by Andres Kabel
“Maybe I should do a psychology course,” he mused, while Mick pulled up under the shade of a pine tree.
“Good idea,” Mick said. “I started one a year ago. Never kept it up.”
“You?”
Mick’s sunglasses swung toward Peter. “Anything wrong with that?”
The sunlit verdancy of Donvale dazzled Peter. Everything looked so green. He waited while Mick climbed out and scanned the area.
“She’s in,” Peter said, nodding toward the Mercedes in the carport. A fresh breeze rustled leaves around them. God, I’m hungry, he thought. He went to press the doorbell but Mick held his arm.
“What’s up?” Goosebumps rose on Peter’s arms when something in Mick’s manner communicated. The house was silent. All Peter could hear was an automatic sprinkler next door, birds, and his own fragile heart yammering again.
Mick removed his sunglasses. His eyes were calm. He pulled out a pair of thin surgical gloves and slipped them on.
“The door,” Mick said, and sure enough, Peter could see the slit at its edge, a slit that widened when Mick pushed it with a finger. The door creaked open to show the gloomy corridor and the light from the family room at the end.
A gun was in Mick’s right hand, squat and alien. Peter began to hyperventilate in noisy squalls of breath.
“What’s going on?” he whispered.
Mick gripped his shoulders hard enough to hurt.
“Listen,” the big man said in a hoarse low rumble. “Stay here, don’t move. Whatever you do, don’t touch anything. Anything happens while I’m in there, drive the hell away and phone for help. Got that?”
Peter’s teeth chattered. “Shouldn’t we just ring the police?”
“Just obey instructions for once.”
And Mick was gone, a wraith gliding through the door.
Peter stood trembling. No sound from inside. He remembered Marcia Brindle’s easy laugh when they first met. He remembered what Mick said, that courage was just getting used to the fear. He took a step toward the door, heard the faint scuff of his footstep. He took another step and then he was inside.
Ahead, Mick disappeared from view. Peter heard his own breath sawing in the air. How could a house be so silent? He took step after step. Don’t piss yourself, he thought. He smelled something.
By the time he reached the family room, his legs were rubbery. A horrible odor assailed him. He began to gag, checking himself only by clenching his jaws shut.
The low room was suffused with vague light. Mick stood by the main settee, gun hanging limply by his side. Even for a man for whom stillness was a virtue, his frame appeared unnaturally immobile. When Peter entered, he swung around and raised his gun.
“Told you to stay out there.” Mick’s flat voice reached across the dust dancing on gray light.
Peter edged forward. The smell was sickening. His head screamed.
“No, Gentle, no.”
Marcia. On her back, on the settee. A gaping red slash filled her neck and blackish red covered the blouse below. Blood, screamed Peter’s mind. He gagged and then Mick was upon him, shoving him through the back door, out onto grass, forcing his head down as he spewed and spewed, all his soul screaming in the sunlit Melbourne peace.
“Is she…?” he spluttered when he finally raised his head, vomit dripping from mouth and nose.
“Been dead a few hours. Don’t touch anything.”
“Mick?” Peter looked his friend in the eyes and stifled a sob.
“I know, mate.” Mick held him close and Peter felt Mick’s heart beating, a fast hammering rivaling his own.
“Now don’t you move,” Mick said. “I’ll check out the house. I think the perp’s gone, but you never know.”
“The husband!” Peter gasped. He never even knew the man’s name.
“Yeah.” The set of Mick’s face was as grim as Peter had ever seen.
Mick slipped off. Peter stood up, raised his head to the sky. My fault, he thought. I persuaded Mick to leave here last time. My fault.
Panting through his mouth like an exhausted dog, he edged his way back into the house, touching nothing. That cloying, raw smell filled his senses again. He hugged himself and inched forward until he could see the body.
Peter knew nothing about the physical signs of death, but Marcia’s didn’t look in the least peaceful. Her body seemed arched in agony. One hand trailed over the side of the settee, fingers splayed as if in entreaty. He could see her blouse was white, but only from the sleeves; the rest was a thick red. A pool of red stained the blue of the settee around her neck, and he could see splatters up the back. Only her face held some peace, the unseeing eyes staring at the ceiling. Her tartan skirt had been pulled up to her waist. He saw pubic hair over pale skin and gagged again, only just controlling himself.
