Slaughter Park

by Barry Maitland

  ‘Coffee, Deb?’

  She sits while he brews up a plunger of coffee and finds mugs, milk, sugar.

  ‘Things must be buzzing in homicide,’ he says. He looks keenly at her. ‘Slater Park and all. Putting in the hours, I’ll bet. You were always the most conscientious one, Deb.’ He eyes her fingers. ‘Course, you probably want a smoke. Let’s go outside. It’s a beautiful morning.’

  They go out to a terrace beneath a pergola heavy with wisteria. Deb lights up.

  Bob sits down with a sigh. ‘Out with it then, Deb. This isn’t a social call, is it? Are we on the record?’

  ‘No. I’ve just come from Harry.’ She tells him where.

  He looks at her in astonishment. ‘You sectioned him?’

  ‘Not me, the doctor. He was in a very agitated state.’

  ‘I can well imagine.’

  Bob’s still looking at her like an incredulous headmaster, making her squirm. She decides to fight back.

  ‘He’s gone off on a limb, keeping stuff from us, running his own one-man investigation. Or should I say two-man?’

  ‘Careful, Deb. Harry did come to see me when he came back to Sydney, and he’s kept in touch on and off. Nothing wrong in that, is there?’

  ‘He’s been hiding Jenny from us, Bob, obstructing a murder investigation.’

  Bob looks mystified. ‘He knows where she is, does he?’

  Deb recognises that deceptive puzzled look. ‘He did, and so did you.’

  Bob holds her eye for a moment, then waves a hand at the smoke drifting up to the canopy of leaves. ‘No. I met her once, but what was I supposed to do? I’m not in the loop, Deb. I only know what I read in the papers. You haven’t named her as a person of interest, have you?’

  ‘Bullshit. Harry confided in you, his crazy theory that she’s been framed for Palfreyman’s murder.’

  Bob sighs again, as if the world’s gone mad since he stopped running it. ‘Look, why don’t you tell me what’s happened? How did you come to arrest him?’

  She tells him about Harry’s sudden appearance at Slater Park, their subsequent conversations.

  ‘Hmm.’ Bob nods. ‘Quite a story. What do you think of it, his claims about Fogarty?’

  ‘Rubbish. Pure desperation to protect Jenny, coupled with a bit of resentment about the way Fogarty gave him a hard time in Newcastle. There’s not a shred of evidence to support it. The case against Jenny is overwhelming.’ She sees the doubt on Bob’s face and leans forward. ‘Bob, sir, don’t get tangled up in this. We all feel very sorry for Harry, but he’s digging a deep hole for himself, and he’ll drag you down into it. Everyone in homicide admires you, but there are others out there…’

  ‘I know, I know.’

  ‘I’ll go back and talk to Harry again, try to get him to face reality. If the medics agree, we’ll release him from hospital and I’ll drop the charges against him. If he contacts you again try to persuade him to leave Sydney, start a new life.’

  ‘Did you know Jenny, Deb? Do you really think she could kill Palfreyman?’

  ‘She killed Frank Capp, didn’t she? We’re all capable of killing, Bob, once we convince ourselves that we have no alternative.’

  He nods. ‘True enough. Do you have any idea where she is?’

  Deb gets out her phone and shows him the picture of Jenny. ‘This was taken on a taxi cam in Marrickville. She jumped out fifteen minutes later in Waterloo. We’re looking for her in both places.’

  Deb returns to the strike force office, Sunday quiet, and asks an administrative officer to draw up a schedule of vehicles entering Slater Park on the nights of Christie Florian’s and Amber Nordlund’s murders, then checks the stream of new reports coming in.

  Later that afternoon she gets a call from Dr Lambert.

  ‘Inspector Velasco,’ he says, cold. He still doesn’t like me, she thinks. Christ’s sake, we’re supposed to be on the same side.

  ‘Dr Lambert, hi. Any developments?’

  ‘A third assessment of Harry Belltree has agreed with my opinion. We have no reason to hold him. He’s all yours.’

  ‘I’ll be right over.’

  She gets to the hospital, where Harry is waiting in a small room, staring stoically at a notice about sharps.

  ‘You’re free to go.’

