Silk Chaser

by Peter Klein

  ‘So you say you’re no closer to catching this killer?’

  ‘I didn’t say that,’ said the police commissioner. ‘I said that we were following several lines of enquiry.’

  ‘But you’ve had to appeal to the public for help?’

  ‘That’s true. If the public can help us in any way we’ve set up a hotline which they can call –’

  ‘So I put it to you that in effect you’ve no idea who this strapper killer is, have you?’

  ‘Those words are yours, not mine. We don’t know enough about this person to classify them, nor will I, or my department, use sensational descriptions in referring to the killer.’

  ‘So you’ve got no description, no motive and no suspect, is that correct, Commissioner?’

  ‘As I said, we are following several lines of enquiry.’

  ‘But in the meantime these killings could well continue unabated?’

  ‘I hardly think you need to exaggerate the situation.’

  ‘Commissioner, I want to put aside the serial killer for the moment and talk about the extraordinary nightclub violence that seems to be taking over the city. It’s quite apparent that the police are powerless to do anything about it. We’re going to throw the lines open to our listeners again, so they can ask you themselves why no action is being taken . . .’

  And so it went on. I wouldn’t have swapped positions with the police commissioner for tomorrow’s racing results given to me today. That poor sod was copping an absolute caning from Henshaw. But I guess that’s how the top shock jocks operated; they didn’t win ratings points by being nice to people. I switched the radio off in disgust as I turned my van into the red-brick gateway of Caulfield racecourse.

  Beering’s office is located under the escalator of the members’ grandstand. You wouldn’t know there’s an office there except for the tinted glass window by the side wall. There was no one manning the reception area yet, but his door was open so I walked through and found him sitting at his desk. He looked like he’d been at work for a few hours already. The coffee in the percolator was half empty and he was surrounded by scrunched-up newspapers. His tie was at half mast and he wore the frown of a man whose problems were not going away.

  ‘Morning, Jim.’

  He nodded at me then jerked his head towards the percolator. ‘Coffee, if you want one.’

  I grabbed a mug off the sideboard, helped myself, then sat down in the chair in front of his desk.

  ‘Do you know why I asked you here this morning?’ he said, folding his fingers church-steeple style under his chin.

  I looked at the newspapers on his desk, all of them opened to the very stories I’d been reading myself earlier that morning. ‘Let me guess, you’re looking for a good thing in the third at Swan Hill today?’

  ‘I didn’t call you in to tip me a winner, Punter.’

  ‘I didn’t think so.’

  He pushed one of the papers forward. ‘You read the news this morning, all this stuff about the strapper killer?’

  ‘Read it. Heard it. They had the police commissioner on the radio being made to jump through hoops by Mr Shock Jock himself, Russell Henshaw.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I’m not surprised he’s jumpin’ through hoops. We all are. The police, the race clubs, management, trainers and strappers – especially strappers. We’re all feeling the heat.’

  Beering got up and started pacing the room, his hands behind his back like he was on patrol. ‘I’ve been instructed by upstairs to drop everything and give this absolute priority. Do whatever it takes to help the police find this bloke and put a stop to it.’

  I turned my chair around so I could see him without straining my neck. Damn pacing habit of his would send me to a chiropractor yet.

  ‘This is going to have a real impact on the racing industry if we don’t put an end to it. We’ve got young girls too afraid to walk to work in the morning. The clubs have been put on notice by the union, so there could be industrial stoppages. If they call off the races it’s going to affect betting turnover and if they do that, it’s going to impact on prize money and if –’

  ‘Oh for Christ sake, Jim, I don’t need a bloody economics lecture. I get the picture. I’d like to see the killer caught as much as the next bloke.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear that because I need your help to catch him.’

  ‘Me? Oh right, I’ll just pull out my black book and look up “S” for serial killers and give you his details.’

  ‘Get serious, Punter. You know a lot of people on and off the track, talk to people I wouldn’t know existed.’

  ‘So I mix in certain circles. I don’t see how that’s going to help you.’

