Kill Shot

by Blair Denholm

  He offered no response other than shrugging his shoulders.

  ‘Masiker protested like crazy when I pushed him about drug use at the club. Repeated he had no knowledge of any activity.’

  ‘Naïve or lying.’ Jack pulled a branch aside, ushered Taylor through a thicket.

  ‘On the plus side, I got him to fork over a list of Bartlett’s main clients.’

  ‘Great work.’

  She pulled aside a low-hanging branch. ‘Another thing. Before I visited Masiker I checked with the constables who attended the disturbance at the Iron Horse.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘It wasn’t some random member running amok. It was Bartlett.’

  ‘Holy shit.’

  ‘I made Masiker hand over the CCTV footage from that night. Unfortunately, there was nothing useful on it.’

  ‘Any chance he altered the footage?’

  ‘None. I was with him when he downloaded the file.’

  ‘Damn.’

  ‘Masiker also told me a bit about the other fighter, Owen Kennedy and his coach.’

  ‘Trainer.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Not coach, trainer. There’s a subtle difference.’

  ‘So subtle it’s irrelevant to this discussion.’ She shot him a sour look. ‘It seems the rival…trainer…Vince Armbruster, had a nasty cycling accident and the champ’s been training himself for a while.’

  Jack pressed his car’s beeper to unlock it. ‘When athletes get to a certain level their trainers…and coaches…are mainly there for motivation rather than technical adjustments. Kennedy would know exactly what he needs to do to keep on top of his game.’

  ‘Wanna pay them both a visit?’

  ‘Do crocs have big teeth?’

  Taylor had no time to respond to Jack’s poor-taste rhetorical question. Two outside broadcast vans from the local TV stations roared up the gravel road and skidded to a stop. They parked between Taylor’s Toyota Aurion XV50 and the forensics team’s vehicles. Doors thunked shut as a film crew alighted from the first van. Then the second. A reporter and camera operator each from Channel 11 and 3 strode purposefully towards the detectives.

  ‘Here comes the Fourth Estate,’ said Taylor. ‘How did they get wind of this so fast? Wilson told me there’d be no media release until we gave the go ahead.’ She quickened her step to avoid the eager-faced woman rushing at them. Too late. The cameras were already perched on the operators’ shoulders, lights indicated filming was underway.

  Jack recognised Holly Maguire, news anchor and chief journalist at Channel 11. She appeared shorter in real life than on screen, not a hair out of place and makeup caked on thick. Hot on her high heels scrambled Johnno Peroni, the male counterpart to Maguire from Channel 3. The detectives knew the reporters well from previous cases. Both were professional and enthusiastic, but right now they presented a nuisance the investigation could do without.

  ‘Can you take us to the body, Detective Lisbon?’ Peroni muscled his way past Maguire. He was a former rugby league footballer who mostly reported on sports but was known to revel in hard news when a big story broke in town.

  ‘What body?’ Jack squinted. ‘Where did you get that information?’

  ‘The croc attack victim. We got a tip off from a member of the public. He said there was a body lying in the mangrove forest. What can you tell us?’ Peroni thrust a microphone at Jack’s face.

  It could only have been the fisherman who found the body. Looking for his fifteen minutes of fame. No doubt the media would be lining him up for an interview if they hadn’t already. ‘This is a secured area. Only authorised personnel are allowed beyond that line.’ Jack pointed at a long line of police tape strung between two black wattle trees. ‘If you enter the no-go area you may be arrested for impeding an investigation.’

  Taylor edged her way past the journalists, now shoulder to shoulder, each looking to score the edge, ask the most pertinent questions. Jack imagined a scribe from the Yorkville Times newspaper would be on their way too.

  ‘Detective Taylor,’ Maguire flashed an ingratiating grin. ‘Perhaps you’ll be more forthcoming with information about the attack.’ The men working the cameras stood a metre behind, off to one side.

  ‘Like my colleague Detective Sergeant Lisbon said, this is now a secure area. If you have any questions, please get in touch with our media liaison team. The number is–’

  ‘Surely you can answer some simple questions,’ barked Peroni. ‘There’ve been a number of crocodile attacks in recent years. The public have a right to know what’s going on.’

