by Peter Klein
‘I still can’t believe it,’ said Ric. ‘I wouldn’t have picked him in a million years. I mean, the whole thing’s crazy. Matt’d be the least likely guy I’d nominate as being the strapper killer. Maybe they’ve made another mistake and got the wrong guy again?’
‘Not this time they haven’t. How well did you know him?’
‘Matt? As well as the rest of the gang did.’
‘No, you knew him better than us. I remember you drinking with him before any of us had met him.’
Ric put his hands in his jacket pockets and walked briskly down the footpath alongside me. He frowned as if trying to remember.
‘It was about a year ago. I’m always first to the bar at the races. I camp there the whole afternoon and watch them on the TV, not like you, wanting to walk all around the course. I noticed him drinking on his own, reading a formguide. He’d usually be there at the same place most Saturdays and we ended up sharing a beer talking about the neddies. It just grew from there. I’d nod at him; ask him how he was going. We’d talk racing, have a dig at each other for backing losers. Then he sort of became one of the regular gang by hanging out with me.’
‘Did you ever, like, go out socially with him?’
‘Never. The only time I’ve ever been with him outside of a racetrack, is that time I shared a cab on the way back home with him. Other than that, he’s always been just good old Matt from the track.’
We stopped to let some cars past on Grange Road then walked quickly across through a gap in the traffic.
‘See, that’s the thing with him, isn’t it?’ I said. ‘No one really knows anything of substance about him, other than he seemed a nice bloke and was good company.’
‘You’re right. He joked with all of us about betting and horses and stuff and he and I always took the piss out of each other. I’ve always thought of him as a regular family man.’
‘Maybe he’s just been a good actor all this time.’
By the time we reached the car park entrance in Kambrook Road, the races had long since finished and only a sprinkling of cars remained for their owners to collect them. I’d parked my van in the members’ area further down, so I said goodbye to Ric by the corrugated iron fence and turned to move on. Ric stood, a bit undecided, fiddling with the car keys in his hand.
‘What do you think will happen to him?’ he said.
‘They’ll find him, I guess. Put him away. Sooner rather than later, I hope.’
‘What if they don’t find him?’ He jerked his head at some racetrack graffiti painted on the fence: Winners keep winning and losers keep on losing.
‘Killers keep killing, don’t they?’ he said.
I had a stack of missed calls and text messages banked up on my mobile. I scrolled through them as I walked to my van. Most of them were from the gang demanding to know what the hell had gone down that afternoon. All they’d seen was Ric being marched off by Beering, but you could bet news of my run-in with Matt and our chase after him would have spread all over the course. Tiny had rung twice but hadn’t left any message. Kate had rung and left a voice message and a text message with a terse, ‘Punter, ring me.’ She could sniff a story from a mile away, that girl. My brother had called, as had Maxine, who’d left a rather pathetic-sounding cough-cough-I’m-sick message. Said she’d come down with a cold and a headache and would I mind if I skipped her coming over to my place tonight, she was going to take some aspirin and go to bed. I rang her anyway and told her the news about Matt.
‘Jesus, you actually knew this guy? Like, he hung out with you and the gang the whole time?’ she said incredulously. It came out like an accusation and I think she realised it as soon as she said it. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.’
‘He’s fooled a lot of people for a long time,’ I said. ‘Ric still can’t believe it and he knew him better than most of us.’
‘Are you okay? That’s the second time you’ve got into a fight with him.’
‘I’m all right.’
She went quiet, then: ‘Punter, what do you think he’ll do, where do you think he’ll go?’
‘I can guarantee you one place he won’t be next Saturday, and that’s at the races.’
‘Be serious.’
‘I don’t know. I honestly don’t know. He’s been flushed out so he can’t go back to his home. The police know exactly who they’re looking for now, so he’ll have to stay in hiding. But he can’t do that indefinitely. You know something, I think that until he’s caught you should be extra careful.’
