Louse Harlow sat staring into space, a crystal tumbler of clear liquid in hand. Jack guessed it was vodka. Panda eyed, reminiscent of Alice Cooper circa 1975. A couple of shiners the colour of squashed mulberries completed the picture of abuse. The lump developing on the right side of her forehead formed a fleshy canopy over the eye underneath.
‘Send an ambulance to 3 Inglis Avenue,’ Jack barked into his radio. ‘One adult female assaulted. She requires urgent attention.’
Taylor took a seat next to Mrs Harlow on her unfeasibly large sofa, stroked the top of her hand in a comforting gesture.
‘Who did this?’ said Jack, tucking the radio back into its holster.
‘Who do you think?’ She retained a degree of haughtiness despite having been attacked. A woman not to be cowed into submission. ‘That low-down mongrel of a husband, that’s who.’
Jack glowered, felt his blood pressure rising. He might be old school, but beating a woman, one as small and frail as Louise Harlow, was sickening. Never mind she was an exploiter of foreign workers; her ultimate punishment for that would come in another form.
‘Are the kids safe?’
Mrs Harlow spun her head around after Taylor had asked the question, their faces inches apart. ‘What?’
Taylor recoiled slightly, screwed up her nose. Jack had guessed right. Vodka was the booze with the greatest repellent factor. ‘Your children,’ Taylor repeated. ‘Are they safe?’
‘Oh my god! Can someone go and check on them please?’
‘Did he hurt the kids?’ said Jack with a sharp edge to his voice. A wave of red passed before his eyes.
‘I don’t think so. They’re in their bedrooms upstairs, I think. Jesus, I can’t…remember…’
The two uniforms dashed up the staircase, calling out to the children. Two small voices replied and Jack breathed a sigh of relief.
‘The ambulance will be here soon.’ As he paced back and forth, Jack kept glancing at Mrs Harlow’s battered face; a swelling above the other eye now, trying to catch up with the first one. How he’d love to give Andy a beating the bastard would never forget. That would only happen if he somehow managed to get the man alone, as remote a possibility now as a White Christmas in Yorkville. He forced himself to stop pacing. ‘Tell us exactly what happened.’
Half the contents of the glass disappeared down the lady of the house’s throat. ‘I’m not sure. It all happened in a blur.’
‘It’s all right, Mrs Harlow,’ said Taylor soothingly. ‘In your own time.’
‘Yes, but please, just the main details,’ said Jack. ‘I’ve got a feeling Danny Sharpe’s in grave danger now.’
‘Oh, Jesus. OK, then.’ Mrs Harlow reached under the coffee table, a shaking hand pulled out a bottle of Stolichnaya. She poured a third of a glass and downed it. ‘Andy woke up early this morning in a terrible fluster. I had a look at the time on my iPhone, it was 5:15am, still before sunrise but the sky was lightening. I followed him to the home office downstairs. He was mumbling to himself, incomprehensible words and grunts. I thought maybe he was sleepwalking. He used to do that when he was younger. I blame all the head knocks from Thai Boxing. Did you know–’
‘Please, Mrs Harlow.’ Jack had to stop her from rambling, not easy when she was in a state of shock.
‘Sorry. I’m just…where was I? Oh, yes. He started packing papers, his laptop and whatnot. He told me to gather my things, too. I asked why and he screamed at me. Just do it! I said he’d lost his marbles and he let fly with his fists. I fell to the ground, hit my head on the edge of a table, must have passed out for a few minutes. When I came to, I ran to the garage but his Mercedes was gone. Please, you need to find him and lock him up.’
Jack knew the answer before he asked the question. ‘This isn’t an isolated incident is it?’
‘No.’
‘How long has he been hitting you? Years, right?’
A cloud of confusion descended on Mrs Harlow. ‘Oh no, you have to understand, he’s been a good husband, for the most part. It’s only in the last couple of months that he’s undergone this radical change. Violent mood swings, lashing out at the least provocation. I don’t understand it.’
Jack understood it. Harlow wasn’t only selling steroids, he’d started to consume them himself. Still, it was no excuse.
More vodka found its way into the tumbler, some spilled onto the table. ‘It’s a bit of a coincidence, you all landing on my doorstep like this. I never called you. What’s happening?’
