by Robert Gott
He took the train to Northcote and walked from the station to Reilly’s house. It was convenient of Reilly to live on Station Street. Starling hadn’t bothered looking it up in the frayed Morgan’s Street Directory that had sat beside the telephone at The Victoria Hotel. It was the 1927 edition, but Station Street in 1944 would doubtless be in the same place.
Reilly’s house was a California bungalow. It was a good size, on a large block. He didn’t buy that on a detective’s salary, Starling thought. There must be a Mrs Reilly after all, who’d brought some money to the marriage. The front yard was neat. The lawn was manicured, and the box hedges that lined the driveway were well trimmed. He went up to the front door and knocked. He wasn’t expecting anyone to answer. No one had answered his telephone call. He was surprised, therefore, when the door was opened by a woman.
Barbara Reilly’s hand flew to her mouth when she saw George Starling’s face. She immediately tried to adjust her look from horror to sympathy, assuming that this was a returned, disfigured soldier trying to sell her something — probably a rabbit. This thought had barely formed when Starling’s hand reached for her throat and closed around it. He pushed her back into the house, kicking the door shut behind him on the way, and drove her towards the living room. In a matter of seconds, he’d shoved her into a chair where she sat, choking, too shocked and confused to yet be afraid.
‘If you scream, I will push my thumbs into your throat. Do you understand?’
Barbara Reilly didn’t understand, but she nodded.
‘Your husband is David Reilly, the policeman?’
Again she nodded. Fear began to rise in her, and she couldn’t take her eyes off this man’s face, with its livid, unhealed wound.
‘Where is your telephone?’
Barbara tried to speak, but the pressure of the man’s hand had done something to her, and she could only produce a gurgle. She pointed to the hallway. He grabbed a handful of her hair, lifted her out of the chair, and pushed her towards the telephone.
‘You can speak. I didn’t do any damage. Say something.’
Barbara Reilly tried again, and this time words formed.
‘Who are you? We don’t have any money in the house.’
‘Good.’ Starling didn’t like that she wasn’t terrified of him. Never mind. There’d be time for that.
‘I want you to telephone your husband at work, and I want you to say precisely what I tell you. Do you understand?’
She nodded.
‘I want you to tell him that you’re very ill and you want him to come home, now. Go on, say it.’
‘I’m very ill, and you need to come home now.’
Her voice was croaky. Starling produced the Luger from his suit pocket.
‘If you say anything more than that, or anything different from that, I’ll shoot you. Understand?’
Barbara Reilly did understand. What she didn’t understand was why she wasn’t more afraid. The presence of this creature in her house, and the fact that he’d laid hands on her, filled her, instead, with indignation. The barrel of the gun at her temple focussed her mind. She telephoned police headquarters and waited to be put through. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed that the hall clock said 11.00 a.m. What would this man do if David was out of the office? Starling heard Reilly say his name.
‘Sergeant David Reilly.’
He tapped Barbara Reilly’s temple with the end of the barrel.
‘It’s me, Barbara. I’m very ill, David. I need you to come home, now.’
Starling broke the connection.
‘Well done.’
‘How dare you come into my house.’
‘Oh, shut up.’
He shoved her so that she fell heavily and hit her head. She didn’t lose consciousness, but her disorientation suited Starling. He hauled her to her feet and half-walked, half-carried her to the living room. Before shoving her back into the chair, he tore off her dress and began taking off the slip she wore beneath it. He changed his mind. He didn’t want to sit looking at her flabby nakedness while he waited for Reilly to arrive. He ripped the dress into lengths and tied her arms and legs so that she was immobilised. He put a gag in her mouth and tied it around her head tight enough to be uncomfortable but bearable. He then positioned the chair so that the spectacle of his trussed wife would be the first thing Reilly saw when he came down the hallway. Starling sat in a chair opposite Barbara Reilly and closed his eyes against the drool that had begun to flow around the cloth gag. She ought to have pissed herself by now. It was galling that she hadn’t. Later. He’d save his energy for later.