  He takes his time to focus on her. Nods. ‘Right.’

  She hands him back his property—keys, wallet, Blackphone.

  ‘Your girlfriend at the Times has been trying to call you.’

  ‘Not jealous are you, Deb?’

  ‘No, I’m very pleased to say that isn’t one of my problems.’

  ‘Well…You’re obviously wanting to give me some advice.’

  ‘I’ve always admired you, Harry, and I’m sorry all this stuff has happened to you, but now you’ve got to save yourself. Go back up north, get on with your new life. There’s nothing but disaster waiting for you here.’

  He nods. ‘Thanks, Deb. Just forget all that stuff I told you, okay?’

  ‘Sure. It’s forgotten.’

  ‘Have you got Jenny?’

  She hesitates. ‘No. She jumped into a taxi in Marrickville and hasn’t been seen since. We will find her, Harry.’

  ‘Tell me, was there a police car there in Marrickville when she ran?’

  ‘Forget it, Harry. Move on.’

  He nods. Gets to his feet, stretches. ‘A new life, then.’

  ‘Best thing.’

  48

  Harry gets into the taxi, calls Nicole, asks if she’s heard from Jenny. Nothing. He asks about the baby—everything’s fine—then rings Kelly’s number.

  ‘Harry, you okay? I haven’t been able to reach you. It was Amber, then, at Slater Park.’

  ‘Yes. It was her.’ He tells her what happened with Deb.

  ‘That’s ridiculous. That Velasco woman’s a menace. What about Jenny?’

  ‘I don’t know. As soon as I saw it was Amber I called Jenny and she ran. I haven’t heard from her since. I have no idea where she is.’

  ‘Oh, Harry. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Did you have something for me?’

  ‘Yes, it was the Maturiki business. I got on to my friend in Port Vila, and he’s come back with information about a shark attack victim who worked for the Nordlunds. He thought I should talk to the victim’s sister, who also worked out there.’

  Harry thinks of Amber’s story of the scuba dive, which had seemed so unlikely. ‘That’s interesting. You going?’

  ‘I’m not sure if it’s worth it. What do you think?’

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘There’s a flight tomorrow from Port Vila up to Pentecost Island, where she lives. How about we get it?’

  ‘I need to be here for Jenny.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Well, keep in touch, Harry. Let me know if I can do anything.’

  He rings off, feeling weighed down by a feeling of impotence, and calls Bob Marshall, who tells him to come over.

  They sit on the terrace, the shadows lengthening across the garden, Deb’s cigarette stubs still there on a saucer on the table beneath the pergola. Bob nods at them. ‘She came to see me this morning, knew we’d been talking on that phone. I had to tell her some of it. She said you’d told her Jenny’s version of things.’

  ‘Does she believe it?’

  ‘No, Harry, not a word. She’s dead set Jenny killed Palfreyman and you’ve been protecting her. She grilled me, Harry, like she was the superintendent and I was the constable, warned me off.’

  ‘Well, sorry to have caused you trouble, Bob.’

  Bob leans forward, grips Harry’s arm and lowers his voice. ‘I want to help, mate, but she’ll be watching me closely now. No word of Jenny?’

  Harry shakes his head. ‘I have to find some way to protect her.’

  ‘Deb will find her, and when she does I’ll do my best to make sure she’s given maximum protection.’

  Harry nods, but he knows that’s not good enough. With a bleak sense of the inevitable, he knows
that there’s only one way to protect Jenny now.

  Bob is sliding an envelope across the table to him. ‘This is all I could find out about Fogarty without arousing too much suspicion. Some of it’s office gossip, but I reckon it’s pretty reliable.’

  ‘Thanks. Deb told me to leave town, get a new life.’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’

  ‘The night in the mental wing made me think,’ Harry says carefully. ‘I might take her advice, have a break, take a holiday.’

  ‘That right? Anywhere in mind?’

  ‘Vanuatu, I thought. Never been there.’

  ‘Mm. Betty and I had a couple of weeks there the year before she died. The Grand. Try it, why don’t you. Quite a decent pub.’

