Slaughter Park

by Barry Maitland

She takes them into a comfortably furnished living room, removes a Barbie doll from the lounge and asks them to sit down. ‘Ken’s at work, if you’re wanting him.’

  ‘Yes. Someone else is contacting him. You see, a friend, a work colleague of his, has been murdered. Eden Grimshaw.’

  ‘Eden! Oh, no, that’s awful. Poor Eden.’

  ‘You knew him?’

  ‘Yes. We’ve known him for ages, through his ups and downs.’

  She sees the query on Deb’s face, and goes on, ‘He went through a horrible divorce recently, and before that there was, well, a lot of bitterness. Ken did his best to help. He’s been a regular visitor here.’

  ‘Ah, yes. This weekend?’

  ‘Yes, Saturday, he had dinner here with us.’

  ‘Did Ken see him yesterday evening, do you know?’

  ‘No. Ken didn’t go out. We all went to church together and then came home for dinner. But why don’t you speak to him?’

  ‘Yes, yes, as I said, someone is doing that, but we just need to get as broad a perspective as possible, him being a police officer.’

  Deb gets out her phone and shows Mrs Fogarty a close-up image of the A1 logo on the cap in the CCTV picture. ‘Do you recognise this at all?’

  ‘Oh…why, yes, it’s Ken’s cap.’

  ‘Ah,’ Deb sits back, ‘I see. Is it here then?’

  ‘I assume so. Ken keeps it in the wardrobe upstairs. Do you want me to check?’

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind.’

  She leaves them, and the other detective looks at Deb, his face blank.

  Fogarty’s wife returns after a couple of minutes. ‘No, I’m sorry, I can’t seem to find it. Really you should ask Ken.’

  ‘Yes, we will. I’m sorry to have bothered you, Mrs Fogarty. We’re all chasing our tails this morning, going round in circles.’

  ‘Of course. How awful. It’s always a shock when a police officer is murdered. People don’t appreciate what risks you run.’

  She sees them to the door. As it closes behind them, Deb points to a pair of bins over against the fence. ‘Do me a favour will you? Put on some gloves and take a quick look in there for me.’

  ‘What am I looking for, boss?’

  ‘Articles of clothing.’

  She watches him lift the lids, crouch over the bins, then raise his arm to her. She goes over.

  ‘Dark blue jacket stuffed down the bottom, and a baseball cap.’ ‘This one?’ She shows him the CCTV image.

  ‘Yeah, looks like.’

  Hands behind her, she peers into the bin and sees it. ‘Right.’ Filled with a sense of disaster, she gets on the phone to homicide HQ, insists on speaking to Dick Blake. When he eventually comes on the line, she says, ‘Chief, sorry, but we have a problem.’

  51

  ‘What made you come over here in the first place?’ Superintendent Blake shakes his head, watching the search team going into Fogarty’s house. Mrs Fogarty is standing at the front window, looking bewildered.

  ‘The witness at the apartment block said he recognised the cap as belonging to a friend of Grimshaw’s, and I thought I’d better check if it was Chief Inspector Fogarty’s.’

  ‘Which it was.’

  ‘Yes, only his wife said he didn’t go out last night.’

  ‘And then you just happened to check his bins…’

  Deb says nothing.

  ‘Because?’

  ‘Old habit of mine,’ she says.

  ‘Really? And the cap and jacket are covered in bloodstains.’

  ‘They are.’

  Blake shakes his head again. ‘So Fogarty murdered his colleague?’

  ‘Or else he’s been set up. Fogarty’s an experienced detective. Bit stupid to wear distinctive clothing to the crime scene, then dispose of it in his own bin.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I was thinking. So we’ll probably have to rely on forensics.’ He ponders for a moment. ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘Still in his office at Parramatta HQ.’

  ‘I know you’re heavily committed with Slater Park, Deb, but I’d like you to handle this, at least for the first twenty-four hours. Why don’t you and Stan have him identify Grimshaw at the morgue, then take him to the local station for a statement. Tell him you’ve found his jacket and cap, see if he has an explanation. Maybe they were stolen at the gym or something. I’d better inform the deputy commissioner.’

  Deb does as he says, picking Fogarty up and driving him to Glebe. On the way he expresses his disbelief at what’s happened, trying to pump Deb for information.

