by Peter Klein
I disrobed her, of course, not that the slut was wearing anything much. Tied her hands, wrapped some tape around her mouth. No struggles there. Almost like she’d accepted her fate. The fancy hat was a bonus; I honestly hadn’t expected to find it sitting on the trophy like it was. I was going to make her wear the boots too; she showed me where they were in the wardrobe. But by the time I’d got her to write the lipstick message, Punter had come back. Jesus, that was close. Just had time to flick off the light. He was such a suspicious bastard, wasn’t he? The way he called out to her, paused at the door and wouldn’t come in – almost like he knew I was in there.
Did he see me? No, not in that darkened bedroom, he couldn’t have. I’m certain of that. Best he would have got was a glimpse of my back as he chased me out. She saw me of course, as indeed all the others did. I was wearing the jockey’s cap, although that hardly disguised my face. I’d never bothered with a mask; there was no need because that was the last time any of them would ever see me again. But she’s still alive and there is a possibility she may be able to describe me to the police, or maybe recognise me again at the track.
What if . . . wait a minute, be cool. She doesn’t hang out where I go. Doesn’t mix in the circles I do. And even if she does describe me to the cops, she still doesn’t know me from a bar of soap. I could be anyone and, let’s face it, I dress differently at the races from what I do for my night job. Even so, it’s cutting it close. It was below par, a sloppy piece of business. And sloppy business is unfinished business. You’ll have to make amends, son. Pay her another visit. And as for her smart-arse boyfriend, he’s a fucking liability. Who says the strapper killer should confine his work only to women?
17
Three days had passed since the attack.
Maxine and I were looking at a police identikit image in the Herald Sun’s crimebeat section. We had the paper spread out on my regular table at Gino’s and we were studying the photo over a couple of drinks while waiting for our order. The press had wasted no time in reporting the latest strapper attack and splashed out the headlines with gusto. The fact that it involved Russell Henshaw’s daughter certainly didn’t hurt paper sales, and it rekindled the strapper killer mania which had gone quiet since Kagan Hall’s death.
The police had withheld a lot of what had actually happened that night. That included mention of my name. I was referred to as the ‘friend’ who had come back and disturbed the intruder. They’d also kept silent about the chilling lipstick message he’d made Maxine write on her mirror, and also about the jockey silks he was wearing. But the one thing they did plaster up was images of the strapper killer in newspapers, on the TV and various websites. Disappointingly, no one had come forward with a positive identification. Beering had told me that one lady rang in convinced it was her husband. The likeness was uncanny, but the husband had been working on an oil rig in Bass Strait at the time. Other than that, the only leads that police had received was their list of regular confessors, ringing in and admitting to a crime they couldn’t possibly have committed. They all had to be checked out, though, which took precious time and resources.
‘So that’s him then?’ I said.
‘Of course it’s him,’ she said, a touch defensively. ‘Do we really have to eat here?’
‘Huh, why? What’s wrong?’
She eyed the walls critically and settled back to the menu. ‘I don’t know. It feels kind of cheap.’
‘Cheap? It’s a pizza joint. It’s not the Hyatt.’
‘I know. I guess I just don’t like pizza that much.’
‘You can get other stuff here besides pizza, you know.’ Now it was my turn to be a little miffed. Knocking my restaurant, so forth. ‘There’s pasta and they’ll do you up a nice salad if you want.’
‘I don’t want a salad, Punter. I’m not hungry.’
I looked at the image again. The strapper killer’s eyes peered out at us from underneath the headline. The caption read: Do you know this man? Police ask that anyone recognising this person please contact Crimestoppers immediately. On no account should the public approach this person directly.
‘So that’s what he really looks like?’
‘I just said that, didn’t I? You sound like one of those detectives back at the station.’ A pause, then, ‘Well, it’s the closest picture the police could come up with.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘It’s just that his picture hasn’t drawn a single lead.’
‘You think I don’t know that? That I don’t want him caught? You make it sound like it’s my fault the photo’s not working.’
