Dirty Weekend (6 page)

‘Florence just told me I’m supposed to help her with some of the analysis work for this,’ he said, holding up the package. I could see the Tianna Richardson case number. ‘She said I’m to just drop my work and help her straightaway. Is that right? I’m still only halfway through those two Sydney cases, not to mention that Northern Territory job.’

The joys of staff management, I thought. Who would have guessed this job would involve so much playing referee among overworked colleagues.

‘I’m sorry Florence saw you before I could tell you what was going on. My apologies.’

Vic frowned.

‘There’ve been two local murders,’ I explained. ‘Which means twice as much work for everyone. Including you, unfortunately.’

‘Two? I heard about the murder at the nightclub,’ said Vic. ‘What was the other one?’

‘I can’t reveal much until all the relatives have been informed. Like I say, I’ll need you to work with Florence. And to take on a few of the things I might do otherwise.’

‘Okay,’ said Vic, sounding resigned. ‘I’ll talk to Florence and get the precise details of what she wants me to start on.’

‘There’s something you could do right now,’ I suggested, and indicated he should follow me down to the exhibit fridge. Unlocking it, I took out the bag with the half-smoked reefer inside.

‘See what you can get off it,’ I said, handing Vic the small packet. ‘You’ll need to call Harry Marshall for a swab from Tianna Richardson, so you can eliminate her and see who else might be present.’

‘I’ve got a backlog that you wouldn’t believe,’ said Vic. ‘The job turnaround is three times what it was this time last year. And even then we were always months behind.’

‘Jane can give you a hand. Just do what you can,’ I said, trying to sound patient.

Vic peeled off to open the door to his office, then hesitated. I braced myself for another grizzle.

‘What’s that stink?’ he asked, sniffing. ‘I can smell something bad.’

‘I can’t smell anything,’ I said. ‘Cold’s too bad.’

‘Dog shit,’ he said. ‘I can smell it.’

I waved him away and went into my office. I pulled off my right shoe. Damned if I could smell a thing. I put it back on, making a mental note to give it a good scrubbing the minute I got home—which should be in under half an hour if there were no more interruptions.

Prior to locking my office, I checked my mobile to find I’d missed a message from Dallas Baxter. ‘The place is already swarming with crime scene personnel,’ he said. ‘They’re upsetting my staff.’

Life’s tough, I thought, still listening. He’d found out the details of the maintenance man who’d overheard the argument so I grabbed a pen and jotted down the name: Kevin Waites.

‘And the PhD student’s name is Jerri Quill,’ the message continued.

I noted her address and phone number as well and ended the call. I’d hand this information over to Brian Kruger and that would be the end of it, I thought, switching off my mobile. I planned to do this a lot more often.

Finally, the coast was clear and I hurried to the car park, hoping that no one would stop me with more complaints or work problems. But I couldn’t stop my thoughts focusing on this latest crime. I wanted to speak with Pauline Lamb on her own. Click-clacking down the corridors in her neat leather heels, she clearly covered a lot of ground. I knew from my own experience that women like her become almost invisible because of their efficiency. They ran departments, administered rosters and timetables, connected people and effortlessly gathered information. The brilliant capabilities they brought to bear on their work tended to disappear into the background. A woman like Pauline shouldn’t be overlooked, either as a potential source of information or as a possible suspect. Maybe she hadn’t told me everything she knew.

But that was all for tomorrow. And in any case, hadn’t I determined to leave this case to Homicide? My job now would be limited to reporting on anything I might find in the examination room, or passing on expert analysis to the relevant departments. Relieved with my plan, I got into my car.

Just for the moment, I was free of the job and its demands and if I drove straight to the bend in the river near Seven Oaks, where the huge willow waved its now yellowing leaves, I might just be in time to join the party and help them pack up. My heart started to lift as I drove too fast and the deaths of the two women, sad though they were, almost faded from my mind. These days, instead of turning the key and entering a cold and empty cottage, I came home to Iona’s warmth.

