Trick Shot: an absolutely gripping mystery and suspense thriller (The Fighting Detective Book 3)

by Blair Denholm

  Jack gave three hard raps on the wide steel door of the establishment with the heel of his fist. He adjusted his sunglasses as the bright autumnal Yorkville sun beat down pleasantly on his head. He waited a minute, pounded again with twice the vigour. He pressed his ear to the door. Yes, someone was there.

  Faint shuffling noises. The sound of lumbering footsteps grew louder until the door opened slowly. A man somewhere between 55 and 60 years old in a gaudy Hawaiian shirt and neat brown chinos stood in the doorway, feet planted shoulder width apart. He chewed the stub of a thick cigar, pushing it from one side of his mouth to the other with his tongue, resting a meaty hand on the edge of the door. His opal-blue eyes rose and fell as he gave Jack a reflexive up-and-down assessment. The DS did the same in return.

  The man’s body was an odd combination of a bloated beer drinker’s gut attached to a slim body with toned limbs. Wiry grey hair stuck out in tufts from underneath a weather-beaten baseball cap that used to be red, now pink. His angular face bore ragged scars, his nose flared and flat. Not uncommon features on men who hang about in billiard halls. His eyes twinkled as his mouth broke into a broad smile that revealed teeth too white and symmetrical to be natural.

  ‘Can I help you?’ he asked in a pleasant baritone voice. ‘We don’t open for another six hours, sport.’

  Jack showed his bona fides. ‘Detective Sergeant Jack Lisbon. It’s a rather delicate matter. May I come inside?’

  The man’s smiled flipped to a frown. He ushered Jack down a dim corridor that opened up onto the poolroom. It was almost a large-scale replica of what Snyder had in his basement. Even the flags and well-stocked bar were similar.

  ‘I should’ve guessed by the cheap suit you were a cop. Plus the fact you didn’t call to make an appointment like normal people do.’

  ‘We like to be spontaneous.’ In other words, we don’t give people the heads-up and a chance to disappear. ‘And you’re no fashion expert by the way. This suit cost me a packet.’

  ‘Sure it did. Like a drink?’ The man reached for a bottle of overproof Bundaberg Rum from a shelf above the bar. ‘We’ve got plenty of the good stuff to choose from.’ He poured himself a shot.

  ‘Too early for me.’ Jack hadn’t touched alcohol in months. It would take a fancier occasion than a chat with this bloke to fall off the wagon. ‘Got any coffee? I prefer espresso, but percolated will be fine.’

  The man shook his head. ‘Not a popular beverage in here. If I look hard I might rustle up some instant.’

  ‘That’s OK, I’ll go without. Do you know why I’m here?’

  A shrug. ‘No idea. Unpaid taxes?’

  ‘No, nothing as trivial as that. Can you tell me who you are first?’

  ‘Harry Sheffield. Trick Shot manager and general factotum for Mr Cameron Snyder.’

  Jack knew that already. He and Taylor had spent two hours in the office this morning working out a plan of attack for this blitzkrieg investigation. Online photos of key players had been scanned and committed to memory.

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve got bad news, sunshine. Majorly bad.’

  ‘Jesus. It’s not about the application to demolish the old fish factory, is it? I can’t believe he never got that authority signed in time. But I promise, it’s gonna get done. Just give us another week. Cameron’s gonna be…’

  ‘Cameron’s gonna be nuthin’ mate. He’s dead.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ The shot glass shook in his hand.

  ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘What? No!’ The colour drained from Sheffield’s face. He slumped onto a bar stool. ‘I was just talking to him on the weekend. Jesus Christ. How did it happen? Car accident? He was always driving too fast.’

  ‘Murder.’

  The ashen face was now white as milk. ‘When?’

  ‘Last night between ten and midnight. Can you account for your whereabouts?’

  ‘I was right here.’ Sheffield’s eyes narrowed in recollection. ‘There were about six of us, preparing for the next series of roster matches.’

  ‘Anyone able to confirm that?’

  ‘Yeah. I can give you their names and addresses if you want.’

  ‘You got closed circuit footage?’

  ‘We’ve got a camera, yes.’ Sheffield downed the rum, poured another and pointed the neck of the bottle at a second glass. ‘You sure you don’t want one?’

  ‘I’m good thanks.’ Jack perched himself on a stool next to Sheffield.