He tore his gaze from the corpse to scan the room. Nothing seemed out of place. No sign of struggle. On the table where they had talked to her just a day ago stood a coffee cup. He walked over and sniffed the cold liquid. Yes, coffee. He reflected that he was actually investigating, in his own bumbling fashion, even as a dead body, someone he knew, cooled nearby. Mick was right. He could get used to this. Disgusting, he thought.
Something on the table caught his attention. Marcia’s confident face stared at him, on her security pass, sitting up on its backing pin. Without thinking he scooped it up.
Mick was back, moving fast.
“Empty,” he said. “No husband.”
Maybe she’d listened to them, Peter thought, and at least shifted the husband. Why did she let the killer in? No sign of forced entry. Does that mean she knew the killer?
He listened to the refrigerator humming. “We need to ring the police.”
Mick shook his head. “I know that’s what I’ve been saying. But no. They’ll crucify us. Two murders right after we visit, you think they’ll let us walk?”
The smell encircled them. Peter couldn’t argue with the analysis or the conclusion. He nodded.
“Remember, no touching.” Mick vanished.
Outside, Peter paused to let sunlight bathe his face.
“Come on!” Mick was already in the Peugeot.
Peter sprinted up the drive. His whole body felt tainted. When the car moved away, he fished out a handkerchief and wiped his face. He could feel vomit lodged inside his nostrils.
“It’s my fault,” he said.
Mick didn’t answer. His face was pale and he drove fast. On the outskirts of Donvale, he turned into a quiet street, opened his door, and threw up, a short sharp cough. Peter handed him his handkerchief and Mick dabbed at the corners of his mouth.
“My fault, not yours.” Mick’s voice was harsh.
“I persuaded you to leave.”
“I should’ve known better. And that bastard’s going to get his.” The hands gripping the steering wheel were white.
“Who?”
“Bertoli.”
“You can’t convict him like that,” Peter said.
“It was him. Couldn’t you feel him back there?”
Peter ran both hands up through his hair. He didn’t want to think about Bertoli.
“Christ.” Mick had caught sight of the security pass in Peter’s hand. “Are you crazy, Gentle? That’s theft. Tampering with evidence.”
“What about leaving the crime scene?”
Mick sighed. “Fuck, you’re right.”
Peter’s back began to throb. He heard Mick on the mobile: “Won’t be home until I get there.”
Mick gunned the engine. The sun had disappeared behind a cloud. Mick’s face was as implacable as stone. Peter’s throat suddenly went dry.
“Where are we going?” he pleaded.
CHAPTER 39
“Hey mate, you got a booking?” the waiter called.
Tusk ignored him. His body felt light, alert. He remembered Marcia Brindle’s blood-soaked body…
The Waterfront: a large seafood and sushi restaurant with produce heaped on piles of ice. Tusk
scanned the tables, smelled the oysters. Definitely no Rollo.
Needle in a haystack, Gentle had whinged, but as Cap had drilled into Tusk, systematic effort delivered results. And this was vital. No doubt now that Rollo bloody Keppel was the perp, but they had no evidence. Crack him, that’s what they had to do.
Gentle was waiting outside the restaurant, pissed off, hair wild with sweat. “Just because he said Southbank doesn’t mean he’s here.”
It amazed Tusk that on a Sunday evening, Southbank and the Casino complex seemed busier than during the week. Groups of young people, swearing and shouting. Older couples strolling. Tourists, cameras hanging from shoulders. Tusk checked the swirling crowd of people as best he could. No way he could protect the useless nerd now against Bertoli.
“Shut up and use those eyes of yours,” he instructed Gentle.
Time check—6:54. Christ, over an hour of searching. Tusk felt frustration building. The next restaurant, a cheaper-looking Greek one with red semi-circular booths. Unlikely for a rich wanker like Rollo, but who could tell? Into the hot odor of savory dips. Nix. He gave Gentle a shake of his head. Yet another restaurant, a posh-looking one with the funny name of The Duck. No Rollo. An Italian place. Same result. He headed out to the promenade along the river.
