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

by Blair Denholm

  ‘Wait a minute, back it up. You said “from someone”. The money didn’t come from Snyder?’

  A head shake.

  ‘Who then?’

  ‘I’ve most likely overstepped the mark already in terms of the old confidentiality thing. But as my old grandad used to say, you may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb.’

  ‘Who, dammit?’ Wilson heard his voice almost as an out-of-body experience. ‘Don’t muck me about, man!’

  Walters jumped slightly in his seat. ‘Oh, sorry. I actually can’t remember the name. Once second.’ Walters tapped on his keyboard, adjusted his glasses. ‘Yes, here it is. It’s a Suncorp bank check signed by a Mr Raymond Ogden Hook.’

  ‘Can you repeat that, please? I’m not sure I heard you right.’

  The solicitor repeated the name, slowly and clearly. It was a name that carried much weight, almost as much as the man who bore it. For a split second Wilson thought his forehead was going to crash onto the top of Walters’ rosewood desk.

  Chapter 17

  ‘Sir, I want to speak to that loan shark, Tommy Thomson.’ Jack could feel his pulse quickening. ‘Time’s of the proverbial essence and he’s only around the corner. I think he may be the link we’re looking for.’

  ‘Calm down, DS Lisbon. It can wait half an hour. Wilson just texted me. He’s done with Snyder’s lawyer. I’d like a quick debrief with all officers before everyone scatters off in different directions. Let’s consolidate what we’ve got.’

  ‘But, chief…’

  ‘There’s a bombshell.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘One second.’ Batista held up a forefinger as the uniformed constables filed into the room. Smith, Trevarthen, Semmens. No sign of Ben Wilson.

  ‘What’s the bombshell, sir?’ said Taylor, invading the Inspector’s personal space so much he had to take half a step backwards.

  ‘Just a second, the pair of you. I’ll fill you all in as soon as…actually, here he comes. He can tell you himself.’ Batista clapped his hands, stuck fingers in his mouth and blasted out a shrill whistle. ‘OK, everyone take a seat. Wilson’s got some interesting news for us.’

  The constable that walked in the door wasn’t the same man Jack remembered from yesterday. It was a zombie in a crumpled cop uniform. The officer needed sleep, but he may have to postpone that luxury. There were still leads to follow up, people to talk to. Jack grabbed him by the elbow, escorted him to a spot in front of the whiteboard, about where the X would be marked on the floor for a singing audition.

  ‘Thanks, DS Lisbon,’ Wilson muttered without a trace of thankfulness.

  ‘No worries, sunshine. We’re all eager to hear about the bombshell.’

  ‘What? Jesus, have the terrorists struck? Is it CHOGM?’

  ‘No, you twat. Your big news. What did you learn at the solicitor’s office?’

  ‘Oh, I…’

  Batista coughed loudly into a fist to quell the developing hubbub coming from the back row of plastic chairs. ‘Everyone shut up. Constable Wilson, if you please.’

  Choking back yawns and wobbling like a blancmange, Wilson delivered news that sucked the air out of the room.

  ‘Wait, wait, wait.’ Jack was out of his seat, the loan shark from next door suddenly a character of secondary importance to the case. ‘Jabba gave this solicitor a check for a quarter of a million dollars to set up a trust account for Snyder?’

  ‘Yeah. And Lydia too. They’re joint…whatever you call them, benefactors.’

  ‘Beneficiaries,’ corrected Batista. ‘Like in a will. And Walters presumably would be the trustee. Thanks for that, Ben. Take a seat, you look knackered.’

  ‘Any theories on this development, chief?’ said Jack, remembering the Inspector’s “dirt” on Assistant Commissioner Hook.

  Batista caressed his chiselled chin.

  ‘Well?’ said Jack as the pause dragged on. ‘I know you know something juicy about the fat lizard. Let’s be hearing it.’

  The chief took a deep breath, motioned for Wilson to take a seat as the chief took centre stage. ‘Frankly, I’ve got no idea where Hook got $250,000. But I do have a theory about something else. Back in 1989, Hook and I played in a mini series of rugby league matches in Sydney against the New South Wales cops. They beat the crap out of us. Anyway, Hook took a gift from his wife down to her sister Carrie, who lived in inner Sydney in those days. A cardigan or something, can’t remember exactly. Ray Hook and I shared a hotel room. I went out with the lads for a pint while he was meant to be delivering the present, and when I came back to the hotel I opened the door to see Hook’s bare arse pumping up and down like a fiddler’s elbow, the sister-in-law underneath him squealing with delight.’

