Kill Shot

by Blair Denholm

  Jack threw deafening hammer strikes in time to his breathing, in and out like a busted compression hose. A matador finishing off the wounded bull. Rip, rip, smack.

  The bag creaked on its chain, swung far to the left, nudged a fellow gym goer tapping away in the forest of heavy bags. Jack saw it hit the smaller, older man and knock him off balance. He waved an apology and the other guy accepted with a quick, timorous head nod. What was the man to do? Jack was in one of those moods where he could hammer nails into concrete with his own eyeball. Getting into an argument with him now would be suicidal.

  One final onslaught, a combination of fifteen choregraphed punches. The only thing he was grateful to Gallagher for, that attention to detail and technique. Exhausted now, Jack stepped back, chest heaving, legs and arms rubber. He felt the burn of a dozen eyes on him, envious of Jack’s stamina, speed and power.

  A litre of water down the throat in four gulps. Gloves off. Wraps off. Stretches. Shower.

  Ten minutes from home his mobile lit up, unknown number. ‘Yeah?’

  Heavy breathing on the other end.

  ‘Who is it? Stop wasting my time.’

  ‘It’s me, Andy Harlow.’ The voice retained a modicum of its previous arrogance, but had gained an element of phoney bonhomie.

  ‘What can I do you for, Mr Harlow?’

  ‘There’s something I want to tell you.’ Jack now detected something else in the man’s voice. Alcohol. Time to press. People with a skinful of booze were freer with their words. In vino veritas was a cliché but Jack knew it to be true. He’d been guilty of speaking his mind on subjects that were best left in the drawer, with disastrous results.

  ‘Want to meet up for a drink?’ It wasn’t professional to question a witness under the influence, but what the hell. The investigation was stuck in quicksand and going under, so Jack ploughed on. ‘My treat.’

  ‘I’d love to, Detective Lisbon, but I’m about to turn in. It’s been a long day. Calming down a prize fighter like Danny isn’t easy. You blokes put an innocent man through hell.’

  ‘So, what is it you want to talk about?’ He gritted his teeth, dimmed the high beam for an oncoming car.

  ‘Basically, to tell you the woman from the TV twisted my words. Half of what I said was left out and…anyway…she was right out of order.’

  ‘Was she? I’m in a mind to take you and the media outlets to court for spreading lies about me.’

  ‘Come on, Detective Lisbon. We both know Danny wasn’t making up how you whacked him in the throat.’

  ‘I won’t dignify that with an answer, Mr Harlow. Lucky for you I ain’t the litigious type.’

  ‘Whassat mean?’

  ‘Means I won’t sue you for slandering my good name. Is that all you rang me for at this late hour?’

  ‘Yeah, what else did you think? I was going to confess to something?’ The sarcastic laugh that followed sent a chill down Jack’s spine. Harlow knew more than he cared to admit.

  ‘Of course not. I thought you might know something about Terry.’

  ‘I wish I did.’

  ‘Listen.’ Play to his vanity. ‘How about you come down to the station and help us with our enquiries. Perhaps there’s a detail you think is unimportant but could help us find him. You’d know Terry better than most people we’ve spoken to. Even better than Danny.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘We’ve spoken to Carl Masiker, but, to be honest, he’s proven to be worse than useless.’

  ‘Not wrong there.’ Jack heard the popping sound of a can being opened. ‘Masiker’s a fuckwit.’

  ‘That’s bit harsh, innit?’

  ‘Nuh. The bloke’s a fool. He couldn’t organise a shit fight in a sewerage pit. Masiker inherited the money to buy that gym. He’s nothing but a washed-up footballer. If it weren’t for people like me bringing in the punters, he’d go under.’

  One more block and Jack was turning into his cul-de-sac street. ‘I don’t doubt it. So you’ll come into the station tomorrow for a chat?’

  ‘Love to, mate, but I’m real busy. I’ve gotta train Danny extra hard now.’

  ‘Really? He’d be a shoo-in for the title now Kennedy’s dead, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘You’d think so, wouldn’t ya? But his headspace is a rubbish tip at the moment. Can’t seem to focus on anything. He might’ve hated Owen in the ring, but his death has rattled him. Not to mention Terry going AWOL. So, no, he’s no certainty. There’s another bloke primed to step up. Young Aboriginal fighter.’