  ‘Go back to the station and wait for me.’ Jack whispered to Taylor. Call everyone on the list you got from Masiker. Our priority is Danny Sharpe. Then try and get hold of Owen Kennedy and his trainer.’

  ‘Got it,’ she whispered back.

  ‘I’ll handle these bozos until backup arrives.’

  ‘Sure. Don’t say anything stupid. Be diplomatic.’

  ‘You oughta know me by now.’

  ‘That’s what I’m afraid of.’

  The last time Jack fronted a TV interview, he blurted out sensitive information about a robbery suspect the cops were hunting. Despite Jack’s blooper, the con somehow missed the memo and was apprehended within hours. A dressing down for Jack in his new post, but no long-term harm done. You couldn’t blame him though. That bloody Holly Maguire could charm the pants off a monk. Not today. He’d learned his lesson.

  ‘Please, DS Lisbon,’ Maguire implored. ‘Give us something. At least tell us if it’s a crocodile attack or something else.’

  Taylor’s car disappeared behind a corner and Jack exhaled heavily. Where was that backup? ‘What I can tell you is the following. A serious incident has occurred that requires us to keep this location off limits to everyone, media included, until further notice.’

  ‘Come on, our viewers deserve better than stone-walling. Public safety’s at stake here,’ Peroni demanded.

  ‘The public will be informed through the police media liaison office when it is …determined…that…’

  ‘Yes?’ Peroni growled.

  ‘I’m afraid that’s all the time I can spare you.’ Two marked police cars headed towards the mini media ambush, Sergeant Ben Wilson at the wheel of the first. The reporters and cameramen turned to watch their arrival. ‘My colleagues will be standing guard here. Don’t even think about breaching this line. Thanks, and good day to you.’

  A quick debrief with Wilson and Jack was haring his way back to Yorkville Police HQ. Two clear roads later and he found himself in heavy afternoon traffic. Without warning, rain started to bucket down. Did it ever stop for more than a day or two in the far north?

  A line of crawling cars formed in front of him, traffic ground to a halt. Bugger this. He noticed a wide bike track running down the left hand side of the lane, just enough room for the Kia if the other cars did the right thing and moved slightly to the right. He slapped the lights on the roof for the second time today. Jack praised the compliant citizens of Yorkville as every single driver made way for him. With law-abiding people like that in this town, it was a wonder there were any villains at all.

  Chapter 7

  Jack gripped the edge of Taylor’s desk. Her work area was the epitome of order compared to his. Didn’t matter his was a mess though, he could place his hands on any important file whenever he needed. Neatness wasn’t important when you were once the school champion of that game where you turn over playing cards two at a time to find pairs. Memory. Or was it called something else? ‘Any luck with the calls, Claudia?’

  ‘Yes. And no.’

  ‘Bad news first.’ Always the bad news first was his lifelong motto. No logic to it, just the way it was.

  ‘Bartlett’s clients are worried. Seems he had a great rapport with them. The way two of the women raved on about Terry, I reckon they had the hots for him.’

  ‘Did you get hold of Danny Sharpe?’

  ‘No. Tried his number a few times, no answer.�
��

  ‘Get his address?’

  ‘Yes, it’s all on the list from Masiker. Also details for Owen Kennedy and his trainer, Vince Armbruster.’

  ‘Talk to either of them?’

  ‘No luck with Owen, but I got hold of Vince on the phone. He’s the only one who seems to be where they’re meant to be in this bizarre stage play.’

  ‘To be expected, since he’s in the hospital. Did he have any idea as to Bartlett’s whereabouts?’

  ‘Armbruster claims to know nothing. Neither do any of Bartlett’s clients. No one knows where Terry Bartlett is.’

  ‘But we do. At the morgue. Pending confirmation from the lab, that is. So, what’s the good news amongst all that negativity?’

  ‘I rang Masiker again. I remember him mentioning Bartlett had an estranged son. Turns out Terry had dreams of turning young Charlie Bartlett into a fighter like he was. The brutality of MMA frightened Charlie too much, so he took up boxing. Reluctantly. Terry pushed him hard for a couple of years, and the kid did OK as a junior. Masiker reckons it was obvious Charlie had no heart for it. The first time he stepped into the ring for a professional bout he was overcome by fear, forgot everything he’d learned. Got knocked out a minute into the fight.’

