by Chris Krupa
As I stepped off the porch, I didn’t feel very good about myself or what I’d done. I had several decades over Ray, and as far as I could tell, he lived alone, but by the time I’d walked down the driveway and out through the front gate, the bad feeling had already ebbed away.
Chapter 16
I tried the third and fourth properties in the hopes of finding someone who could back up Ray’s account, but came up empty. The people were either not home Monday night or couldn’t remember hearing anything.
Ray’s sighting of the Legacy on the night of Rob’s murder may have been a tenuous link, but I had to follow it. It directly tied in with the two goons from the warehouse. Odds made it likely they were involved with Rob’s murder. I didn’t have any contacts at the Roads and Maritime Service, so I would have to try to find out through other means if anyone knew of someone who owned a Legacy.
I circled back and walked into town, stopping in a charcoal chicken shop that looked like it needed some business. I bought a Gatorade, and my body thanked me as it absorbed the liquid. I needed it not so much because of the heat, but because of the kilometres I’d walked. My feet throbbed in their boots, so I pulled up on a public bench and appreciated the sensation of blood circulating through my feet. I polished off the bottle and almost immediately felt better.
It became clearer that depending on where you stood under the law, your opinion of Rob varied from out and out larrikin to criminal degenerate. I considered something else: could the relocation to a quiet idyll like the Inlet have been the catalyst for Rob’s behaviour?
Carmine might have defaulted in his choice of hometown for his sons. The Inlet, with its lack of cinemas, skateboard parks, shopping malls, or anything resembling an entertainment facility other than the local bowling club and RSL, wasn’t the most ideal place to raise pre-teen boys. According to the last census, the median age in the village was fifty-nine, and families with school-aged kids tended to live closer to Nowra, where jobs were plentiful.
The inlet attracted retirees from across the state, lulling them with its winds and warm sun, to while away their autumn years. They watched test cricket, caught the occasional flathead, or congregated at the RSL for a drink and the five o’clock meat raffle, where the men talked golf, and the women gossiped about whatever hot topic A Current Affair was spruiking that night.
Naturally, being a Wollongong boy, I appreciated the water. A mile-long expanse of beach stretched north just over the other side of the inlet. I could hear the waves pounding the shore. Not everyone had the same love of water, of course, and even though I didn’t want to place the sole blame on Carmine, he’d obviously needed to get away from anything that sparked the memory of his wife. Hence the need for a clean break, and maybe two hours south had been just far enough.
I checked my bandage for any signs of bleeding, annoyed that I had to go door to door looking like a low-life street thug. The wind fought against the tops of the gumtrees in large gusts, and would occasionally blast at my back. I looped around and over to the block behind the motel, and started my drudgery.
I decided to door knock a four-block radius, identifying myself as a private detective and proceeding to ask innocuous questions.
The vast majority of people I met were silverbacks—irascible men or lonely nannas. They appeared amiable enough, once they got over the sight of my face and heard the kindness in my voice. Only a few seemed genuine in their lack of knowledge relating to Rob or the owner of the Legacy. Given the level of criminal activity my cousin enacted in the area, the vast majority refused to give any information. Some lied unconvincingly, and some wanted to close the door in my face with the least amount of rudeness their Anglican hearts let them.
A man gardening in his front yard introduced himself as Mick. He perked up when I mentioned the Legacy. He confessed to being a car aficionado, and recalled seeing a dark purple Legacy at a swap meet in Nowra the previous summer. His brother recalled seeing the same Legacy in the Sailfish Fishing Club car show, an annual event held in Ulladulla thirty-five clicks south. He said the RSL usually advertised the event, and that I could find some more information there.
I thanked him and made a note on my phone.
The wind had died away by the time I ambled back to my motel room. As I copied notes into the folder on my laptop, my phone rang.
I answered, and a woman’s voice said, ‘I can be a bitch.’
My instinct told me the voice belonged to Constable Sue Hunter, but my brain couldn’t reconcile the confessional tone with the individual.
