Instead she said, ‘I’m sorry, Mont, I’m just tired,’
He gave her a sympathetic look. ‘It’s an ugly case.’
She prickled, realising how close she’d come to giving herself away. ‘I don’t think my sensibilities are affected any more than anyone else’s; I’m sure the guys are just as disturbed by this as I am.’
‘Yes they are, but I don’t want the battle of the sexes brought into this, okay?’ His face softened. ‘Look, I know it’s been a hard grind, but it’s over now, Stevie, you’ve arrived. Just try and loosen up and cut the guys some slack.’
She nodded and remained silent. Anything more from her and he was likely to launch into one of his every-member-of-his-team-was-chosen-on-merit speeches.
‘I want you to knock off early today. Be home for Izzy when she comes in from kindy.’
She was about to object, but he held up a hand before she could start.
‘No, this isn’t preferential treatment. I’ll bring over Chinese tonight. You can fill me in on De Vakey’s progress and I’ll tell you how the rest of us have gone. I’ll just bring the work to you instead of you staying at Central for it—how does that sound?’
She felt herself relax. ‘Nothing too spicy.’
He grinned back at her, shaking his head. Just then, the phone rang. He mouthed a silent stream of curses as he listened to the voice on the other end.
An individual from a neglected, deprived or abused background may find comfort in the newly dead; the dead are no threat, they are his to control.
De Vakey,
The Pursuit of Evil
Monty usually enjoyed passing the time with the super’s attractive secretary, but this morning not even Christine’s subtle flirtation could get his mind off what he was going to have to tell his superior.
‘Coffee, Monty?’ she asked in a last-ditch effort at amicability.
‘No thank you,’ he said and began to riffle through one of the police union mags from the coffee table in an effort to avoid any more of the one-sided conversation.
The sound of muffled voices had been filtering through the closed office door during Monty’s long wait. Now a sudden crescendo got the better of his curiosity. He caught Christine’s eye and jabbed his thumb at the closed door. ‘Who’s the hapless victim?’
She laughed. ‘I think the superintendent might be the victim this time. It’s Justin.’
Monty had always got on well with Baggly’s son. The kid was studying criminal justice in the hope that it would give him an edge when applying to the increasingly competitive police academy. Monty had no doubt he’d make the grades academically, but could only hope that with time and maybe some encouragement, he’d lose some of his reserve. There was no such thing as a shy cop. As things were, he had trouble imagining how a distraught victim of crime would glean any kind of reassurance from the young man he knew, with his lonely eyes and shuffling feet.
Baggly’s door burst open and Monty found himself face to face with the subject of his musings. Justin did a double take when he saw Monty and flushed.
‘How’s it going, Inspector?’ he said between breaths, flipping his head to clear a strand of dark brown hair from his eyes. He wore shiny black shoes, pressed jeans and a starched white shirt.
Monty smiled. ‘Better than you by the sound of it. How’s the course?’
‘Good. I got an A for that last assignment you helped me with.’
Monty clapped the boy on the back. ‘Let’s make the next one an A plus then. Come see me again when this murder’s been cleared up.’
Justin frowned. ‘Sure, but look, Dad’s told me all about it. If there’s anything I can do to help...’
‘Get that uniform and you’ll be the first I ask.’
‘I know you’re all stretched pretty tight over this. Tell Stevie I’m happy to babysit again.’
Monty suspected the relationship was mutually agreeable, with Justin glad of an excuse to get away from his overbearing father.
‘I think she might take you up on that. I’ll tell her to call if she’s stuck.’
Justin replied with a strained smile, nodded goodbye to Christine and headed towards the lifts.
Monty caught a flicker of movement in the doorjamb. He winked at Christine before calling out to the superintendent, ‘It’s all right, Sir, he’s gone, you can come out now.’ Christine hid a smile behind her hand. The super appeared, pulling at the sleeves of his jacket as if he’d just sorted out a major altercation. His moon face and flabby body could have belonged to a stand-up comic, features that seemed incongruous in an unhappy man in a job that stretched him beyond his capabilities. His brownnosing talents were the only things Monty could find to explain his rise through the ranks.
‘Sorry about all that noise, Christine,’ Baggly said.
