by Chris Krupa
Is it any wonder people fall for those Nigerian scams?
She quickly sidestepped away, reached for a pen, and copied down my licence number.
I said, ‘The other guy didn’t happen to be called Mooregold, by any chance?’
‘Can’t remember. Didn’t write his name down. Could’ve been. Weird character. I reckon he found his licence at the bottom of a Coco Pops packet. He didn’t even ask to see the report we filed.’
‘I’m not here to step on toes. I just need to get some information on the matter. Weapon, time of death, evidence recovered from the scene....’
‘Not much to go on, I’m afraid, Mr. Kowalski. We found an item at the scene that could prove particularly damning for one person of interest, but that’s with the homicide division at the moment.’
‘Any chance you could tell me what the evidence is?’
Constable Hunter took a step closer. She had to look up a fair way, as I stood one eighty-five to her one sixty centimetres. Acne scars surrounded her nose. ‘I’m afraid I’m not in a position to say, Mr. Kowalski. I’m restricted in providing members of the public with potentially sensitive information that could jeopardise court proceedings.’
‘I can appreciate that. I suppose there’s not a snowball’s chance in hell if I asked who the person of interest is?’
‘I’m not about to compromise a homicide investigation, Mr. Kowalski.’
‘Is there anything you could provide in relation to motive?’
‘The matter is currently with the homicide division.’
‘Can I take you into my confidence, Constable Hunter?’
She took a breath and looked at me wearily. ‘That depends what you wish to confide, Mr. Kowalski.’
‘This case is personal. The victim was my cousin.’
‘Isn’t that a professional conflict of interest?’
‘Maybe, but I’m here to find the truth, or at the very least help in some way.’
‘You and me both, Mr. Kowalski. You understand, it’s not as if we have a lot of murders in this particular community. People are scared. Rest assured that we’re fully versed in how to conduct a murder investigation, and we’ll do our best to investigate all leads and follow due process. Leave it in the hands of the professionals, and hopefully we’ll see this case through to its completion.’
‘I couldn’t have said it better myself.’
‘So, let’s not start on the wrong foot, Mr. Kowalski.’
‘Wouldn’t dream of it. And call me Matt.’
She tapped the notepad. ‘Once I verify your credentials, we can start being all chummy.’
Jesus, talk about Little Miss Official.
Despite myself, I said, ‘I have the sneaking suspicion that regardless of my sentiments, you’ll do whatever it is you wish to do.’
She didn’t respond. After a moment of silence, she handed my licence back to me.
I tucked it away. ‘Would I be able to get your details in case I have any future enquiries in relation to the case?’
She hesitated, then leaned over the counter and pulled out a card from a cardholder. She held it out to me between her two index fingers.
I took it and grinned. ‘Thanks.’
The door opened and an officer in his late forties came in carrying a coffee. He had a prominent, clean-shaven jaw and thin wire-rimmed glasses, blonde hair cropped to baldness, and a distinct, shiny, wide nose marked his face as unique.
He eyed me and smiled. ‘Afternoon, sir.’
I nodded a polite acknowledgment as Constable Hunter said, ‘Afternoon, sergeant.’
He stuck out his hand and introduced himself as Sergeant Paul Green. His handshake was firm and confident. Constable Hunter resigned herself to sitting behind the counter and turning on the PC.
I introduced myself and told him I was investigating the murder of my cousin.
Sergeant Green indicated the hallway. ‘Come down to my office. We can talk there.’
I followed him to the back of the building, where a small room, possibly once a bedroom, had been converted into a small office space with an old desk, PC, and a chair.
He indicated the chair as he went around the other side of the desk, took a cautious sip of his coffee, and booted up the PC. ‘I’m very sorry to hear what happened, and offer my condolences.’
I nodded in appreciation.
He raised his hands. ‘I’m limited to what I can give you, as everything’s with the homicide team.’
‘I’m just making general enquiries, sergeant. Was there any evidence at the crime scene?’
He hesitated. ‘A mobile phone was recovered.’
‘Has it been traced back to the owner?’