  ‘Too early to be sure,’ she says, ‘but I’ll get you to give us a formal statement of what you know of his recent movements. You were pretty close, I believe?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. We’ve been through a few situations over the years, some fairly tense. And then something like this happens, out of the blue. Unbelievable. I’ll miss the big bastard.’

  He sounds convincing, but then he’s had plenty of experience.

  Stan Felder meets them at the morgue and together they go to view the body. Fogarty gives a soft groan. ‘You think you’re invincible, and then bang, it’s all over.’ He turns to Deb. ‘Stabbed, eh? Where?’

  ‘His chest, the heart.’

  ‘Quick then. Where did this happen?’

  ‘In his flat, apparently.’

  ‘Really? Well, there’s CCTV down at the front door. Maybe that’ll help.’

  They go on to the local police station, an interview room. Deb checks the ERISP recording equipment.

  ‘Formal, eh? Am I a suspect?’

  ‘A potential witness. Take a seat. I have to caution you.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  They get started. Fogarty says he last saw Grimshaw on Saturday. He came to watch Fogarty’s son play a game of school football, then returned to Fogarty’s home where they had drinks, a meal. Grimshaw left around eight. Fogarty says he doesn’t know what plans he had for Sunday. They discuss possible enemies, Grimshaw’s problems with money since his divorce, his drinking and gambling.

  ‘Who might have had a key to his apartment?’ Deb asks.

  ‘A girlfriend, maybe? Don’t know.’

  ‘Yourself?’

  ‘Yes.’ Fogarty gets a bunch of keys from his pocket and shows them one for the lobby door of the apartment block and one for Grimshaw’s flat. ‘Just for emergencies,’ he says. ‘I never had occasion to use them. He always buzzes me up.’

  When they’ve exhausted the routine questions, Deb closes her notebook and puts away her pen.

  Fogarty sits back. ‘You get the bastard, you hear?’

  ‘We’ll do our best.’ Deb begins to rise from her chair, then turns to Felder. ‘Oh, that cap image.’

  Felder flicks through his phone and hands it to her.

  ‘Yes. Do you recognise this, Ken?’

  He frowns, surprised. ‘I have a cap like that.’

  Deb nods. ‘Where is it now?’

  ‘Where? In my wardrobe at home, I guess. Why?’

  ‘When did you last wear it?’

  ‘Hang on, why are you asking?’

  ‘A resident on Eden’s floor described one of Eden’s visitors wearing a cap like that.’

  ‘Oh, yes, that would be me. Last time I wore it would have been Saturday, at the boy’s footy game.’

  ‘Okay, well, thanks for your cooperation, Ken.’

  At the door Fogarty pauses, checks his phone. ‘Oh, the wife’s been trying to get me. She must have heard the news.’

  When he’s gone, Deb goes out to her car and speeds off. On the road she calls the TIB at Potts Hill. ‘Harry Belltree,’ she says. ‘We’re tracking his phone, right? Where was he last night between nine pm and one am?’

  After a few minutes they get back to her with an address. ‘House belongs to a Mrs Nicole March. He’s been staying there nights since last Wednesday.’

  ‘Is he there now?’

  ‘He is, or at least his phone is.’

  Deb remembers the name—Harry
’s sister-in-law, widowed. She heads over there.

  Nicole answers the door, a baby in her arms, and Deb introduces herself.

  ‘I remember,’ Nicole says coolly. ‘You’re Harry’s colleague. We’ve met.’

  ‘I need to speak to him, Mrs March.’

  ‘I’m afraid you’ve missed him. He isn’t here.’

  ‘When will he be back?’

  ‘I really couldn’t say.’

  ‘Can you tell me where he is?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Look, I really do need to speak to him urgently. What time did he leave?’

  ‘After breakfast, around seven.’

  Deb takes out her phone and calls Harry’s number. From somewhere inside the house they hear a phone ringing. It stops when she finishes the call. ‘His phone appears to be here.’

  ‘He must have left it behind.’

  Deb doesn’t hide her impatience. ‘Can you tell me where he was last night?’

  ‘He was here, looking after Abigail.’ Nicole strokes the baby’s head.

  ‘That’s his daughter?’

