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

by Blair Denholm

  ‘Getting warrants and such takes so much time. Time better spent investigating leads.’

  ‘I agree,’ Soplyak said with exaggerated alacrity. ‘The security of the country is important. Would you like a drink of something? I have special Ukrainian horilka. It’s like vodka, only better. You like to try?’ He gestured towards a shelf lined with bottles containing clear liquids. Above it was a blue banner depicting a stylised gold design.

  ‘No thanks, I’m good.’ If not for the urgency of the case and the fact a drop of alcohol on top of no sleep would have knocked him out, Wilson might have tried a sip. He thought of himself as liberal minded, liked to expand his cultural horizons. ‘D’you think you could summarise Mr Snyder’s financial position?’

  ‘His financial position was not good, not good. Terrible, actually.’ Soplyak shook his head. ‘There will be little to go around after the reading of his will. Lydia will get nothing.’

  ‘In other words, we can rule out inheritance as a motive.’ More question than statement.

  ‘Not unless he had other accounts I am unaware of. Maybe offshore. But I doubt it. I’m pretty sure I have, how do you say, a handle on it.’

  ‘Why are his affairs in such a state?’

  ‘He kept borrowing money. More and more debt. He couldn’t resist. It was like an addiction. Yes, his cash flow was finally picking up a little over the last two quarters, but it would have taken forever to pay off all the loans. He was struggling to even service the old ones. Profit margin was almost non-existent. Such a foolish man.’

  ‘Didn’t you advise him to take it easy on the borrowing?’

  ‘Of course! I tell him time and again, but he don’t listen. Too headstrong. He wanted to be king-pin of Yorkville. Cairns, too. He bought that stupid old fish factory to turn into a giant games centre. He paid way too much!’

  ‘Were there any loans he was behind on? In other words, were there any angry creditors out there demanding their pound of flesh?’

  ‘Not that I know of. He had no arrears, but liquidity was tighter than a fish’s asshole, excuse my language. Then again, he may have been doing things “off the books” that I was unaware of. Like I said before, I doubt it, but can you ever really know someone inside out, huh?’ Soplyak showed his palms and shrugged.

  ‘I guess not,’ said Wilson. ‘Does the name Randall Sowell mean anything to you?’ Wilson received a text from Jack five minutes ago. Ask the accountant what he knows about Randall Sowell.

  Soplyak coughed into a fist, as if preparing mentally to answer the question. ‘Yes. I am aware of this man. Cameron would, how do you say, beech about him all the time. There was real hatred between them.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Hmm. Not sure exactly, but I think it’s something that goes back years. Like Russia and Ukraine fighting over Crimea.’

  ‘Any other people Mr Snyder bitched about?’ Wilson remembered a trick Jack had taught him. Use other people’s words back at them to make them think you attach value to what they’re saying.

  A head shake and a pair of honest eyes. ‘I never pried into his personal affairs. I knew he was separated from Lydia and he was sometimes sad about that. But I never asked questions.’

  ‘What about the gossip that followed him around?’

  ‘He told me there were rumours on the Internet, even the papers, about him being a dodgy businessman, but I don’t read the news. My love is the purity of numbers, tables and columns, not,’ he waved his hand in the air, ‘abstract things. Wait a moment, I’ll be right back.’

  Soplyak stood and adjusted cufflinked sleeves poking under a linen jacket. He walked through a door at the back of his office and returned hefting three black-and-white archive boxes, his chin resting on the top one. ‘This is everything I have relating to the business affairs of Mr. Snyder.’

  ‘Thank you. We’ll be needing the electronic files too,’ said Wilson. ‘This will take too long to process.’

  Soplyak placed the boxes on his desk, leaned back in his chair, cracked knuckles behind his head. ‘No.’ The answer was flat as a mill pond.

  ‘I thought you were on board.’ What was the strange man up to? ‘I’ll only be coming back with a warrant for them later.’

  ‘Ha ha, you misunderstand me, officer. There aren’t any.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I’m an old-fashioned operator. The only electronic documents I deal with are the tax returns I lodge for my clients. This computer on my desk, I hardly ever turn it on.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Yes. If you want full access to his bank accounts and insurance policies you need to contact the financial institutions. Maybe you can find what you’re looking for on Cameron’s own computers.’ He pointed at the boxes sitting six inches from Wilson’s face. ‘Please return all those papers when you are finished. In there, you will find print outs of statements, invoices, receipts, everything like that going back five years, which is how long Cameron has been my client. As for stuff before that–’

  ‘Yep. I got it. We’ll talk to the institutions.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘Before I go, do you have a copy of the will?’