‘Don’t worry, Dad’s penthouse has the max in security. No one comes in or out without getting past the doorman and cameras. Even the elevator needs a security card to get up to the top floor. Besides, he doesn’t know my movements or where I live now. I haven’t gone near my apartment since he attacked me that night. But maybe you ought to think about taking some extra precautions yourself.’
‘Me? I’ve seen that weak dog’s form. All he’s got the guts to do is prey on sleeping women. Don’t think he’ll be stealing into my bedroom any time soon. If he does, fine, bring it on.’
‘Even so, Punter, you want to take care.’
‘I will. See you tomorrow?’
‘I’ll see how I feel. I’ll call you if I’m feeling better.’
I returned Kate’s call next, kept it short and sharp.
‘You never got this address from me, right?’
‘Got what address?’ she replied suspiciously.
‘Eighty-four Leielia Street, Murrumbeena. Belongs to an M T Renford. The police are raiding it as we speak.’
‘Should I know this person?’
‘Kate, it’s Matt. Matt from the gang.’
‘Matt, Ric’s buddy?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘What are the cops doing there?’
‘He’s the one, Kate. He’s the strapper killer.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘You want a scoop, get yourself down there. I’ll call you later, bye.’
At my flat later that night, I thought through the day’s activities over a cold beer and a bad movie. In the ad breaks, they had lots of live news crosses to where the police had cordoned off Matt’s place. The media had got onto it fast; all the major networks seemed to have a TV crew outside Leielia Street. When the nine o’clock newsflash came on, there must have been a dozen camera crews parked out the front of the house, their portable spotlights illuminating number eighty-four like a Christmas tree. Neighbours stood at a respectable distance behind the crime-scene tape, trying to guess what all the activity was about. They didn’t have to wait long to find out. This time around, the police didn’t hold anything back from the press. After all, they had a killer on the loose and the public had to be warned who he was. They showed an actual photo of Matt which they must have found inside his place. He appeared much younger in the photo than he did now, but he hadn’t changed all that much.
I fielded a lot of calls that evening. Beering rang and filled me in with the latest. After Ric and I had been ejected from the car, they’d raided Matt’s place, which turned out to be a flat behind the main house. Apparently he owned the house which he rented out. They probably only missed him by an hour or less, which was about the time it had taken us to figure out his address. A young girl from the family in the house said she’d seen him running up the driveway of his flat and then ride off on a bike shortly afterwards. The police were still searching through his household contents, but they’d taken away various items of clothing to the lab for testing as well as his car, which had been impounded. They now had the whole place sealed off and guarded. Beering said he’d call me again in the morning and that Ric and I would have to answer a few more questions. Big Oakie called. He said I’d have won a Newmarket the way he saw me sprinting through the betting ring. I told him that despite my chase, it had been a wasted effort; that Matt had escaped. He said he’d just seen the news and wondered if I was all right. Tiny rang me while the news bulletin was showing, deman
ding to know what had gone on. He was bouncing at the Tavern in King Street and I spent five minutes explaining to him what had happened. A minute later, David rang up and I went through the whole thing again with him. I felt like I should make a recorded message: Punter’s Saturday night crime beat update.
During the evening Kate called back twice wanting to check her story. She already had more than enough to be ahead of the other Sunday papers. I knew Beering had always had a soft spot for her, would have given her a couple of good angles. So I figured her story tomorrow would be worth reading.
Next morning Che woke me at five with his usual scratch-the-door-it’s-breakfast-time antics. I got up and fed him, then poked my head outside to see what the weather was doing. It was still semi-dark, bloody daylight saving; surfers like me can’t stand the stupid idea of being robbed of an hour’s prime surfing time at dawn. I could just make out the flag above Scotch College. It hung limp. Not a breath of wind; a beautiful, still morning for a surf. That’s what I did all day Sunday. Made an absolute glutton of myself with two long surfing sessions, morning and afternoon. I hit Big Lefts first, paddled out just after seven. There were a couple of longboarders out, but no sign of Billco. Pity, because I wanted to thank him again for the sketch he’d done. I scored some nice waves over a couple of hours, good, clean four- to six-foot faces, with the occasional bigger rogue set rolling through, trying to catch me unawares. When the tide got too fat, I came in and walked back up the cliff-side track and under the pines to where my van was. After I changed, I dropped by Billco’s house, but his car wasn’t there and no one answered when I knocked on the door. So I drove on to Flinders, bought the Sunday papers and ordered a late breakfast at the bakery.