DAVID REILLY HAD returned to his office just before 11.00 a.m. Joe Sable had already left, and Inspector Lambert hadn’t yet made an appearance. He must have been at some meeting or other. The envelope with the key in it was still on his desk, unopened. When the telephone rang, he was toying distractedly with the paperknife.
‘It’s me, Barbara. I’m very ill, David. I need you to come home, now.’
Then silence. She’d hung up. He tried ringing back, but the phone must have been left off the hook. He couldn’t get through. Should he telephone one of the neighbours? Barbara, whose voice had sounded odd, had asked him to come home. She wouldn’t do that without a good reason. He scribbled a note for Lambert and left. The situation demanded the extravagance of a taxi, and Reilly caught one as soon as he’d exited the building.
BARBARA REILLY’S HEAD cleared, and she stared at the man who sat opposite her. His eyes were closed. He was well dressed; his shoes were newly polished, and he was clean-shaven. But the way he sat gave him away as not belonging in the clothes he wore. Barbara recognised slovenly habits, and his sprawled legs and the casual way he scratched at his crotch told her he was no gentleman. Strangely, after a small rush of fear, she was free from it again. Perhaps she had concussion. She tried the knots, but couldn’t budge them, so went back to examining her captor. The man opened his eyes and caught her staring. He smiled, or maybe just bared his teeth. Without warning, the terror that had been put somewhere safely inside her broke free and roared through her like a cyclone. She writhed and whimpered, and she emptied her bladder.
Starling quickly came across to her, sniffed theatrically, and said, ‘Dirty bitch.’ Then he sat down again.
Barbara heard Reilly put his key in the lock before Starling did. It was the look in her eyes that alerted him. He remained seated and balanced the Luger in his lap.
‘Barbara?’
Reilly called a second time as he hurried down the hallway. ‘Barbara?’
He caught sight of her, and it made no sense to him. Why was she sitting, tied up, in her slip? He rushed into the living room, and didn’t see George Starling immediately. He’d pulled the gag from his wife’s mouth before he noticed him.
‘Put the gag back.’
Reilly saw the Luger, which was pointing at Barbara’s face.
‘Put the gag back,’ Starling calmly repeated. Reilly did as he was told. His eyes hadn’t quite adjusted to the dimness of the living room.
‘Who the fuck are you?’
‘I’m the man who killed those two perverts. There you go. Mystery solved. Now all you have to do is arrest me. That’s the hard part.’
Reilly looked into his wife’s terrified eyes. Why was this man here?
‘You’re not very talkative, are you?’ Starling said. ‘Why don’t you tell your smelly wife that everything is going to be all right? It won’t be the first time you’ve lied to her, I’ll bet.’
Starling waited.
‘Tell her!’ he bellowed. Both David and Barbara jumped.
‘Everything’s going to be all right,’ Reilly said quietly and placed his hand on his wife’s arm.
‘The little gesture was a nice touch,’ Starling said. ‘You’re good at this. A lifetime of lies. Practice makes perfect.’
He waved the gun at Reilly.
‘Sit in that chair over there. Just do it. All this will be over so much quicker, and I’ll be out of your hair and on my way. If you do as you’re told.’
Reilly sat in the indicated chair, and Starling stood up. He moved to stand beside Barbara Reilly.
‘Now, we’re all calm. All I want from you, Sergeant Reilly, is some information.’
Reilly nodded.
‘Do you know a policeman named Joe Sable?’
Reilly went cold. This was George Starling. What was that scar? No one had ever mentioned a scar.
‘Well?’
‘Yes. I know Joe Sable. I work with him.’
‘Do you know he’s a Jew?’
‘Yes, I know that.’
‘That doesn’t bother you?’
‘No. Why should it?’
Starling looked as if he’d just smelled something disgusting.
‘I want to know where he lives.’
‘A flat in Princes Hill.’
Starling shook his head.