  Beering sat down again and leant forward over his desk, his fingers resuming the church-steeple impersonation. ‘Listen, every piece of information helps and at the moment, the police have hardly got a scrap. I know you a whole lot better than you know yourself. You see things others don’t notice. People open up and talk to you about stuff they wouldn’t say to others.’

  ‘Yeah, they talk about borrowing a lazy spot to tide them over until next week’s pay, is what my contacts discuss.’

  ‘Don’t sell yourself short, son. Remember that insurance scam with that dodgy Kiwi trainer? Or what about when O’Reilly’s horses were getting nobbled? You were like a dog with a bone, wouldn’t let it go. Even I told you to leave it alone. But you found out who it was. And that drug trafficker, Carvill-Smyth. It was your sniffing around that put him away.’

  Beering was playing to my ego. It was true, I had helped by passing on bits of information here and there in the past. But I’d also had my own reasons to stick my beak in where it wasn’t wanted. Family or friends had been involved in those cases and I’d gladly helped out. This was different. I had no direct involvement. No compelling motivation to volunteer for a job that wasn’t mine to do.

  ‘What’s this, an episode of This is Your Life?’

  He blinked at me patiently. ‘Look, all I want you to do is keep your eyes and ears open, and if you pick up anything, let me know about it. You’d be doing me a favour, and god knows you owe me plenty.’

  ‘That’s all?’

  ‘That’s all.’

  I shrugged. What the heck, it wouldn’t hurt, and the track would be full of gossip this week anyway. ‘All right, I’ll do what I can, Jim,’ I said, standing up.

  ‘Good man,’ he said. It was the first time he’d smiled all morning.

  How about the papers this morning, can you believe the shit they write? ‘Psycho serial killer’. ‘Sadistic strapper slayer’. ‘Strapper killer strikes again’. Why is it that papers always try to use matching-lettered words in a headline? At least those lazy reporters have finally started to get their act together; have actually woken up to the fact that, hello, three strappers murdered in a month just may be related. The idiots. Still, I have to admit I get a certain satisfaction from reading about my deeds and I’m careful to cut out all the clippings no matter how badly they’re written.

  I re-read all of the articles about Melissa Jordan. They left out any mention of sexual assault, although I thought that would have been obvious given the state that I’d left her in. The other two, Julie Summers and Carmen Leek, had been reported as being sexually assaulted. Perhaps it has something to do with the process of the official autopsy. Or maybe it’s just the cops holding back information. Not wanting to scare the public any more than they have to. But there are other details they’re sitting on, too. Things that matter, like the lipstick message I made those harlots write. Doesn’t the public have the right to know why they died? I flick through my clippings again and think about it some more. The police don’t necessarily release all information from a crime scene. Everyone knows they hide certain bits and pieces away in their back pocket, just like on TV. So maybe the press haven’t been fully informed. Or maybe the police requested they leave it out.

  The skin on the back of my neck is tender where she scratched me. The filthy bitch, s
he fought like a tiger. The first one I’ve struck who really put up a fight, though Julie might have got a scratch in before she realised how pointless it was. Reminds me a bit of that stray cat I trapped when I was a kid. Remember . . . I cornered it in the garage and threw bits of red-gum firewood at it. The first one copped it a beauty, knocked it arse over. It tried to hide, find cover amongst the shelves and boxes, but the firewood was heavy and my aim was good. After the fourth or fifth hit the cat had nowhere to run. It knew it, too. Made a strange high-pitched growling sound like I’d never heard a cat make. As if to say, I’m afraid of you, but if I can’t escape I’m not going down without a fight. Didn’t do it any good, just like it didn’t do sweet Melissa Jordan any good either. But what if she’d scratched my face or my eyes? Left some telltale visible evidence for someone to start asking questions about? I’ll just have to be a bit more careful in the future. Do a proper job right from the start.