  ‘Yes, his and Jenny’s.’ Nicole looks defiantly at Deb. ‘Abigail’s quite demanding at night, wakes every couple of hours. Harry’s very good with her. His bed is in the room with her cot.’

  Deb stares at the small figure for a moment, the pink skin, the tuft of fair hair. ‘Please get him to call me. It’s urgent.’

  52

  Harry looks out of the window at the ocean far below, small clouds casting patches of shadow on the green ruffled surface. Three rows ahead on the other side of the aisle he can see the top of Kelly’s head as she sips a glass of wine. Beside him two men are talking about the tragedy of a heavy-drinking friend who used to be a champion lawn bowler, ‘Up there with Selby,’ until he gave up the grog and completely lost the knack. The pilot announces their approach to Bauerfield Airport.

  They collect their bags and take a minibus ride into Port Vila. It rattles and bumps over potholes, past strips of small workshops and homes, new signs for Chinese businesses. Their hotel overlooks the harbour. It has a casino and views out across the water to the resort island a short ferry ride across the bay. They take their bags up to their rooms, then meet in the lobby to walk to lunch at Brad’s Hamburger Bar. As they stroll through the covered fruit market and out into the humid heat along the main street, Kelly sketches in Brad’s background, a Tasmanian accountant who got a taste for the expat life during a stint in Papua New Guinea and fled a failing marriage to go troppo in Vanuatu. ‘He knows everybody,’ Kelly says, ‘fiddles their tax returns for them when he’s not serving them burgers and beer. I met him when I had a week’s holiday out here once, and we hit it off. He had a greasy little shack on the harbour then, but he’s gone up-market since.’

  But not much up-market, Harry thinks, as they push through the plastic strips into a dark little bar on a back street. Two men in hard hats are sitting at one of the tables, drinking beer and eating burgers and chips. There’s a strong smell of frying in the air, the sound of an argument through a doorway behind the bar. A man emerges, stocky, red-faced, wiping his hands on his apron.

  ‘Kelly! You made it.’ He gives her a kiss, shakes Harry’s hand a little warily, waves them to stools at the bar. He opens a bottle of wine for Kelly, pours beers for Harry and himself and gets down to business. From a shelf beneath the bar he produces a stapled document, a copy of the local police report of an investigation into human remains discovered on Tuesday 16 September in the net of a fishing boat in ocean waters west of the island of Pentecost. They thumb through it, scanning passages that someone has underlined.

  Forensic analysis determined that the remains comprised the right leg of an adult male in the age range 18–30, of Melanesian Ni-Vanuatu extraction. It was estimated that it had been in the water for 36–72 hours, and had been mauled, most likely by sharks. Cause of death could not be determined. There were no distinguishing marks to aid identification.

  Subsequent enquiries by a VPF officer on Pentecost established that Selwyn Tamata, 28, whose family lived in the village of Panngi in south-west Pentecost, was missing. Selwyn had regular work as a tourist guide during the land-diving season from April to June, and out of season casual work with local fishermen as well as on the private island of Maturiki, some 12 kilometres west of Pentecost. No one had reported him missing until the police officer came asking questions.

  Brad points to the VPF officer’s name. ‘He’s a regular in here. I told him that you were interested in the shark sorcerers for a story in your paper, Kelly, but he wasn’t too happy about that. Apparently it’s against policy to talk about sharks—bad for tourism—so he won’t talk to you. But he suggested you could speak to Selwyn’s sister Pascaline. He thought she was holding something back, and asked her if Selwyn had been in trouble with someone, but she wouldn’t be drawn. Maybe you’ll have more luck with her. She also has a casual job on Maturiki, so she may be able to fill you in on that.’

  They discuss what they should do. There is a flight up to Pentecost that afternoon and they decide to go for it. Brad says he can’t come with them today, but offers to contact someone who can help them. He flicks through a fat address book stuffed with business cards and handwritten notes and dials a number. Pastor Emanuel Dubouzet lives in a small village not far from Panngi, and knows the Tamata family. He also runs a guesthouse in which he would be happy to accommodate Brad’s two friends.

  53

  Deb makes her way from the Strike Force Spider briefing to Superintendent Blake’s office. He is poring over a new report from forensic services.