‘It has, but I can’t disclose anything. The person of interest is known to us, but at the moment, this particular individual has gone to ground. I’ve got the Local Area Commands on alert for any sightings. But no, nothing’s been found, no DNA, no prints.’
‘Do you think it was premeditated, or a drug deal gone wrong?’
‘Hard to say. We found no traces of drugs at the scene or on the victim. However, he had open drug charges against him, so we can’t completely rule out a deal gone wrong. We have no witnesses, and his boss had no clue why the victim was at the construction site at that time of night. And no CCTV.’
He took another cautious sip of coffee and typed something on the keyboard, most likely a password. The computer elicited a beep and the hard disc booted.
I said, ‘Is there anything you can give me at all?’
‘There is something. I’ve got some notes at my house. I’ll be happy to drive you out and give them to you.’
‘Okay.’
He stood, picked up his coffee, and walked out.
I followed.
At the counter, he said, ‘I’ll leave the station in your capable hands, Constable. And maybe you could take Mr. Kowalski to the scene of the Demich murder tomorrow?’
‘I thought you wanted me to canvass local businesses?’
‘It’s okay,’ Sergeant Green said. ‘I have to be at the Shoalhaven LAC tomorrow, so you’ll be alone on patrol.’
Constable Hunter smiled and then frowned. ‘Sir, isn’t that against procedure?’
‘It’ll only be for a few hours, Constable.’
Constable Hunter held her smile and nodded, very slightly.
Sergeant Green said, ‘Cool bananas.’
Constable Hunter said, ‘Where are you staying, Mr. Kowalski?’
I told her.
‘I can pick you up at o-nine-hundred tomorrow morning, if that suits?’
I nodded, then followed Sergeant Green outside to the squad car in the driveway.
‘Don’t be put off by Constable Hunter,’ he said. ‘I’ll have a word with her. How long have you been licenced?’
‘Eighteen months.’
‘Gee. You’re a greenhorn.’
He climbed into the driver’s side, and I slid into the passenger seat.
The strong scent of lavender hit me, and I looked around and marveled. Every surface was spotless, the floor vacuumed to showroom cleanliness. The steering wheel shone with freshly applied lacquer. Someone obviously spent a lot of time detailing it. Perhaps OCD was a side effect of policing a funereal coastal idyll.
Sergeant Green kicked it over and reversed with expert confidence, and we smoothly got under way.
‘Where’re you from?’ he said.
‘Wollongong.’
‘Ah, the home of Norman Gunston.’
‘Indeed. The ‘Little Aussie Bleeder’.’
‘Used to watch him as a kid. Very funny man, Garry McDonald. Very funny.’ He commanded the car well.
I made note of the way he changed gears, when the revs peaked, at their appropriate and maximum efficiency. He didn’t speed, and regularly checked the rear-view mirror.
He said, ‘What line of investigation work do you do?’
‘Mostly insurance claims—traffic accidents, workers comp, that sort
of thing.’
‘No homicides?’
‘This is the first.’
‘Usually, it’s death by natural causes down here. The worst we ever had to face was coordinating the SES emergency services when the inlet flooded two years ago. Mostly, it’s break-and-enters, the occasional assault. Mr. Demich’s murder is unfortunate.’
‘Speaking of which, I know he was killed with a brick or some such material....”
‘A cement block fragment was recovered from the scene with the victim’s blood on it. There’s thousands of them at the site, small enough to hold in your hand, but large enough to cause the trauma as evidenced on the cranium.’
‘As far as you know, did Rob have any links to the gunrunning business, or have any known associates in black racketeering in general? I’m trying to draw on various lines of enquiry, and narrowing down the suspects has been somewhat difficult.’
‘There may be a number of leads in relation to pertinent individuals, but the matter is with Detective Inspector Will Asher of Shoalhaven homicide. He’s making inquiries as we speak. This may be difficult to hear, but the victim had a long running relationship with the police. He may have been connected to a group of people involved in the distribution of methamphetamine.’