‘I was unjustly prejudiced towards you, for whatever reason,’ she continued. ‘And you’re right—I did have an ‘aversion’ to you.’
The use of the word ‘aversion’ confirmed my tentative identification.
I said, ‘You did have?’
‘I thought about the things I’ve said to you, and I can see how I may have come across as insensitive.’
It was a side of the good constable I wasn’t used to.
She continued. ‘I apologise if you were offended. I hope we can move past it and, hopefully, if you agree, we can proceed to work together in a more amicable and professional manner.’
‘Of course. I appreciate the call, Constable.’
‘I think we’ve moved beyond the formalities. Don’t you agree?’
‘I do.’
‘Call me Sue.’
‘Call me Matt. And definitely, Sue... I’d prefer to work with you, not against you. It means a lot to hear you say that.’
The line fell silent for a while, and for a moment I thought I’d lost the connection.
‘And?’ she said finally.
‘And what?’
‘I thought you might have something you need to say to me in return?’
My mind went blank, until she said, trying to mock my previous tone, ‘‘You can shove your fucking counselling up your arse’?’
I sighed, happy that she was making the effort to be friends. ‘I was out of line. I’m not one to give up on anything unless it’s very much in my face. I’m holding out hope. And look, I know I might be pushing the friendship when I say this, but do you have any leads in relation to George?’
She laughed through her teeth, it came out like a hissing sound. ‘Unbelievable.’ She paused for just a beat, and said, ‘I’m chasing up some leads on our person of interest, but there’s been nothing further on George’s whereabouts after he left his father’s business on Monday night.’
‘Does forensics have anything?’
‘They haven’t found a thing—no prints, no hairs, no fibres. Either the perpetrator got lucky, or they were extremely methodical. No witnesses have come forward. There wouldn’t have been a lot of traffic at that time, so we can’t hinge our hopes on a commuter having seen anything.’
‘What about canvassing?’
‘Standard door knocks around the automotive shop and on his street. No one saw George come home, and he didn’t call or speak to anyone. We checked his phone records and we know he received a call at 4:15 PM from a Sam Kinney, but we’ve talked to his friends and he checks out. Until we find the body, we don’t have much else to go on. What about you?’
‘I had a close encounter with two men in balaclavas in a warehouse in west Nowra. I have a broken nose and two bruised shoulders. They told me to get out of town and stop sticking my nose into it. I think I’m making someone scared.’
‘Did you report it?’
‘No, and I’m not going to. The only thing I’ve come up with that might have legs is a purple Subaru Legacy seen leaving the crime scene Monday night at around 10:30. One of the guys who assaulted me at the warehouse drove away in a dark-coloured Legacy. What car does Michael Le Mat own?’
‘A 2004 Holden Statesman.’
I had hoped for a match, and couldn’t hide the disappointment in my voice. ‘If we find that car, I think we find our perpetrator... or perpetrators. There were two men at the warehouse. And another thing: the guy who slugged me
used boxing terms—‘left cross’, ‘blind side’, that sort of thing. I’m guessing he might have been an amateur at some stage, maybe locally. Anyone you know who’s six four, round in the middle, say early fifties, who owns a purple late nineties Subaru Legacy?’
‘No, but what are you not telling me?’
I deliberated briefly, and decided to be honest. She’d been the bigger person, and called me, after all. ‘What if I told you I saw Michael Le Mat with Amanda Hotchkiss, Robert’s ex-fiancée, in Nowra yesterday morning?’
‘Where? Why didn’t you notify us?’
I hesitated. ‘Look, I’ve made an arrangement. If everything goes well, I’ll make sure you’re the one who brings in Michael Le Mat.’
‘What are you insinuating?’ She blew out through her teeth again.
‘I have things in the pipeline.’
‘What the hell does that mean, Kowalski?’
I chose not to answer that.
Hunter said, ‘Do you know where he is now?’
