Kill Shot

by Blair Denholm

  ‘You see, that’s a matter of semantics.’

  ‘Meaning?’ Taylor scribbled something in a notebook.

  ‘He rents gym space off me, then I pay him a percentage of the membership fees he gets from the fighters. With the elite ones he charges his own rates. I’ve no idea about those arrangements.’

  Jack scratched his head. ‘That’s an unusual way to do business. Never heard of it.’

  Another thin-lipped smiled from Masiker. ‘I admit it’s not a standard form of operating. Not unique, though. Fighters are first and foremost attracted to the gym, its fabulous facilities. I’ll give you both the grand tour later, if you have time. We’ve got a spa, hyperbaric chamber, lap pool. You see, we’re a complete fitness centre rather than simply a weight-training and fighting gym.’

  ‘Wouldn’t people sign on with Terry because he’s a successful trainer with a great track record?’ said Jack. ‘Hasn’t he trained a couple of champions? His reputation has to be more of a magnet than a fancy-arse fitness palace.’

  If Masiker was unflustered by the badge, Jack’s knowledge of the local fighting scene hit the mark. The gym owner’s face paled a fraction. ‘Well, ah, perhaps it’s a combination of both. But be under no illusion, even a top coach like Terry wouldn’t get the results if his charges were carting buckets of water around his back yard and doing burpees in his lounge room.’ He stabbed his finger at an invisible mid-air target. ‘It’s my money, my investment that brings the wannabes to Terry, not the other way around. Thanks to me he ended up with too many on his books, couldn’t handle them all. He had to hire an assistant.’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Bloke called Andy Harlow.’

  ‘I’ve heard the name.’ Jack wished he could smoke right now, popped a lozenge in his mouth instead.

  ‘You should have. He does a lot of the ringside work at fights. Terry tends to play second fiddle at the bouts these days.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Andy’s a better motivator in the heat of battle. Terry’s strong suit is teaching the skills. As an ex-fighter, Terry can demonstrate technique whereas Andy comes from a different background. Psychology.’

  ‘Give me Andy’s number. I’d like to talk to him if Terry’s not found in the next, let’s say…’ Jack flicked his wrist around, looked at his watch. ‘…six hours.’

  ‘That’s a bit quick isn’t it?’ Masiker scrolled through his mobile, turned it to Taylor who jotted the number down. ‘Don’t people have to be missing for a couple of days before everyone goes into panic mode?’

  ‘This is different,’ said Taylor. ‘The circumstances are highly suspicious. Besides, we don’t know how long he’s been missing. We only found the car today, maybe he disappeared several days ago.’

  ‘Let’s just hope he’s holed up in his house then.’ Masiker drained the last of his coffee. ‘And by the way. If you want to talk to Andy in person, you’ll have to wait. He’s taken his family to Sydney for a holiday.’

  ‘OK, thanks for your time.’ Jack stood, extended his hand. Masiker shook it like he was trying to prove his strength. Jack responded in kind and the two stood frozen, hands gripped together, neither wanting to give ground. Finally, Jack pulled his hand loose from Masiker’s vice-like grasp. ‘We’ll be heading over to Bartlett’s gaff now. I hope you’re right about him being zoned out on a video game.’

  ‘Me too. I’d hate to think something’s happened to him.’

  ‘Perhaps I’ll take you up on that offer of a tour later.’ Jack shrugged on his jacket. ‘Training in the little gym at my apartment complex is for chumps.’ Perhaps he could swing a special “mates” deal with Masiker if the cocky prick turned out to be innocent of any wrongdoing.

  ‘My pleasure. Our facilities are at your disposal.’ Masiker’s oily grin could curdle custard. ‘Have a pleasant day, officers. Drop by any time.’

  Jack had to ask. ‘You look like you used to be a fighter yourself once upon a time.’

  ‘A lot of people say that. But no, my sport was rugby league. I played in the NRL back in the early 90s. Balmain Tigers. It’s a tough game, not without the odd punch-up. I copped plenty but dished it out too.’

  ‘Cool,’ said Jack, trying to appear unimpressed. He had limited knowledge of rugby league, popular in Australia’s eastern states but only a minor sport back home in Britain. The two detectives headed for the car, Jack turning at the doorway. ‘Oh, one last thing.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You might have A1 facilities, but one thing lets the place down.’

  ‘Yeah, what?’ Masiker challenged, chin out.