“Fuck,” Tusk said.
Gentle had that schoolteacher look. “Honestly, how can we expect—”
A sudden whoosh exploded in the air. Tusk whirled, hand onto the gun in his jacket, then relaxed. Just a tourist attraction. The high columns lining the river flared into the sky, yellow-orange flames briefly blotting out the office skyline. The waterfront glowed. The Kennett government had installed blue reflectors on the other side of the river and in the light of the gas flares the water appeared unnaturally cool and blue.
He felt heat on his cheeks. Heard Gentle gasp. “There.”
Tusk followed Gentle’s pointing finger. Through a window, illuminated by the flare, into a restaurant with steel furniture. A landing above the main restaurant, a long table. A man gesticulating, shiny bald head. Rollo!
“It’s that Asian-sounding place,” Tusk said.
“Yes, The Duck,” Gentle said. “It’s not Asian, I’ve been there—”
“Didn’t look upstairs.”
Tusk whipped his sunglasses into his jacket pocket, ran hard toward the entrance to the complex.
“Mick,” he heard Gentle calling behind him.
The slim waiter at the front desk remembered him from his recent intrusion.
“You can’t come in,” he said, hand raised.
Tusk slapped the man aside, lithely threaded through the tables. Behind him he heard Gentle squawking. He ran up the curved staircase he’d previously missed.
A dozen people around a rectangular table that took up the entire landing. Older men in suits, women in svelte dresses with jewelry shining. Murmuring conversation that stopped as they caught sight of him. A shout behind him. He saw Bella push back her chair and rise, leg visible through the slit in her dress.
“Keppel!” Tusk felt rich with that sense of righteousness he’d loved in the Force.
Rollo was sitting at the head of the table, leaning to whisper to a gray-haired suit. The tycoon stiffened, swiveled in his seat. His eyes widened.
Tusk heard scuffling behind him. Too late for a measured attack. Crimson flared across his eyes as he bludgeoned glasses and bottles with a flailing arm. Glass flew. Someone screamed. Rollo stood and stumbled backward.
“Calm down,” Gentle squeaked.
“You lunatics!” Rollo shouted.
“A word, Keppel,” Tusk said.
He saw a waiter slam into Gentle. A chef, reeking of garlic, pulled at Tusk’s arm. He didn’t move.
“What is the meaning of this, Rollo?” said the gray-haired man.
Rollo looked at Tusk. Tusk thrust back his shoulders, shook off the cook, put on his sunglasses.
Rollo nodded. “Enough,” he commanded. Tusk had to admire him. Back in charge, just like that.
The waiters fell away. Tusk noted with pleasure that Bella was wiping at a massive stain on her dress.
“I’m sorry,” Rollo said, his voice directed at the table but his eyes on Tusk. “These people are with me. A little exuberant, perhaps, but I’ll sort this out.”
“Darling?” Bella at Rollo’s side. Tusk fancied he saw something gleeful in her expression.
“Don’t worry, love.” Rollo brushed past Tusk to stand before Gentle. “Control your partner now, won’t you?”
Tusk watched confusion flood Gentle’s face. Despite all the evidence, Boy Wonder was still under the man’s spell.
A young guy was shouting into a phone by the door. Rollo spoke to him, led the way out to the waterfront. Tusk checked his hand—wet, but no glass damage.
“You said you could control this.” Gentle in his ear.
“Need to stir him up.” Tusk felt great. Everything in order at last. For some reason the anthemic bass intro to the Clash’s “London Burning” started up in his head.
To his surprise Gentle nodded.
They joined the chief executive by the water, away from passersby. Tusk inhaled the smell of the river, damp and earthy.
“Have you two lost your minds?” Rollo shouted. A Japanese couple stopped to look at them. Rollo lowered his voice. “What possessed you to do that?”
Tusk planted his feet. How to tackle this? But Gentle got in first.