‘That’s all right, Sir, it’s nothing I haven’t heard before.’
Baggly rolled his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Kids. You’re lucky you never had them, Monty.’
‘I don’t see it like that, Sir.’
‘No, well, it’s the luck of the draw I suppose. I mean, I buy the boy everything for God’s sake and he just wants more. His mother spoiled him rotten, I’m afraid.’
Monty said, ‘Sir, something’s come up in the Poser case. We need to talk.’
‘Of course, I shouldn’t be inflicting my personal problems on you. Come on in and sit down.’
He ushered Monty into his office and gestured him to the leather Chesterfield. While the super fussed around making coffee, Monty took in the framed photos on the wall. John Baggly beaming with the East Perth Under-Fourteen footy team, John Baggly opening the district’s latest blue light disco, John Baggly receiving an award from the Catholic Women’s Auxiliary for his advocacy of the family unit. The only picture on the wall that wasn’t about work was a framed photo of a younger Justin, posed in the backyard with the family dog.
He took the proffered coffee. ‘We’ve got the results back from the hair that was found on Royce’s body. It was in the police personal file, the one we use to exclude our DNA from crime scenes...’
‘Get on with it, man.’ The super ladled sugar into his coffee and didn’t look up. Monty took a deep breath. Here goes nothing. ‘It belongs to the police commissioner.’
The silver sugar bowl fell from Baggly’s hand with a clatter and crystals sprinkled the antique sideboard like a sudden coating of frost. He looked at Monty with the expression of a man who couldn’t believe his ears.
The door flew open and Christine rushed into the room. ‘Is everything all right, Sir?’
‘Everything’s fine. For God’s sake, Christine, go away,’ Baggly said.
She tiptoed out of the office, looking disappointed. The superintendent waited for the door to close before saying, ‘There has to be some kind of a mistake.’
‘I’ve triple checked. It’s no mistake.’
‘But the commissioner’s been on leave for the last two weeks.’ He swiped at the sugar crystals on his shirt and zeroed his small, angry eyes on Monty. ‘On his honeymoon in Fiji for Christ’s sake!’
‘I don’t suspect the commissioner for a moment: I believe the hair was planted, it was the only one we found. I was suspicious about it before I even had it matched. Someone obviously wanted us to find it. It was carefully stuck to the paint with the skin tag left clear and undamaged.’
‘Someone’s playing games with us?’
Monty nodded. Baggly sank his bulk into the squeaking desk chair. ‘It would be easy to obtain one of the commissioner’s hairs; all it needs is access to his hairbrush—he probably keeps one in his car and his office. But that also means it could be an inside job.’
‘Not necessarily, it could be anyone.’ The super chewed his moustache for a moment. ‘If the press get hold of this, it’ll be a disaster.’
‘My people will be discreet, but someone will have to talk to the commissioner. I know he’s honeymooning, but he’ll still have to be approached. We have to make his alibi official.’
‘Yes, yes, of course, leave that to me.’ Baggly took a sip of coffee and regarded Monty with scepticism. ‘This case seems to be lurching from bad to worse. How’s your witch doctor going? Has he finished consulting his crystal ball yet?’
Monty stared right back at him. ‘I don’t think witch doctors use crystal balls, Sir.’
‘Don’t be a smart arse. You know what I mean.’
‘He’s at the scene with DS Hooper now. He hasn’t given us anything yet, but these things take time. The less we pressure him, the more likely he is to give us an accurate profile.’
‘It’s a waste of our resources if you ask me, especially for a single murder. They’re always on about spending cuts and then they foist this on me. The only reason I didn’t kick up a fuss was to get you off my back.’
‘Yes, you made that perfectly clear, Sir, but I still say it’s worth a try.’
‘He could be just sending us off on a wild goose chase.’
‘Well, we’re not chasing anything at the moment, we have nothing to lose.’ Monty paused for a moment, trying to choose the right words for what he had to say next. But there were none, so he cut to the chase. ‘I’d like your authorisation to reopen the KP murder cases.’
Baggly thumped the desk. ‘Did your ex-wife put you up to this?’
Monty didn’t flinch. ‘Michelle has nothing to do with it, though I do agree with her that there are similarities in the cases that should not be overlooked.’