  ‘DNA results,’ he says, looking sombre. ‘Not much room for doubt. The running shoes are definitely Fogarty’s and it’s their footprints all over the crime scene and on the landing and stairway. Fogarty’s DNA on the knife and front doorknob.’

  ‘Fingerprints?’

  ‘Hmm…’ He checks the report. ‘No. That’s about the only thing that seems to be missing. Oh, hang on—Fogarty’s thumb print on the bag of white powder, cocaine.’

  ‘What’s the motive?’

  ‘That’s for Stan Felder to find out. You don’t look convinced. You’re not still thinking he’s been framed, are you?’

  Deb shrugs. ‘Let’s see how Stan gets on.’

  ‘Maybe you should sit in with him, Deb. Reassure yourself.’

  ‘Are we charging Fogarty?’

  ‘Don’t have a lot of choice. Not with this…’ He taps the report.

  For the time being the Grimshaw murder is being run from a room in the eastern suburbs local area command headquarters at Waverley. Deb takes a car out there and on the way calls the major incident room at Slater Park, asks for an alert to be issued for Harry Belltree if he should try to leave the country.

  She gets a reply to the second request before she reaches Waverley. Harry Belltree left Sydney at 7:45 am that morning on an Air Vanuatu flight to Port Vila. She swears softly to herself, suddenly overwhelmed by a premonition of her career in ruins. She pulls in to the kerb and takes a deep breath. Think, focus, she tells herself, one thing at a time.

  She calls Felder and tells him she’ll be delayed and not to start talking to Fogarty till she gets there.

  ‘His wife’s been trying to call him,’ Felder says.

  ‘Has he been speaking to her?’

  ‘No, he surrendered his phone to us for analysis.’

  ‘He was happy with that?’

  ‘He was cooperative. He’s playing it pretty cool, not acting like a guilty man at all.’

  ‘We’ll see. I’m going to talk to his wife again, see how his alibi stands up.’

  Deb turns the car around and heads for Castle Hill. The searchers are leaving, taking the clothes Fogarty wore yesterday. A woman constable remains inside with Brenda Fogarty, who is agitated, demanding to know what’s happening. Deb tries to reassure her that this is all routine in cases of homicide.

  ‘I haven’t been able to get through to Ken.
’

  ‘He’s very tied up at the moment,’ Deb says. ‘A couple more questions and we’ll be gone.’

  ‘Good. I should be getting to work.’ She has a job in a local real estate office, she explains, with a small, overworked staff.

  ‘We need to be very clear about Eden’s movements this weekend. Let’s run through that again.’

  Deb takes out her notebook. ‘So Ken didn’t see him at all yesterday, as far as you know?’

  ‘That’s right.’ She repeats how they had spent their Sunday.

  ‘And after dinner?’

  ‘We watched TV for a while, the kids went to bed, and I went soon after, about nine. I was tired and hoping to get an early start at work this morning.’

  ‘What time did Ken come to bed?’

  ‘Um, well, I’m not sure. He usually stays up a bit later than me…’ She hesitates, then says, ‘I can show you what he does if you’re interested.’

  ‘Fine.’

  She leads Deb to stairs down to a basement room, where she switches on the lights. Deb stares in amazement. ‘Oh wow. He plays with a train set?’ She studies the elaborate layout of train tracks spread on tables across the whole room—rolling stock, buildings, hillsides, a lake, all modelled in immaculate detail.

  ‘Well, he wouldn’t call it “playing”. It’s pretty serious, really, with all that electronics stuff controlling the points and signals and trains. He started it when the kids were small and they joined in. Then he was posted to Newcastle and we rented the house. When we came back the children weren’t interested in the trains anymore, but Ken took it up again. He began to extend and develop it, as a form of therapy.’

  ‘Therapy, yes, I can understand that.’

  ‘He’s found his new job really stressful. He doesn’t complain to me, but I can tell. It’s really got to him. The trains are a way of escaping, something totally absorbing and free of guilt.’

  ‘Guilt?’

  ‘Well, that’s what police work is all about, isn’t it? Guilt. I don’t know how you can stand it.’

  They return upstairs and Deb says, ‘So, just to complete the record, Brenda, were you asleep when Ken came to bed last night?’