Matt had made the front pages. The Herald Sun had gone with ‘Strapper killer identified’. The Age had a similar headline: ‘Police raid strapper killer’s house’. Both of them carried the photo of Matt that I’d seen on the news last night. There were pictures of the police cordon set up around his house and also of Wells and Beering, along with their comments. I was glad that Ric and I had been kicked out when we had, or we would probably have been splashed across the papers as well. Kate’s article was very good and she must have burned the midnight oil to get it out on time. But there was another interesting story written by one of her Age colleagues which hit on the fact that Kate, as a reporter, had unknowingly mixed socially with Matt at the races.
COFFEE WITH A KILLER
Afternoon tea at the races is something to look forward to. A dabble on the horses, a sociable drink and a chance to meet people. Hardly a place you’d expect to share coffee and cake with a killer. But that’s just what happened to Age crime reporter, Kate Truscott, who had afternoon tea with alleged killer Matt Renford at Caulfield races yesterday. In an extraordinary turn of events, Ms Truscott revealed that an acquaintance of her regular social group at the races had turned out to be the alleged strapper killer.
‘It was quite incredible,’ she said. ‘One moment we were sharing drinks and swapping hard luck stories like we do every Saturday, then moments later we heard a fight had broken out and the police were chasing Matt through the betting ring. He used to drink with our group every race meeting. He’d be the last person any of us would have thought of as being a killer.’
I trawled through every story in both papers and the consensus was that Matt had escaped after a short struggle and chase. He’d been traced to his address nearby, but it appeared he’d again just eluded police when they’d raided his flat shortly after. It was still too early to get an accurate, detailed background on Matt, given the scant information available. A Sun reporter had a go at filling in the gaps. What he lacked in facts, he filled in with horrified comments from neighbours, shocked to find they were living next door to an apparent serial killer. I took another look at his photo in the paper with the caption screaming out: Have you seen this man? I still thought Billco’s sketch had captured his eyes better.
I don’t think the photo looks anything like me. It certainly doesn’t resemble my appearance now. Amazing what a pair of sunglasses and a baseball cap worn backwards can do for you. Not to mention the number one haircut I gave myself last night. I look again at the photo of me as a teenager staring back from the newspaper. The police must have taken it from my flat. Taken that and everything else that I have.
The waitress brings my scrambled eggs and caffé latte and deposits them in front of me with an insincere, ‘Enjoy.’ As soon as I touch the glass I know they’ve burnt the coffee. Why can’t they ever get the temperature right? I think about sending it back but stop short of getting up and making a scene. Fly under the radar, don’t draw attention to yourself. Different ball game now that I’ve been identified. I skim through some of the stories again. They don’t know shit. Just making it up as they go along. That Indian family who rent the house off me; asked if they ever suspected I was a killer. Those morons, what a joke. And that stupid bitch reporter friend of Punter’s, did you see her nothing article? What about Punter? I notice he neatly avoided any mention. The smug fuck.
I sip at the burnt coffee and pick at the scrambled eggs. Disgusting. If I was at home, I could have fixed my own breakfast rather than pay some disinterested waitress for her slack service and a restaurant’s bad food. But the rules have changed, haven’t they? I don’t actually have a kitchen to fix myself a meal in. ‘Home’, as of now, is a smelly room in a tatty St Kilda backpacker hostel. They actually asked me if I minded sharing the room. No matter that I paid cash for a single. Obviously booked out and trying to maximise the rooms, the cheap bastards. The place is disgracefully noisy. Travellers; partying to all hours. Talking, laughing, drinking. More than once I was tempted to storm into the room opposite and tell them I’d cut their little backpacker tongues out if they didn’t shut up. But I kept to myself, lay on my bed all night staring at the ceiling and thinking.