‘I’m sorry to have to inform you,’ said Taylor, edging the bottle out of the woman’s reach as she spoke. ‘Your husband is suspected of involvement in the murder of Owen Kennedy and the disappearance and possible homicide of Terry Bartlett.’
No histrionics, but a nod of capitulation. She knew, she’d always known.
Faint sirens grew louder until they were shrieking in the driveway.
‘Before the ambulance officers assess you, can you please tell us if you have any idea where Andy could have gone?’
‘No, I haven’t a clue. If you want to search the house, be my guest.’
Constable Trevarthen sat with the two children, a boy about seven and his slightly older sister, in front of a television watching cartoons, while Jack and the others made a rapid inspection of the house. Paramedics advised Louise Harlow to go with them to the hospital but she refused point blank, so they treated her on the spot. The quick sweep came up empty, however a thorough search might turn up something valuable. Only they didn’t have time for that with Andy Harlow on the loose and Danny Sharpe missing. Jack radioed the station, demanded all available officers be dispatched to the Harlows’ house to hunt for clues. Batista promised to rouse every last cop in Yorkville from their slumber and send them over.
Jack pulled out his mobile. 7:13am. Perhaps Masiker knew where Harlow had gone. He dialled Masiker’s number, no answer. He left a quick voicemail message, told him to expect a visit within the next twenty minutes. The gym owner was likely on deck at the Iron Horse; pre-work fitness fanatics would have already started their exercise routines.
‘He’s probably there,’ said Taylor. ‘Masiker boasted about how conscientious he was, gets into the office before any other staff to greet early-riser customers.’
‘Let’s hope he’s been true to form this morning.’ His reply was a whisper through gritted teeth.
In the car, Jack slammed his palms into the steering wheel. Too late to act, once again. Idiot! He reached across Taylor’s body, popped the glove box and pulled out a silver hipflask.
‘Oi! What the fuck, Jack?’
‘I need this.’
‘Like Mrs Harlow needs it? Don’t be a fool.’ She snatched the flask from his grip, hurled it out the window. It bounced on the paved driveway with a clank.
‘Hey! That was full.’
‘Shut up and drive.’
He stole a look at her profile, refusing to engage him face on. ‘Who are you, my bloody mother? One sip, that’s all I was going to have. One sip.’
She snapped her head around. ‘If you think I’d believe you wouldn’t drink the entire contents, you’re a bigger fool than I thought you were. On second thoughts, let me drive. You need to calm the fuck down.’
Taylor was right. He wouldn’t have stopped at one sip. This was his ultimate test. See this through, no alcohol, nail Harlow. Simple. He jammed a stick of nicotine gum in his dry mouth, unbuckled his seatbelt. ‘OK, Claudia. Take the wheel.’
Approaching the entrance to the Iron Horse, Jack wished he’d retrieved the hipflask. The situation was getting even more out of hand. Two paramedics were loading Masiker into the back of a white-and-yellow Mercedes Sprinter van. A group of spectators in sports gear stood around, worried expressions through sweaty faces. Jack and Taylor raced to the closing rear doors. ‘What’s happened?’
A petite female paramedic said: ‘Not sure. He was lying in a pool of his own blood at the entrance where a couple of young fellas found him.’
&nb
sp; ‘Is he conscious?’
‘Fading in and out,’ said the male paramedic, whose pony tail was a perfect match for Taylor’s. ‘He hasn’t been able to string a sentence together, mainly noises, which tells us he’s in a lot of pain. If you don’t mind, we have to get him to the hospital. He’s lost a fair bit of blood from a serious head wound.’
As the door was about to close, Masiker’s right arm shot out from under the blanket and he gave a loud groan.
‘Stop!’ said Jack. ‘He’s trying to say something.’
‘I’m sorry, sir.’ Pony tail wedged his forearm into Jack’s side and tried to push him away. ‘He’s badly injured. No time for chat.’
‘Listen, sunshine.’ Jack shoved him back twice as hard, the man stumbled over his shoes. His colleague gasped. The police ID hovered an inch from the paramedic’s nose. ‘I’m a police officer. This man you’re carting away could hold the key to solving a fucking murder. Let me speak to him or your mate there will be loading you in the van too, got it?’