  Jack side-eyed Taylor, blushing at Batista’s colourful description of the event. ‘What’s that got to do with Snyder?’

  ‘It could have everything to do with him. Now his name and his widow’s name pop up as beneficiaries of a trust set up with Hook’s money, it’s time to do the maths. Claudia, could you please check the years of birth of Snyder and his wife?’

  ‘Sure. What month were you in Sydney?’

  ‘Winter, for the footy season. Without double checking I’d say it was late July 1989.’

  ‘You reckon he fathered Snyder or Lydia after that one encounter?’ said Jack, barely believing the scenario.

  ‘It’s not beyond the realms of possibility,’ said Batista. ‘It only takes one time.’

  ‘It all makes perfect sense,’ said Taylor, her eyes darting over the iPad. ‘The way Hook was so keen for us to clear the man’s reputation. Before and even after his death. That CHOGM stuff was probably a smokescreen. Yep, you were right sir.’ She glanced up at Batista then back to the screen again. ‘Cameron Snyder was born in April 1990, nine months after July 1989. But his mother’s not called Carrie. She’s a Suzanna Snyder.’

  ‘Carrie must have adopted him out.’ The Inspector sounded like he’d made a Nobel prize winning discovery.

  ‘Here, I’ve pulled up random photos of him and Hook. There’s definitely a resemblance.’

  Jack took the tablet from Taylor’s outstretched hand. ‘Well I’ll be. The eyes, the nose. Bloody hell, if you strip the lard away from Hook’s flabby face, add some hair to Snyder’s bald noggin, the similarity’s remarkable.’

  ‘The question is, what do we do with this information?’ said Constable Trevarthen. ‘It’s all well and good knowing the link, but does that get us any closer to finding a culprit?’

  Silence. Of the dejected kind. Pressing Hook for answers right now was out of the question. Batista quickly explained the Assistant Commissioner was in a critical condition, slipping in and out of consciousness. The doctor in charge was hopeful Hook could be stabilised enough to undergo heart surgery within the next few days.

  ‘I guess that brings us back to physical evidence,’ said Taylor, who seemed to be forcing optimism into her voice. ‘What’s the latest from Proctor? Did she get anything from the second sweep of the crime scene?’

  Batista picked up a stapled document from the top of a filing cabinet and flicked it open at the first page. ‘Indeed she did. Behold the object used to strike Snyder over the head before he was stabbed.’ He turned on an overhead projector connected to a laptop, an image of a shiny bronze trophy filled the screen. ‘This stylised eight-ball trophy weighs 950 grams and is hard as a rock. Proctor found minute traces of Snyder’s blood and skin on it, even though it’d been wiped. Not thoroughly enough, it seems.’

  ‘Prints?’ said Jack.

  A shake of the head from Batista.

  ‘Any sign of the weapon used to stab the guy?’ said Constable Noah Semmens.

  ‘A couple of possibles. Proctor matched the minor wound patterns below the left clavicle and the deep lethal cut with three knives found on the premises.’ Batista pressed a key on the laptop and the knives appeared. They were spaced apart evenly and had been photographed on a plastic sheet laid out on Snyder’s kitchen table. ‘All are
non-serrated, stainless steel knives of German manufacture. Two found in kitchen drawers, one in a barbecue kit on the back deck. No traces of anything on them.’

  ‘Come on, sir.’ Jack screwed up his lips. ‘The killer’s taken the weapon with him and chucked it somewhere. None of those blades are the murder weapon, are they? This was a psychotic attack. The murderer’s not gonna tidy it all up, is he?’

  ‘Or she,’ said Taylor.

  Jack sighed. ‘All right. Or she. I guess a woman’s more likely to embark on a quick tidy-up than a man after murdering someone, so the perp’s probably female. I’ll bet she even vacuumed the place and did a spot of dusting before fleeing the scene. Congratulations on the breakthrough, Claudia.’ He regretted his sarcastic words the instant he uttered them, felt his face flush.