  ‘Oh dear. Poor sod.’

  ‘Charlie was humiliated. He gave the game away immediately.’

  ‘What does he do now?’

  ‘He ended up going to a vocational college. He became a barber, if you can believe it.’

  ‘Sounds like a kid who might harbour a few grudges against his dad.’

  ‘To put it mildly. The news is better, though. Charlie owns a barbershop downtown. You’re not going to believe the name.’

  ‘Surprise me.’

  ‘Uppercuts.’

  ‘Priceless. Shall we?’ Jack was already half way to his desk to grab his jacket.

  Chapter 8

  “Uppercuts” buzzed with lively chatter, the snip-snip of scissors, the hum of hair clippers and muted commentary from a TV. It was like a pub without the alcohol and peanuts. The air was redolent of Old Spice and Brut 33. Detectives Lisbon and Taylor sat on chairs by the window, sipped coffee from takeaway cups. Two other men came in after the detectives and set up camp either end of a long leather couch. One, a gangly teenager, scrolled incessantly through his mobile, the other, middle-aged but in denial, dressed more like a teen than the teen, flipped through one magazine after another, nothing interesting enough to grab his attention for more than a few seconds. The finger licking and flicking of the pages made Jack want to slap the guy.

  ‘Charlie can’t hate his father too much. Look at the décor.’ Taylor nodded at the paraphernalia adorning every spare inch of the barbershop. Boxing gloves, red and black pairs, old styles and new, hung from the walls. Posters of boxing legends Ali, Marciano, Tyson. A sculpture in the shape of a mouthguard sat on a glass cabinet, inside it stood figurines of boxers. One wall was dedicated to Australian pugilists who became world beaters, among them Aboriginal stars Lionel Rose and Hector Thompson, immigrants Joe Bugner and Kostya Tszyu. A cork board with smaller photographs of famous visitors to the salon and local sporting heroes.

  ‘Or maybe it’s just a marketing ploy.’

  ‘That’s rather cynical.’ Taylor blew steam from the top of her paper cup.

  ‘Not really. I used to go to a joint like this in South London. They cut your hair worse than the council cuts the grass but it was all about the image. Young men flocked to it.’ Jack folded his arms and leaned back to get a better view of the TV mounted high on the wall. He pointed at the action on the screen. ‘Know who they are?’

  Taylor shook her head. ‘No idea.’

  ‘Ali versus Foreman, Zaire, 1974. Rumble in the Jungle. Inspirational stuff. Ali was the complete underdog but he sent the champ to the canvas in the eighth round.’

  ‘And why are you telling me this exactly?’

  ‘Dunno, just making conversation.’

  ‘Which one of you is next?’ The name tag on the apron of the figure approaching them said Sam. Over six foot tall, large build, broad shoulders, hair shorter than Jack’s, almost a number one cut. The voice was deep, but neither masculine nor feminine. Jack decided to keep everything nice and neutral. He’d misgendered an assault victim recently and his ears were still ringing from the rebuke.

  ‘We ain’t here to get our haircut,’ said Jack. ‘We’re here to speak with the owner, Charlie Bartlett.’

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘Police,’ said Taylor.

  Sam examined their badges and pointed at the middle of three barbers tending to customers covered in white sheets. ‘That’s Charlie. He’s about halfway done with one of our regulars. It’s a tricky style, could take another 30 minutes or so.’

  ‘We’ll wait.’ Jack smiled affably. The overweight barber in overalls, plaited beard and hipster hairstyle wasn’t what he was expecting Charlie Bartlett to look like. Taylor’s wide eyes told him she thought the same thing.

  ‘I’m going to get us another coffee.’ Taylor stood, tossed her handbag across a shoulder. ‘That’s too long for me to be watching boring old boxing matches.’

  ‘Boring? Are you kidding me?’

  Taylor chose not to answer, the tingle of the bell above the door signalled her exit. Jack settled in to watch another all-time classic. Buster Douglas versus Mike Tyson, 1990.