‘No, and that’s the truth. He’s been having an affair with Amanda Hotchkiss, and Rob might have found out. He might have arranged to meet Michael out of town at the construction site. Maybe things got out of hand and Michael ended up getting one over on Rob. It’s just a theory at the moment.’
‘Mister Kowalski, if you see Michael Le Mat, you need to call me or the homicide detectives immediately. Is that understood?’
The slip back to formalities didn’t go unnoticed. ‘Loud and clear, Constable Hunter. I need to sign off. I’ll keep in touch.’
‘Seriously, if you see Michael Le Mat, you need to notify us. You face the possibility of losing your licence if you’re found to be assisting a person of interest in a murder case.’
‘I hear you. I need to go.’
I rang off. I didn’t like keeping things from her, but I didn’t want to go back on my word to Philip.
I put my phone in my jeans pocket and decided to get some fresh air. After locking up, I walked to a reserve by the water and took stock on a bench overlooking the marshes and wildlife. The wind picked up in gusts from the east and brought the smell of the ocean with it.
There were only two reasons why people wouldn’t offer up information: they genuinely didn’t know anything, or they had something to hide.
I couldn’t easily say why, in a small town like Sussex, no one knew who owned that particular and distinct car. Whatever impact or power the owner of the Legacy had over the citizens of the inlet, I could only guess—perhaps a reputation that caused folks to steer clear. All indications pointed to a cover up, and I needed to find out what it was.
My phone said 4:00 by the time I made it to the RSL. I went in and had my licence scanned by the young lady behind the counter, who forced a smile despite the way I looked. She made me a temporary member, and I crossed to the bar, ordered a schooner of Carlton, eased into a low soft chair, and slid a discarded Keno ticket across the table and rested my drink on it. My feet ached as I looked out a large window at the inlet, marveling at how the water caught the sun, like diamonds sparkling across the surface.
I looked over at the table I’d shared with George on Monday night. Other people sat there now and I felt a pang of sorrow.
George, where the hell are you?
I held onto my one saving grace: the Subaru Legacy seen on the night of Rob’s murder. Whoever owned the car seemed likely to be involved in Rob’s death, and it confirmed the reason for the attack on me. I felt confident that I was close to being able to draw a line to the murderer. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a plate number or any connections in the Roads and Maritime Service to look into the ownership of the vehicle.
After fifteen minutes of flexing and un-flexing my toes, I slipped my shoes back on, got up, and wandered the RSL. They had a notice board positioned at the end of the bar, with photos of men and their prized catches taking up most of the board. An announcement of the meat raffle occupied one corner, and random gambling paraphernalia seemed to be pinned to the board as a last thought. Nothing there spruiking a car show, though, so I went to the bar and asked a young barmaid about the show.
She scrummaged under the counter and found a rolled-up poster, unfurled it, and laid it on the counter. ‘I think they’re having the show later this year, but this is an old poster with the number on it if you want to call Gary. He’s the head organiser and president of the club.’
I entered the number into my phone and thanked her, then sat down and called the number. After a few rings, the phone picked up. I could hear squawking parrots in the background.
‘Sailfish Fishing Club, this is Gary.’
I told him my name was Alex, an avid car enthusiast from Sydney. I wasn’t usually in the habit of pretexting, but I felt the situation warranted it. I told him I was organising a group of enthusiasts who wanted to partake and display their cars in the next car show in June.
He sounded pleased I called, saying he’d been trying to get traction through various fundraising events and wanted to get more exposure for the show.
I told him I knew about twenty aficionados who owned various rare and unique makes of car. I asked if they could be a part of the show, and he said absolutely.
Gary was the retired chatty type, jovial and forthcoming.
I made small talk, laughed at his jokes, and argued good-naturedly over which was the better make of car, Ford or Holden.
We agreed to disagree, and Gary’s voice turned businesslike. ‘Now, Alex, are you going to be the delegated organiser for the drivers?’
”Yes, that’s right.”
