‘I’m telling you, Greg,’ he said, pushing himself out a little further from his desk to get a better look at Detective Middleton sitting on the edge. ‘I’ve never seen a bloke so fit. I checked those steps out when I had the dog on its lead and they’d near kill a mountain goat. This bloke sprinted up them fifteen times. Sprinted.’
‘Yeah, but what’s all this got to do with the case, Ray,’ replied Middleton with a half smile. ‘You’ve just hit me with about a hundred different things in the last five minutes. I still can’t follow you.’
‘Greg, it was pretty dark up there but I’m certain the bloke was Bob Davis. That butcher we saw down the coroner’s court and at St Vincent’s. Remember that St Peters case? The hairdresser from Bondi Junction.’
Detective Middleton nodded his head slowly. ‘Yeah, I do now.’
‘Well I checked that file first thing when I came in this morning. And he lives in Bondi Road, only a few hundred metres up from the oval.’
‘So?’
‘So, well it’s a bit bloody odd isn’t it. One minute the bloke’s sprinting like Grant Kenny—the next thing he’s hobbling around on a walking stick like an old man.’
‘Fair enough. But he might be just trying to pull off an insurance scam. They do it all the time.’
Detective Blackburn made a gesture with his hands. ‘I’ve thought of that and it is possible; but think of this. He got a pretty bad kicking off those skinheads and his friend got killed. And he’s a big bloke and he’s fit. I just reckon we ought to go round and have a word with him.’
‘Sure,’ shrugged Detective Middleton. ‘Why not. But there’s a hell of a lot of leads we’ve got to look into before we start chasing up some guy whose only suspicious move is running up and down a flight of stairs when possibly he shouldn’t be.’
‘Alright, maybe it is a bit slim but . . .’
‘If you ask me, this is the bloke we’ve got to find.’ Middleton patted a folder on top of a small pile of them sitting on the desk between them. ‘This big Lebanese bloke from Hillsdale whose young brother got kicked to death about a year ago. He’s a karate expert with a record of mental instability. He went into hiding the day after Frank Brunger and his partner called at his home. I reckon he’s our man.’
‘I’m inclined to agree with you there, Greg. But I just think we should have a word with this Davis bloke . . .just in case.’
‘Alright. I’ll tell you what we’ll do.’ Middleton folded his arms across his chest and looked at his partner. ‘We’ll see what our nutcase does this weekend. We’ve got men and women everywhere. We might even have a chance of catching him redhanded. If not, and we can’t find this Lebanese bloke, we’ll go and have a word with Davis next week.’ The tall detective shifted his gaze back to the pile of folders on the desk. ‘Or the first chance we get. Fair enough?’
Detective Blackburn nodded his head and smiled wryly. ‘Okay, Greg. But remember what I said to you about this gut feeling I had. And how I reckoned we couldn’t see the forest for the trees.’ His partner nodded slowly. ‘Well, Greg—I think this is it.’
Detective Middleton gave his shoulders a shrug as he stared evenly back at his partner, ‘You could be right, Ray, who knows?’
But Davo threw all their plans and ideas out by not going out on the weekend. The police were everywhere: but no Midnight Rambler. He wanted to. God how he wanted to. But he knew he’d only just got away with it the previous weekend and to go out with his face like it was would be a deadset giveaway. He would literally be committing suicide. Davo also knew he was supposed to see Dr Connely. He hadn’t seen him for over a month and kept fobbing him off by saying he was feeling a lot better and he’d been going away on quiet holidays to the country. He’d have to go round and see him sooner or later, but there was no way he could go round looking like this. Not that Joe would start asking all that many questions but he’d have to at least get suspicious. Davo also didn’t know that the forensic report on the two murdered lesbians had revealed skin tissue and blood under one of the girl’s nails. So, as well as now having the Midnight Rambler’s blood type, the police had been told to be on extra alert for a well-built man with scratches around his face. But Davo’s incredible luck, along with his demented animus of common-sense, held out again.