  I got an interesting call around lunchtime from Chas Bannon. Chas is a wonderful old trainer, but he’s actually wheelchair-bound these days and just pokes along with a few horses in his stables. But he’s been an astute horseman in his time, a ‘money trainer’ with a reputation for bringing off a plunge. Now and then he’d call me if he had something he was setting up. Get me to put a commission on for him and make sure he got the right odds. Five or six times he’d done that and he wasn’t often wrong either. But today he wasn’t calling up about any plunge he was setting up.

  ‘How are you, son, you still backin’ a winner?’ he said. Everyone was ‘son’ to Chas, easier than trying to remember names at his age. Women were simply addressed as ‘lass’.

  ‘Trying to, Chas. What about you? Been a while since that last horse you set up at Seymour. You’ve probably still got money left from that stashed in a chaff bag under your bed.’

  Chas laughed. An old man’s chuckle; honest and hearty. ‘Yeah, we got plenty that day, didn’t we, son? Twenties into threes. Horses like Mystic don’t come along too often, do they?’

  ‘You got another one like him; that why you calling?’

  ‘No, no business like that. I was wondering, you want to go to the sales for me on Friday? Put your hand up for a horse I’m keen on.’

  ‘Where, Oaklands?’

  ‘Yeah, they got a clearing sale this week. There’s a half sister to that good mare Frollick I trained, up for sale. The breeder knows I’d be a sucker to buy her if I turn up. I stand out like a sore thumb in my wheelchair at the sales. I was thinking if you went along and bid, it wouldn’t drive the price up nearly as much as if I was there.’

  ‘You think you can steal her, getting me to bid for you?’

  ‘No, but I won’t get ripped off by that greedy vendor putting in dummy bids. I know the tricks that sly dog gets up to. There’s a drink in it for you.’

  The sales; I hadn’t been to the horse sales since last autumn. Next Friday would only have the usual ho-hum sub-standard bush meeting. Might make a nice diversion. Why not.

  ‘I’d be glad to go out for you, Chas. And don’t worry about the drink either. Just remember me when you’ve got another Mystic going around.’

  Chas gave another warm chuckle. ‘Thanks, son. I’ll call you later in the week and let you know what’s going on.’

  Later that evening at Maxine’s she said, ‘I’ve got a little something for you.’

  ‘Oooh, I like presents,’ I said.

  She giggled, stood up in her dressing gown in front of the couch where we’d both been sitting eating takeaway for dinner. She disappeared for a moment to one of the back rooms. It might have been her bedroom or one of the guest rooms. You could get lost in her apartment, the size of the thing. When she came back, she was carrying a bright pink gift bag with a small parcel wrapped up in tissue paper inside it.

  ‘For me, what is it?’ I said, holding it up and inspecting it.

  ‘Go on, open it, slow coach!’

  I did. Inside the tissue paper was a little velvet jeweller’s box with the promise of unknown baubles inside. I opened the lid.

  ‘Well, what do you think?’

  Bit lost for words, really. Well, wasn’t quite expecting it; didn’t know that I actually wanted it.

  ‘God, Punter. Don’t look so excited!’

  ‘No, I am. Really.’

  I held the key out in front of me and forced a smile. ‘It’s just that I wasn’t expecting you to, you know, commit to anything with me.’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake. It’s just the key to my apartment. It means you can come and go without having to worry if I’m here or not. I thought it was a nice little way to say thank you for everything.’

  ‘It’s a beautiful way to say thank you.’

  ‘You mean it?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  She placed a hand on my thigh, gave it a bit of squeeze. ‘I know another way to say thank you.’

  ‘Didn’t we just do that?’

  She slowly undid the belt of her gown, let it fall open. ‘That was hours ago.’

  I took a peek. Magnificent. Then looked down at the key I held in my hand. Maybe this wasn’t going to be such a bad arrangement.

  ‘You’re right. Hours ago.’

  The next morning after breakfast, I left Maxine’s place with a kiss and a promise that we’d talk again soon, then jumped in my van to drive home. Before I turned the key, I switched on my phone and saw that Billy had sent me a text early that morning. Really early; two twenty-seven, to be exact. The text said: Gino’s window smashed AGAIN. Call me.