  Jack recalled the flashing fists, the thunderclap smack as the lad’s gloves connected with his poor sparring partner’s body. ‘I think I saw him doing his stuff at The Iron Horse.’

  ‘Yep.’ The glug of more alcohol disappearing down Harlow’s neck. ‘That woulda been Jeremy Clifford.’

  Charlie Bartlett said his partner’s name was Jeremy. Could it possibly be him? Surely not. ‘Is he…ah…you know, a…’

  Harlow burst out laughing. ‘So you’ve heard? Yeah, he’s gay. Not many come out in this caper. But it’s worked out well for Jeremy. All that bullying in his life has turned him into an absolute beast in the ring.’

  ‘Is it true he’s partnered with–’

  ‘Charlie Bartlett? Yep. It’s true.’

  ‘Who trains him?’

  ‘No one at this point. But I’m sure Vince Armbruster would give him a go.’

  Wheels spun in Jack’s head. Could this be a possible motive? Get Owen out of the way so Jeremy could have a crack at the title. From what Jack remembered, the kid looked like he could knock Danny – or anyone – into next year. Jack flicked on the indicator to make the last turn. ‘When can you make it to–’

  Too late.

  Harlow had hung up.

  Chapter 15

  The prawns seemed to stare at Jack with their beady black eyes. Dead eyes, like Owen Kennedy’s. He averted his gaze from his meal, stared out to sea for a moment, watched the trawlers docking. Deckhands scurried about the long wooden pier, secured lines to bollards, carted ice-packed foam boxes from vessels to refrigerated trucks. The restaurant deck was crowded with animated diners. Thank God for the water mister and the sailcloth providing shade because the sun was baking everything without mercy under a cloudless sky.

  Taylor had made the booking at the last minute, but the obliging owner always made sure Yorkville’s finest got seats with the best views of the Pacific Ocean. Jack readdressed his lunch, picked at the prawns with a fork. He pushed them all to one side, harpooned a piece of avocado instead. He absently shovelled it into his mouth and swallowed with barely a chew.

  ‘You on one of those fad diets again, Jack?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘You paid top dollar for the satay garlic prawns, and all you’ve eaten is a couple of lettuce leaves, half a tomato and a piece of avocado.’

  ‘It’s these bloody crustaceans looking at me, I can’t stand it.’ Jack raised his glass of mineral water, downed half and smacked his lips. ‘Think I’ll order a rump steak instead.’

  Taylor grabbed a shrimp from his plate, deftly separated the head from the body, squeezed the pink meat out. ‘See? No critters’ eyes to deal with. Want me to peel the rest of them for you?’

  ‘Why not. And while you’re at it, can you peel some layers of crap from the case? I’m buggered if I know what to make of it all.’

  Taylor took a bite of schnitzel and rested her cutlery. ‘I know what you mean. Just when Sharpe looked good for the Kennedy murder, Andy comes into the frame looking suss as hell.’

  ‘He does.’ Jack nodded. ‘Something’s not right with him at all. His lack of concern about Terry Bartlett, then him calling me out of the blue, drunk, to apologise for giving an interview. I think he might’ve been taunting me in a roundabout way.’

  ‘Did you call Holly Maguire to complain?’

  ‘I gave her a piece of my mind but it was water off a duck’s back to her.’ Jack polished off the mineral water, pointed at his empty glass as
a waiter strolled past. ‘That woman’s got half the town too scared to go near the water’s edge with the crocodile beat-up. Social media’s buzzing with talk of police brutality focused on yours truly. Honest, Claudia, I barely tapped him.’

  Taylor’s eyes blazed. ‘You what? Jack, you swore you never touched him.’

  ‘The tiny little pat on the neck I gave him wouldn’t have hurt a sparrow. The guy’s an MMA fighter, for heaven’s sake. Anyway, Batista’s got my back, so I’m not fazed.’

  Taylor took a sip of shimmering honey-gold chardonnay. ‘I agree, it’s bizarre Harlow isn’t more worried about Bartlett. Masiker told me they had a strong bond, been working together for years.’