He asked me the makes and models, and I plucked a few from the air—a Holden Brock SS, a Legacy, and a Holden Monaro. I said I’d get back to him with more details as they came to hand. I told him, as a side note, I’d spotted a Legacy at last year’s show, and asked if he’d seen it.
‘Oh yeah,’ Gary said. ‘That’s Stuart McCaskill’s car. He picked up the audience appreciation award about two year ago. I think he reconditioned the Legacy, dropped a new motor into it. I don’t know if he’s entering this year or not, but it’s a bloody nice car he’s got. You don’t see many of those going around in that condition.’
‘I think I might have met him. Is he a little skinny bloke with glasses? About five foot?’
‘Nah mate! You’d spot Stewie a mile away. He’s a tall bloke with a bit of a gut on him, crew cut hair. Sometimes he’s got a mo. He enjoys his beer, old Stewie does.’
I decided to take a punt.
‘Now that you mention it, I think I met Stewart last year at a swap meet in Nowra. Rings a bell—I think he might have been an ex-boxer or something?’
‘Yeah mate, that’s Stewie. He got through a few rounds of amateur boxing back in his younger days, but he’s gone to seed now.’
Gary laughed a raspy laugh, and I couldn’t help liking him.
I ended the call with a promise to email Gary my contact details, then made a mental note to share the club’s Facebook page and email a close cousin of mine, in order to draw some people to the show later that night as some recompense to the genial Gary. It was the least I could do.
I went to the bar and ordered a schooner from the young barman. When he handed me my change, I said, ‘You wouldn’t happen to know Stewie McCaskill, would you? He’s a mate of my old man’s, and I haven’t seen him in yonks. I know he’s around here somewhere, and I wanted to surprise him.’
The barman looked blank. ‘Um, no. Sorry. I’ll check with my boss. She’s a local.’
‘Thanks.’
He disappeared. When he came back, a middle-aged woman accompanied him.
‘This bloke’s asking about a guy called...?’
He looked at me and I said the name.
The woman nodded. ‘Yeah, Stewie’s a regular. He owns a little café up the road over by the jetties. You know where they are? It’s called ‘Thongs on the Beach’. He opened it up with his wife.’
‘Thanks, that’s great. He used to b
ox with my old man back in the day. I haven’t seen him in a bloody long time.’
‘Oh right. Well, I don’t think he boxes anymore, but if you go around, he’ll be there. You might catch him over there today. I think they close up around five.’
Got you, you fat fuck, I thought with some satisfaction.
I thanked her, took my beer, and finished it in four swills. My heart raced As I glanced at my phone, which said 4:35. I looked up the location of the café and saw it was only a few minutes’ drive west.
I retrieved my car from the motel, and drove along the southern side of the inlet, until seeing the café, set back from a grassy public recreation spot dotted with tall palm trees.
I took a position by one of the jetties and pretended to inspect some of the moored boats, all the while keeping an eye on the al fresco area at the rear of the café. As expected, at 5:00 on a Thursday, business was slow.
A young couple enjoyed a late afternoon coffee and took in the scenery. When they finished, a large man came out and collected their mugs.
He matched Gary’s description of Stuart McCaskill, and walked with a slight limp in his left leg. Although I couldn’t be certain, his height and build matched my mouthy assailant at the warehouse the previous night.
I decided to stay put and wait until the shop turned off its lights, so I walked back to the car, drove around to the front, and parked at the end of the block.
After about ten minutes, a purple Subaru Legacy pulled out of the driveway and headed west. I tailed him for fifteen minutes out of the centre of Sussex Inlet, where he pulled off the main road and turned through the open gate of a rural homestead. A sign by the gate said, ‘Loch Lomond.’
I continued along the road, then turned back and parked in a culvert. The light changed, and it would be dark in less than an hour. I waited it out until the twilight turned the sky a dark shade of purple. As I lifted the tonneau, headlights approached from the west. I pretended to inspect my rear tyre, and the vehicle passed without incident. I waited until its rear lights disappeared before I pulled out ‘Old Blue’ and strode across the road. The weight of the crowbar felt good in my hand.
