‘Wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of that bloke.’ The barman’s eyes shone. ‘No one seems able to beat him.’
‘You a fan?’ said Jack.
‘I take an interest, yeah. MMA’s great for its intensity. I prefer boxing, though. More scientific.’
Jack extended his hand and the bartender shook it with over-the-top alacrity. The detective clocked him for one of those uber friendly types who talk to anyone about anything. It pays to cultivate their friendship; like taxi drivers and barbers, they know a lot about what goes on in the community. This smiling hyena fit the bill perfectly. ‘That’s music to my ears, my son. I used to engage in the fistic arts myself.’
‘Call me Dave.’ The same name as his old barman back in England. This town was starting to feel more like home every day.
‘Jack Lisbon.’ No need for rank and serial number yet. ‘Is that a recent fight?’
The barman squinted. ‘Nah. Replay of an old one. That bout established those two as rising stars.’
‘Who are they? The winner looks like a world beater.’
‘The victor’s name is Owen Kennedy. The bloke kissing the canvas is Danny Sharpe. But the fans don’t feel sorry for Sharpe, they’re fucking dirty on him. There’s going to be a rematch and everyone will be backing Kennedy to clean him up again.’
‘How come?’
The barman leaned in, shoved a bowl of complementary peanuts towards Jack. ‘Sharpe’s a dirty drug cheat. It still can’t give him the edge to beat Kennedy, though.’
‘Has it been proven he’s using drugs or is it just a rumour?’ A handful of peanuts disappeared into Jack’s mouth.
‘Sharpe failed a test a while back, but somehow the MMA Association let him off with a slap on the wrist. They oughta suspend him to teach him a lesson. Injecting HGH, he was. Rumour has it he was popping steroids, too.’
‘When’s the rematch?’
‘Supposed to be next month as far as I’m aware. There’ll be scouts flying in from the USA to watch it ringside. Big opportunities, which means incentives to do whatever it takes, if you get my meaning.’
A giggling woman in a tight top waved for a drink and took Dave away from the conversation. Jack turned his attention back to the TV. Sport was over, weather time. More storms forecast and hot, hot, hot, and it was still a month until the calendar said it was summer. Compared to a dreary English summer, spring in far north Queensland was a moist oven. Still a preferred option. Dave returned. ‘Another drink, Jack?’
‘No,’ he tossed on his jacket. ‘Gotta get my beauty sleep.’
‘I’d be getting money on Kennedy now, if I were you.’
‘Will do, son.’
‘Shouldn’t even be happening at all, this fight. You know Sharpe’s trainer used to sit on the Association’s board? Some people reckon that bloke’s got too much influence. How else would Sharpe have escaped more severe punishment?’
‘Wouldn’t be a geezer called Terry Bartlett would it?’
‘Yeah.’ Dave’s eyes lit up under a veranda of bushy brows. ‘That’s him. How’d you guess?’
‘Call it a sixth sense. Like coppers have, know what I mean?’ Jack winked and strode out the door.
Chapter 4
‘You want me to go there alone?’ Surely Lisbon was kidding.
‘Yeah. Why not?’
DI Lisbon had asked Taylor to conduct follow-up enquiries at The Iron Horse. She wasn’t keen to go without him. She didn’t know why, it wasn’t that she was afraid or lacked confidence operating solo. And it wasn’t the interview subject. Men like Masiker, arrogant and self-aggrandising, were thick on the ground in this macho town, full of misbehaving footballers from the Yorkville Giants and swaggering soldiers from the army barracks. Taylor had met, arrested and convicted more than her fair share of them. She’d been a detective in Yorkville for five years, a local who’d risen through the ranks. But this gym and its owner set off warning signals in the back of her brain. Lisbon himself had said something was wrong, and her gut agreed with his assessment.
‘It’s your area, Jack.’ She tucked the phone under her chin while she put on an earring. Maybe he’d see sense and agree to tag along.