  ‘Your coffee’s shit. Good day to you.’ Always have the last word.

  The drive to Terry Bartlett’s abode took twenty minutes with a short stop for a decaf at a place Jack knew for sure served a good brew. He bought a flat white for Taylor and she agreed never to buy service station slop again. Maybe for Sergeant Wilson, she joked.

  Five minutes before they arrived, the promised storm finally broke in all its glory. Fat beads of tropical rain splattered everything it struck. Lightning flashed in the leaden clouds. The rain grew heavier, developed into a translucent screen; you had to squint hard to be able to see through it. Next stage, hail like frozen peas drummed incessantly on the windscreen and chassis of the vehicle. All conversation ceased until the detectives pulled up in Bartlett’s driveway. Ahead, an empty carport. Good news – Jack could save the duco from further punishment, bad news – looked like no one was at home. Jack nudged the Kia under shelter seconds before the hailstones began to increase in both speed of descent and size.

  A quick mental assessment of Bartlett’s digs. If he was making a lot of money from his work, it wasn’t reflected in high-grade accommodation. The house the trainer lived in was modest to say the least. The joint was almost identical to all the other houses in the middle-class suburb cul-de-sac. Neat white, two-storey weatherboard Queenslander home with grey trimmed windows, looked like a couple of coats of paint had been applied recently. Clipped weed-free lawns, decorative palms, Pebblecrete driveway.

  ‘Looks like your average house in the ‘burbs.’ Jack shouted over the roar of the deluge.

  ‘How can you tell through this rain?’ Taylor cupped a hand to her ear.

  Jack laughed. ‘X-ray vision.’

  Typical of a tropical downpour, this one was over quickly. Car doors opened, the pungent odour of ozone and fresh warm earth accompanied by the clingy embrace of hot humid air filled the interior. Jack inhaled deeply, the rich smell still a wonder to an Englishman like him.

  They climbed external stairs. The front door to the house was unlocked, splinters of wood lay across the threshold. Inside the house, total chaos. Furniture upended, drawers flung open, smashed crockery. But no Terry Bartlett.

  Chapter 3

  DI Lisbon’s desk was a shambolic mess. Files relating to half a dozen unsolved and ongoing cases in disarray. Stationery all over the place, escapee paper clips, multicoloured fluoro Post-it notes bearing phone numbers once vital, now forgotten. He’d clean it up, as soon as they’d put the Bartlett matter to bed. If he had to give an honest assessment, his workspace was too cramped, no room for a big man like him to spread out, get comfy and think straight. Sub-par for a detective in the CIB. The London Met had been more generous than the Queensland Police Service in terms of facilities, but Jack rated his new employer higher. Why? Because the QPS had taken a punt on him, promoted him, while the Met couldn’t wait to see his backside going out the door never to return. Jack seethed over his former employer for months after his “resignation”. Now it was all good karma to him. Things happen for a reason. All that hokey mystical shit suddenly made sense.

  Jack swept clear a space among the papers, laid out the glossy colour photos. Technically not “crime scene” photos yet, but his gut told him they’d soon be reclassified as such.

  ‘What do you make of it?’ Taylor leaned over his shoulder. Her perfume got under his guard; sweet
but not overly so, musky without being overpowering. Amazing his olfactory senses worked at all after the physical punishment his nose had been through over his lifetime.

  ‘Not much. It’s basically what we’ve already seen with our own eyes.’

  ‘What about the stains in the car? What are the results?’

  He opened a manila folder, pointed at the conclusions. ‘Human blood from two people, both males. Nearly 70 percent of it from one person. Types O+ and A+. The most common there are. No matches in the criminal database.’

  ‘That’s a shame.’ Taylor sighed, pulled up a chair uninvited. ‘Have a look at this. Analysis of samples from Bartlett’s house.’ She dropped another thin file on his desk.

  Jack compared the documents. The data was conclusive. The DNA profile of the most copious amount of blood from the boot of the car matched the DNA samples lifted from the ransacked house. In particular, from swabs taken from an electric toothbrush and strands of hair collected in the bathroom. ‘The majority of the blood almost certainly comes from Terry Bartlett,’ he declared. ‘This is now a missing persons case.’

  ‘You’re officially calling it?’

  ‘Yeah. The whole business stinks to high heaven. I’d love to know who the second lot of blood belongs to. It could be completely innocuous or evidence of a deadly fight, fuck knows. Anyway, I’ve got hold of a little something that might be useful to the investigation.’