I chose to ignore his tone and decided to try to alleviate the tension. ‘Sorry if I come across a little strong. You know the saying, ‘blood is thicker...’.’
He nodded. ‘I appreciate that.’
‘My natural tendency, however biased in this instance, is to assume him innocent until proven guilty.’
Sergeant Green shrugged a shoulder. ‘Well, he did time.’
I got it, then. Rob was a scab on society, and even though Sergeant Green would never admit it in polite company, he’d say Rob deserved it.
He cleared his throat and checked the rear-view mirror. ‘But look, you do what you have to do.’
We turned left into a street signposted as Sandpiper Street, drove around a long loop, and arrived at a two-storey residential house replete with cut lawns, organised gardens, and a pleasant aspect facing a large oval. A white Ford F100 sat parked in the driveway.
Not a bad beast for a copper. Wonder what he uses that for?
He asked me to stay put as he disappeared into the house. He soon re-emerged with a manila folder, locked up the house, got in the car, and handed it to me.
‘Don’t take me the wrong way,’ he said. We’re happy to help in any way we can.’
I thanked him.
‘I trust in the detectives in the homicide squad. They’re doing everything in their power to bring this to a head.’
He paused and smiled. ‘Look, it’s only my two cents. You know your business, and I’m sure you’ve captured a good number of dishonest individuals in your career, but I strongly suggest you leave this one to the professionals, Mr. Kowalski.’
I asked Sergeant Green to drop me a block from the motel, and felt a sense of relief at seeing the back of his squad car. I opened the folder and pulled out a copy of the coroner’s report, as well as some handwritten notes—timelines, names, and dates. It confirmed my original suspicion from the time I saw the crime scene photos at Zio Fausto’s house—the time of death was estimated between 9PM and 10PM on Monday.
Chapter 6
The clear blue sky forced me to consider my carbon footprint. I quickly searched up the local Returned and Services League, and Google Maps said it was a twelve-minute walk from my current location to the end of River Road. It was close to four o’clock, and I already anticipated a few schooners with George. Sure enough, I found the RSL in under twelve minutes, situated at a bend in the road and nestled by a reserve that overlooked the inlet itself.
I stepped into the air conditioned cool of the reception area and signed in as a guest. A large cabinet displayed medals and artifacts from World War II, and photos with stories underneath them honoured men and women who have served in the Defence Force. I rounded the corner, found the bar, and ordered a schooner of Carlton Draught. They’d recently renovated the place. New paint glistened on the walls, and a large area housed at least thirty poker machines. I found a chair by a large window that looked out to the water, sat down, and took out my phone. With an hour to kill until George arrived, I conducted some online research and found out Sussex had a population of sixteen hundred people, the majority of which were aged over sixty, and ninety-eight percent of which were Christian.
How very vanilla.
I couldn’t find anything relating to a murder in the area for the past two decades.
I was lost in my phone when someone tapped my shoulder, and glanced up at George. ‘Sorry, mate, didn’t see you.’ I put my phone away.
He grinned. ‘You want some food or something?’
‘I’ll have some chips if you’re offering.’
He winked and made his way to the bar. He wore a light blue, collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up, dark blue chinos, and heavy, steel-capped boots. He soon returned with a beer and two packets of plain Smiths chips. He sat down in the chair opposite, peeled back the foil packaging and we took turns scooping up handfuls.
I said, ‘Tough day at the office?’
‘Yeah, I need to replace the air conditioning unit on a Subaru, but the Japs put the unit behind the centre of the dashboard. Means I have to pull the whole dash out to get to it. Bloody big job.’
‘I really appreciate your time, George. Thanks for talking to me.’
‘At least you are talking to me. It’s more than that other dickhead did.’ He pointed to the folder. ‘Looks like you’ve been doing some homework?’
I nodded. ‘Just some notes.’
The sharp throbbing pain suddenly flared in my groin, forcing me to readjust my position.
George noticed and frowned. ‘Did you do a hammy, bro?’
‘No. Just something I have to get checked out.’