  ‘Stop it, Jack. You’re losing the plot,’ said Batista. ‘No need for cynicism when your partner raises a perfectly valid point. No one needs to listen to your outmoded notion of gender roles, do they?’

  Jack folded his arms and frowned. ‘Don’t get all uppity with me, sir. You’re the one holding me hostage with this crazy deadline. I can’t help it if my brain’s wandering off on wee excursions, can I?’

  ‘I’ll pretend you didn’t say that.’ Batista straightened his shoulders, shot Jack a laser stare. ‘You want to catch that plane to London, don’t you? Then stop wasting time.’

  The chief was right. ‘Sorry, won’t do it again.’

  ‘Glad to hear it. Now, as disappointing as that all sounds, there is some encouraging news. Strands of long black hair were found in a set of bedsheets in the laundry hamper. They don’t match Lydia Snyder.’

  ‘Could be Renee van der Klopp,’ said Taylor. ‘She’s a brunette.’

  ‘Could be the other neighbour, Miranda Mallick,’ said Jack. ‘She’s got a generous head of thick, black hair on her.’

  ‘Do you seriously believe that she would’ve been sleeping with Snyder?’ Taylor was incredulous.

  ‘Anything’s possible.’ Jack pushed his hands into his thighs, still sore from his “leg day” gym session from last weekend. Right now he was itching to get into the ring to spar with someone. Anyone. This case was doing his head in and he was spouting nonsense.

  ‘Proctor promises to have the DNA results back tomorrow from the used condom, and also these new hairs.’ Jack counted off in his head. Tomorrow’s Thursday. Two more days to find the killer. He decided if the case was unsolved he’d take the plane anyway. Fuck Batista, his daughter was more important than this job. If he got sacked Jack could always pick up security work, set up a private investigation company, drive Ubers. He still had money stashed away, the cash he stole before fleeing England. He could live off that for at least six months.

  Getting his mind back on the job, Jack said: ‘Snyder’s phone and laptop. Anything found on them?’ The Inspector had arranged for them to be couriered to the QPS’s digital forensics team in Brisbane with a request for expedited examination.

  ‘There was little in the way of security or encryption on the victim’s devices, so it was easy to access everything,’ said Batista. ‘Most of the content is innocuous. Financial transactions, all above board, some video games, photos of his pool halls, happy snaps of customers. He rarely posted anything on social media, especially since the nasty online rumours started. However, of particular interest is a text conversation between Snyder and loan shark Tommy Thomson. The language used by Thomson is “careful”, like you’d expect from a seasoned crook.’ Batista clicked a mouse and part of an SMS conversation between Snyder and Thomson was reproduced on the screen.

  Don’t 4get the 450 OK mate

  I’ll get it to you ASAP

  That wood b appreshiated

  Don’t stress. Next week

  ‘And that’s where it ends, eight days before Snyder’s death,’ said Batista. ‘We don’t know if the money was repaid or not.’

  ‘Not a sum to kill a person over, is it?’ Trevarthen pointed a ballpoint pen at the screen.

  ‘Wanna bet, sunshine?’ Jack snapped. ‘I’ve known payday-lenders who love it when their small debtors don’t cough up. Gives ‘em an excuse to flex their muscles, break some bones. And yes, even kill.’

  ‘Jack’s right, Aden.’ Batista switched off the laptop and the roll-down screen went blank. ‘People have different motivations.’

  ‘He might’ve been following the Internet attacks on Snyder,’ added Taylor. ‘Leaning on a man in the public eye might have given him a thrill, too.’

  ‘Talk to him after this meeting.’ Batista gestured at Jack and Taylor. He cast his eyes over the uniforms. ‘You guys, talk to some of the business owners around Trick Shot, see if they’ve heard anything, watch their body language. That’s about all we’ve got to go on at the moment.’

  ‘Don’t forget the brother,’ said Wilson, his voice indistinct, like he’d just awoken from a long slumber.

  ‘What?’ said Batista.

  ‘I…ah…forgot to mention something from the interview with Garfield Walters. There was a notation in Snyder’s will. Wait a second.’ Wilson checked a small spiral notepad. ‘Yeah, it stated the 10% – of nothing, by the way – left to Trent Gillmeister was by way of apology.’