‘My area? Piss off. You grew up here, I’m the new boy in town. People are more likely to open up to you. Besides, you’ve got a more honest face.’
‘I meant area of expertise. Mixed martial arts.’
‘Right,’ he mumbled. ‘If you’re worried about going there by your lonesome, take Wilson. I see he’s been making a name for himself collaring villains at service stations.’
Fuck you Jack. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not scared!’
‘I didn’t say you were scared, I said “worried”. Anyway, I wouldn’t consider myself an expert. Just used to box a bit when I was younger. I’ve got no experience in Krav Maga or Jiu Jitsu or anything like that.’
‘Whatever.’ She put the phone down, pressed the loud speaker button, pulled her hair back and tied it with a scrunchie. Serious navy blue today. ‘Exactly what do you want me to ask Masiker?’
‘Get a list of Terry Bartlett’s clients, if he’s got one.’ Jack filled her in on the conversation with Dave at the pub last night. ‘I want to question them all if we can. If there’s illegal substances changing hands, everyone’s a suspect in this disappearance until proven otherwise.’
‘You think there’s a link between the little pills you swiped and what the barman told you?’
She heard Jack sigh. ‘You don’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to figure that out, Claudia. Professional athletes everywhere use performance enhancing products to get the edge. Combat sports are in a class of their own. There’s big money tied up in it, and when there’s big money, there’s men behaving badly.’
His condescension was out of order. ‘I’m not an idiot, Jack. I’m aware of that. No need to be a smart arse.’
‘Sorry.’ No contrition. She wondered if the man had some form of autism. No empathy whatsoever. ‘Just do as I ask, will ya?’
‘Sure. But can you tell me why you aren’t coming with me? We could do the good cop, bad cop thing.’
‘I want to have another shoofty over Bartlett’s house. I reckon there’s more there we didn’t find the first time. Forensics only tested what they found on the surface. I wanna dig deeper.’
‘I’m not sure that’s a good–’
Click.
Masiker greeted her with a broad smile and open arms. A façade. Taylor could tell he was seething underneath; the smile and the non-reciprocated air-hug were forced.
‘So nice to see you again,’ said Masiker. ‘I’m surprised it’s so soon, though. Terry not turned up yet?’
‘Unfortunately, no.’ She took a seat opposite the gym owner unbidden. His raised eyebrow told her he considered the move audacious. Which made her wonder about his attitude towards her as a woman, rather than a police officer. A shame DS Lisbon wasn’t there; he and Masiker were cut from the same cloth in many ways, arrogant males. ‘We’re not satisfied we got enough information from you yesterday.’ She leaned over, pulled a yellow Spirax notepad and pen from her handbag. ‘I’d like to follow up with some extra questions. Won’t take long and I’ll be out of your hair in a jiffy.’
Masiker gestured towards a jug of water with slices of lemon and mint leaves floating on the top. ‘Help yourself. What exactly would you like to know?’
‘I’d like a list of all Terry Bartlett’s clients.’ Taylor poured herself a glass of water. ‘We’d like to interview them.’
‘All of them? Why?’
‘We have alarming facts to hand. Terry’s now officially a missing person.’
‘Fuck me dead! What facts?’
Sharing the details with Masiker might shake him up. ‘DNA from large blood stains in his car match samples taken from his house. He may have met with foul play.’
‘Surely they can’t all be suspects?’
Taylor chuckled softly. ‘No one is a suspect at this point
. But if we’re to find Terry, we need information, leads. Those people might be able to help us.’
‘That’s a bit extreme, isn’t it?’ His crow’s feet bunched as his lips compressed in a frown. ‘Most of the punters wouldn’t know anything about him outside his professional capacity.’
‘There’s no need to get into a fluster, Mr Masiker.’
‘Call me Carl.’
‘We won’t be harassing your customers, Mr Masiker.’ She took a long sip from her glass. The ice-cold water was delicious with the added flavours. ‘We are extremely worried about Mr Bartlett’s welfare. Perhaps one of his clients knows him a little better than you think.’
