The Frozen Circle

by Peter Watt

‘I commanded a company at Mont St Quentin,’ Joshua replied, surprised at finding himself in the company of a man from the other side in that terrible battle for the heights. ‘It was a bad time for us both. I copped shrapnel in the guts on the hill.’

  Von Fettermann suddenly displayed an expression of interest in his prisoner and Joshua realised that two former enemies had found common ground in a way only those who had spent time in hell could understand.

  ‘Ah, my friend,’ the German said. ‘I hope for both our sakes that you are not a Bolshevik agitator. I would regret executing a man who has known the nearness of death on that cursed piece of ground.’

  Joshua noticed that the attitude towards him seemed to have changed after the major left the room and returned with a guard to escort him to a dank cell in the basement. He was still a prisoner but was not being mistreated. He was ushered into a cell with Jan who clearly was not so well respected given the additional bruises and cuts he had sustained since arriving at the Freikorps HQ.

  Joshua sat down next to Jan, whose eyes were almost closed from the swelling to his face. Under the current circumstances there was little he could do for either of them but Joshua quietly prayed that Maria might find a way. Now their roles had been reversed, and she would have to be the protector.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Valley View

  Present day

  The body lay face down, the legs still in the creek. Morgan was no longer alone protecting the scene as Ken Barber and a dozen police from Hume City had joined him where the water ran over the smooth river stones that served as a base for the dirt road leading into a paddock. Already the crime scene specialists were going about their work, preserving any possible evidence and documenting the immediate area around the water-logged corpse.

  Ken Barber stood back from the scene with Morgan. He lit a cigarette and exhaled grey smoke into the sultry late morning air.

  ‘What’s the bet this is our missing Pom,’ he said. ‘The wallet he had on him seems to confirm that he is one Daniel Kildare.’

  Morgan gazed up the swiftly running creek to the heavily timbered hills beyond.

  ‘He could have been killed further upstream,’ he suggested. ‘The creek is pretty deep and wide up to the crossing.’

  ‘Looks like a gunshot entry to the back of the head,’ a police officer bending over the body called to Ken, who acknowledged the information with a wave of his hand.

  ‘What calibre?’ Ken called back.

  The crime scene examiner stared at the wound he had found when he spread the hair. ‘Maybe a .22 or .32. It looks like the slug will still be in his head. We should be able to recover it at the autopsy,’ he replied with the knowledge of a man who knew his firearms.

  ‘Well, a shot to the back of the head appears to rule out suicide or even an accident to me,’ Ken said. ‘You got anyone in mind for this?’

  Morgan bit his bottom lip, contemplating the little pieces he was putting together.

  ‘He was in the frame for the museum break-in and I have since learned that he was in a relationship with a woman I interviewed a short while ago. The one whose name I gave you, Sarah Sakharov. She is still back in town staying at the Top End pub. She would have to be a good place to start asking questions.’

  ‘We will do that,’ Barber nodded. ‘See what she has to say about her former boyfriend. I have to say that all this seems to be pointing to a link with your Ms Dawson.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ Morgan asked.

  ‘Nothing I can put a finger on right now,’ Barber said. ‘Just an old copper’s gut feeling about all the strange things happening around your beat since we uncovered those two bodies in her backyard.’

  Although Morgan agreed with his superior officer he did not comment on his observation. It was infuriating that the fragments floated around in his head without any glue to tie them together: Monique’s sabotaged car, the museum break-in, Russian and English suspects – at least in his opinion, and now a murdered man floating in the creek a mere five kilometres from Valley View.

  The gathering clouds drifting in from the west promised a violent storm later in the afternoon. Sweat dripped from Morgan’s brow and he thought about a cold drink. He also thought about calling the number in the UK to inform the man who had identified himself as Smithers that Kildare was most probably the dead man they had found but chose not to until the dead man’s identity was properly established.

  ‘If you don’t need me here anymore I will head back to town,’ Morgan said. ‘Maybe see you later.’