  ‘Why would I have that? No, you need to talk to his lawyer, Garfield Walters.’

  ‘Got his number?’

  Soplyak produced a business card from his wallet. ‘Of course. He is also my lawyer.’

  ‘One last question. That banner above the shelving. What is it?’

  ‘Oh, that is Ukrainian symbol, the tryzub. I think in English it is called a trident.’

  ‘Does it have any special significance?’

  ‘You bet. It is the Ukrainian coat of arms.’

  ‘You’re proud of your homeland?’

  ‘Of course! And also of Australia, the country I now call home.’

  A vague idea occurred to Wilson. ‘Are you involved in any patriotic organisations?’

  Soplyak blinked like he was emerging from a dark tunnel into light, then his chest puffed out slightly. ‘I am a fully paid-up member of the Queensland Ukrainian club. I have been for many years.’

  ‘Do you know if Cameron Snyder was involved in any Australian version of that?’

  ‘You are an odd person, officer. Why would he be a member of a club for ex-pats of the country he was born in and lives in? Makes no sense.’

  ‘No, I meant, was he involved in any, ah, radical political organisations? Right wing in particular.’

  Soplyak burst out laughing. ‘Cameron was no Nazi sympathiser. You may have noticed, I myself am a foreigner, an immigrant.’

  ‘Yes, but a white European one.’

  ‘I have big surprise for you, Constable Wilson.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I am also a Jew.’

  Chapter 14

  ‘I can’t believe he’d have the temerity.’ Taylor carefully peeled away cling wrap, nibbled on an egg and lettuce sandwich. Jack took two minutes to demolish his meat pie, known in the local lingo as a mystery bag, faint traces of tomato ketchup now lining his top lip.

  ‘Me neither,’ said Jack. Their visit to Randall Sowell’s office was met with the surprising news that he and two advisors had headed to Trick Shot. When the DS asked why, the mumbling receptionist replied she had no idea.

  ‘Got any theories?’ said Claudia.

  ‘Nope. Does Sowell own anything similar to Trick Shot?’

  ‘Not than I can ascertain.’ Taylor scrolled feverishly on an iPad. ‘From what I can see on FARQ2’s own website, the company acquires properties to lease out to small businesses. Fish and chip shops, hairdressers, that kind of thing. I can’t get anymore details about the company’s operations unless we get a production notice to serve on his banks.’

  ‘We need to light a fire under this Sowell clown. I may have to call in a few favours from the magistrate.’

  ‘Come on, Jack. We haven’t even spoken to the man and you’ve got him behind bars already.’

  The DS braked to give way
at a T-junction, turned to face Taylor. ‘But look who’s mentioned him so far. Snyder’s widow, the pool hall manager, and now his accountant. The Ukrainian told Wilson his dead client and Sowell hated each other’s guts. Now this Sowell bloke’s visiting Snyder’s showcase establishment here in Yorkville before the victim’s been buried. If that don’t set alarm bells ringing in your head, I don’t know what’s required.’

  ‘Or perhaps Sowell is an astute businessman who sees a golden opportunity to cash in on someone’s misfortune.’

  ‘Are there any other pool halls in Yorkville?’

  ‘Not anymore. I remember there used to be one on the southside of town called Back Alley Pool. There were fights there on a regular basis. Constable Trevarthen copped a pool cue in the eye trying to break up a brawl one night, he couldn’t see straight for a month. I’m pretty sure that joint closed years ago, before you arrived in town.’

  ‘You know why?’

  ‘Why you arrived in town? Of course. To take up the position of Detective Serg–’

  ‘No!’ Jack roared, then noticed Taylor’s sly grin. ‘I’m not in the mood for jokes, Claudia.’ Her grin evaporated. ‘Why did the effing place close down?’

  ‘Give me a minute.’ Scroll, scroll, scroll. ‘Here’s an old Yorkville Times article. An interview with the owner, a Mr Nik Koustas. Apparently he wasn’t happy when Snyder opened his joint.’