Masiker let out a slow, steady breath, like a student in a Yoga class getting in touch with their chi. Was he relieved about something? ‘I don’t have an official list as such. None of my concern, really. However I can write down the names of people I know for sure work exclusively with Terry. Local celebs and whatnot.’
Taylor passed him the notebook. He scribbled a few names and returned it. The number was disappointing. Only nine. Four men and five women. Top of the list, star protégé Danny Sharpe. At least Masiker was being honest about that. ‘Surely that can’t be it. I thought people were falling over themselves to be trained by Bartlett.’
‘They are. He’s got more clients, but I’ve no idea who they are. Just faces in the gym. Like I said, his business is, well, his business. Literally.’
‘Much appreciated.’ She gave a curt nod. ‘Names on their own are tiresome to chase up. It would save us a lot of time if you or your lovely assistant, Belinda wasn’t it?…’
‘Melinda.’
‘Yes, that’s it. Melinda. I’d like phone numbers and addresses to go with these names, please.’
‘I’m not sure we have them on record.’
‘How about she has a little look on the computer just in case, huh? If they have a full membership in addition to being Bartlett’s clients, which I assume includes use of the pool and your other facilities, they must be, right?’
Masiker’s eyes narrowed in frustrated displeasure; she had him where she wanted him. He didn’t like smart confident women, that was plain. She’d bet her last scrunchie he had a submissive little wife who did everything for him. Or the other extreme and he was henpecked. ‘I’m sure that’s a breach of the Privacy Act.’
‘Don’t be silly. We can find them ourselves, but why waste energy on that? You want us to locate Mr Bartlett as quickly as possible, don’t you?’
‘Of course.’ Masiker buzzed Melinda, told her to get the names. She brought in a printed A4 sheet containing the requested information.
‘Excellent, we’ll be contacting these people ASAP,’ said Taylor. It was better than she expected. Melinda’s list contained dates of birth, next of kin, all kinds of extras. So much for the Privacy Act. ‘I might even tell them not to pack their gym bags if they’ve got a session with Bartlett booked for today. Now Mr Masiker, one other thing.’
The surprised gawp on Masiker’s face was like a goldfish mid breath. ‘What?’
‘Danny Sharpe.’
‘What about him?’ Masiker jabbed his finger in the air. ‘You’ll notice he’s at the top of that list. Nothing to hide there.’
‘It’s come to our attention that Mr Sharpe failed a drug test recently.’
‘What of it?’
‘Were you aware of what Danny was up to?’
‘Fuck, I mean hell no! Only after he failed the test. I had no knowledge prior. None whatsoever.’
‘If you say so.’ He’s lying. ‘But the news got out, as it always does. I imagine one of your star club members trying to cheat his way to the top would be bad for business.’
‘I’ll admit, when he copped the fine I was worried. But I needn’t have been. Didn’t affect trade one iota. Might’ve even sparked interest. You know what they say about all publicity being good publicity.’
Taylor wrote in her notepad. Check club’s trading figures. ‘That’s debatable.’
‘Anyway, Danny may be a well-known member, but we’ve got another who’s an even bigger draw card.’
This was interesting. The way Jack told it, Danny was numero uno. ‘And who would that be?’
‘Owen Kennedy. The fighter who destroyed poor Danny. More than once. We’ve got the best gym in the city, why wouldn’t the best fighters want to train here?’
Taylor half expected an evil laugh to burst from Masiker’s mouth, he seemed to revel in the idea of one man “destroying” another.
‘Two fighters, who I assume are bitter rivals, training out of the same gym. Some could construe that as being fertile grounds for trouble.’
Masiker waved the question away like a cricket umpire signalling byes. ‘Nonsense. Just a bit of melodrama to give Yorkville’s citizens their jollies.’
‘I don’t believe that for one minute, Mr Masiker. Do you take me for some kind of fool?’
