The Stalk Club (22 page)

As
he thought more deeply about the case, s
omething
about it began to nag and itch at his subconscious.  The feeling that he was
overlooking something teased his senses, but the more he tried to focus on it the
more elusive it became.  After trying for a while to force it into the
sunlight, he ignored it and thought about other things, until through lack of
attention, it finally revealed itself towards the end of his sixth drink.  He
knew then what his next move needed to be
.

Craig Thoms’ solicitor had informed him what his
immediate future would be if his bail application was denied, so it was of no
particular surprise when the Magistrate who heard his case and denied his bail
application, ordered him to be remanded to the strangely named Metropolitan
Remand and Reception Centre until his pre-trial hearing commenced.  The MRRC is
the maximum security section of the sprawling Silverwater Correctional Centre
and has a reputation as being one of the toughest prisons in the state of New
South Wales.  It is home to mostly untried and unsentenced offenders who have
been refused bail on serious charges and are waiting for the wheels of the
justice system to slowly turn their way.

At seven p.m. on the dot, two Corrective Services
officers arrived at the Parramatta Police Station and signed for custody. 

“Time to go mate.  Don’t give us any trouble now,” said
the smaller of the two.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Craig responded glumly.

They shackled his hands and feet and led him out to the
transport truck parked at the rear of the station.  Martin Warnock had stayed
with him since his second interview and as he was led away, promised he would
do everything in his power to help him beat the charges, but his claim sounded
hollow in Craig’s ears. 

Craig was the only prisoner being transported to
Silverwater.  The other detainees that had shared the cells with him and who
had been denied bail on lesser charges, had already been transported to the
medium security, and infinitely more desirable – if such a description could be
used on a prison - Parramatta detention centre.

Craig had tried to show no emotion during the time he
spent in the cells and courtroom, but now as he found himself alone in the back
of the transport and finally out of sight of the cold, hard eyes of the other
prisoners and the police, he held his face in his hands and allowed his
emotions to overwhelm him just for a little while.

After
a bone jarring twenty minute ride along the badly weathered and cracked
Parramatta Road they arrived at the MRRC at Silverwater.  Craig waited
nervously while the transport slowly progressed through three sets of wire
fences, each topped with rings of razor wire until they reached the inner
compound.

By
the time the rear doors of the transport were jerked open he had fully regained
his composure and vowed to himself to stay strong for as long as it took.  He was
led to a reception area, shackled to a sturdy, bolted down chair and told to wait
– as if he had other options available to him.  The Corrective Services officers
left the room while Craig stared at the four white walls and waited.  There
were twenty chairs in the room, but again, he was the only prisoner.  

He
sat impassively and took in the sounds and smells of the prison as they
filtered down to him.  He could hear the guards talking and laughing down the
hallway, the occasional shriek and holler from the prisoners and could smell the
evening meal being prepared in the kitchen.

Almost
an hour later, with their handover complete, two prison guards came to collect
him.  They led him by the arms down a long corridor and into a large room where
new prisoners were processed.  His shackles were finally removed and he was made
to strip off all of his clothing and stand inside a telephone box sized metal
detector.  From there he was fingerprinted, retinal scanned, a sample of his
DNA was taken from inside his cheek and then he was finally given a freshly
laundered prison uniform. 

As
he pulled on his clothes, the enormity of his situation struck him and it was
all he could do to finish dressing himself before nearly collapsing into a
chair while he waited for a senior officer to arrive and conduct his entry
interview.  Another thirty minutes of silent, queasy, abject boredom passed
before another officer entered the room.  He was a heavily built man of around
six feet in height with a large round gut, sloping, yet powerful shoulders and
expressionless dark eyes.  He carried himself confidently, with an air of
authority lingering in his wake.  He sat across the desk from Craig and began
looking through his paperwork that had been attached to a wooden clipboard. 
Craig noticed his name tag read ‘Mike’.

“So,
you’re the guy that topped Fogliani,” he said with a cold sneer which showed
crooked, nicotine stained teeth.  Craig thought about denying it but decided
not to bother wasting his breath on someone who wouldn’t have believed him and
was of no value to him even if he could convince him of his innocence.

“That’s
what they’ve charged me with.”

“You
must be one dumb fuck.  Are you a dumb fuck Thoms?” said Mike, double checking
the clipboard to check if he had his name right. 

“Maybe
I am.”

The
guard sneered, disappointed not to have got a rise out of the newby.  “There’s
no maybe about it dumb fuck.  You know there’s been a lot of talk in here about
you already.  Fogliani had plenty of friends and some of them are in here.  I
hope you’ve got some friends too because if you don’t, some people are going to
be testing you out pretty soon and we can’t keep an eye on everything that
happens in here.  Enjoy your stay dumb fuck.  Take him to Pod 3 in D block,” Mike
said to the other guard.  “I’ve had enough of dealing with scum for today.  We
can finish up with him tomorrow.”

It
was eleven-thirty p.m. before Craig Thoms was led down the bleak fluorescent
lit corridor that led to D Block.  Lights out at eleven meant that all was dim
and quiet in D Block except for the occasional cough or snore.  Craig looked
straight ahead as he was marched to his cell and was watched by those who had
not succumbed to sleep in the cells that he walked past.

“This
is it Thoms,” said the guard.  “Open 103,” yelled the guard back down the
corridor to the control post.  The door to cell 103 slid back with an efficient
motorised clang.  Craig stepped through the threshold into the darkened cell. 

“Close
103!” 

He
turned as the door closed, holding his bundle of meagre possessions which
consisted of a spare uniform and toiletries that he would soon realise made
home brand look luxurious.  The sight of the steel bars in front of his face
made his soul shudder.  He choked back the emotions that threatened to spill
out and turned away to face the inside of his cell.