  ‘Yeah, well, me and my ex fit those criteria, and I’m sure she would’ve had me murdered if she’d been given the chance and immunity from prosecution.’

  A squawking seagull alighted on the railing beside Jack’s head, Taylor shooed it away with a linen napkin.

  ‘Have you spoken further with Armbruster?’ Jack smiled as a pony-tailed waiter with hideous black ear tunnels brought him another drink. He took the opportunity to order a steak, rare, with steamed broccoli. An athlete’s meal. ‘The old bloke must be upset.’

  ‘He’s beyond devastated. I was able to visit him in the hospital. I could barely get a coherent word out of him. He did manage to tell me Kennedy’s parents are overwhelmed with grief.’

  Jack shook his head slowly. ‘I can definitely confirm that. That was the worst phone call I’ve had to make since I moved up here to Yorkville.’

  ‘Yeah. That’s never fun. When’s the funeral?’

  ‘Next Monday. Forensics reckon they’ve got all they can from the body, so there’s no objections about putting Kennedy to rest ASAP. He’s going to be sent over to Perth Friday night.’

  ‘What about the ring?’

  ‘It’s going with him in a separate container.’

  They fell silent for a while, finished their meals and ordered coffees.

  ‘You know,’ said Taylor, stirring sugar. ‘Terry’s disappearance is starting to look more and more like foul play.’

  ‘Agreed. Let’s give it one more big push.’

  ‘What are you thinking?’

  ‘It’s close to a week now, and no leads. Radio silence from all the people most likely to know where Bartlett is. The second sweep of his house found shitloads of drugs in the hollowed out weights, but there’s no way of figuring out their origin. I’ll talk Batista into securing more resources. From Brisbane if we have to.’

  ‘What are you going to ask him for?’ She chewed an after-dinner mint, screwed up the stubborn foil wrapper which refused to stay folded.

  ‘Another land search. Remember where we found Kennedy? Eight kilometres from the abandoned car. If the cases are linked, and there’s no bloody way they aren’t, we need to cover at least that radius. Helicopters, cadaver dogs, whatever we can muster.’

  ‘Jack. You realise this isn’t the English countryside, right? Much of that terrain is impenetrable rainforest.’

  ‘We have to try. I’m going to put in an official request with the Inspector. Apart from further annoying people we’ve already annoyed the shit out of, I’m not sure what else we can do.’

  Chapter 16

  Jack flicked on his PC, typed the password. Skye’s birthday and his shoe size. Not the most original or secure, but he was yet to be hacked. In his inbox sat an email from Nathan at digital forensics addressed to him, cc to Taylor and the Inspector. A reply to his urgent request for another analysis of all the papers found in Bartlett’s car. The subject line set his heart racing.

  Subject: Matching phone number found

  Hi Jack,

  One of the scraps of paper you provided contained a smudged handwritten mobile phone number. We were sure it ended in 3, but one of our team suggested the digit could in fact be an 8. We ran the alternate number through the database and found it was registered to an Evan Zane. Please find a summary of his record attached. Hope this helps the inquiry.

  Evan Zane’s rap sheet boiled down to the following. Born in Melbourne, currently residing at 49 Tallis Street in the outlying Yorkville suburb of Lockyer. 38 years old, six prior convictions for using and dealing illegal substances, including cannabis, cocaine, methamphetamine, anabolic steroids and human growth hormone. Two priors for receiving stolen goods, one for break and enter. Total incarceration time of four years, seven months. Last convicted in 2015. Twice had restraining orders imposed, now lapsed. The accompanying recent photo showed a rat-faced man with a greasy jet-black mullet.

  Jack longed for a timid, co-operative witness, but something told him Zane wasn’t going to be fit the bill. In his mug shot, the little toe-rag radiated arrogance and defiance.

  ‘Oi, Claudia,’ Jack called a shade too loudly to Taylor, rivetted to her computer monitor only two desks away. ‘Grab your shit. We’re going for a wee drive.’

  On the surface, the North Queensland suburb of Lockyer looked nothing like London’s borough of Dagenham. Low set wooden houses instead of grimy tower blocks, gum trees instead of concrete. But at their core, they shared the same desperation and neglect.