But some little devil of curiosity kept at me. I wanted to know more about Claire Dimitriou and why she’d ended up dead. Switching my phone back on to see if I could get Greg on his mobile, I saw I’d missed two calls, both from Earl Richardson. Even though I understood his desperation and his grief, it wasn’t right that he should be contacting me again.

The phone rang and I snatched it up, steering off the road and coming to a halt near a large eucalyptus stump that sprouted tender new leaves in bunches.

‘My name is Kevin Waites,’ said the caller. ‘Dallas Baxter gave me your number.’

‘Kevin Waites. You’re the maintenance man at the Ag Station.’ I wound the window up as a truck went past.

‘I have to talk to someone,’ he said, the urgency clear in his voice.

‘I’m listening,’ I said.

‘It’s worrying me sick,’ he said. ‘I should’ve done something.’

‘You heard an argument,’ I prompted, ‘between Claire Dimitriou and Peter Yu.’

‘I couldn’t tell that deadshit Baxter,’ said Kevin. ‘You just can’t talk to him.’

‘Let’s meet,’ I suggested. ‘You can take your time and tell me the whole thing. What about tomorrow? You name a place.’

‘The Cat and Castle. You know it?’

I did and we made a time for the next day.

Great work, Jack, I said to myself as I switched the damned mobile off again. Now I’d gone and put myself right back into it. Iona would not be happy. Curiosity killed the bloody cat. Curiosity might have killed the cat, but it also made a good scientist—a good investigator.

I started the car again and swerved back onto the road, heading for the bend in the river. But when I got to the clearing there was no one there. I parked and walked down the path to the river bank, where there was just a couple of grazing steers that must have got through a fence. Low afternoon sun streamed through the gold-green ribbons of willow leaves and the autumn bees went about their business in the late-flowering eucalypts. It seemed impossible in this golden, autumn afternoon that anything malignant could happen, yet two women who yesterday had lived and breathed now lay still and cold.

Sitting down on the dry grass, I pondered how police were always interested in the first person who alerted them to a murder. I pulled out my notebook. In Tianna Richardson’s case, a police patrol had found her. Claire Dimitriou’s death had been revealed after two people became worried: Pauline at the front desk and Dallas Baxter the boss—and there was no doubt he was hiding something. I scribbled down his name, then the rest of the usual suspects: husband Anthony Dimitriou and missing co-worker Peter Yu. I started making a mental list of the people who would need to be interviewed—workmates, neighbours and friends.

Then, almost without conscious thought, I drew up a list next to Tianna Richardson’s name. Her Earl was obviously the primary suspect and he knew it. But he’d been almost a four-hour drive away and was woken by police, whereas Tianna, a woman who was rumoured to like a bit of rough, was out partying at a local dive. Had she picked up someone who took the idea of rough sex to its terminal conclusion, I wondered, as I jotted down the name of her son. I was making another mental note about talking to neighbours and friends when I suddenly stopped. It struck me that sitting here, in this little piece of heaven, a place where other people relaxed and enjoyed themselves, I was spending time doing the Homicide detectives’ work for them.

This was what Iona had been trying to tell me for the last six months. I had to stop this sort of behaviour. I put my pen away.

I sat there a moment longer but found that without something to do I quickly became restless and uneasy. I walked back up to my wagon.

It wasn’t long till I was turning into the dirt driveway to the cottage. I put out a hand to stop the white roses I’d bought for Iona falling from the passenger seat as my wagon bumped over the corrugations. Immediately, it became clear that everyone was home again—both Charlie’s car and Iona’s were parked near the cottage. It was heading to dusk and the sun was behind the hills.

From high above, a butcherbird sang and smaller birds fled the garden, warned by his melodies. As soon as I got out of my car I could hear Greg’s infectious laugh and I found myself smiling as I walked through the doorway and into his bear hug. Charlie came out of the living room and hugged me too. If Jacinta had been here, I thought, as I slapped my brother on the back, everyone I loved would have been in this cottage.

‘Where’s Iona?’ I asked.

‘Here,’ she said, coming out of the bedroom, pulling on a dark green cardigan. ‘We missed you.’

