‘If you didn’t know Dennis had pornography, why did Waldren approach the caravan?’
‘It was exploratory. The suspect fired first.’ That was Winter’s media training kicking in. Short declarative sentences. No room for misinterpretation.
‘Exploratory? What was Waldren looking for if you didn’t know the photos were the same until after Slater died?’
‘A police officer makes a thousand decisions a day, Jack. He was following a tip. Let’s call it intuition and leave it at that,’ Winter deflected. But Jack could tell it irked him.
‘A tip?’
‘You called emergency, they radioed him. He was checking it out.’
‘I called emergency after I saw him approaching the caravan.’
Winter paused. Thought about it, and wrote something down.
‘Who’d your senior sergeant talk to?’ Jack continued. ‘Can you be sure that call ever happened? Ask dispatch.’
‘Coastal town, Jack. There is no dispatch. You’d better make damn sure you’ve got nothing to do with this before you start throwing accusations around,’ he muttered.
‘It’s not my fault an officer got shot at.’
‘It’s not. But if you knew something dangerous was going on down here, why didn’t you tell anybody?’
‘I genuinely don’t know anything about the photos. I’ve been working under the assumption that Sam’s were planted. I did call triple zero at the fair. I tried to warn them.’
‘Why would you think they were planted?’
‘What did Waldren tell you about Lily Connors?’
Winter flicked back through his notepad and read from it. ‘Suicide. Decade old. Her dad has a bugbear about it, always believed it was murder. We’ve been watching this case from Sydney. Waldren hasn’t been involved. Only heard about it when I got here.’ Winter shrugged. ‘Seems like your bag.’
‘And if I told you that I think Lily was murdered, and Sam Midford found out who did it, so he was murdered as well and the photos were planted to cover it up, what would you say to that?’
‘That is a long shot.’ Winter rubbed his jaw and exhaled through his nose in defeat. ‘But . . . it does sound more like you.’ He stepped back from the door.
Jack idled in the sunshine out the front of the station. Winter had asked him to wait while he made a few calls, just in case he had any more questions, and Jack said he didn’t mind provided he didn’t have to wait in a cell. It was only fifteen minutes before Winter emerged.
‘I’m not playing the murder game with you, Jack, but if you find anything more about the pornography it would be in your interest, legally, to pass it on to me,’ Winter said, then did something he’d never done before. He extended his wax-paper hand. ‘I spoke to the emergency operator you called,’ he said. ‘And I do owe you thanks. You did call us. You were trying to help.’
Jack shook his hand. ‘Tell me. Was Lily Connors in any of the photos?’
‘You think Dennis Slater killed Lily Connors thirteen years ago because he’d been taking photos of her? And when Sam figured it out, Dennis covered his tracks by killing him as well? Am I close?’ Winter raised his eyebrows in disbelief.
‘More or less.’ Jack shrugged. ‘Except I don’t believe you’ve stumbled into it, or that it ends there. I think this is just tying up loose ends.’
‘I don’t have the forensics on a girl who died thirteen years ago. And Lily Connors’ suicide is not part of my, or anyone’s, remit. If you get me a photo, I can have a look.’
‘Hang on.’ Jack pulled the stolen photo out of his pocket. He didn’t let Winter see it, just in case he asked where it came from. ‘Black hair, blue streak in it?’ He raised his eyebrows at Winter, who returned his look stoically, unimpressed. ‘Not always though. Um . . . freckles. Like a birthmark kind of thing on her neck. Ah . . . Pierced ears? Like, a silver ring with a green, ah, jewel I guess, in it?’
‘Can I have that?’ Winter put out his hand.
Jack held it out. The girl. Didn’t let go. ‘Ask Waldren. Is it her?’
Winter snatched the photo. Looked at it and thought for a second. ‘You know that even if I could tell you that, I wouldn’t.’
Winter went back inside. Through the glass panels, Jack saw him stride to the senior sergeant’s door and rap on it. Hard. Winter had been robbed of the opportunity to give Jack a spray. He was still loaded, needed a new target. Jack had given him enough ammo to ask some questions of his own team.