While every member of the New South Wales police force was out looking for him, Davo was locked in his unit, listening to music and watching TV. When he wasn’t doing that he was training almost to the point of exhaustion, so all he wanted to do at night was go to bed anyway. However, by the end of the following week he was almost ready to blow his stack. The bloodlust boiling up inside him was ready to explode and he knew he couldn’t control it for much longer. If he didn’t get out of the flat, back on the streets and smash a few heads in while he searched for the elusive skinhead with the swastika boots he’d end up wrecking the flat; or go mad. Madder even than what he was now.
Although his face had gone down considerably Davo still forced himself to stay in on the Friday and Saturday night; which by now had the police in a state of both chaos and apprehension. Even the newspapers were in a mild panic. The Midnight Rambler wasn’t just flavour of the month: he was flavour of the year. Whichever editor managed to come up with the most vulgar, meretricious headline, his newspaper sold the most; with the Daily Mirror managing to stay in front of the Sydney Sun by about a short half head. Fortunately for both of them, the space shuttle exploded and a giant crocodile ate four boy scouts camping north of Cairns, so they were able to get by with beat-ups on pages 3 and 4 for the time being.
For Davo it was a fight within himself to stay inside on the weekend. A fight tougher and more frustrating than anything he’d ever experienced. All he could do to constrain himself was continue to train to the point of exhaustion and crash into bed at night. The only trouble with this was he woke up feeling so fit the next day, and with so much energy to burn, yet there was nothing he could do about it. There were skinheads and others out there waiting to be killed and all he could do, more or less, was sit on his hands. However, Sunday was about as far as he could go. Killing and the hunt was like a drug to Davo now, and he needed a fix—badly.
After training Sunday afternoon and a frustrating walk from his place to Clovelly and back hampered by his walking stick, he sat in the loungeroom listening to the radio and sipping a cup of coffee. He stared balefully at the walking stick propped in the corner nearest the kitchen. He hated that chrome and rubber contraption by now; the novelty had completely worn off. But it was still serving its purpose. No one seeing him limping around on it would ever suspect him of being the superfit killer he was. Colin maybe. But then again he’d only think he was trying to pull some sort of insurance or compensation rort; like Colin was apt to do himself now and again. He couldn’t imagine what the conversation would have been when Colin drove those two girls from the Central Coast home. But when it got round to him not being able to aim up Colin would have been sympathetic. Anyway, for the time being Davo had no intentions in that area. He continued to stare morosely into his coffee. Every now and again he’d put it down on the coffee table and pound at the lounge with both fists as bursts of almost uncontrollable energy swept through him like shockwaves.
He was boxed in. Like a tiger in a cage. Stay in and go mad and wreck the flat. Go out and there were cops everywhere looking for him. He began to feel he was in a no-win situation. He pounded at the lounge again. If he could only find that skinhead with the red hair and swastikas on his boots. He was the key, he felt sure of it. Find him and all would be over—one way or another. Or would it? Well maybe not quite. Like certain wines and exotic foods Davo had acquired a taste for killing. Maybe he would still have to go out and kill someone now and again just to keep his hand in. Then again maybe not.
He rested his head back on the lounge and closed his eyes. Wouldn’t it be lovely to go back to being normal again. But what was normal anyway? This was normal wasn’t it? Get fit and get revenge. Don’t get mad
get even. Isn’t that what they say? So around thirty people had to die. So what. That didn’t necessarily make him a mass murderer did it? He was just a soldier at war. At war with the scum of a city. Bad luck two of his victims had to be cops. But it was normal for there to be a certain amount of civilian casualties during a war. Besides. Does a police badge or a uniform make them a protected species? They’re not koalas. No. Their deaths were normal. He ran his hands across his eyes and noticed he was starting to get his headaches back. The first time for months. That wasn’t normal. And then again maybe it was after the beating he’d got. He buried his face in his hands. Davo didn’t know where he was at.