  ‘Holy shit, I can’t believe it. What’s going to happen to the pool hall? Man, there’s going to be chaos.’

  The man was getting edgier and needed reassurance. ‘There’s always a lot of uncertainty when people die unexpectedly. But things sort themselves out eventually.’

  ‘He employs people, you know? And not just me. People with mortgages, obligations. Shit, shit, shit.’ He started chewing a fingernail.

  Jack reached in his pocket, handed over a card for a counselling agency. ‘If you’re struggling, call this number. They can help you in many ways I can’t.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Sheffield nodded. ‘I understand.’

  ‘My job is to find who did it. There’s been lots of scuttlebutt about Snyder. Can you think of anyone who would want to see him dead?’

  Sheffield pulled out a lighter. ‘You mind?’

  ‘No, go ahead.’

  ‘A better question would be, who didn’t?’ Sweet Cuban tobacco smoke billowed around Sheffield’s face. ‘So many people had it in for Cameron, but he never did anything wrong. At least as far as his business went.’

  ‘What about the accusation he bought Pilkington’s fish plant without going through probate?’

  ‘Nonsense stirred up by a dickhead called Randall Sowell. The property was obtained legally. No probate was required because the fella who died, Maurice Pilkington, wasn’t the sole owner like everyone thought. There was a group of them, silent partners, and they decided to sell to Cameron for the price he offered.’

  ‘Why would this Sowell character spread false rumours about Snyder?’

  ‘Simple. Revenge. He wanted the property himself and couldn’t afford it. He and Cameron go back years, knew each other at business college in Sydney when they were teenagers. When Cameron moved up here to make a go of it, Randall followed soon after. There’s bad blood between them.’

  Jack jotted down the rival’s name. ‘You got an address for this bloke?’

  ‘I have. I’d be looking closely at him, Detective Lisbon. He’s shifty as a bucket of eels, that one. Failed companies, ugly divorce.’ He blew another cloud of smoke into the air before tapping a collar of ash into an empty beer bottle.

  Jack pointed at a drinks fridge behind Sheffield. ‘Actually, my mouth’s gone dry. I wouldn’t mind a Coke.’

  Sheffield twisted the cap, handed Jack the soft drink.

  ‘Speaking of divorce,’ said Jack. ‘Tell me about Lydia.’

  ‘They’re not–’

  ‘Yeah, I know. It was a segue, like.’

  ‘One ‘o them things on two wheels?’

  Jack shifted in his seat. ‘No, not that. Yes, they were separated not divorced, I’m aware of that. What was their relationship like?’

  Sheffield shrugged. ‘He didn’t speak about her much. They had a kid die on them back in Sydney before they moved up here.’

  ‘How old?’

  ‘Two, she was. They were never able to conceive again after that. They tried IVF, no luck.’

  ‘That’s the kind of thing to put a relationship under pressure,’ Jack observed.

  ‘Yep. I think Cameron had hopes they’d get back together one day. My opinion, it was a relationship doomed to failure. I reckon she still loved him, even though she was vindictive at times.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Oh, she thought she was entitled to a bigger share of his money than he did.’ Sheffield smiled but it was forced. Jack expected the dam wall to break any minute. ‘She even popped in here the other day, demanded to see the book
s.’

  ‘What books?’

  ‘The accounts. She screamed at me when I wouldn’t hand them over. I told her it was impossible because they weren’t kept here at Trick Shot. The accountant’s got ’em all. Anyway, she stormed out with a bee in her bonnet. She’s a feisty one, let me tell you.’

  ‘What day was this?’

  ‘Hmm. Exactly a week ago today. Cameron dropped by after Lydia’s performance. He wasn’t too pleased to hear what she’d been up to.’

  ‘What reason did she give for wanting to see the accounts?’

  ‘She said the divorce was going to leave her destitute. She said she wanted to show the figures to her lawyer, to prove Cameron had more money than he claimed he did.’

  ‘And did he?’

  ‘I believe he was always fair and he’d never leave his wife in the lurch, even after a divorce.’

  ‘That’s not what I asked. Did he have more money than he was letting on?’

  Sheffield removed his hat, revealing a hairline receded halfway up his skull, gave his scalp a vigorous rub. ‘I honestly couldn’t tell you. I only manage this establishment. He’s got – had – Chalkies in Cairns, too.’