  Ken nodded and Morgan walked back to his vehicle. As far as he knew, this was Monique’s last day in Valley View before taking time off to go to Sydney and he had a desire to see her before she left. At least he could disguise his visit as a professional one to ensure that she was okay, he thought.

  Morgan drove to the old Larkin house and found Monique at home. But she was not alone. Parked in the driveway was the hire car Morgan recognised as that of Sarah Sakharov. He reached the front door very quickly. The sudden appearance of the beautiful English woman’s car at Monique’s house alarmed him. Sarah was, after all, a person of interest in the investigation of Kildare’s death and it was police procedure to look first at those closest to the deceased; the majority of homicides were committed by someone who knew their victim. Random killings were rare.

  Morgan rapped on the door and when Monique opened it Sarah was standing beside her.

  ‘Hello, Morgan,’ Monique greeted. ‘Would you like to join us for a coffee?’

  ‘Er, that would be nice,’ Morgan answered, stepping through the door.

  ‘Well, I should be going,’ Sarah said to Monique, sounding annoyed. ‘We will catch up later.’

  Before Morgan could react Sarah brushed past him and walked out the door.

  ‘Miss Sakharov,’ Morgan called after her. ‘Where are you off to?’

  Sarah stopped with the keys of her car in hand. ‘Why?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s just that a matter has come up we need to speak to you about.’

  ‘You know where I am staying,’ Sarah replied, turning to continue towards her car. ‘You can find me there.’

  ‘What is going on?’ Monique asked.

  Morgan turned to her. ‘Nothing much,’ he lied. ‘We just want to ask Ms Sakharov about a missing person. Why was she here?’

  ‘Do you want a coffee or would you rather interrogate me?’ Monique asked, a slight smile on her face. ‘If you like you can tie me up.’

  Morgan burst into a smile at the mischievous expression on her face. ‘Sorry,’ he apologised. ‘I kind of worry about you.’

  ‘In your duties as a police officer?’ Monique asked.

  ‘Yeah,’ Morgan replied. ‘There seem to be things happening around town that don’t add up but also appear to have a link to the bodies we uncovered in your backyard. I know you may think that I am crazy but why was Sarah here?’

  ‘If you must know,’ Monique said, turning to walk to the kitchen, ‘Sarah was just clarifying a few facts for her story about my possible descendancy from Princess Maria.’

  ‘What did you tell her?’

  ‘I gave her a copy of my family tree back to 1920 which shows that my great-grandfather and grandmother were Charles and Mary Dawson from the UK – not Joshua and Maria Larkin,’ Monique answered.

  ‘So how is it that this place could be in your family name back then if it belonged to Joshua Larkin?’ Morgan asked.

  Monique took a breath. Either she had an answer or was confused. ‘When I travelled to the UK I went in search of the records for my great-grandparents,’ she said. ‘From what I had been told by my parents they came from London – except I did not find anything in the archives about them. I was told that any records concerning them may have been destroyed during World War Two when London was bombed in the blitz.’

  Morgan sat down at the table, accepting a mug of coffee. ‘I can’t see how this place could be legally in your family unless your gra
ndparents and parents could prove title back to Joshua Larkin.’

  ‘Maybe he sold the title to my great-grandparents when they came to Australia,’ Monique offered, sitting down in the opposite chair.

  Morgan sipped his coffee. ‘You know, the DNA test you had could prove if there is a link or not between you and Princess Maria. I read somewhere that the Russians who found the burial pit of the Czar and his family used DNA from Prince Philip – the Queen’s husband – to establish that the bodies were those of the Russian royal family. Maybe the same DNA profile might help you.’

  ‘I am still waiting for the results,’ Monique said.

  ‘When do you get them?’ Morgan asked.

  ‘Anytime now,’ she answered. ‘I don’t know how, but Sarah knew about my DNA test. I guess as a journalist she has access to such things.’

  Morgan did not comment. He somehow doubted that this would be the case but the possibility worried him.

  ‘When do you leave for Sydney?’ Morgan asked, changing the subject.