I spread my hands in an apology and went to her, kissing her. ‘I tried to get there,’ I said. ‘ I thought of you all down there, sprawled on rugs in the sun, talking about me behind my back and getting silly on champagne.’

She disengaged her hands from mine. ‘Are the roses for me?’

Before I could answer, the house phone rang and Greg picked it up. ‘It’s for you,’ he said, pushing the phone my way. ‘Brian Kruger.’

‘Your mobile’s switched off,’ said Brian.

‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘I’m not at work.’

‘In your dreams,’ said Brian. ‘Peter Yu’s place is clean as a whistle. There’s nothing there.’

Just like the laboratory, I thought.

‘Nothing about work, nothing about his personal life. Just clothes in neat piles,’ Brian continued. ‘And a Bible.’

‘A Bible?’ That surprised me.

‘Lot of underlining in places. Stuff I can’t understand. Thought you might like to take a look at it.’

‘Why me? Bibles aren’t my thing.’

‘And there’s that girlfriend,’ Brian said. ‘I’ve got a couple of guys checking up on all known friends and acquaintances of both of them. Might get something off the dead woman’s mobile phone. When we find it. And her email. When we can get into it. Right now, we’re still trying to locate the husband. He’s already left the conference accommodation.’

‘Just in case no one tells you,’ I said, recalling Dallas Baxter’s evasive manner, ‘there’s something called a lab book.’

‘What’s that?’

‘A record of what’s been done. We don’t keep them in our labs because all the techniques we use are set in concrete and not to be changed. But my guess is it’s probably a detailed description of procedures—something like a mixture of casenotes and exhibit book. Make sure you get hold of it. I should have checked it out when I was in there. It’ll be in the office annexe. Every step a research scientist takes is recorded.’

‘How the hell would I make any sense out of it? I’m just an average cop.’

That wasn’t quite true, I thought. ‘If you get hold of the lab book,’ I said, ‘I’ll take a look at it for you. But then it’ll have to go to an expert.’

Brian and I discussed things a little further and I told him what I’d found out about Jerri Quill. Then I hung off and took off my jacket, throwing it on the lounge. More and more, it was looking as if Claire Dimitriou’s murderer was another scientist. Only another scientist would know the significance of steam-clean and the removal of all items that might be tested for trace evidence.

I realised I was hungry and that the cottage was suddenly quiet. Greg had gone to one of the two little back bedrooms he and Charlie shared, and from the bathroom I could hear the sound of Iona singing in the shower. Charlie was still unloading picnic things from his car so I went outside to help him.

After I’d showered, changed into a tracksuit and chewed my way through a chicken roll, the world seemed perfect for a moment: my son and brother close by, Jacinta doing well at university, my ex-wife and her new boyfriend several hundred kilometres away and, best of all, Iona’s laugh pealing from the kitchen as she helped my brother.

Later, I pulled the big table out from against the wall in the lounge room and set four places, so we could eat in the warmth of the crackling fire. In the crowded kitchen, we worked out a routine to serve out the pasta and sauce Charlie and Iona had made, while Greg organised a salad.

My head cold had become heavier and wetter, as they seem to do at the end of the day, and I suddenly remembered Iona had asked me to bring bread rolls and extra milk from town. Fortunately, Charlie and Greg had brought supplies with them so I was off the hook. But as I sat down with the others, feeling more relaxed than I had in days, I was assailed by a wave of tiredness. If I didn’t take some leave, experience told me, the odds were I’d make an error of judgement that might prove disastrous. I’d seen it happen before to acquaintances when their workload became crushing and they didn’t take a holiday. The greatest tool a scientist has at his or her disposal is his mind, his clear interpretation of the facts leading to a final conclusion. I’d seen careers destroyed by just one error. The scientific community never forgets. Not to mention the fact that I’d promised Iona I’d take the next few days off. I’d meant it when I said it—but I hadn’t counted on
two
murders.

‘A guy’s been ringing for you,’ said Iona, as we cleared the table and carried plates into the kitchen. ‘Someone called Earl Richardson? Poor man sounded desperate.’