‘OK. Let me make myself crystal clear. I don’t have time to listen to bullshit. You and I both know that Sable’s flat was destroyed. You know it because you work with him. I know it because I burned it down. Now, if you give me another smart answer, I’ll fire a bullet into your wife’s knee.’
He leaned down and placed the gun at the side of Barbara’s right knee. Her eyes opened wide.
‘And I think you know I will pull the trigger, and I think you know I’ll enjoy doing it. So, let’s try again. Where is Joe Sable living?’
With no time to think, Reilly said, ‘Eighty-four Kerr Street, in Fitzroy.’
‘Who lives there?’
‘He’s staying with a fellow officer named Bob O’Dowd.’
‘Go and get the telephone directory.’
Reilly, his head spinning, walked unsteadily to the telephone and came back with the directory.
‘Find that name and address. If it’s not there, your wife will be in great pain.’
Reilly fumbled with the pages and prayed that O’Dowd was in the directory. He’d said his name in desperation. It was there. He showed the entry to Starling.
‘Well, you gave him up without much of a struggle. Sit back down. What time does he finish work?’
‘Five o’clock.’
‘Do he and O’Dowd go home together?’
‘No. Not usually. Bob O’Dowd likes a drink after work. Joe Sable doesn’t. Why are you asking these questions?’
‘Because I’m going to kill Joe Sable tonight.’
What would this man do when he discovered that he’d been lied to? He’d come back. Poor bloody O’Dowd. He was married, wasn’t he? Christ. Would Starling put O’Dowd’s wife through this, too?
‘You’re not a very brave man, are you, Sergeant Reilly?
‘My wife comes before Joe Sable.’
Starling turned to Barbara. ‘Are you proud of your husband, betraying his friend like that?’
‘Joe Sable isn’t a friend,’ Reilly said. ‘Like you said, he’s a Jew.’
Despite what he’d said earlier, just for a moment Reilly thought that this deliberately ugly remark had softened Starling. He took the Luger away from Barbara’s knee, raised it, and fired at David Reilly’s face. The bullet hit him in the mouth. Starling walked to him and fired a bullet into his forehead, just above the top of the nose.
Barbara Reilly’s ears were ringing. Her eyesight was blurry, and she wasn’t sure what had just happened. David had slumped in his chair. The man returned to her and held her chin between his thumb and forefinger.
‘Now, what are we going to do with you?’
He let his hand slide down inside her slip and cup her breast. With his other hand he released the gag. The gun barrel, still hot, touched her cheek. He pinched her nipple, forced the barrel into her mouth, and pulled the trigger. The mess was astonishing.
He stood back. He’d go and see that picture with Cary Grant and Joan Fontaine. The 3.15 session. And afterwards, well, afterwards Joe Sable would wish he’d never been born.
He’d go back to his room in The Victoria first. He needed to collect his filleting knife.
RON DUNNART HAD been dismissive of David Reilly’s snooping. There was nothing incriminating on his desk or in his drawers, so he had nothing to worry about. He couldn’t think of a reason for the paperknife, unless Reilly thought he could force a drawer with it. He wouldn’t have found any of them locked, anyway. He didn’t like being under surveillance, and there was only one person to blame for that. Bob O’-fucking-Dowd.
The way to end this was to get O’Dowd to withdraw his accusation. O’Dowd’s career in the police force was over. Nothing was more certain than that. So if he withdrew the accusation and said that he’d made it because he was pissed off with him, well, he wouldn’t be charged with anything. He’d be dismissed, but he was facing dismissal as it was.
These were inchoate ideas that Dunnart was turning over, but the more he thought about it, the more he thought he could bring enough pressure to bear on O’Dowd to make him do it. He’d scare the shit out of him and beat him where the bruises wouldn’t show. Dunnart wanted Lambert off his back and soon. This needed to be done tonight. Bob O’Dowd wouldn’t like it one little bit when he opened his front door tonight to find Ron Dunnart standing there.