  ‘And a shelf company registered in the UAE,’ Jack prompted.

  The manager’s blue eyes grew wide. ‘Really?’ he gave a half-hearted chuckle. ‘Well, he always was a bit of a dark horse.’

  ‘One more question, Mr Sheffield. Who was Snyder’s accountant?’

  Chapter 12

  Lydia Snyder’s apartment in Bonnie Street, lowbrow Thurston was compact, clean and tidy. Not a luxury dwelling, but not a run-down dump either. Lydia lived in a tiny part of the suburb that nestled against a more salubrious section of town. People in this sector of Thurston liked to pretend they were really living in the adjacent suburb of Renouf, home to canal-front mansions, azure kidney-shaped swimming pools and prestige European automobiles. Taylor never understood the phenomenon of “post code snobbery”, but it was as much a part of Yorkville as the saltwater crocodiles that sunned themselves on the banks of the estuary.

  ‘Please, Detective Taylor, take a seat.’ Lydia, her frail figure wrapped in a cream terry towelling dressing gown, gestured weakly to a fake-leather recliner. Her straight hair, closely matching the caramel tone of the lounge suite, hung about her face like a limp shower curtain. The hostess remained standing on shaky legs, eyes flickering. ‘I’m not sure I can help you.’ She sounded like a woman who’d lost everything.

  ‘Why would you say that?’ Taylor kept her voice level, trying to present a reassuring demeanour. She was looking into the saddest, reddest pair of eyes she’d ever seen. ‘You were closer to him than most. I’m sure you can assist–’

  Taylor’s words hung in the air as Lydia let loose with a wail that came from the pit of her soul. Tears flowed in a bitter stream, racking sobs echoed around the apartment for three full minutes. Taylor was sure of that, because she timed it on her wristwatch. Finally, the woman summoned the will to stop crying. Lydia tucked a bunch of crinkled tissues into her dressing gown pocket and gave a quick nod. I’m OK, I’m OK, she mouthed silently. She straightened her shoulders and shuffled to the kitchen, visible from the living area. She poured herself a tumbler of water from the tap, took a large gulp, set the glass down. Taylor could only stare at the back of the woman’s head, waiting for her to regain enough composure to continue the interview. Maybe she couldn’t.

  ‘Would you rather I come back another time, Ms Snyder?’ Taylor offered, hoping like hell the woman would decline the offer.

  ‘No, don’t go. I’m actually glad of the company.’ Lydia sniffed back a tear, chugging a ball of phlegm down her throat in the process. The gurgling sound made Taylor want to gag. Lydia slumped onto a wooden chair in the kitchen, not meeting Taylor’s gaze but fixing her attention on a wall clock. She pulled a box of tissues across the dining table, plucked a couple and blew her nose, then turned to face Taylor. She tapped the top of the table with long fingernails. ‘Please, sit at the table next to me.’

  Taylor placed the strap of her handbag over the back of a chair. As she sat, Lydia grasped the DC’s right hand and gave it a squeeze. ‘I apologise for my outburst.’

  ‘Perfectly understandable.’ No one Taylor knew personally had ever been murdered. She thought her reaction wouldn’t be much different to Lydia Snyder’s.

  ‘What’s the matter with me? I never even offered you a cuppa.’

  ‘It’s fine. I’ve already had my quota for the day.’ Taylor gave a comforting smile. ‘I’m going to ask you some simple questions. Your answers could help us find whoever killed Cameron. Firstly, do you know who might want to do such a thing?’

  Lydia stood again, fetched the glass of water and brought it to the table. Taylor wondered if she could stay still from more than thirty seconds at a time. A foil of tiny white tablets appeared on the table. Lydia popped two and sluiced them down. ‘Valium. I’ve been on them for years. I normally take one before bed, but…y’know.’ She sipped again, wiped her mouth with the sleeve of her dressing gown. ‘To be perfectly honest, I can imagine plenty of people would wish harm upon Cameron. But I can’t think of anyone who’d want to…kill him. Oh my God, I never thought I’d be saying those words.’ Her hands covered her face and she sobbed rhythmically behind them.