‘No, I–’
Claudia hadn’t seen Masiker this flustered. Alpha women scare him. ‘Who was the man escorted from the premises the other night?’ She already knew the answer after speaking to a couple of constables at the station. ‘It wasn’t just some random gym member, was it? No point lying.’
‘All right, It was Tezza. He got a bit aggro and we had to have him removed.’
That’s better, she thought. Now we’re getting somewhere.
‘And why was he carrying on like a pork chop? Playing too much Mortal Kombat, was he?’
‘No. When Danny Sharpe’s test result came back positive, Tezza dropped him as a client like a hot potato. It pained him to cut ties with the lad, but what could he do? The other night it must’ve all finally reached a tipping point. He was incoherent, swearing and raving, throwing equipment around. To be honest, I’ve never seen Tezza so agitated. Some of the bigger lads, body builder types who train after a hard day at the bank or whatever, tried to calm him down. Tezza swore at them, took a few swings and they had to back off. Tezza knows how to fight, you know? So that’s why we had to call your boys in blue.’
‘Why didn’t you tell us this in the first place?’ Taylor couldn’t understand Bartlett’s pious attitude towards drugs considering what was found at his place. Unless the goodies had been planted or there was another explanation for it. Protecting Danny Sharpe from more trouble perhaps.
‘Look, I may have been a bit, ah…’
‘A bit of a bullshitter?’ Taylor raised her voice, emboldened by his previous show of weakness in the face of her strength. ‘I reckon this drug scandal with Danny has rocked your business more than you care to admit.’
Masiker’s hand shot up to his face. Bravado gone. ‘Yeah. You’re right. Maybe I was exaggerating. You’ve got no idea what running this business is like? I have to deal with people whose egos are bigger than bloody Jupiter. Primadonnas, and that’s mainly the blokes. Then there’s my wife demanding this and that.’ He forced a laugh, paced back and forth behind his desk for a few moments before turning back to Taylor. ‘Confidence and bluster is key in this industry, Detective Taylor. Maybe that’s why I was…’
‘Never mind, Mr Masiker.’ She resolved not to call him by his first name no matter what. Keep a distance, stay aloof. ‘Would you have kicked Danny out of the gym if Terry Bartlett didn’t?’
‘No. Why would I? The lad didn’t commit a jailable offence or anything. Just made a mistake. It was Terry’s decision, his moral code, not mine. Not the first time he’s dropped a client, so I never thought much of it.’
‘Do you know if Bartlett himself was on any medications?’
Masiker eyeballed her with growing distrust. ‘Why are you asking that? Tezza never had any trouble like that.’
‘I mean prescribed medications. For chronic pain or mental health issues.’
‘Oh, right.’ Masiker’s shuffled in his seat. ‘No clue. It’s possible. Tezza was a champion fighter a few years back. Not a great technician, he won most of his bouts on sheer guts and the
ability to take hits and wear out his opponents. He must’ve copped as many kicks and punches as he landed.’
‘Sounds like a hell of a tough man.’
‘Yeah. In one fight he suffered a shocking shoulder dislocation. Makes me want to puke thinking about it. There’s photos if you want to–’
‘Ah, no thanks.’
‘Perfectly understandable. The poor bugger needed radical surgery, pretty much ended his career early. In his mid-twenties he was. That’s why he became a trainer. I guess the thought of missed opportunities might have caused him grief.’
‘So he’s had a rough trot both physically and mentally. With Danny’s drug scandal, well, it could have tipped him over the edge.’
‘Are you suggesting Tezza wandered off into the bush and topped himself?’
‘No, I don’t think so. But we have to consider all possible scenarios.’
‘Did Bartlett continue any kind of relationship with Danny after the professional split?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Is it possible Bartlett still wanted Danny to do well and continued training him unofficially? I think it’s possible he wanted the lad to be the best he could, not miss out like Bartlett did.’
Masiker scratched his head.
‘The late night training sessions.’
‘What about them?’
‘How often did Bartlett come in late to train?’
Kill Shot Page 4