Looking around, it was surprising how industrial Arlington was compared to the almost pop-up nature of Wheeler’s Cove. Buildings were low, flat and had sheet metal roofing. Even the hospital was only three storeys high. The ground was concrete, and the entire block Jack was on, and, he suspected, the entire town, was dead flat. No hint of the ocean on the horizon. A row of fast-food restaurants sat opposite. Despite the flurry inside the station, the emergency sector was relatively quiet. Jack walked down the steps and considered whether it was too far to walk back to the motel. Winter hadn’t offered him a lift. Though Jack figured he was technically owed one, he didn’t fancy being cooped up any longer with the man who’d put him in jail a year and a half ago. He closed his eyes, let the sunlight warm his eyelids.
His phone rang. He answered it. Beth.
‘I asked around,’ she said. She was eating something, sending wet slaps through the phone. ‘No one really noticed the swap in the cue operator. Most people stopped paying attention to when Brad – that’s the usual guy – was off. Those who did apparently thought the same as I did, that there was someone there, ready to go, and so it was problem already sorted. Everyone kind of trusts that Sam knows what he’s doing, so it’s not like we’re often focused on the prompter.’
‘What did Gareth say?’
‘Gareth?’
‘He was at the recording, remember?’
She chewed. ‘Well, I didn’t really ask Gareth. Just the crew. But, Jack, he wouldn’t recognise half the guys who work on his shows. He’s not the type of CEO who remembers everyone’s birthday, goes around back-slapping – not sure if you’ve noticed. He’s not going to have a clue if the autocue’s got a different person on it.’
‘Hmmm.’ Jack gave a disappointed grunt.
‘Don’t worry, I have something. Like I said, people have stopped caring when Brad takes a sickie. He’s known for it. I’ve worked on all kinds of shows and, look, if the stagehands want to smoke a bit of weed, I’m not going to crucify them. If they’re still getting the job done, that is. But Brad likes the harder stuff. Not too sure what, but let’s just say that he’s known for writing himself off. Bit too much of this, bit too much of that. Said he had gastro, spent the day on the bathroom floor, you know, with both taps running. Everyone knows what that means.’
‘When did he find out about Sam?’
‘Next morning at work. It would have been quite a shock, but I don’t think he knew how relevant he was to it. He just scrolls the autocue. Only someone as insane as you can turn that into a murder investigation. Seems to me like he chalks it up as one of those coincidences. You know? Skip the cinema and miss the pile-up on the highway? Counts himself lucky not to have been there.’
‘Thanks, Beth,’ said Jack.
‘No dramas,’ she said. ‘No more late-night visits, hey? It’s nice talking in the daytime.’
All this information was useful, but it still wasn’t fitting together. Jack’s mental picture had pieces missing. It bugged him. The simple answer was that it must have been Dennis who Lily had feared, hiding behind a locked door. She would have known him, too, if they’d both worked at the fair together. For some reason, he’d had to silence her. And if Sam had eventually realised it was a murder, and then thirteen years on finally uncovered who the killer was, it also seemed plausible that Dennis would come after him. He clearly had no qualms about killing, having fired through a closed door at a police officer. He had no reason to do that unless the police lights scared him. But something wasn’t adding up for J
ack. First, it did require the belief, which remained unconfirmed, that Lily Connors was in the photos. More discordantly, a man whose immediate response to seeing an approaching policeman was to unload a shotgun in public was unlikely to have the subtlety to stage not one, but two, complex suicides. It didn’t fit. But it was similarly unconvincing that this was not related at all. So it had to be somewhere in the middle.
Jack had learned to trust his gut. And he had a feeling about two things.
That Lily Connors was the girl on Sam’s computer.
And that the senior sergeant was lying about the radio call.
CHAPTER 28
Maurice Connors was sitting on the floor of his ambulance, both doors swung open on their hinges, under the awning of the hospital, drinking from a takeaway coffee cup. Plastic red letters spelled EMERGENCY overhead. Jack spotted him and walked over. Maurice patted the space beside him, and Jack hopped up into the square cabin. The base was metal, cold; his legs swung just above the ground.
‘Slow day?’ Jack said.
‘Slower than yesterday. You come to ask me about who got shot last night?’ Maurice asked.
Jack shook his head. ‘I have the name. Is the officer okay?’
‘Hank’s fine.’
‘Hank?’