“What’s going on at Scientific Money, Mr. Keppel?” Gentle said. “It’s not the computers, is it, making the investment decisions. Who is it?”
“What are you talking about?” Rollo’s eyes were wide. He licked his lips. For the first time Tusk saw a resemblance to Willy.
“It’s not really a quantitative fund at all, is it?” Gentle’s words spilled out. “Is it you? Or Weiqing? Or Brindle? Who picks the stocks?”
“What nonsense. Are you on drugs?” Rollo strode up to Gentle, jabbed him with a finger. “I’ll sue you if you repeat those accusations.”
“I can prove it,” Gentle said.
Something in Gentle’s eyes must have alerted Rollo to the lie, for he stepped back. Smiled without warmth. “No, you can’t.”
Wrong tactics, Tusk thought. He stepped up close enough to see dried spittle flecks in the corners of Rollo’s mouth. “What happened when Willy came to tell you your wife was having an affair with him?”
The mask fell away. “Why you bloody scum…” Rollo’s mouth a snarl. “My personal life has nothing to do with you.”
“The police won’t think so,” Tusk said, “when they find you lied about that night.”
“I was with Willy. He saw me leave.”
“Did he see you return later?”
Rollo shook with fury. Just another angry man now, not someone in power. “I’ll ruin you.”
“Tell us, Keppel.” Tusk made his delivery calm and neutral. The invitation, Cap called the technique. Invite them to confess, the old cop had preached. “Tell us what happened when you went back.”
But the moment had passed. Rollo was in control again. A dismissive wave of his hand. “I didn’t go back. So I lied about Willy.” Tusk could almost see his brain working. “I didn’t want the world to know my troubles. But if you check my story against Willy’s and Bella’s, you’ll see it’s the truth.”
“You trust Bella to stick to her alibi, Keppel?” Tusk watched the patriarch’s face flicker for an instant. “After what she’s done to you?”
“Nonsense.” Rollo straightened his jacket. “Lunatic nonsense. You won’t be ringing the police, I will be.”
Rollo stared menacingly at Gentle and walked off.
Tusk felt failure on his back. They hadn’t even asked about Dancer or Brindle. He shouted, “How did you get involved with a criminal like Scaffidi?”
Rollo faltered. Strode on.
“You’re a killer,” Mick bellowed into the night. He held himself from chasing the receding figure. “You and that motherf
ucking scumbag Scaffidi. You’re killers. And we’re going to get you.”
A hand over his mouth.
“Shhh, big guy.” Gentle’s eyes were sad.
Water lapped below their feet. Tusk’s heart pounded with rage.
***
“I’m missing something,” Gentle said.
8:30 PM at Windows On The Bay in Mordialloc. Tusk felt buggered. Disappointment had dulled into stupor. Wine helped, not that he’d drunk much, had left that to his disheveled partner. He watched Gentle stick his nose in his glass before downing another mouthful of red. A connoisseur. An empty bottle of white and a near-empty bottle of red on the table.
“Look, I don’t think Rollo did it,” Gentle said.
The restaurant was a chaotic place. Used to be a lifesaving club, Gentle claimed. All creaking wood, wicker and metal chairs, exuberant staff with studs and earrings. Hardly an empty table. Near them, a family birthday party, noisy as hell. The meal had been Gentle’s idea, what he called downtime, and although Tusk had resisted, he had to admit he’d enjoyed himself.
Tusk grunted. “Pig’s arse. He did it all right.”
“It just doesn’t fit. There’s something wrong with the logic. You heard him by the river, his story is spot on. Where’s the motive? Jealous rage? Is he the type?”
Their table sat flush against a window. Tusk looked out over the furrowed sand, lit by lights along the bike path. The dark of the shimmering flat sea. Two cyclists streaming past. Port Phillip Bay stretching around in an arc of city lights and an occasional flash of car headlights.
The geek sloshed the last of the red into his glass. Hair nearly obscuring those fanatical eyes, feet tapping on the wooden floor. “Look, there are things I should be following up on. Like the security passes.”
“What about them? I thought we figured them all out.”