Prickly. Very prickly.
She picked up the paper, scrutinised the picture again and then let it drop to the table in obvious frustration.
‘Oh shit, I don’t know if it’s him or not,’ she said. ‘You sit down with the police and you feel like you’re under so much pressure to supply an exact description. They give you so many options; eyebrows thick, eyebrows skinny. Wide eyes, wicked eyes. Noses; they’ve got nose shapes I’ve never even seen before. They ask you; darker or lighter, smaller or bigger. It’s all so confusing. I really don’t know if it’s the guy I saw or not. But it’s the closest I can come up with, even if he does look a bit, I dunno, lifeless.’
‘That’s the thing, isn’t it?’
‘It’s lacking something. Missing something. It’s his likeness, but it hasn’t got . . .’
‘Soul?’
‘Yeah, that’s what it’s missing. It needs some soul to bring it alive.’
Billy brought my pizza over. A sizzling Seafood Delight straight from the oven. He’s got a way of melting the cheese over the anchovies and marinara mix that’s to die for.
‘Sure you don’t want some?’
Maxine turned her nose up at it, but her eyes wouldn’t leave the plate. ‘Maybe just a bite then.’
‘What we need to do,’ I said, chewing a mouthful, ‘is try another way to bring him to life.’
‘I don’t think I can do any better describing it to that police artist. She’s got all the latest software and imaging gear and I’ve had two sessions with her already. There comes a point you just start confusing them and yourself.’
‘I wasn’t thinking of going back to the police.’
The following Saturday’s races were at Caulfield. I walked through the members’ entrance and tipped George his usual ‘fee’. He thanked me with a polite doff of his Salvation Army cap and wished me a good day’s punting.
‘Hope it all works out,’ he said.
I wished he was right, because according to Beering, the search for the strapper killer was doing anything but working out. I dropped into his office under the grandstand and found him leafing through some files at his desk.
‘Those colours you saw, Punter, they can’t find hide or hair of ’em.’
‘What do you mean? Someone must have registered them. They’ve got to be tucked away in a database somewhere.’
‘No, you don’t understand. It’s not that simple.’
‘What could be so hard? All they’re doing is looking for red and white striped colours, for Christ sake. Surely there can’t be too many of those around.’
Beering got up from his desk and started pacing the room with his hands behind his back; a sure sign things weren’t going well. I swivelled around in my chair to face him.
‘Problem is, there’s no sign of those colours in the database. They’ve checked it over thoroughly with the racing club. There’ve been a few similar variations of white and red patterns, but nothing quite like what you described.’
‘But there must be. They just can’t have found them yet.’
Beering stopped his pacing and sat on the ledge of the tinted window which overlooked the betting ring. Outside, punters were busying themselves for the next race, studying their formguides and scanning the bookmakers’ betting boards for the latest prices.
‘The club’s database only goes back twenty years or so. Anything earlier is in the arc
hives at the Australian Racing Museum.’
‘Archives?’
‘Yeah, old racebooks and racing calendars, to be precise. Anything prior to setting up their computer database is still in those. They’ve got books from every meeting from way back to when Archer won the Cup. They reckon that if these are colours from the sixties, they’ll be in the archives somewhere. Only trouble is, you’ve got to look through I dunno how many old race books and calendars to try and find a description of ’em. You got any idea how many races they have to sift through?’
‘When did they start up the database?’
‘Late eighties.’
‘So to be thorough, they’ve got to go all through that decade plus the race books from the seventies and sixties manually to try and find a description of these colours?’
‘Yep, and maybe even earlier if we don’t get lucky first.’
I did the maths. We’ve got fifty-odd race meetings a week now Australia-wide. Probably a quarter as many back then. At least thirty or forty years of race books to get through. My face must have said it all.
‘A bloody shitload,’ said Beering. ‘The bloody books are all listed as of historical interest too, so the museum won’t accept a team of hamfisted detectives thumbing through the pages and damaging the things.’
