.’
‘It was only concussion. Won’t stop me if I take things easy.’
I snorted. Maxine take things easy? That’ll be the day.
‘I promise I will,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you come over for dinner tonight and afterwards you can show me how much you missed me.’
‘Growwwl.’
‘I take it that’s a yes, then?’
I got another call shortly after, this time from Jim Beering.
‘Punter, I need to see you.’
Typical Beering. He expected a lot from his friends and associates. No ‘Would you mind?’ or ‘Are you available?’ Just an abrupt order barked out, taking it for granted you’d comply whenever or wherever you were. A throwback to his cop days.
‘I might be busy, Jim, have to check the diary first.’
Beering scoffed. ‘You, busy on a Monday morning! All you’ll be doin’ is going through last Saturday’s results for about the fifth time. Drop around my office. I’ll expect you at nine sharp.’
‘You want to tell me what’s up?’
‘I’ll explain when you get here,’ he said, and hung up.
9
On the way over to Beering’s office at Caulfield racecourse, I switched on the radio in my van. It’s tuned in to the racing station, of course, but after five minutes of listening to scratchings and track conditions from around Australia, I starting pushing the buttons, roaming around for something different. The first station I changed to was the Russell Henshaw show and, as usual, he was right in the middle of applying the blowtorch to someone.
‘Two things I want to raise this morning,’ said Henshaw in a commanding preacher’s tone, his voice proclaiming a fervent gospel to his multitude of listeners. ‘One is an issue that is spreading like a cancer across our community. I refer, of course, to the ever-growing wave of violence in our city. Nightclub revellers, intoxicated by alcohol and drugs, fighting amongst themselves and innocent citizens as police stand by, seemingly powerless to stop them. This isn’t an isolated incident. It’s happening each and every night. Young drunken packs of hoons choosing to drink until they drop. They’re holding this city to ransom with their reprehensible behaviour while the rest of us have to put up with it. The senseless assaults on the public, police and even ambulance officers. The filthy language and offensive behaviour. The robberies and damage to property. I tell you, it has to stop.’
Henshaw paused for a moment before continuing.
‘I have to declare a personal interest in this matter,’ he said solemnly. ‘My own daughter was the victim of a savage attack only last Friday night.’
Henshaw stopped speaking again for effect and I could imagine his legions of fans gasping in shock.
‘She was lucky to get out of that situation alive. Obviously the police aren’t able to do anything and the city council seems to have washed its hands of the whole affair. Mind you, they don’t knock back the licence fees for the liquor permits they issue to the bars and clubs that are opening in endless numbers. I tell you, listeners, it’s out of control and it’s got to stop. And another thing . . .’
Henshaw could sure waffle on, but he was only getting warmed up. The nig
htclub tirade was only an appetiser to what was coming.
‘Over the past month, we’ve witnessed no fewer than three murders, three vicious murders of young female stablehands. It seems the police are no closer to finding the killer than they were a month ago when the killings first started. It’s obvious we’ve got a lunatic out there, but what are the police doing apart from making excuses and shuffling paperwork? Well, we’re going to find out. I have the police commissioner here with me and in a moment I’m going to ask him exactly what is being done. We have a right to safety and peace in our community, and I tell you we’re not getting it. This city is falling apart at the seams. It’s disintegrating into a cesspit of drunkenness, violence and flagrant disregard of the law. I’m going to open the lines for some calls before we go to the police commissioner. We’ve got Trevor from Ringwood on the line. Trevor, let me ask you this, do you feel safe at night?’
What did Trevor think? What the hell else was Trevor, or any other of Henshaw’s pre-conditioned listeners going to say after being whipped into a frenzy by his right-wing diatribe? For Christ sake. I listened to three callers in rapid succession, all of whom would have gladly agreed to the army marching in and declaring martial law if Henshaw had decreed it. He finally put the police commissioner on and to the man’s credit, I thought he did a half-reasonable job of defending himself. But every time he looked like answering a question and wriggling off the hook, Henshaw would cut him off and try to trip him up again.