  49

  Harry reads through Bob’s information. Ken Fogarty is a churchgoer, apparently, partly because his second wife is a devout believer, but also because he lusts after a woman in the church choir, with whom he had a relationship between his two marriages. So the Fogartys and their two young children are regular attendees at evening service on a Sunday when the choir sings. They live in a quiet suburban house in Castle Hill. Fogarty has a close friend in the organised crime squad from his old drug squad days, a Detective Sergeant Eden Grimshaw, tall—two metres, six foot eight—and angular, very like the second man Jenny described. Grimshaw has form—several complaints of excessive force and an AVO from an ex-partner—for which Fogarty has always provided reassuring character references. Grimshaw has recently concluded a gruelling divorce, in which the Family Court judge stripped him of most of his visible assets, and is now living in a rented flat in Bondi. His rent is unnaturally low, given its location, and the apartment block is protected by CCTV.

  Harry checks the times of church services on his phone and heads over to Castle Hill. The Fogarty house is in darkness in the gathering twilight. He goes around the back and uses his bump keys to enter through the kitchen door. There is a security alarm, but it hasn’t been switched on. He pulls on gloves and goes inside. Something delicious is simmering in the oven. He quickly scans the ground floor rooms. The domestic scene unnerves him for a moment—the family photos, the Xbox on the floor in front of the TV, a Barbie doll—then he goes upstairs. In the parents’ bedroom he investigates the wardrobe and takes a lightweight outdoor jacket of Fogarty’s, a pair of old running shoes and a distinctive baseball cap with a large ‘A1’ logo. Downstairs again he goes through the laundry basket and retrieves male socks, handkerchief and sweatshirt.

  He leaves and drives to Bondi, scouts around the block of flats, then returns to Nicole’s house. She’s had a few drinks and is feeling aggrieved.

  ‘Harry, I never know when you’re going to show up! Saturday night Abigail was so unsettled after you left. What’s going on? Are you with us or aren’t you?’

  ‘Sorry, sorry,’ he says. ‘I got a call in the small hours and had to go. It was really important.’

  She softens. ‘Any word of Jen?’

  He shakes his head. ‘Listen, I need to go out for a couple of hours tonight, then I’ll be back to look after Abigail. If anyone asks later, I’m here all evening, and with Abigail all night, okay?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘It’s for Jen.’

  ‘Sure, Harry. Whatever you say.’

  After a couple of hours he leaves, drives to Bondi again. Grimshaw’s flat is in darkness. Harry pulls on dark blue polypropylene forensic overalls and hood, gloves, overshoes, and Fogarty’s jacket and baseball cap over the top, then approaches the block. He uses his bump keys to open the lobby door, keeping his head down so the cap is clearly visible to the camera. On Grimshaw’s floor he uses the keys again to open the door of his flat, and steps inside. A rapid but thorough search turns up a small plastic bag of what might be cocaine, a large commando knife in a sheath and a wad of banknotes. Harry stands by the window overlooking the street. What happens now depends on what he sees out there.

  An hour passes, two, three. Then a taxi pulls up and Grimshaw staggers out. He is alone. Harry takes a deep breath and moves to the front door.

  He hears the lift doors open, the rattle of keys dropped on the floor, picked up again, then turned in the front door lock.

  ‘God forgive me,’ Harry whispers, and as Grimshaw steps inside and closes the door behind him, Harry buries the commando knife in his chest and eases him to the floor. Blood is pumping everywhere. Harry scatters Grimshaw’s banknotes and cocaine on the floor, then rolls him over on top of them. He takes Fogarty’s running shoes and dips them in the blood and makes several prints on the floor, then wipes the handle of the knife carefully with Fogarty’s sweatshirt, socks and handkerchief. He uses them again to touch things in the room—a bottle of scotch, two glasses that he half-fills—and the front doorknob. Then he leaves, making a couple more imprints from Fogarty’s shoes on the way down. Outside in the street he discards the shoes in a nearby builders’ skip, then drives back to Fogarty’s house, where he tucks the cap and jacket in the bottom of their rubbish bin. He returns to Nicole’s house and slips down to Abigail’s room. She is uneasy, struggling against the bedclothes, and he picks her up and holds her close against his chest, rocking her until she settles and his own heartbeat returns to normal.