He got up off the lounge, walked into the bathroom and stared at his face in the mirror while he massaged the throbbing in his temples. The weird penetrating glow radiating from his eyes somehow seemed to hypnotise him; almost like it was coming from another entity. He reached under the washbasin, took out a packet of digesics and swallowed two with a small glass of water. The swelling around his mouth and eyes had certainly gone down but the scratch marks were still noticeable. He stared at them for a moment while he rubbed his chin thoughtfully, then reached back under the washbasin, rummaged round for a few seconds and came up with a tube of Pinke Zinke. He squeezed some of the thick beige paste onto his finger and started daubing it around his eyes. After two or three applications the scratch marks had almost disappeared. The sudden uncanny gleam in his eyes made them glow like two hot coals and his face lit up in a huge weird grin of both joy and relief. Less than an hour later he was in his car heading towards the city; his gloves tucked snugly in the front pocket of his black cotton jacket.
Earlier that afternoon, around 2.30, Jimmy Lessing and his sister Sandra were getting ready to go to a fancy dress party at Paddington. It was at a friend of Jimmy’s house not far from the Captain Cook Hotel and the friend had insisted that Jimmy bring his goodlooking sister. A few months prior to this Jimmy had joined a swimming club at the Bondi Baths, and although there still wasn’t a great deal of Jimmy his swimming in this time had improved out of sight. He soon got right into it and began to compete, winning the odd race now and again, and as part of the champion swimmer image he got his neat dark hair cut into a crewcut almost to the scalp; except for a straggly little rat’s tail which his sister persuaded him to keep at the back. Because of his odd hairstyle Jimmy had decided to go to the party as a bovver boy. With a lopsided grin on his face he was standing at the door of his sister’s bedroom wearing a pair of ripped jeans, braces and a pair of boots he’d had left over from his bushwalking days in the boy scouts. Sandra had put some red, green and blond tint in his crewcut and given him one false eyelash and at first glance Jimmy did look like a loathsome little skinhead. But it wasn’t long before his happy smiling face and the twinkle in his eye told you it was a sham.
Seeing Jimmy look so good as a bovver boy, Sandra decided to go to the party as a punk. While Jimmy watched from the doorway, she blow-dried the parts of her lovely blonde hair that she hadn’t stuck out in great anomalous spikes with pink gel. She’d painted all round her eyes and cheekbones with ghastly orange blush and black mascara, then painted her lips with jet black gloss. A council worker’s black singlet, festooned with holes and safety-pins, clung to her chest, and was tucked into a tattered pair of cut-down jeans that barely covered her black knickers. This was topped off with a studded leather belt, a pair of holed fishnet stockings and spike-heeled anklelength boots. The garish outrageousness of her outfit still couldn’t hide her pretty face and trim figure however: if anything it seemed to make her look sexier, in a whoreish sort of way. To Jimmy though she was still his sister and was still taking too long to get ready—as sisters always seem to do.
‘Come on, Sandra,’ he said, in a voice tinged with tired impatience. ‘The party’ll be over by the time we get there.’
‘Jimmy, piss off. I’ll take just as long as I like.’ She kept the blow dryer going and gave the back of her hair a toss. ‘Go and ring the taxi if you want something to do.’
‘Yeah, that might be an idea. I suppose I’d better tell him to take his time getting here.’
Sandra ignored her brother’s last comment and continued fiddling with her hair as her brother went into the loungeroom and picked up the phone.
Although Jimmy had just bought a car, a cheap secondhand Volkswagen, he and his sister had decided to take a taxi to the party as Jimmy was still on his P plates and didn’t want to risk being caught over the limit by the RBT. Jimmy intended having a few at the party too, as the bottle of Bacardi, large carton of pineapple juice and the cellarpack of white burgundy sitting in an overnight bag in the loungeroom testified. Normally their parents would have given them a lift but they’d both gone to visit an aunt on the north shore earlier and didn’t know what time they’d be home. Jimmy rang the cab company and on the way back to his sister’s bedroom got a small instamatic camera out of his own room.
‘Righto, smile,’ he said, snapping off a quick photo from the doorway as soon as his sister looked around.
‘Wait till I finish here,’ said Sandra, squinting at the flash ‘and I’ll get one of you.’
‘They said the taxi’ll be here in ten minutes.’
Sandra ignored her brother once again as she finished her hair. Finally she switched off the blow dryer, stood up and took the camera from Jimmy. ‘Okay Johnny not so Rotten’ she said, moving her brother up against a wall. ‘Look mean.’ Jimmy did his best to scowl at the lens as Sandra took two quick snaps. Jimmy took another one of her then they moved into the lounge and checked to make sure all their booze was in the overnight bag. A few minutes later a horn bipped out the front of the house telling them the taxi had arrived so they locked up and climbed excitedly into the cab. The driver looked at them a bit suspiciously at first, shook his head and the next thing they were heading for Paddington.