  There was no sign of outside air conditioning units at any of the addresses on Tallis Street. The residents were either making do with electric fans or leaving windows open and hoping for the best. At the peak of this stinking hot summer, that would be a forlorn hope. Drug or alcohol-induced sleep would get many through the most humid and cloying and mosquito-infested of summer nights.

  The properties in Tallis Street were so rundown it was hard to credit people lived in them. The rents were dirt cheap for the majority of houses, mostly government owned. A handful of tidier private dwellings would have charged higher rents, but not by much. Some residents had struck the jackpot; they got to live in abandoned digs, the most uninhabitable of the lot, rent free.

  Jack took a deep breath and pounded on the door of number 49 Tallis Street. Paint was peeling off it in strips, cracks crazed the cobwebbed square of translucent glass at the top of the door. No answer after a long thirty seconds in the boiling heat. He pressed his ear to the warm pane. Silence inside. Peered through the keyhole. No movement.

  ‘Check around the back, Claudia.’ He nodded towards the side of the house. ‘And be careful. This neighbourhood doesn’t look too safe. Christ knows what lowlifes are lurking inside this shithole.’

  ‘Relax, Jack. I can handle myself.’ Taylor shook her head dismissively and trotted down the short flight of rotting wooden stairs. Jack watched her tread carefully in the unkempt grass before she disappeared around the southwest corner of the nondescript weatherboarder. He remembered snakes were active this time of year and felt a pang of guilt for sending her into the backyard jungle. Then again, the human vermin in the area were probably more dangerous to a person’s health than the wildlife.

  He gave three full-blooded fist pounds. Again no response. He cupped a hand to the keyhole and listened hard, not easy to do with a hundred species of insects making a racket in the surrounding bush. Was that the low hum of a radio or television set? A couple of kicks to the bottom of the door sent flakes of paint and lumps of putty flying. At last, the sound of shuffling footsteps. A thin wreck of a man who could have been anywhere between 25 and 45 stared at Jack, pupils the size of pinheads. Evan Zane.

  ‘What the fuck.’ The man scratched an armpit and yawned. ‘You know what time it is, bro?’

  ‘I ain’t here to synchronise my watch with you, mate. Are you Evan Zane?’

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  ‘Yorkville Police CID. I’m Detective Sergeant Jack Lisbon.’ He flashed his creds and gave the usual accidental-on-purpose glimpse of Glock. ‘The woman standing right behind you is Detective Constable Claudia Taylor.’

  Zane turned slowly, a blank expression on his pasty face, totally unsurprised someone had traversed the length of the house unchecked. He extended a hand to Taylor. She flinched when she clocked the smears of
dirt on his palms and the filth under his nails. ‘Not often a pretty copper sheila pays me a visit,’ he wheezed through a smile that was more gap than tooth. ‘Don’t wanna shake me hand? Fine, suit yourself, you stuck-up bitch.’

  ‘Watch your tongue, Zane, or I’ll give you a slap. I’d ask if we could come in, but my colleague’s making a face like she stepped in dogshit. I take it the joint’s not too hygienic?’

  ‘It’s disgusting,’ said Taylor. ‘I was dodging all kinds of crap in there. Rotten food, dirty nappies, general filth. Would you mind?’ Taylor gestured with her head for Zane to get the hell out of her way. He obliged with a shrug and a sidestep.

  ‘I don’t care what youse think. This is my house and I’ll live the way I like.’

  ‘And that’s your prerogative.’ Jack waited to see if the word registered with Zane.

  ‘Damn straight it’s my prerogative.’ Smarter than your average Yorkville junkie. ‘Tell me what the hell you want and you can be on your way.’

  ‘Put on a clean set of clothes, if you have any.’ Taylor said, now next to Jack on the non-toxic side of the threshold. ‘Better still, have a shower. We’ll wait for you. Then you’re going to accompany me and DS Lisbon to the station to answer some questions.’

  ‘And if I tell youse to get fucked?’

  ‘Oh, that’s an easy one.’ Jack pulled his handcuffs from his belt and dangled them under Zane’s quivering nose. ‘We arrest you for obstructing justice.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me. We found your mobile phone number on a scrap of paper you left in Terry Bartlett’s abandoned car. We have reason to believe you can help us find a missing person. Your call.’