  ‘Tomorrow morning,’ Monique replied. ‘I am just packing a few items as I intend to return when I feel that enough time has elapsed. I still have this eerie feeling that there are ghosts haunting this place. That incident with my car has me a bit spooked too. We both know that someone is trying to kill me.’

  Morgan agreed but he did not want to frighten her further. Her leaving was a good idea although he would miss her. He dared not fully admit to himself that he was very attracted to her, the most beautiful woman that he had ever met. After all, he was sure she could do better than a country cop who still suffered nightmares from his time on active service with the SAS.

  ‘Well, I had better get back to the station. We have had a bit of an incident just the other side of town,’ Morgan said, placing his half-finished mug of coffee on the low magazine-covered table between them. ‘A body was found in the creek at Paddy’s Crossing.’

  ‘That’s terrible! Is it anyone that I might know?’ Monique asked with a worried expression etching her face.

  ‘Doubt it,’ Morgan answered. ‘Probably just some tourist who fell in the river and drowned,’ Morgan lied to avoid alarming her on her last night in town; he could see that she was on edge already. Maybe the media would not have all the details by nightfall and Monique would be far away in Sydney before the full story of a murder was revealed. He hoped so.

  Driving away Morgan was still puzzled by the missing link in Monique’s family tree. Was it possible that Charles and Mary Dawson were in fact Joshua and Maria Larkin? They had good reason to adopt another identity given what he had read in the Larkin journal.

  ‘Bastard!’ Morgan swore, pounding the dashboard of the police vehicle. None of the sinister events happening in Valley View would have occurred had David Greer not dug up the first body weeks earlier. He felt that he was no closer to solving any of the crimes although two names kept cropping up in his mind – both Russian.

  When Morgan reached Valley View a few minutes later he saw Ken Barber and an offsider, a young, plain-clothes policeman by the name of Mark Branson, standing by their vehicle in front of his station. Even at a distance he could see the irritated expression on Barber’s face.

  ‘Where have you been?’ he asked as Morgan stepped out of his vehicle. ‘I was calling you on your radio and mobile – you didn’t answer.’

  Morgan grabbed his phone and realised that he had forgotten to charge it. The reading indicated no power and he had also failed to go off the air at Monique’s place. Seeing Sarah Sakharov had distracted him.

  ‘Sorry, Ken,’ he apologised. ‘I stuffed up – the mobile’s flat.’

  ‘No bloody worries,’ Ken growled. ‘We have been up to the top pub and the publican there tells us that Sakharov checked out this morning. No forwarding address.’

  ‘I saw her only about half an hour ago,’ Morgan responded with a frown. ‘She was out at the Larkin house.’

  ‘Well, she doesn’t appear to be anywhere in town right now,’ Ken said. ‘And she was our best bet. Any ideas?’

  Morgan took a deep breath. ‘I have the particulars of her hire car,’ he said. ‘Maybe we could broadcast a call to the Highway Patrol to pick her up.’

  ‘You know there are four directions she can go from here in the half hour since you saw her,’ the detective cautioned. ‘Besides, we don’t have anything on her other than a suspicion, certainly no evidence to back us up. I have a feeling that Miss Sakharov will be out of the country before we get the body to the morgue – if she has had anything to do with the murder.’

  Morgan knew that Ken was right. She was a person of interest – nothing more.

  ‘There is this Russian,’ Morgan offered, hoping to placate the angry detective. ‘A bloke by the name of Olev. He might be worth talking to.’

  ‘A bloody Russian!’ Ken snorted. ‘What is this, the Cold War all over again just because a Pom has been murdered. Jesus, McLean, you need to get out of this town, it’s making you paranoid.’

  ‘At least it’s something for the running sheet,’ Morgan said. ‘I can’t see any of my locals shooting Kildare. Maybe the Russian didn’t like the soccer team that Kildare supported. You know how passionate the Poms and Europeans are about their football.’

  ‘I know you are trying to be funny,’ Ken chuckled, despite himself. ‘We will give this Russian a go and see what shakes out. At least we can justify some overtime to catch up on a cold beer and counter meal while we are out here.’

  Satisfied that he had something to start on, Ken Barber turned to the plain-clothes officer with him and threw him the car keys.