  I did. Billy picked up the phone almost straightaway.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘That bastard’s been at it again. And to think, we only just got the window fixed last week! I can’t believe this is happening.’

  ‘Whoa, slow down, Billy. Tell me what’s going on.’

  ‘The window, it was smashed again last night. I’d only been in bed for an hour before I heard the sound of smashing glass. I looked down from my window upstairs and heard a car drive away, but I didn’t see anything. When I got downstairs it was like a bomb had gone off. Glass everywhere. I’ve already had the security firm come around and put up shutters. And I’ve called the glaziers again; Christ, they may as well camp over if this keeps up. ’Bout the only thing that escaped any serious damage was that Santa poster. Just copped a couple of small tears, nothing that can’t be sticky-taped back together.’

  ‘At least that’s something.’

  I took in what Billy had just told me. The guy had called our bluff and the problem wasn’t going to go away.

  ‘Okay, Billy, here’s what’s going to happen. The guy offering to protect Gino’s from vandalism is going to ring you.’

  ‘He is?’

  I sighed. ‘Trust me, Billy, he’s going to call. And when he does, I want you to tell him you’ve changed your mind, that maybe you hadn’t thought this through properly.’

  ‘I haven’t?’

  ‘Billy, listen. Just set up a meeting at Gino’s with this guy, anytime in the afternoon while we’re closed. Can you do that?’

  ‘Okay, I’ll do what you ask. Are you going to pay this guy to get him off our backs?’

  ‘I just want to talk to the guy.’

  When I finally got back to my apartment, Che gave me a hard time.

  ‘Reeeeeoooow.’

  ‘I know, I’m late for your breakfast.’

  Another yowl. Where had I been? Very disappointed with my behaviour, so forth.

  ‘Well, yes, I stayed over at Maxine’s, but that’s none of your business.’

  I gave him a bowl of his Fussy Feline, then I made myself a pot of freshly ground coffee and loaded up the toaster with a couple of thick slabs of rye. I’d already had breakfast at Maxine’s earlier that morning. She’d fixed me one of her healthy meals – yoghurt and fruit – which hadn’t exactly filled me up, and she only had herbal tea for liquid refreshments. If I was going to become a more permanent boarder at her lodgings, then I could se
e some changes would need to be made to our grocery arrangements. I thought about her giving me the spare key. Did that mean I’d have to reciprocate, give her a key to my place? Shit, this was starting to get complicated. What was the etiquette here? Did I want Maxine popping in and out of my place unannounced? I liked my privacy, my little castle. What had I got myself into?

  ‘Che, how would you feel if Maxine came to stay, like on a regular basis?’

  A sullen look, then he turned his back on me. Not the most encouraging response.

  ‘Yeah, well, it’s not up to you anyway, buster.’

  Maybe I should call Kate; she’d know what to do in a situation like this. Then I thought better of it. You never discuss something like that with an ex. Jesus, I could get myself into a pickle. I pondered my ‘problem’ and decided that overall it wasn’t such a bad deal. Plenty of guys I know would be glad to swap places with me, have Maxine Henshaw’s key in their pockets. Speaking of Henshaw, I flicked on the radio, realising that his show would be on. God, did this mean I was becoming a fan?

  It took me a little time to realise who he was talking to this morning, then the penny dropped: some Yank expert on serial killers.

  ‘. . . And tell me, Doctor Lamare, from your experience, what makes them the sort of person they are? What turns a perfectly normal human being into a monster? Because that’s what they are, aren’t they?’

  Lead the witness, why don’t you? Typical Henshaw.

  ‘Well,’ said Lamare, ‘most people would certainly describe them that way. But a serial killer wouldn’t necessarily see themselves as a monster. Indeed, many would be adamant they are doing good. For example, there was a guy they caught killing prostitutes not long ago in DC. He was convinced he was carrying out God’s work and cleansing the streets of temptation for mankind. You see, in many cases it’s about their ability to hold the power of life and death. It’s probably the only real power they’ve been able to exert in their lives, which is why they go on killing.’