‘How else are they going to get through it?’
‘They’ve got a couple of the museum’s researchers going through them as a matter of priority.’
I pictured a couple of elderly librarians, methodically sifting through each page at a snail’s pace.
‘Christ, that’ll take forever.’
Beering nodded. ‘Welcome to police life, son. Investigations are rarely easy. Meanwhile, we’re back to security measures till this prick’s caught.’
‘I didn’t seem to notice any extra security when I walked in.’
‘Change of tack,’ he said, tapping his nose. ‘The blanket coverage hasn’t worked and the clubs can’t afford to pay for it indefinitely, so they’ve accepted my recommendations.’
‘Which are?’
‘Smaller and smarter. We’re going covert. Rather than have a dozen security guards traipsing around the mounting yard, we’re going to watch the yard with undercover staff. See if we can spot anyone with a likeness to this guy watching from the mounting yard. We’ll be up in the stands too, looking down and trying to pick out anyone suspicious. Eh, you could lend a hand there yourself. ’Stead of gazin’ at horses tryin’ to work out why they got beat, you could put those glasses to good work and see if you can spot him in the crowd.’
‘I can do that.’
‘The other thing we’re going to try,’ said Beering, giving up his window position and sitting back at his desk, ‘is a decoy. We’ve got a policewoman from the mounted division playing at being a strapper. She’s going to lead horses around just as if she was a real stablehand. Obviously, she’ll have a team of detectives ready to call in if she sees anything suspicious. Your old man’s kindly offered to participate in the plan and let the police strapper lead in any of his horses on raceday, starting from today. We think it’s a long shot, but you never know, it may pay off.’
I thought Beering’s plan of watching for the killer secretly was a far better option than blanket security coverage. At least they had a rough description of what he looked like and a slim chance of picking him out in the crowd. And the undercover cop pretending to be a strapper might not be such a silly idea either. It was certainly worth a try.
‘What about Maxine? He’s still out there; you think he might make another attempt on her?’ I said.
‘Who knows with this creep. At least she’s given herself peace of mind by quitting that place she was in and moving in with her father. Given Homicide some peace of mind too; her old man’s St Kilda Road penthouse has got better security than the Reserve Bank.’ He gave it some thought. ‘Eh, I’m surprised she didn’t move in with you, Punter.’
‘Yeah, well, perhaps it’s best she didn’t. Besides, she and my cat don’t get on.’
Beering chuckled. ‘Can only be one boss in each household. And as far as her workplace goes, she uses a busy serviced office which the police are going to keep an eye on. She’s agreed not to do anything silly either, like work back late when no one’s around. And between you and her old man looking out for her, she should be okay. She’s got a direct line to police if she needs someone in a hurry.’
I stood up to leave and told him I’d keep an eye out for anyone in the crowd who looked remotely like the strapper killer.
‘Cheers, Punter. And I know it mightn’t sound like it, but believe me, we’re closing in.’
‘I hope so, Jim.’
I was halfway out the door when he called out.
‘Eh, you gonna tip me anything today?’
When I left Beering’s office, I went over to the café where I knew I’d find Daisy working. As usual, she was manning the till and she greeted me like a grandson who hasn’t had a decent feed in ages.
‘You’re definitely getting thinner, luv,’ she told me. ‘What you need is a decent roast. Let me serve you up some lamb from the carvery myself, before you waste away in front of me.’
Good old Daisy, her cure-all for everything was an old-fashioned roast. I don’t know what her husband died from, but I’m guessing it wasn’t starvation.
‘If you don’t mind, Daisy, I’ll pass on the roast and just grab a cup of tea. But I was hoping to have a quiet word with you. Can you take a break for five minutes? Something I wanted to ask you about.’
‘Of course, luv, let me get one of the girls to mind the till and I’ll join you for a cuppa.’