  ‘You drive, Mark,’ he said.

  Morgan watched them drive away and looked up at the sky. The tall, billowing thunderheads rolling in from the west were an impressive sight. They were definitely due for a fierce storm before the day was through. At least the rain would cool the air.

  Petrov Batkin was angry. Sarah was not answering her mobile phone and had not returned the .32 semiautomatic pistol he had loaned her. Not that the loss of the gun was of great consequence as he knew the two men due to meet him that evening would be armed. The weapons were not to be used to harm Monique Dawson however but simply were a means to deter anyone who might get in the way. His small hotel room was humid even with the clattering, overhead fan blowing air over him as he thought about Morgan. He realised that if for some reason McLean might happen to be around at the time they abducted the girl they would need some firepower to stop him. The local policeman was no ordinary country cop.

  Where was Sarah, he asked himself again just as he heard the knock at his door.

  ‘Who is it?’ he asked, rising from the bed where he lay under the cooling breeze of the overhead fan.

  ‘Police,’ the deep voice answered. ‘We would like to have a talk with you, Mr Olev.’

  Petrov Batkin felt a chill and not from the cooling breeze of the fan.

  ‘I will open door,’ he replied. ‘Please to wait.’

  He had given himself a few precious seconds to consider his options. Why had the police suddenly appeared at his room? He knew that the voice was not that of the local policeman. The hotel verandah was on the other side of his window and an escape route. Unarmed, he would be forced to kill with his hands, which he knew he could do very efficiently. But he did not know how many police were on the other side of the door and what he was up against. He opened the door to stare into the faces of Ken Barber and Mark Branson.

  ‘What do you want?’ he asked in a surly tone.

  ‘We would just like to ask you some questions about Daniel Kildare,’ Ken said, shoving his big foot inside the door so that it could not be closed against him.

  ‘Never heard of man,’ Batkin answered, attempting to close the door. ‘You go away.’

  Ken forced the door back and pushed himself into the room. His action and appearance reminded Petrov Batkin of an old-time KGB man.

  ‘Mr Olev,’ Ken said mildly, scanning the small room. �
�I would almost think that you have something to hide considering your less than cooperative manner towards New South Wales finest. I only want to clear up a few matters and then we will leave you alone.’

  ‘I am Russian citizen who come on visa to your country,’ Batkin retorted. ‘I make complaint to Russian embassy about you.’

  Ken sat on the bed.

  ‘Now, once again, do you know of a Mr Daniel Kildare?’

  ‘I tell you, Mr policeman, I not know this man. Who is he?’ Batkin said, standing and walking to the open window to the verandah.

  ‘Do you have some form of identification?’ Ken asked.

  Batkin was not sure of the laws of Australia and felt that they had a right to demand identification as occurred in his own country. He knew that he did not have to cooperate but felt that he should produce his passport at the least. He walked over to a small vinyl suit bag and pulled it out. It was so well forged that he doubted the police officer would know that it was a false passport.

  Ken took the passport and examined the photo against Batkin – they matched. He scribbled down any particulars that he could recognise from the Cyrillic writing before handing it back. ‘Well, thank you for your assistance, Mr Olev. I apologise for the inconvenience that we may have caused you and hope that you have a pleasant stay in Valley View.’

  With his parting words, Ken nodded to the young plain-clothes officer. They closed the door behind them as they left and headed for the stairs.

  ‘We can write him off,’ Branson said. ‘He’s not going to talk about anything and I can’t see how he would know the dead Pom.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ Ken said. ‘That Ruskie bastard knows something. Young Morgan was right.’

  ‘How do you come to that conclusion?’ the young trainee detective asked, glancing at Ken.

  ‘Because while I was talking to him he was eyeing off a way out of the room,’ Ken Barber replied. ‘Olev is as guilty as sin about something and was planning on doing a runner if I came on too heavy with the questions. It’s time to do a quick check on our Mr Olev with the customs people. I have a gut feeling he’s Russian mafia, and if so, what’s he doing in sleepy little Valley View?’