  ‘Not keen on competition, huh?’

  ‘Doesn’t look like it. You reckon he could have held a grudge badly enough to want to kill Snyder?’

  ‘Men have killed for less, Claudia. I’m keen to talk to him.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bother. I just Googled his name. He died in a car accident middle of last year. He was in Brisbane for his mother’s funeral, got drunk and drove into a power pole. And…oh no…he had two small children with him, one also killed, the other with permanent spinal damage.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound like an accident to me.’ Jack shook his head. ‘See what happens when folk let money rule their lives? Bad shit, that’s what.’

  A roadworker wearing a vest so bright you could probably see him from outer space directed the detectives around a pile of dusty rubble. He gave the detectives a perfunctory two-finger salute as they trundled past him. Further ahead a team of labourers toiled with shovels and rakes, buzzed around in skid steer bobcats and backhoe loaders, building a road that was meant to alleviate Yorkville’s worsening traffic problems. The roadworks seemed to stretch for kilometres. ‘Bloody hell, Claudia. We’ll be here all effing day. I knew I shoulda gone the other way.’ A yellow-and-black sign declared a 30km/hour limit. Jack flicked on the Stinger’s flashing lights and sirens, nudged the speed up to 70km/hour. The detectives thrashed about like pebbles in a clothes dryer.

  ‘Please! Go easy. You’ll bugger the suspension.’ Taylor’s voice vibrated as the car careered down the rough surface, generating clouds of ochre dust in its wake.

  Jack gritted his teeth, wrenched the steering wheel left and right, hitting more bumps and potholes than he avoided. ‘Weigh it up, Claudia,’ he huffed. ‘Solving a murder versus a bill for a new set of sway bars.’ Council employees watched open-mouthed as the fancy pursuit car tore along the round. Some laughed and pointed, others had their mobiles out to film the bizarre spectacle.

  ‘At least drop the speed a little,’ Taylor demanded. ‘The way you’re driving, you’ll wreck the car and we won’t get there at all.’

  Jack sighed, eased off a fraction. Five jolting minutes later they exited the roadworks area onto a smooth asphalt surface. ‘See? We made it. You can relax now.’

  ‘Bloody miracle,’ Taylor whispered under her breath.

  ‘Did you find out any more about Sowell on the Internet?’

  ‘You must be joking? The iPad screen was jiggling about so much I couldn’t read it. Why didn’t you take the 4x4 from the compound?’

  Jack shrugged. ‘I didn’t know we’d be traversing a war zone, did I? Anyway, Oliphant Avenue’s a minute away. Ready to apply the blowtorch to Mr Randall Sowell?’

  ‘I’ll leave that up to you. If your flame throwing skills are anything like your driving, the man’s in for some punishment.’

  ‘Thanks, DC Taylor.’ Jack thumbed open a plastic bottle of Extra peppermint gum, tipped half a dozen pellets into his mouth. ‘Right, we’re here. Follow me.’

  Chapter 15

  Heated words reverberated from behind the front door. Muffled, indistinct. At least two unique voices, perhaps up to four. An argument about to descend into violence or a spirited difference of opinion. Whatever it was, Jack didn’t like the sound of it. He remembered the battle-scarred face of Harry Sheffield. Those markings weren’t earned by diplomacy and tact. The door was ajar. Jack pushed and went inside, Taylor on his heels.

  The corridor to the main hall ran for 15 metres, the cops covered the distance in seconds. Inside the main pool hall four men stood beside a billiard table the size of a small hippopotamus. Three of them were squaring off, dancing on tiptoes. One, a man in a suit, stood back a fraction, as if preparing to let the others get stuck in while he watched from the sidelines. Jack immediately recognised Harry Sheffield, who spotted the detectives and gave a curt nod that said I’ve got this covered. The sweat beading on his brow and the shaky hands told another story. Tough man or not, he was severely outnumbered by younger opponents. “Advisors” the receptionist said. Like hell they were.

  ‘Police.’ Jack held his badge aloft, Taylor did the same. ‘Whatever you’re all doing, step back and take a breather.’ A brusque introduction by Jack, the combatants stood at ease.

  The well-dressed man hanging off to the side held up a hand. ‘All under control, officers. I just dropped by to pass on my condolences for the tragic loss of Cameron Snyder. He was a pillar of Yorkville’s business community and a shining light for all.’