  50

  Deb Velasco grabs a breakfast cup of coffee and a roll from the stall in the lobby of police headquarters and heads up to the homicide suite on the eighth floor. She checks in with the administrative officer, who tells her that Dick Blake is in conference with the assistant commissioner and wants to talk to her about Slater Park when he returns.

  ‘Okay. Nothing else?’

  ‘There was a homicide in Bondi last night, called in a couple of hours ago.’

  ‘Who’s got it?’

  ‘Stan Felder’s gone out there. Thing is, victim was a cop, at home, off duty. Bloke from the organised crime squad.’

  That stops Deb. Organised crime, like Fogarty. ‘What’s his name?’

  The woman checks. ‘Eden Grimshaw, detective sergeant.’

  Deb doesn’t recognise it, but still. She calls Felder, at the scene.

  ‘Morning, boss. It’s a flat on the sixth floor of an eight-storey apartment block. A neighbour on the same floor on his way to work at 5:30 am noticed that Grimshaw’s door was open, knocked, looked inside and saw Grimshaw lying on the floor covered in blood. Local cops attended. They’re door-knocking the other flats and surrounding properties. There’s CCTV in the entrance lobby here and we’re waiting for the property manager to give us access.’

  ‘Have you spoken to organised crime?’

  ‘Not yet, boss.’

  ‘I’ll do it.’ She looks up the number for the head of organised crime. He’s shocked to get the news. Deb says, ‘Ken Fogarty works with you, doesn’t he? Was he a friend of Grimshaw’s?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. He’ll be upset big time. They worked together a lot. Friends from way back—in the drug squad together for years. I’d better let him know.’

  Deb rings off and tells the admin officer that she’s going out to Bondi to back up Stan Felder.

  When she arrives she finds there have been developments. The lobby and the lift doors are draped with crime scene tape, officers escorting residents in and out. When she gets to the sixth floor there’s more tape. Felder is waiting for her. He shows her footage taken from the lobby CCTV camera on his iPad.

  ‘We’re still checking the identity of all the other people coming and going last night, but I reckon this must be him, arrives at 21:48 last night and leaves at 1:27 this morning, just seven minutes after Grimshaw arrived home, at 1:20.’

  ‘No image of the face?’

  ‘No—head down, the visor of the cap hides him—but the neighbour who found Grimshaw says he’s seen the logo on the cap before, a friend of Grimshaw’s who’s visited here. Doesn’t have a name. We’ll get him to work on a facial image.’

  He leads her to the door of Grimshaw’s flat. A crime scene team is working inside.

  ‘The bo
dy has been rolled onto its back, the knife still in his chest. It’s been removed for examination. You can see what was lying beneath him—banknotes and a packet of white powder. We’ve retrieved the victim’s phone for analysis.’

  ‘The knife, was it from the kitchen?’ Deb asks, for a horrible thought is forming in her mind.

  ‘No, more like a hunting knife. A leather sheath is lying over there next to the bedroom door.’

  Felder’s phone rings. He listens, nods, says he’ll come down.

  ‘They’ve found something nearby, a pair of shoes.’ He points to the plastic number signs placed next to faint marks on the floor. ‘Bloodstain footprints. Let’s see if they match.’

  Two uniforms are waiting outside the lobby door, one holding a plastic bag with a pair of white running shoes inside. White, that is, apart from dark smears of what might be blood.

  ‘Found them in the builders’ skip in the next street, boss,’ one of the officers says.

  Felder takes the bag and examines the soles of the shoes, holds up an image of the footprints from his phone for comparison and gives Deb a nod. ‘Good,’ he tells the men. ‘Keep looking.’

  Deb says, ‘I’ll let you get on, Stan. Keep me up to date, will you?’

  ‘Sure. You have a particular interest, boss?’

  ‘Yes. This may be connected to another case. But early days.’

  She goes back to her car, checks Ken Fogarty’s home address, then calls the local area command and asks for a detective to meet her at the Castle Hill address. They meet up outside, and together go to the front door. A woman answers their ring.

  ‘Mrs Fogarty?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her smile fades a little as she looks them over.

  Deb introduces herself and the other detective.

  ‘Has something happened? Is Ken all right?’

  ‘Yes. Do you mind if we come in for a moment?’

  ‘Please.’