‘Well, thank God you didn’t mention that to the press.’ Baggly’s voice dripped sarcasm like a cut lemon. He never seemed to tire of reminding Monty of his former indiscretion, though it never stopped him delegating press conferences when it suited.
‘You didn’t even work the KP murders, weren’t even in the country. What makes you think they might be linked?’
‘The posing of the bodies for one, but I’m not familiar with all the details.’ He decided not to mention Michelle’s allegations of a police cover-up. ‘I’ve only had a quick check of the archived files. I plan on signing them out and taking them home tonight so I can give them a thorough going over.’
Baggly fixed his gaze to the ceiling, almost speaking to himself. ‘We were lucky. We got egg over our faces on that one, but most of it fell away with the death of the chief suspect.’
‘Yes, that was very convenient, wasn’t it?’
‘I don’t like your tone, Inspector. Mistakes were made, heads rolled and now it’s over. The suspect died in a car accident.’
Monty fought to keep his voice even. ‘You can stop me from reopening the case, but you can’t stop me from accessing the files.’
The super ran a hand across his comb-over and looked back at Monty with a hard glint in his eye. ‘No, I suppose I can’t, but watch your step.’ He raised a pudgy finger, ‘If so much as a squeak gets out to the press you’ll find yourself walking on very thin ice.’ He paused. ‘Just remember what happened to Inspector Sbresni.’
Monty felt his face redden. The vacuous lump of whale blubber was threatening him. He clenched his jaw to stop himself from biting back. The super began to busy himself with papers on his desk. The meeting was over.
The killer’s hunting ground will most likely be located within his own comfort zone, either near where he lives or in another area he is familiar with.
De Vakey,
The Pursuit of Evil
A tinny bell sounded as Wayne and Barry stepped over the threshold of Sherman the German’s Hobbies and Collectables.
Barry spoke through the side of his mouth to Wayne. ‘You’d think our guy would have chosen one of the bigger chain stores for his purchase, somewhere he’d be more anonymous.’
‘Nah. You have to be registered and show ID to buy spray paint in the bigger outlets these days. It hampers the graffiti artists.’
They lapsed into silence as they took in their surroundings. Shelves bulging with untidy contents seemed to undulate up from the floor. A carefully placed electric fan made the model aeroplanes hanging from the ceiling rock languidly. On the walls, ocean liners and battleships sailed side by side on glassy seas. Whichever way you looked the effect was one of rippling movement. Wayne loosened his collar and closed his eyes for a moment, battling against a rising tide of motion sickness.
Barry seemed to have no such problem. He pointed to a display of sci-fi figures. ‘Hey, look! An original Star Wars Admiral Akbar!’ In two strides he was bending over the display and steaming up the glass of the cabinet with his breath.
‘Jesus Christ.’ Wayne looked to the heavens and wiped his sweaty palms over the thighs of his polyester bellbottoms. He turned when a man with unkempt shoulder-length hair and a beard clacked through a back entrance of glass beads.
The man pushed a pair of thick-rimmed glasses up the greasy bridge of his nose. His face fell when he realised who they were.
‘You must be the cops. Sherman said you might be coming round.’ His voice had the same watery grey tone as his T-shirt.
Wayne put out his hand, ‘Mr Thompson? I’m DS Wayne Pickering and this is DS Barry Snow.’ He tilted his head in Barry’s direction. Still absorbed in the Star Wars figures, Barry waved a greeting without looking up.
‘I spoke with Mr Sherman on the phone last night. Apparently you sold a large quantity of spray-on bronze fabric paint last Friday.’
Thompson responded with a nod and a grunt, giving Wayne the impression that if it hadn’t been for the conscientious Tom Sherman, they would never have got this lead in the first place.
Thompson hefted a cardboard box onto a space he’d cleared on the counter top and began sorting through boxes of model aeroplanes.
Another blasé witness who watched too many TV cop shows
, Wayne thought. If you had to talk to the cops at all, you had to be cool and impassive, and if possible carry on with your business while you were being questioned.
Wayne said, ‘Can you describe the man you sold the paint to?’
‘Tallish.’
‘Fat, thin?’
‘Kinda medium to tall build.’
‘Old, young?’
‘Middling, twenty to forty.’