  A drawer slid open and Jack withdrew a plastic yellow pill bottle. He held it up to the light, two capsules sat in the bottom.

  ‘Where did you get that?’

  ‘Bartlett’s bathroom. I pocketed it before forensics arrived.’

  ‘Come on.’ A look of disapproval clouded Taylor’s eyes. ‘That’s not the procedure.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I left plenty for forensics to play with. There were half a dozen other identical ones in a little wicker basket next to his shower.’ He waggled the bottle before Taylor’s bugging eyes. ‘Something struck me as odd about Masiker and his set up. This could come in handy later, you know, as leverage.’

  ‘I can tell you what they are. Anabolic steroids.’

  ‘No shit, Sherlock.’

  ‘Uncalled for.’ Taylor folded her arms across her chest. ‘It’s right there in the lab analysis.’

  ‘Yeah, I saw it. Didn’t I tell you I’m a speed reader?’

  ‘You think Bartlett’s mixed up in some illegal steroid business?’

  Jack leaned back in his chair, interlocked fingers behind his head. ‘Hard to say. Masiker was insistent the trainer’s a health nut. But even health nuts cheat sometimes.’

  ‘You sure this case isn’t affecting you on a personal level?’ Taylor turned a quarter way round in her seat, her angled face reminding Jack of a kindly teacher. Not for the first time he noticed a thin scar running across her left cheek that ended a centimetre under her earlobe. A decent layer of foundation did its best to cover the blemish, failing when the light struck her from a particular angle. Her hair was always pulled back in a tight bun, twisted and secured at the back of her head with a scrunchie. A different colour for each day of the week.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ he grabbed a pen, tapped it a couple of times on his computer keyboard.

  ‘Stealing that potential evidence. I’m not sure–’

  ‘Listen, I’ve been a copper longer than you’ve had…hot dinners…’

  ‘That makes no sense!’ Her face twisted, it looked like she was battling an urge to burst out laughing.

  ‘You know what I mean.’ Jack berated himself for mucking up the metaphor or simile or whatever the hell it was called. ‘It’s instinct.’ He touched the side of his nose. ‘I’ve got a nose for this kind of thing.’

  Taylor let rip with raucous snorting guffaw that got faces turning in their direction. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t…’

  Jack cracked a cheeky smile. ‘OK. I know my mangled schnoz is no candidate for TV adverts, but I ain’t ashamed of it.’

  Taylor rested a cool hand on top of his. ‘And neither you should be.’

  Jack glanced at her hand on top of his and she quickly retracted it. Taylor’s gesture of comfort told him it might be safe to share things with her. ‘I’ve got some demons to exorcise, Claudia. There was some bad shit I left behind in London. Stuff that I ain’t proud of.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I won’t go into details.’ Not all at once, bit by bit. ‘Let’s just say I left a trail of damage that’s gonna take a long time to repair. If ever.’

  She inclined her head towards the framed photo of Skye on his desk. A treasured reminder of what could have been. ‘You mean her? I’ve often wanted to ask you about your kid. She’s definitely a cutie.’

  He picked up the photo, noticed a droplet of moisture in the corner of his eye reflecting off the glass. Time to end this conversation before he started blubbering. Another nicotine lozenge would calm his nerves. ‘Enough of that. I’ll tell you all about it after we solve this case.’

  ‘It means that much to you?’

  ‘Let me put it this way. Dodgy boxing trainers and cocky gym owners aren’t my favourite people. If Masiker or Bartlett are involved in serious crime here, my mission will be to make them pay.’

  ‘What if it’s someone else? Surely you want to catch criminals no matter who they are?’

  ‘Nah. Some are more deserving of punishment that others, believe me.’

  Taylor chewed her bottom lip. ‘A word to the wise. This is a small town, not London. Word spreads quickly, and if you get on the wrong side of people, the animosity can linger. My advice, don’t let your emotions get in the way of the job.’

  Thunder cracked in the distance. ‘You think you’re the first person to tell me that? You’re not! Leave me in peace for a moment while I study these forensics reports.’