On
the top bunk was a form from which a quiet snore emanated and Craig quietly
hoped that his cellmate wasn’t one of Foglianis’ friends.  As he lay down on
the lower bunk he realised for the first time that he was exhausted and
starving.  He hadn’t eaten since lunchtime and had barely slept in the previous
seventy-two hours and although it was quiet and warm and he had his own
bed, sleep was the furthest thought from his mind.

Detective
Robards reviewed his notes from the interview the previous day, where Craig Thoms
had spoken about Harvey Petersham, his drug buyer.   
He
wasn’t even certain why he was chasing this lead up, if you could call it that,
and doubted it had anything to do with the case, but Nelson’s brief phone call
to him earlier in the morning left no room for negotiation.  It seemed like a
futile fishing expedition and Robards figuratively and literally hated fishing,
particularly trout fishing because those things never took the bait and when
they did, they invariably spat it out before you hooked them good.

Robards sighed and mentally shrugged his shoulders.  He
took the time to pull up Harvey Petersham’s criminal record on his computer and
shook his head at the staggering length and breadth of his criminal career. 
Starting at the age of fourteen and spanning the ensuing twenty-six
years, there had been arrest after arrest after arrest, mostly for small
amounts of drug possession, but there were also charges for drunk driving,
assault and even a public mischief charge relating to indecent exposure.  Robards
concluded sagely that he was a small time, pathetic and obviously not too smart
career criminal.  Lenient judges and a soft hearted criminal system ensured
that despite his repeated infractions with the law, Petersham had only been to
prison four times that added up to a grand total of just over two years.

According
to his file, Harvey Petersham was currently serving twelve months probation,
courtesy of his most recent drug arrest.  Robards was grateful that he would be
able to access his current address through his probation case officer, however that
feeling soon dissipated, and he again sighed deeply, when he noticed on the
file that the probation case officer was Sourav Bedi.   Robards had dealt with
him before on a number of occasions and his dislike for him was so intense the
thought of calling him nearly caused him actual physical pain.  Bedi’s
arrogance and confidence in his own superiority were equally and oppositely matched
by his incompetence and laziness.  Nevertheless, Robards pushed through the pain
barrier and picked up the phone.  He was almost ecstatic to actually catch Sourav
at work as he had a reputation for exploiting the already generous leave
provisions of the New South Wales public service to the limit.  After an
initial few minutes of idle greetings and small talk which stretched Robards’
patience to breaking point, Sourav confirmed what Robards had deduced in the few
moments it had taken him to review his record, Harvey Petersham was a serial
deadbeat. 

“However,
I think it unlikely he would be into anything serious though.  He is mostly
small time you know,” Sourav said in a thick nothern Indian accent. 

“You’re
probably right Sourav but I need to speak with him anyway.  So where can I find
him?”

“As
far as I know, he lives out at Manly and works at a takeaway shop on the
Steyn.”

Robards
cursed under his breath, already dreading the minimum forty minute drive that
lay ahead of him.  He took down the addresses for Petersham’s home and work,
did his best to muster a thank you to Sourav and hung up.  He tried to look on
the bright side in that he had actually found Sourav at work and he had been
mildly helpful on this occasion.

Despite
skirting the worst of the inner city traffic by taking Lane Cove Road and Lane
Cove Motorway in succession, it still took Robards almost an hour to get out to
Manly because as soon as he hit Military Road the traffic slowed to a near
crawl.  He arrived at Manly annoyed and frustrated and drove to the boarding
house that Harvey Petersham had told his probation officer he was living at. 
It was a rundown weatherboard house probably around eighty years old and was
badly in need of a paint job.  Its owner had assiduously identified a need in
the market and
partitioned off the house into ten tiny bed-sitter
apartments which were rented for the princely sum of one hundred and ten
dollars each a week to men who for one reason or another could afford nothing
better.

The grass was long and unkempt and pamphlets, newspapers
and beer bottles littered the front lawn.  Robards looked at the house with
distaste and gave a cursory thought of sympathy to the neighbours.  He took a
deep breath in preparation and made his way inside the front door which was
ajar.  Upon entry, he was physically assaulted by the stale smell of unwashed
men, cigarettes and musty carpet.  To his left was a large communal living room
which was crammed full of mismatched lounge chairs in such poor condition they
looked like they had been salvaged from the dump.  A couple of dregs of society
were watching a morning news program on a small battered television and either
didn’t notice his presence or ignored it.

“Harvey?  Harvey Petersham?” Robards called to them.

“Number eight up the stairs,” replied one of the men
without removing his eyes from the television.   

Robards made his way up the creaking wooden stairs to the
second floor, found unit eight and proceeded to bang on the door for two whole
minutes.  There was no response.  He put his weight against the door and found
that it had a surprisingly solid feel to it.  He sighed theatrically and decided
he’d have to give Petersham’s work address a try.  One of the men who had been
watching television was now sitting on the front doorstep having a smoke.  He
was small and wiry and despite it being only twelve degrees outside he was
shirtless.  Robards noted the tattoos that covered most of his torso. 

“Do you know where I can find Harvey Petersham?”  The old
man interrupted his smoke and looked disdainfully up at Robards. 

“I ain’t seen him in weeks pig.”

Robards smiled tightly and put aside any thoughts he had
of attempting to teach the old bastard some much needed manners.  His day was
just getting better and better.  Robards had an intense dislike for this part
of policing, having to chase down deadbeat losers who wouldn’t tell you
anything once you caught up with them anyway.  And when they did tell you
something it was either a lie or of little consequence.  He was tempted to call
off the search and head back to the station, but knew that Nelson would probably
insist that he come out again tomorrow and search for Harvey Petersham if he
returned to headquarters empty handed.