After I’d spoken to Daisy, I walked back out into the mounting yard. Time to do some business. Pricey had a horse, Save Us, that I gave a chance in the fourth. A big strong chestnut that had obviously thrived since his last run. I watched him stride around the mounting yard; a big ball of muscle just waiting to be unleashed. My father also had a runner in the race, although I didn’t rate it a chance. I didn’t recognise the strapper leading it around until I realised that it must be the policewoman Beering had talked about. She was dressed like all the other strappers; wore the standard jodhpurs and riding boots as they all did. To all intents and purposes she was just another stablehand. Yet if you watched closely, she didn’t quite seem to blend in. Most strappers know each other from around the traps. It’s a tight-knit industry and the camaraderie is evident as they nod and chat amongst themselves. This woman was a little too stand-offish, suggesting she was new to the game or a little aloof. Another thing; although she handled her horse competently enough, she looked just a little bit apprehensive leading it around. She was probably a pretty good horsewoman, but leading a racehorse around the mounting yard if you’re not used to it can be a daunting task. They’re not like the placid horses she was probably used to and although my father’s horses are pretty quiet, her charge was starting to walk circles around her and show up her lack of racetrack experience. Fortunately the stewards called for the jockeys to mount up and she was saved any further embarrassment when my brother legged the rider up and he took control.
I checked out another couple of chances, then went out to the betting ring. Big Oakie had posted Save Us at two fifty and a horse of Col Little’s at threes. Then it was fives the field. Alfy Swan was being more generous. He’d eased out Save Us to two seventy and I claimed him for my main bet and a saver on Little’s horse. Up in the stand, I pulled my Zeiss 10 × 40s out and swept the crowd down below. He could be there, the strapper killer. Could be any one of the punters mingling innocently on the lawns, a formguide in his hand and a knife in his pocket. He could be up here in the stands too, watching the races like I was. I looked briefly at the guy sitting next to me. He was about the right age and size. He sensed my stare and looked up at me and I immediately turned away again. What about the bloke two rows down? He had a similar build to the guy I’d chased from Maxine’s place. It was bloody hopeless. Every man in
the crowd looked like a character in a John Bracks painting. All the same and yet not one of them the man I was looking for.
The race started and I swung my glasses to the field. On the railway side Norwegian Raider was making the running. In fact it was pulling hard and the apprentice jockey was stupidly fighting it, trying to force it to settle rather than let it slide along and come back underneath him. It made the favourite’s job a lot easier. Save Us stalked the leader from about the five-hundred-metre mark, when it ranged up to second place. As they swung for home, Froggy Newitt gave it full rein and it booted clear of the tiring Norwegian Raider to win easily. I sometimes wonder why I bother saving on the other horse, especially when it looks obvious, but if I backed the fave outright you could almost guarantee Norwegian Raider would have led all the way. There’s four thousand ways to get beaten; you might as well play the percentages.
When the horses came back to scale, I stayed longer than I normally do up in the stand. Usually I run the glasses over the beaten brigade looking for signs of future improvement or anything amiss. Today I ignored the horses and scanned the crowd in the public section by the mounting yard fence. Some were politely clapping Newitt as he rode back to the yard. It was a popular win and most punters would have backed it. Some of the regulars in the crowd I recognised. There was a guy called Bundles, so called for the great bundle of formguides he carried around with him at every meeting in a plastic shopping bag. Someone should tell him that the form’s gone online now, then he could just take a laptop to the races. Trader Bill was in the thick of things, keeping his eyes and ears open for anyone boasting about a win. If he found someone who’d backed a winner, he’d be all over them trying to sell them one of his armful of watches. Other vaguely familiar faces stood by watching. I saw Beering shuffling around the yard too. He blended in well, that old brown suit and craggy face had horse player written all over him. Amazing what you could pick out in the stand with a decent pair of binoculars. But the one thing I couldn’t see was someone with a likeness to the killer. No one staring with murderous intent at the strappers as they collected their charges. What did I expect, a crazed punter dressed in silks holding a sign saying ‘strapper killer’? Ridiculous.