  ‘Sorry, I…’

  ‘No. I’m sorry.’ He rubbed his palm across his face, sweaty despite the aircon keeping the interior of the office to a comfortable 19 degrees. ‘I need to pull myself together. It’s Skye’s birthday in a couple of weeks and Sarah won’t let me talk to her. Turning eight she is, and I…’

  ‘How about I go and make some calls. Find out when Bartlett’s assistant Andy Harlow’s planning on getting back to Yorkville. I’ve already tried a couple of times. No answer and no voice mail. I’ll suss him out online, maybe he’s posting on social media about his holiday.’

  ‘You do that.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I’m out of here in half an hour. Check in with the Inspector, see if he’s got any other jobs for us to do while we’re waiting for Terry Bartlett to show up.’

  ‘You think he will show up?’

  ‘Yes. Maybe not alive, though.’

  The oceanside pub occupied prime position on The Esplanade, Yorkville’s hub of what passed for style in the casual tropical town. Jack found himself a spot at the bar, hung his jacket over the back of the stool. Busy but not packed. Another hour or two and it would be unbearable, office workers and tourists standing shoulder to shoulder, climbing over each other for drinks. Jack would be gone by then, thank God.

  He rolled the base of a glass of ginger ale around on a coaster, seriously pondered whether the next one should have something stronger in it to keep the ice-cubes company. He pulled up Facebook on his phone, sent a private message to Sarah. One last try. Please can you let me speak to Skye on her birthday. I promise to be civil. It would mean so much to me. Ten minutes later, no reply. It was early morning back in Peckham. Sarah always logged on before work, no way she hadn’t seen his message. After fifteen minutes, Jack scanned the offerings on the top shelf behind the bar. There was a likely candidate, St Agnes brandy, a popular tipple back at Big Dave’s South London pub. Popular with Jack that was, no one else touched the stuff. Having placed the order, hand extended with a twenty-dollar bill, he heard the ding of an alert. Please be Sarah. His heart pounded like a trip hammer. Her message was short and to the point. OK. Be on time and I’ll be listening.
One false step and I hang up.

  ‘Still want the brandy, mate?’

  ‘Changed my mind.’ Still on the wagon for now. ‘Give us another ginger ale.’

  On the wall-mounted television, a local news program was wrapping up Yorkville’s events for the day. Not one for reading the newspaper or following online outlets, Jack favoured the lazy option of commercial TV. Not too cerebral, but it summed things up for the lowest common denominator, the man and woman in the street. For a cop in regional Australia, the heavy emphasis the local stations placed on gossip helped with knowing what was happening on Main Street. Jack smiled as he recollected there actually was a Main Street in this town, home to a myriad of tourist shops and restaurants. Now on screen, a breathless reporter in a narrow tie gesticulated wildly outside a service station. The same one DC Taylor purchased the coffee from. A graphic came up. Brazen daylight robbery. If the story was about the servo’s coffee, the journalist had nailed it. Next, an interview with Sergeant Ben Wilson, then another graphic. Attendant held up at knife point. The sound was off and Jack had no idea what Wilson was saying, however he appeared calm and assured, answered questions with a professional expression, nodded sagely. Last graphic. Offender apprehended by police in nearby house. Perhaps Wilson really was destined for higher office.

  Jack palmed his keys, removed his jacket from the back of the barstool. He bid the barman good-night. The barman switched over to a sports channel, set about cleaning glasses. Footage of two heavily tattooed and bloodied MMA fighters duking it out in an auditorium stopped Jack in his tracks. Advertising signage for local businesses confirmed it was the Yorkville Convention Centre. Jack resumed his seat. He beckoned to the barman, who smiled, pleased to have a break from wiping beer glasses.

  ‘Yes, mate. What can I get you this time?’

  ‘Another ginger ale. And would you mind turning up the volume a tad?’

  The barman pointed the remote at the screen, a series of green bars advanced left to right until the sound rose above the ambient hum. The roar of an excited crowd accompanied jerky vision of the brutal encounter. Lots of handheld camera work around the ring. Jack concentrated his full attention on the bout. A camera zoomed in on the tortured face of the fighter in red trunks. He was putting on a brave front, sneering and giving his green-trunked opponent come-on gestures. Jack could tell the man was at the end of his tether. A vicious spinning back heel kick to the head caught Red Trunks in the temple and sent him crashing to the floor. Next camera shot showed the vanquished fighter out cold, face down on the canvas, followed by the other man’s hand being held aloft by the referee. Despite winning, congealed blood and a swollen eye socket on the victor’s face were testimony to the defeated man’s pluck. Ad break.