13
INSPECTOR LAMBERT WOULD have described his relationship with the Police Commissioner, James Cottrell, as respectful, but not intimate. He had no ambitions in this direction. In fact, if he were ever offered the job, he’d turn it down. Cottrell had never been a gifted detective. He was, however, a gifted administrator. Lambert thought he was a decent man and was confident that he was neither on the take nor in the pocket of politicians. He did his job well, if unremarkably. This sort of steady mediocrity was his defence against being held personally responsible by the newspapers when a spate of crimes occurred, or when a particular case which the journalists had adopted wasn’t solved quickly enough. Cottrell seemed not to take any of their criticisms to heart. He gave boring answers to impertinent questions until journalists became reluctant to interview him. As a strategy, Inspector Lambert thought this was inspired.
James Cottrell was not in fact a boring man. Cottrell had no illusions about the failures of integrity in his force, but he was convinced that this was true for only a minority of his men. For the most part, Cottrell had great admiration for the men who chose to serve as police officers. He wasn’t so admiring of the few women who’d become sworn officers. Surely policing was unequivocally and uncontroversially men’s work? No sensible person could take a policewoman seriously. They’d never be promoted above constable, so at least they didn’t pose a threat to a male officer’s career, and someone had to deal with drunk women and prostitutes, and clean out the cells when they were sick in them.
Inspector Lambert had gone behind Cottrell’s back in seconding Helen Lord into Homicide. Cottrell would never have given his permission, but once it had been done, he’d had enough trust in Lambert to tolerate the secondment. The incident in Port Fairy had confirmed for Cottrell all his reservations about women in the force. Helen Lord had had to go. Cottrell hadn’t made a fuss about it. He’d simply let Lambert know that the experiment was over.
Now, on this Tuesday morning, Lambert had come to James Cottrell to discuss Kevin Maher, and Bob O’Dowd’s statement about Ron Dunnart. Cottrell had been fully briefed about the Maher affair and had come to a conclusion about it. The O’Dowd/Dunnart mess gave him a headache.
‘We’re going to have to let Kevin Maher get away with it, Titus. Frankly, that irks me. I believe young Joe Sable’s account of what happened, but neither you nor I can do anything about that without evidence.’
‘And there is no evidence. Two men in a room with no witnesses, but with the corpse of a
cop killer.’
‘Joe Sable comes out of this more damaged that Kevin Maher. That’s why I believe him. He would have known that Maher couldn’t be prosecuted. He would also have known how despised he’d become. And yet he made the accusation. Admirable? Foolish? I don’t like martyrs, Titus. Why did he do it? If he’d just kept quiet, the result for Kevin Maher would have been exactly the same — the admiration of his peers.’
‘But it wouldn’t have been the same for Sergeant Sable, sir. It would have made him no different, in his own eyes, from Kevin Maher.’
‘He’s right, of course. I hope he understands when he learns that there’ll be no official outcome. There’ll be some people who might be wary of Maher in the future, but not many. This business with O’Dowd and Ron Dunnart. That’s a right royal mess. Give me your gut reaction about what the hell is going on there.’
Lambert had had one brief meeting with Cottrell about this already, so he reiterated what he’d already outlined. Lambert didn’t believe that Ron Dunnart had killed Peter Lillee. He did believe that he’d tried to blackmail him, and the fountain pen found in Lillee’s car confirmed this. He didn’t for a moment believe that O’Dowd had planted the pen. When would he have done this, and how?
‘I think Bob O’Dowd genuinely believes that Dunnart murdered Lillee, and he confected an elaborate lie to protect himself from being found to be an accessory. Dunnart wouldn’t admit to killing Lillee to O’Dowd. He thinks O’Dowd is small-part copper, large-part moron.’
‘I don’t like it, Titus. I want both of them out of Homicide.’
‘O’Dowd has called in sick two days in a row. Dunnart is here. He’ll brazen it out.’
‘I don’t want him in the building. I’m willing to offer them both paid leave until this is sorted out. If they refuse — and by that I mean if Ron Dunnart refuses — if they refuse, I’ll suspend them from duty, which won’t do either of their careers any favours.’