  ‘Will you get a load of the bullshit pouring out of this guy’s mouth, Claudia?’ said Jack, now a metre from the man who spoke. ‘It looked like your musclemen were about to tear poor old Harry here a new one.’

  ‘Not at all. Just a slight misunderstanding, right Harry?’

  ‘Fuck you, Sowell,’ Sheffield jabbed a finger at the unwelcome visitor. ‘You’re such a lying prick.’ He turned to Jack and said, ‘He’s here casing the place ‘cos he thinks he can buy it now Cam’s dead. Fucking suspicious if you ask me!’

  ‘I didn’t ask you,’ Jack replied calmly.

  ‘You must be Randall Sowell,’ Taylor said to the fashion plate. ‘We’ve heard so much about you.’

  ‘All good, I hope.’ The man thrust slender hands into his trouser pockets. The graphite-grey suit looked like it cost over a thousand dollars. He appeared gym-fit, average height and owned a baby face for a man in his early thirties. His goons, both sporting jet-black bushranger haircuts, were at least ten years younger. Clad in blue denim jeans and white t-shirts, the lads’ attire reminded Jack of London thugs from the 1980s, except these guys wore Paco Rabanne cologne behind their ears instead of razor blades in their lobes.

  ‘As it happens, no,’ said Jack. ‘Well, let me rephrase that. We’ve heard the same thing from different sources. You hated Cameron Snyder.’

  ‘We had our disagreements, for sure. But hate is such a…strong term.’

  ‘We’re not going to waste anyone’s time,’ said Taylor, stepping up next to Jack. ‘Where were you on Monday night?’

  ‘At home.’

  ‘All night?’

  ‘Yeah. What are you alluding to? Surely you can’t think I had something to do with whatever happened to Cameron. He and I may have had our disagreements over the years, but nothing so bad that I’d…Jesus. To be perfectly honest, his death has me rattled.’

  ‘Like hell,’ said Sheffield, shaking his head, still encased in the fuchsia-coloured cap. ‘You were pissed off he got hold of Pilkington’s fish factory. Now Cam’s dead, you probably think you can get your hands on it.’

  ‘Is that right?’ sa
id Jack. ‘Will you be seeking to buy it?’

  ‘How can he?’ said Sheffield. ‘It’ll be part of Cameron’s estate now.’

  Taylor shook her head. ‘We’ve received reliable information Mr Snyder was drowning in debt. Whoever loaned him the money to buy the plant will own it now. I’d imagine they’ll put it to auction, where Mr Sowell will have a chance to purchase.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jack. ‘Very convenient.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Sowell had produced a nailfile from somewhere and was buffing his cuticles. ‘No idea what you’re all talking about.’

  ‘Look,’ said Taylor. ‘Your friends here are making me uncomfortable. How about they take a hike.’

  Sowell nodded and the men disappeared.

  ‘Want me to go too?’ said Sheffield. ‘I’d rather be far away from this creep.’

  ‘I’d rather you hung around, if that’s OK,’ said Jack. ‘I don’t want Mr Sowell making accusations about the way we treated him.’

  ‘Look.’ Sowell made a fuss of looking at his watch. ‘I’ve got other matters to attend to, so…’

  ‘They’ll have to wait. We can carry on the conversation at the station if you’d prefer, only that’ll detain you from your business even longer.’

  ‘Very well.’ Sowell sighed like a stroppy teenager. ‘Can we at least sit down?’

  Jack asked Sheffield to clear a space in the back office, bring them some drinks. The manager was reluctant, but a fifty note on the top of the bar secured his agreement. Taylor queried the generosity. Jack had one word: expedience. Sheffield returned carrying a tray with a large bottle of Coke, a mini bucket of ice, but only three glasses. Sowell scoffed at him, called him a petty, pathetic old fool. Sheffield glared a laser beam of contempt at Sowell, who averted eye contact with him and avoided it for the duration of the interview.

  ‘OK, tell me all about your relationship with Cameron Snyder.’

  ‘Not until the charming Mr Sheffield brings me a drink.’

  A head gesture by Jack, a scrape of a chair, Sheffield departed, returned with another glass, clunked it down in front of Sowell. ‘There. Happy now?’