And now what?
After breakfast I sit on a seat by a path overlooking St Kilda pier thinking about what has happened and what I have to do. Behind me is my bicycle and on the seat beside me is my pack stuffed with the few scant possessions I was able to gather at short notice. A change of clothes, the roll of money from the freezer, my knife and the jockey silks, of course. Because after yesterday’s fiasco at the races, Punter’s actions have forced me to leave my own home. What an utter debacle. Punter recognising me in the toilets, the scrimmage with him. I was lucky to escape before police or security nabbed me and it will change my situation drastically. It just doesn’t seem possible that my fortunes could change so abruptly. Punter’s ruined everything. I knew I should have finished him that night at Maxine’s. Should have stuck the knife in good and hard and finished the job off properly. Done them both instead of leaving loose ends. That had been a sloppy night’s work, which I was paying for now.
It hurts. It really hurts.
It’s my property! I live in the flat and I rent out the house. I get four hundred and twenty-five dollars a week from the Indian family I lease it out to. It’s mine; my mother left it to me in her will when she died. Mother’s death . . . If I had the knowledge and the strength of conviction that I possess now, I would have hastened that disgusting old whore’s departure into the next world a lot sooner than the heart attack she died from. She deserved worse, much worse. I should have slit her filthy throat . . .
Where was I? My house . . . Now I daren’t show my face at the real estate agent. I will no longer be able to collect an income because the property will be under watch and the police will be waiting for me. Not only that, I can’t sell it without the police being notified. Fuck! Punter hasn’t just cost me the weekly rent, he’s taken away my inheritance as well. What’s the place worth? The house is old and in need of repairs, but anything in Murrumbeena fetches six hundred thousand these days. And mine is an extra large block with a flat at the back, just ripe for developers to put up townhouses. Eight, maybe nine hundred thousand. That’s what that bastard has done me out of. Punter
has cost me my car too. I didn’t want to leave it behind, but the police would have traced the registration details and that made it too risky to drive around in. By now the police would have gone right through my flat, my garage, the car and all of my belongings. They’d have seized my computer and the newspaper clippings. Intruded into every part of my personal life, then sorted it away in neat little boxes.
I think about going away, interstate perhaps. Perhaps I could book a plane ticket or hire a car and just go. Except I realise I can’t do that now without difficulty. You need a credit card or EFTPOS for that and my card is cactus; they’d have an alert out on it by now. So I sit by the water, a seething rage building about my predicament. I try to be calm about it, try to think it through rationally. But I’ve got no home, no income and no car. And by now, my name and description will be on every policeman’s lips in Melbourne. It’s just so unbelievable, so unjust, that someone can simply come in and take it all away from me in the blink of an eye.
A flock of seagulls begins milling around me, thinking they might scrounge an easy feed off an unwary tourist. I pick up a stone and throw it at them; hit one of them in the chest, and when the pebble falls to the ground the others immediately pounce on it. The stupid birds peck and caw at each other over what they think is a possible food scrap before realising there’s nothing to fight over. And I smile for the first time that day. Smile at the sheer stupidity of the birds. They exist as a pack, a follow-the-leader mentality. But I’m not stupid. I don’t follow anyone, I make my own rules. So I don’t have a permanent roof over my head. No matter, plenty of hostels and caravan parks around where they don’t ask any questions. The danger of being recognised? Easy. I’ve already changed my appearance. I might even get a couple of fake tattoos and really blend in like some of those nitwit backpackers. And money, I have the five-thousand-dollar roll and another twenty-five hundred in my savings account which should be plenty for the moment. Transport? Okay, so I have no car. But nothing wrong with my mountain bike. It has no registration to trace and is particularly good for getting around the city. And I’d be just another of the thousands of cyclists who ride around town every day. Maybe I could pose as a bike courier . . . See, I’m already looking ahead to new possibilities. But there’s unfinished business to attend to first. Sloppy work that has to be corrected. And Punter has to be punished, must be punished for what he’s done to me.