The pony tail flapped up and down in acknowledgement. Its owner grabbed the silver handle, opened the door and gestured for Jack to jump in. Taylor offered the first responders a smile of apology on behalf of the detective’s behaviour. She rapidly questioned the bystanders, all of whom had seen or heard nothing, and went back to the car to wait for Jack.
Inside the ambulance, squeezed in among a battery of medical equipment, Jack leaned close to Masiker. ‘What happened, Carl?’
‘He…barged in, demanded a copy of the video I gave you. And one from another night.’
‘How did he know about your secret cameras?’
‘No idea.’
‘Did you give him the videos?’
‘No. I told him I wiped everything from the hard drive.’
‘Good thinking, Carl.’
‘He said he didn’t believe me and I told him to fuck off. He got so mad. Jesus, I saw a flash of his fist and then…nothing.’
‘We know he can’t control his temper. He attacked his own wife. Tell me–’
‘Please, you have to catch him.’ Masiker’s fingers curled around Jack’s wrist with surprising strength for someone who’d just had the shit beaten out of him. ‘My…family.’ Masiker turned his head away, coughed up blood that spattered on the sheet.
‘Don’t worry about them. Harlow’s not likely to be hanging about.’
‘He made threats. He’s gonna kill my wife and son.’
‘No he won’t. He’s on the run now. Help us find him.’
‘Will you check on my family? He might have gone there first.’
‘Yes, yes. Of course. Think hard, where could he have gone?’
‘I wish I knew.’
A tap on the shoulder. ‘Please, Detective, we have to go. Now.’
‘What?’ Jack spun around. ‘Can’t you wait one more second?’
Pony tail shook his head, took a step back as if fearing Jack would take a swing at him. ‘If this man dies or has complications due to delayed treatment, I’m going to see you answer for it, not me.’
‘Listen, mate.’ Was this guy just out of med school? ‘He’s speaking coherently now, he’s fine.’
‘Are you a doctor as well as a cop?’
‘Enough of your attitude, mate.’ Out of the corner of his eye Jack saw the female paramedic take out her mobile to film the interaction. He felt his shoulders stiffen. Why was everyone so uncooperative?
‘There could be bleeding on the brain,’ insisted Pony tail. ‘It’s imperative we get him to the ER department.’
Jack stood, ready to disembark the ambulance, when Masiker yelled out. ‘Wait! There’s another…cough…USB drive in my…cough…safe. A master for the last three months.’
‘What’s the combination? Whisper it to me.’
‘Every second digit of my mobile phone number…cough…in reverse order.’
‘Gottcha.’
A leap to the tarmac. Thunk, thunk of ambulance doors. Wailing of sirens. Back in the Stinger.
‘What took you so long?’ Taylor wore an expression of utter exasperation. ‘I was watching that exchange. You’re a real charmer, aren’t you?’
‘Listen.’ The remark was ignored. ‘Call Batista and get a squad car over to Masiker’s house. He’s worried Harlow’s gonna fuck up his family. I highly doubt it, but I’ve been wrong before.’
‘Can I get that in writing?’
‘Just do it, then follow me inside into his office.’
Eight…six…zero… a turn of the handle and the heavy door swung open. Inside lay not only the promised flash drive, but something just as interesting. Box upon box – maybe fifty – of human growth hormone, steroids, wads of cash and, the biggest surprise, a Heckler and Koch USP pistol.
Taylor made a quick call, requested someone come and collect the goodies.
‘Holy shit, Claudia. Quite a treasure trove.’
‘Worth a fortune. But none of it as valuable as this.’ She reached into the safe, took the flash drive from the top shelf and dropped it in her handbag.
Chapter 24
All available officers were gathered in the squad room, some sitting, most standing, to watch the video from The Iron Horse. Jack and Taylor stood either side of the TV monitor.
‘OK,’ said Batista from the back of the room. ‘Let’s see what we’ve got.’
The Inspector and his two senior detectives had already viewed the video when Jack and Taylor returned from the gym. Their job now: explain to the rest of the team how the footage they were about to see correlated with what they knew already.
‘Thanks, boss.’ Jack’s smile lacked humour. ‘This is a rarity in our business. A murder caught on camera. Pay attention.’ The last bit was unnecessary, all eyes were glued to the screen.
He pressed the clicker.