George nodded. ‘I hope it’s nothing serious, mate. It’s just I play squash and, the way you sat, looked like you pulled a hammy. I’ve torn my calf muscle twice, down here, and I still get these fucking annoying... what do they call them? Heel spurs? Fucking painful, mate. You play?’
‘I played squash ten years ago and, for some reason, gave it up. I hit the gym these days—free weights, rower, that sort of thing.’
I took a pull on my drink, enjoyed the crisp freshness of freshly poured tap beer, and took a moment to get a good look at George. The ‘soft’ comment from his father had a ring of truth to it.
He was blessed—or cursed—with a baby-smooth face, and the back of his neck appeared pink and free of creases. His hands, whilst grease-stained from mechanical work, were slender for someone of his build. The boy in him refused to let go wholly and completely.
‘So,’ I said. ‘Who was this other guy your father hired?’
George licked his top lip and shook his head. ‘Stupid fuckwit called Sam Mooregold. You heard of him?’
I hadn’t.
‘Private investigator from Gladesville. Total dipshit. Couldn’t tell his arse from his elbow. He poked around for a few days, then last Thursday, I think it was, Dad got a call out of the blue from this dickhead. He said there wasn’t anything he could do. Didn’t even have the common fucking decency to see my Dad face to face. Dad was fucking pissed. You should have seen him. Five grand down the drain. I had a look at his contract and it was tight. There was nothing we could do.’
I nodded sympathetically. It explained their trepidation back at the automotive business, and the intense scrutiny over my contract. I thought about the possible reasons why this Mooregold fellow packed it in. Was he a barrel scraper—an opportunist capitalising on Carmine’s misery—or did he discover something potentially dangerous? I had to remind myself that, when Carmine signed the retainer, I’d committed to possibly entering a circle of violent criminals dealing in and using ice, and I was in no position to predict their behaviour.
‘I remember you from years ago,’ George said. ‘You’v
e bulked up a bit, haven’t you? You look like you could take a bloke on.’
My outer, grizzled appearance helped with business, and it felt nice to gain George’s confidence.
I took a pull on my beer. ‘I worked for a security firm, and they made me bulk up as part of the contract. I put on fifteen kilos of muscle. I got into a couple of scrapes, but nothing life threatening. Investigation work gets me into some confrontations.’
George laughed. ‘Yeah, I bet.’
I ate a handful of chips and took a long pull on my beer. ‘Tell me a bit about Rob.’
He took a big breath and looked out to the water. ‘He was a good bloke. He was just sixteen months older than I was, so we were pretty close growing up. We were both into cars and bikes, all that sort of shit, you know? We’d go riding up through the mountains on weekends on these trails. I think Dad had dreams of Rob taking over the shop at some stage. I think that’s what hit Dad the worst, you know? Rob got caught up in all this ice shit, and it fucking ruined him.’
‘Do you know anyone in Rob’s social circle who might have had it in for him?’
‘Oh, Rob loved rubbing people up the wrong way. There wasn’t a weekend where he didn’t get into a fight with someone. Throw a rock and you’ll hit a guy who had it in for him. There were a couple of blokes he didn’t get on with, one called Michael Le Mat, and some Vietnamese guy, Li Nguyen, drug runner loser who lives in Jervis Bay. I think he was mouthing off, making threats, but I don’t know. Don’t quote me on it.’
I entered the names into my phone and sipped some beer. ‘Is Michael Le Mat from around here?’
‘I think he’s in Huskisson, but no one’s seen him since Rob was killed. I think the cops are trying to track him down.’
‘Can you describe him?’
‘Um, medium height, skinny like a greyhound, scruffy blond hair. He’s got a southern cross tattoo on his neck, and he’s got a rat’s tail.’
‘Did Rob have a girlfriend? A partner?’
George pursed his lips and shook his head. ‘Yeah, a fiancée. I call her....’ George made quotation marks with his fingers. ‘...The Leech’. Her name’s Amanda Hotchkiss. She works in Nowra at Nicholson and Law, a tapped-out drug skank high out of her scone most days. I have absolutely no time for her. She bled Rob dry over the years.’