Davo found a parking spot in Liverpool Street, not far down from the old Mark Foys building. It suited him ideally. After doing what he had to do he could take a quick left turn into Pitt and in no time be heading pretty smartly back towards Bondi. He gave his face a quick check in the rear-vision mirror; satisfied the Pinke Zinke was still doing its job he locked the car and starting strolling towards George Street.
The gaudy neon-lit expanse of George Street was thronging with quite a crowd of people for Sunday night; mostly patrons coming and going from the number of theatres and theatre complexes abundant in that part of town. These numbers were swelled by Asians coming up from Chinatown, punks and other night people either milling around or spending money in the amusement arcades, icecream parlours and other venues still doing a roaring trade at that time of night. Davo dawdled cautiously outside Hungry Jacks on the corner for a few moments then walked right up George Street.
There was no way Davo intended doing any killing in George Street, it was too crowded and too well-lit, but he needed to see just what kind of people were around and check it out for police. He ambled along a bit further, stopping outside the Roma erotic theatre to see what was playing and have a look at the faces on the voyeurs huddled around out the front: but mainly to check out the passersby. He didn’t notice any skinheads; there were quite a few punks and young street toughs but still no extraordinary numbers of police. Even when he stopped under the police sign on the corner of Central Street, indicating the station was just a few metres up the lane, there still didn’t seem to be any more around than usual. Probably all up the Cross or prowling around Oxford Street he mused. Good.
He wandered past McDonald’s and stood outside an amusement arcade, watching the crowds of people outside the huge Hoyts theatre complex opposite, either coming or going or stopping to watch groups of kids in tracksuits rap dancing to ghetto blasters placed strategically around the entrance. Still no extra police and still no skinheads. Oh well he thought. Looks like I’m going to have to settle for some punks. He gave the gloves, still sitting snugly in his jacket, a pat and decided to head down to Ch
inatown and peruse the lanes and back alleys around there and maybe Paddys Market.
He stopped among a small crowd of people waiting for the lights to change on the corner of Liverpool and George Streets. As he did he absently let his eyes drift back across to Hungry Jacks. Sitting in a small alcove right on the corner of the building were three skinheads. Hello, smiled Davo to himself. This could be three likely little customers.
Actually none of them was all that little. All three were fairly solid, tattooed and appeared to be in their early twenties. They were all wearing braces to hold up their jeans, two had black T-shirts and the biggest one on the end had on a white Tshirt with Joy Division on the front. He also had spiky red hair. The lights changed and the crowd began to surge across Liverpool Street: but Davo didn’t. Slowly he let his eyes drift down to the biggest skinhead’s boots. Suddenly Davo felt as if someone had just punched him in the stomach. A cold sweat formed across his brow and his heart literally skipped a beat. He was a few metres away and the light wasn’t all that good but there, unmistakably, all over the biggest skinhead’s red boots were daubed dozens of little black swastikas. Davo felt almost paralysed. Like he was in the middle of some ghastly nightmare trying desperately to wake up. Was that him? Was that the skinhead with the red hair he was searching for. Those swastikas all over his boots. It had to be.
A calm collected rage quickly took over from the temporary paralysis and as unobtrusively as he could Davo slowly moved through the crowd and stood just up from the three skinheads’ left, near the closed doorway of a small hotel. Although he couldn’t help but shake slightly with excitement, Davo stood there as calmly as he could while he tried to pick up on their conversation and check the three of them out; especially the big one with the swastikas on his boots.
The three of them seemed to be, if not arguing, at least having a heated discussion about another two guys, possibly other members of the gang, who were supposed to have met them in town over an hour ago: and the general consensus of opinion was that they weren’t going to turn up. A girl’s name was mentioned and some hotel then the skinhead on the end leant across the one in the middle and distinctly said to the red-haired one in the Joy Division T-shirt, who Davo had figured out by now to be the leader:
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