  Taylor returned with fresh coffees at the very moment Buster Douglas miraculously rallied and flattened Tyson in the tenth round. Another win for the underdog. Jack smiled as Tyson scrabbled around on the canvas like he was looking for his keys on the beach. Taylor handed him his flat white, no sugars. As he took a sip, he glanced up to see Charlie brushing loose hair from the young customer’s jeans. The chap had been transformed into something resembling an alarmed parrot. Charlie beckoned to the detectives, led them into a small room in the back of the salon. No chairs, just grey metal shelving and boxes of styling gel, shampoo, hairspray. ‘How can I be of assistance, officers?’

  ‘We, ah,’ Jack cleared his throat. ‘We’d like you to tell us where your father is.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘He’s been missing for a couple of days and we’d like you to tell us where he is.’

  Sweat glistened on Charlie’s brow, his jowls shook. ‘Missing?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Jack. ‘If you have any idea where he might be, please tell us now.’

  ‘I haven’t spoken to my father in over a year. He cheated on my mother, the bastard. He can rot in hell as far as I’m concerned. Will that be all? I’ve got a business to run.’

  ‘Just a minute. We ain’t done yet.’

  ‘Make it quick.’

  ‘Is your dad having an affair grounds enough not to have any contact with him?’ Jack tapped a fingernail on the top box of a pile of Brylcreem. ‘Do people still use this stuff? I thought it went out of style in 1983.’

  ‘Um.’ Charlie was momentarily rattled by two unrelated questions fired at him at once. ‘Yes, that particular product is still popular. Making a resurgence in fact. As to dad, yes, he’s a fucking arsehole. Mum found out he was sleeping with a couple of women he was training. Both married and one of them younger than me!’

  Taylor was bang on the money with her assessment of the female clients “having the hots” for Bartlett senior, an attractive man by most standards. The women Terry Bartlett had affairs with being married put potential jealous husbands into the mix as suspects now. On a personal level for Jack, the case of a parent estranged from their child reminded him of his own situation with Skye. He never cheated on his ex, didn’t even entertain the thought, although he’d had opportunities galore. Well, a couple. Jack put that out of his mind for now, pushed another angle with Bartlett junior. ‘Did your father dabble in illicit or performance enhancing drugs?’

  A vehement shake of the head from Charlie. ‘Never. He’s clean as a whistle. He knows other trainers and fighters are gobbling them down like Tic Tacs, but he believe
s you either achieve success naturally or not at all.’

  ‘Are you that naïve, son?’ Jack pushed. ‘If you haven’t got the edge in boxing, MMA, just about any sport these days, you finish last. And you can only get there with clever use of steroids, human growth hormone, all that malarkey.’

  ‘Not true. Look at Danny Sharpe. He’s pushed Owen Kennedy to the brink a couple of times.’

  ‘You must be having a laugh! Sharpe got caught using drugs. What sort of example is that?’

  Charlie shook his head vigorously. ‘It’s a bloody fit-up. Dad wouldn’t tolerate a drug cheat in his camp if he knew about it.’

  ‘What else can you tell us about Danny Sharpe?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We’d like to speak to the man but haven’t been able to get hold of him. Perhaps you can help us out.’ Taylor’s voice was soothing, calming. ‘Would he be likely to have a grudge against your father?

  ‘A grudge?’

  ‘Well, he wasn’t able to train Sharpe to a level where he could defeat Kennedy,’ said Jack. ‘The young bloke might think your dad’s not up to the job. Football coaches get the axe when their teams underperform. Maybe Danny was thinking along the lines that Terry’s methods weren’t getting the desired results.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ Charlie scoffed. ‘Anyway, they adore each other. At least they used to when I was more involved in Dad’s life. Danny has to know, deep down, it’s him to blame for not being able to beat Kennedy, not my father.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ said Jack.

  ‘Dad’s trained title winners before. People who came from nothing. He’s got the skills to lift any fighter to the next level. If Danny hasn’t won the title yet, that’s down to him. Or maybe Owen’s simply more talented, tougher. A better fighter.’

  ‘You spoke disparagingly of your father before, now you’re practically talking him up.’ Jack tapped the Brylcreem box again, saw that it irritated Charlie, and tapped louder.

  ‘Listen, Dad may be a prick, but I’ve gotta respect him for his principles.’