‘Waldren. Crinkly old bastard, vacuum-packed around a skeleton. If you’ve met him, you’ve smelled him.’
‘I’ve whiffed. The dead guy – know him?’
‘As well as anyone around here knows the carnival folk,’ said Maurice. ‘Can’t say we had family barbecues.’
‘There’s a suggestion that he was involved in—’
‘Yeah. I read the news this morning.’
‘It seems odd. Too convenient that Waldren was there, that the guy fired through a door, but not when his life depended on it.’
‘Hank’s not involved, just unlucky. You ever heard of suicide by cop?’ Maurice shrugged. ‘Maybe he fired through the door because he wanted the police to come in and shoot him. Because of, you know, all that stuff. It’s an ugly business, taking one’s life. I told you, I’ve read too much about it since Lily’s death. There are a lot of ways to do it you wouldn’t even think of. Dennis wanted Waldren to unload on him – so maybe he is your guy and the loop’s closed. That’s what I reckon.’
‘Do you think Lily was in the—’
‘Jack.’ Maurice put a hand on his shoulder. ‘I appreciate what you’re doing. I really do. A couple of years ago, I would have been right with you, kicking down doors. But I don’t want to think about that anymore.’
‘Even if—’
‘Even if,’ Maurice said. ‘If they got him, they got him. If they didn’t, what changes?’
‘I know people didn’t believe you for a long time. I’m telling you that Harry and I – we do. We have proof now. There’re murders that don’t look like murders. And if we can link these two deaths together – if there’s a bigger fish – we might still get your daughter justice. And if it is cut and dried, and Dennis is all there is, then closure. Knowing for sure. Isn’t that worth it?’
Maurice popped the plastic lid off the top of his coffee, set both the lid and the drink down beside him. He took a small bottle of pills from his jacket and dropped two into his palm.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said, looking up at Jack with a smile. ‘They told you I got busted stealing pills? Tried to kill myself?’ He nodded at the tablets in his hand. ‘Everyone always watches me funny when I get a bottle out. But you know what the solution to taking too many pills is? More pills.’ He tipped them into his coffee, tapped the cup twice on the floor of the ambulance and swirled it in his hand. He tilted the coffee at Jack. ‘Not these ones. These are just sugar pills. I used to flog these from the nurse’s station so I could take them in front of my family. When I was still hurting and I felt like the real thing made me go dull and numb, and it wasn’t fair to have the pain just go like that. I felt like it was cheating not to suffer for her. I felt like that was supposed to be my punishment. And now’ – he took a sip – ‘I’m a good boy who takes all of his medication. But I got hooked on these things. Not too sweet. They make a damn good cuppa.’
‘You’re changing the subject.’ Jack waved away Maurice’s tilted cup.
‘I told you about the pills for a reason, Jack. I can’t go back to that.’
‘It’s different now. Because it’s not just you anymore.’
‘You’re kidding, right? Harry’s as obsessed as I was,’ Maurice said. ‘And you’re an ally bought and paid for.’ He almost laughed, then closed his eyes for a second. ‘I’ll tell you something, but don’t you dare tell my wife.’
Jack nodded compliance.
‘I watched the Midnight Tonight video online,’ Maurice confessed. ‘I shouldn’t have. But I did. Because you’re romping around getting my hopes up. Honestly, seems a pretty clear-cut suicide to me. You have proof otherwise? Not theories – I live in the real world now – actual proof?’
‘I still don’t know how Dennis, if it’s him, got out of Lily’s room. I’ll admit that.’ Jack drummed his fingers on the metal floor. He knew he needed to tell Maurice something tangible to get him on side. This man was finished with guesswork, he wanted things he could feel. Hard evidence. ‘But her death, as you suspect, would have been a classic staging. The murder takes place before, and then you fill the props in, set the scene. So whoever’s first on the scene buys the narrative.’
‘Which everyone did,’ Maurice said, nodding. That wasn’t enough for him. ‘So what makes Sam any different?’
‘Thirteen years of practice. They’ve evolved. Whoever this was, they didn’t just cover up a murder, they got Sam to do it for them. Maybe the same for Dennis, if he was baiting the police into a shoot-out. They can do that. They talked Sam into it, threatened him through the autocue.’ Jack remembered he’d seen the silhouette waving its arms, as if talking animatedly. On the phone perhaps. Being persuaded.