  Jack thumped a fist into his palm. ‘Jesus, that could be it. Sowell said the brother was protective of his sister. What if Lydia’s downplaying Snyder’s treatment of her? What if that’s why they lived apart, he was more violent than she led us to believe. The “apology” is him saying sorry from the grave for roughing up the guy’s sister.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Taylor, putting the iPad into sleep mode. ‘Lydia spoke of a “complicated” relationship. Should we check hospital records, see if she was admitted for any unusual injuries?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Batista with more enthusiasm than he’d started the briefing with. ‘I’ll arrange a warrant with the magistrate. Constable Smith. Get your butt over to Yorkville General.’

  ‘Yes, sir!’ She was halfway out the door before she turned around. ‘What if the hospital tries to give me the run-around?’

  ‘Say the matter is linked to a threat to national security. Give the Director my number if she tries to block you,’

  ‘You bet.’ Smith nodded and strode out the door.

  ‘Change of priorities.’ Batista stood hands on hips. ‘Semmens and Trevarthen, talk to this Thomson character. It’d just be our luck for the murderer to be working less than 200m from the station, thumbing his nose at us the whole time. Lisbon and Taylor, hustle up to Cairns and grill Trent Gillmeister. You know where to find him?’

  ‘Sowell said he’s a PE teacher in Cairns. I’ll research the schools on the drive there,’ said Taylor. She and Jack were out the door before the rest of the officers could blink.

  ‘What about me?’ Wilson stood slowly, putting on his police hat with fumbling hands.

  Batista gripped Wilson by the elbow and steered him out of the squad room. ‘I need you to speak to Snyder’s neighbours, see if they saw that car you witnessed on the stake out.’

  ‘But, sir. I…’

  ‘Just kidding, Wilson. I rang them myself and they saw nothing. Go home and get some sleep. I need a fully fit and alert squad if we’re going to crack this case. I don’t know what Lisbon was thinking making you work a double shift.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ The relief was almost palpable. ‘Can I make a request?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Can you drive me? I don’t think I can make it all the way home without crashing into a telegraph pole.’

  Chapter 18

  Constables Trevarthen and Semmens ducked under a roller door and entered the fluoro-lit interior of Marco Campari’s Subaru Repair Shop. The heady scents of oils, grease and lubricants together with the noisy clanking of metal on metal greeted them as they surveyed the area. The shop floor was about the size of two tennis courts placed end on end. A man was busily looking and poking under the hood of a canary-yellow WRX, two others inspected chassis of
SUVs raised on hydraulic hoists. Although the name of the enterprise suggested it specialised in a particular Japanese make, neither of the elevated 4X4 vehicles was a Subaru. Elsewhere but unseen, a mechanical chain pulley was running and someone was operating a drill that set your teeth on edge. To the righthand side of the repair shop proper was a narrow glassed-off area. A stout middle-aged woman inside spoke animatedly on the phone and tapped coloured squares on a computer screen.

  ‘Let’s start with the reception,’ said Trevarthen, heading for the open door to the office with Semmens half a step behind. Before they got there, a round, moon-faced man with a cherubic smile and a grubby rag tossed over his shoulder appeared from behind a rack of tyres. He casually approached the constables, smiling politely as if the police were the most welcome guests he could imagine dropping in. ‘Can I help you, officers? Need your cars serviced?’

  ‘Are you the owner of this place?’ Trevarthen took the lead while Semmens crossed his arms, spread his legs in an at-ease stance.

  ‘Yep. Marco Campari. Like the drink.’ He held out a large hand, the entire surface black with grime.

  ‘You expect me to shake that?’ said Trevarthen, slightly recoiling.

  ‘Oh, sorry.’ Campari spat on his hands, wiped them down the front of his blue overalls, thrust out the right mitt again. ‘How ’bout now?’

  Trevarthen looked the man directly in the eye, ignoring the proffered hand, which, if anything, had attained a higher level of filthiness. ‘Where’s Thomson?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Don’t play dumb, mate.’ Constable Semmens consulted the screen of his iPhone. ‘The bloke is registered as working for you. Full name, Thomas Earl Thomson, aged 42, covered in jail tatts, built like a brick shithouse. Ring a bell?’

  ‘Oh, that’d be Tommy.’ Campari chuckled uneasily. ‘He’s supposed to be checking the circuits on that Forester over there. He prob’ly ducked out the back for a smoke.’