Time stamp: 22:14, 28 October.
The video started: Masiker was working out in the gym alone, the rhythmic bass of a sound track thumping away quietly in the background. He exhaled sharply at the high point of his bench presses, three big black weights sat on each end of the barbell. The man groaned with effort, his arms quivering. He replaced the bar on the rack and sat up quickly, eyes wide. Andy Harlow and Danny Sharpe strode into view, stood close to Masiker, who had a confused look on his face. The camera, mounted at a height of about 2.5 metres on the opposite wall, showed the backs of the visitors’ heads and Masiker front on.
Harlow – You gotta help us, Carl. We need to lay low for a while.
Masiker – What’s going on?
Harlow – Nothing you need to concern yourself with. We’re desperate, mate. I know you’ve got a couple of properties.
Masiker – I’ve got three and they’re all rented out to families. Long-term leases. I can’t turf them out to accommodate you.
Sharpe – Come on, Carl. You’ve helped people out in a bind before. Especially us fighters.
Masiker – What can I say, boys. Nothing I can do. Especially if you won’t tell me what it’s about.
Harlow – Dammit, Carl! If you can’t do that, at least put this in the safe for us, will ya? (Harlow hoisted a hold-all into the air).
Masiker – What is it?
Harlow – Best you don’t know. Just stick it in there for a week or so and we’ll collect when the time’s right.
Masiker (shook his head) – Sorry, this is all too suss. I can’t help you. Now, I’d like to finish my session, if you don’t mind.
Masiker swung his body around, lay on the bench and regripped the barbell. Harlow seized the gym owner by the shins, yanked him backwards and out from under the barbell, grabbed him by the throat.
Harlow – You’ll do as I say or Danny and I will be paying that little wife of yours a visit. And if you talk to the cops, you’re both fucking dead, understand me?
Sharpe’s shoulders bounced up and down slightly; from the back it appeared as if he was laughing at Masiker’s discomfiture, trapped on the weight bench with Harlow’s grip around his
neck tightening.
Masiker – Let me go! All right I’ll–
At that moment Owen Kennedy entered the gymnasium, dressed in shorts and singlet, carry-bag by his side. He walks with a cocky gait befitting an MMA champion.
Kennedy – What the hell’s going on here? Let him go, you bastard! And where’s Terry? He’s never late for a training session.
Harlow released his chokehold, turned to face Kennedy.
Sharpe (spun around, shoved Kennedy in the chest) – Fuck off, Owen. This is none of your business.
Kennedy – Everything that happens in this gym is my business. I can guess what’s in the bag you want Carl to hide, you bloody drug cheat.
Sharpe snapped out a left jab at Kennedy, who ducked and let fly with a lightning elbow strike to Sharpe’s chin, the sickening sound of bone on bone ringing out. Sharpe dropped like he’d been shot by a sniper, pulled himself into a foetal position. Kennedy stood legs shoulder width apart, glowering and yelling at Sharpe who lay motionless.
Jack stopped the video.
‘This is where it gets exciting, so watch carefully.’
The video restarted: Harlow dashed out of shot, reappeared with a cast iron kettle bell, which he swung hard over the top of Kennedy’s head while the latter was still taunting Sharpe. Kennedy fell flat on his face, arms by his sides, and didn’t move.
Groans and gasps arose from the audience. Jack stopped the video.
‘We can assume the blow was fatal and Owen Kennedy didn’t suffer. That’s the only comfort I can take out of this.’
Taylor added: ‘Harlow’s wife told us her husband had been a good man until recently. I guess that’s a relative term, but even so, this is evidence of roid rage in its extreme form. Please roll the video again, Jack.’
Sharpe, recovered from the blow he received, leaped to his feet, put his hands to his head and started screaming and jumping about like he’s on hot sand. Masiker stared open-mouthed, not at the man on the floor, but directly at the lens of the hidden camera. Harlow noticed this for an instant, but immediately switched his attention back to Kennedy’s still form.
‘You’ll notice he’s clocked Masiker behaving oddly.’ Jack paused the video. ‘I reckon Harlow’s subconsciously filed this action of Masiker’s away, put two and two together later and that’s why he’s fronted this morning and demanded a copy of what we’re now watching. Let’s continue.’
Kill Shot Page 16