  Taylor knew she should go in with the tough questions now, while the woman was at her most vulnerable. That’s what Jack would do. But Taylor wasn’t Jack. The hardest questions would come last. Ease into it, coax the information out of her. The DC took out her notebook, scanned the list she’d prepared at the station this morning. ‘What about the rumours Cameron was, let’s say, a less than honest businessman? Could one of his rivals have hated him enough to take the ultimate step?’

  Lydia tapped her nails on the tabletop, twisted her lips. ‘There’s only one person I can think of. But even then…surely not murder.’

  ‘Who?’ Taylor’s pen was poised.

  ‘Randall Sowell,’ Lydia hissed through gritted teeth. ‘I’m sure it was him that started all the innuendo about Cameron. I fucking hate him. Look into Sowell. If he’s not the killer, he might be behind it.’

  ‘Did Cameron ever have this Mr Sowell over to his home?’ Taylor arched a curious eyebrow. ‘There’s no evidence of forced entry into Cameron’s property, so he most likely knew the person who killed him.’

  ‘They were arch rivals. Why would they meet up? If they did, it would only have been by accident.’ Lydia quickly explained the men’s shared educational background at a New South Wales college, how Cameron was always one move ahead of Sowell and how it grated on the guy. ‘Cameron tried to laugh it off, ignore the bullshit Randall stirred up. I told him to sue the prick, but Cam wouldn’t. Too soft in my opinion.’

  ‘You seem to know a lot about Mr Snyder’s business. Did you give Cameron advice on how to conduct his affairs?’ Lydia’s last job was as a financial adviser, a fact listed on her public LinkedIn profile. She’d been in that profession until two years ago when the sparse resume stopped.

  ‘I did, yeah. But he never listened to me. He could have got that Pilkington place cheaper if he’d held out longer like I told him, but he was worried someone – in other words Sowell – would steal it out from under him. So he rushed the deal. But I guess none of that matters anymore, does it?’ Lydia honked into a tissue, then frowned at Taylor apologetically. ‘I’m so sorry. I can’t seem to stop this runny nose.’ Or talking. She was on a roll and Taylor didn’t want it to stop.

  ‘No need to apologise. You’re entitled to…’ Taylor felt her mobile vibrate in her jacket pocket. ‘Excuse me one moment.’ Damn it. Jack was on his way. She put the phone away, pressed on. ‘My colleague will be joining us shortly. He’s not as pleasant as me, so perhaps we can motor along to spare you his gruff manner.’ The words came out as a blend of statement and question.

  ‘Of course. Ask whatever you like. And I’m sure I can handle your partner. If it’s that Detective Lisbo
n I’ve seen on the TV, then I’m looking forward to it. He managed to catch the last couple of murderers in Yorkville. I pray he can do the same again.’

  Taylor strangled the temptation to say she herself had more than a hand in solving those cases. Why did Jack get all the bloody limelight?

  ‘How long ago did you and Cameron separate?’

  ‘February last year. I took the break-up pretty badly, to be honest. The pills help. I quit my job, stopped seeing my friends and family, never went out anywhere. I was only just starting to get a grip on things when… this.’ Lydia’s face disappeared into a bouquet of tissues again as she wept softly for a few moments. ‘Oh dear, sorry. Again.’

  ‘It’s fine. Go on, please. What caused the split?’

  ‘His temper. Don’t get me wrong, he was a good man.’ She blew her nose into a tissue. ‘We were childhood sweethearts, you know. We met in high school, we were inseparable.’

  ‘Tell me more about this temper of his.’

  ‘Don’t get me wrong. He loved me, OK? But his bad moods when things went wrong scared the bejesus out of me. He used to shout at me, wave his arms about, throw things…’

  ‘Do you know if he was a substance abuser?’ Taylor wondered if a drug dealer owed money could have been the perpetrator.

  ‘No way. He hated that kind of thing.’

  ‘Alcohol?’

  ‘Maximum two beers at a barbecue, then he’d stop. The mood swings were related to his business, I’m sure of it. All the stress messing with his head.’

  ‘Did Cameron ever hit you?’

  The head shake fast and emphatic. ‘No, no. Never. I just got tired of his nagging. Yes! I see you find that odd, a man nagging. But it’s possible. I could never do anything the way he liked it. But he was driven, you see. A workaholic. Always running around, putting out spot fires.’ A big sip of water, another wipe of the lips with the gown cuff, now visibly damp. ‘So his head was more focused on his businesses than me.’