Maurice shuffled and did a small hop out of the cab. The suspension lifted under Jack as the weight dropped. Maurice stretched his back, paced in front of Jack, thinking. Stopped and leaned against the door.
‘I’m sure you’ll forgive me, but you’re telling me a grown man got cyberbullied to death? As this town’s resident conspiracy theorist: you’re total batshit.’
‘Whoever this is,’ Jack said, ‘to be able to stage that, they’re clever. I have more evidence – the images on Sam’s computer were also found in Dennis’s caravan. Too much of a coincidence. If Lily was in the pornography, or even knew about it, old mate Ferris Wheel would have had motive to kill her, sure. But if they were killing Sam to protect themselves, why leave their own product on Sam’s computer? That’s too many breadcrumbs. Unless it was part of Sam’s investigation, and it’s been blown up because of how conveniently awful it is.’ Jack thought through the theory as he said it, and it made sense. Gareth had used the pornography to move the spotlight away from criticism of the network. Maybe Sam had it for a different reason.
‘It sounds like you’re telling me that it’s already solved,’ Maurice said. ‘Sam had the photos on his computer as part of his own investigation. Maybe that was how he solved it, tracked down Dennis. Dennis is dead now anyway, so even if Sam didn’t get him, it’s all tied up.’
‘It’s too neat,’ Jack said. ‘That’s my point. We’re buying the narrative. Whoever did this was smarter than Slater – has to be.’
‘I can’t believe I’m saying this, Jack, because God knows I’ve heard it enough myself. But if no one’s there to pull the trigger, it can’t be murder.’
Maurice seemed to take a small note of satisfaction in using an argument that had certainly put him in his place in the past. Jack had heard it before too, from Hank Waldren, in fact, in the carnival carpark. Simple as that – no one’s there to pull the trigger, it can’t be murder.
‘Sam says “forgive me” on that tape.’ Jack continued. ‘If not for the photos, then what for?’
&nb
sp; ‘There’s only so much I can talk about her like this,’ said Maurice, closing off the conversation. ‘I’m afraid I’ve reached my limit.’
Jack knew that all it would take was the right evidence to crack Maurice wide open again. Jack refused to believe he could just stop believing it; maybe he stopped wanting to believe it. But Maurice did believe it, somewhere hidden under layers of Valium and therapy. And whatever Jack had clearly wasn’t enough to excite him, to break down the wall he’d built himself in his mind. Jack suddenly realised, after watching Maurice pace and think and talk about his daughter and his past, that there was one question he hadn’t asked yet. And it was one he desperately needed an answer to.
‘Can I ask you one more thing?’ Jack said. He saw Maurice baulk.
‘About my daughter?’
‘It’s about her but it’s not really about her. It’s about my brother,’ Jack said. Maurice nodded warily for him to continue. ‘He’s, um, he’s been sick. A long time. Comatose. That’s still sick, isn’t it?’
‘I’m sorry.’ Maurice had stopped pacing and was standing still. Jack scraped the back of his calf against the steel step, if only so the feeling would take his mind off the words he was trying to find.
‘We might have to . . . well.’ He cleared his throat. ‘It might be time for him to move on. Dad’s ready to let him go. I’m not.’ He fumbled out his phone, handed it to Maurice, who read Peter’s text message with a stern focus.
‘Your father is a brave man.’ Maurice handed the phone back. ‘He’s letting you say no, but he’s giving you an easy way out too. Where you can make the decision but he’ll do the hard stuff. That’s why you haven’t replied? Maybe you want it done but don’t want to admit it. Your father’s giving you that option. Then again, maybe you don’t want that, because I felt the same way. Because you need to suffer through it or you’re cheating. Is that your question?’
Maurice had Jack pegged in more ways than one. Jack’s eating disorder had, in part, manifested from watching his brother gurgle down food through a tube. Likewise, the ability to simply walk away from Liam’s death, to unplug the machines and have the house cleaned and bank balances grow and return to a semi-normal life, instead of being mired in his brother’s illness, felt similarly undeserved.
Either Side of Midnight : A Novel (2020) Page 21