I frowned. How had he found out where I was living?

‘Said he’d ring back,’ she added. ‘Said you were doing a favour for him?’ She turned enquiring eyes towards me.

I didn’t like the sound of ‘doing a favour’ one bit. It’s not the way I operate. And yet what else could he call it? I scoured the pasta saucepan, scraping off cooked-on cheese, angry that I’d ever agreed to help him.

‘You doing favours for some crim, old man?’ Greg asked and I chased him out of the kitchen, grabbing one of the old tapestry cushions and whacking him with it. In turn, he pounced on me and we wrestled together, like we hadn’t done for a long time. Eventually I won with a tricky wristlock, taking him down and straddling his back.

‘The old man can still beat you, young whippersnapper,’ I puffed.

‘Only by using dirty cop tricks,’ said Greg, rolling over and sitting up as I released him.

‘What else is an old fellow supposed to do? Look at you! You’re taller than I am.’

‘Talk about the heavy hand of the law,’ he countered, rubbing his wrist where I’d pinned it.

‘The law is only heavy when you resist,’ I said and laughed, helping him up. ‘And I’ve got to keep something up my sleeve. You’d beat me hands down in a fair fight.’ It was true. Greg was developing into a powerfully built young man, starting to fill out his previously rangy adolescent frame.

‘Hey,’ said my son. ‘I can smell dog shit.’

I took the offending shoes outside and left them on the back step, intending to give them a good clean later, then padded back to the bedroom where I found some very old tan leather slip-ons.

Pressed by the others, who weren’t going to leave the subject alone, I gave a brief outline of Earl Richardson’s predicament, his belief he’d be the prime suspect and why I’d become involved.

‘Statistically, he’s the most likely suspect,’ Iona remarked on her way to make coffee.

‘Hey!’ I grabbed her wrist as she passed by and kissed the inside, delighting in her sudden smile. ‘We don’t charge people on statistics, but on evidence.’

‘Can’t say I blame him for worrying,’ said Charlie. ‘In his place, I’d be worried too.’

From the kitchen drifted the very welcome fragrance of coffee.

‘I don’t think in this case the husband needs to be too concerned,’ I said, walking over to join Iona and finding mugs in the cupboards for all of us. ‘He was in Sydney at the time. The cops had to wake him in the early morning to tell him what had happened. And it’s hardly likely Tianna Richardson would get all dressed up to go dancing with her estranged husband. Brian’s questioning the locals who were at the club. We would have heard if he’d been there.’

‘So if it wasn’t the husband or another close rellie, it’s one of the six per centers,’ said Charlie, using his name for the random stranger or sociopath that Tianna Richardson might have encountered.

‘Or some other acquaintance,’ I reminded him. ‘She was an attractive woman and we already know there are boyfriends.’

Iona poured the coffee and passed a mug to me. I took another of the mugs for Charlie. Never one for convention, he was happy to take it as well as still sitting with two different wines, a red and a white. Greg’s mobile rang and, looking down to see who it was, he headed off into the hallway.

‘Talking of rellies,’ I said to Iona and Charlie, ‘there’s an estranged son. But I don’t expect to be involved in the investigation any longer. I’ve acquitted myself.’

‘That’s good to hear,’ said Iona, kissing the top of my head before sitting down on the floor near the fire. She leaned her back against one of the big club armchairs that sat either side of the hearth. I plonked down in the same armchair and Charlie sat on the other, lining up his three drinks carefully on the wide armrest.

From the spare bedroom, I could hear the low murmur of my son’s voice on his mobile. He’s talking to Ellie, I thought.

‘So,’ said Charlie. ‘We get the chance to see a bit more of you, bro. Is that right?’ He looked at me more closely. ‘You don’t look too good right now,’ he added.

‘I’m tired, Charlie,’ I said. ‘I’ve been trying to organise a decent holiday, but with every passing moment it seems less likely.’ I thought of Florence, Vic and the others trying to carry the workload without me. ‘I’ve managed to swing a couple of days,’ I added. ‘Everyone’s snowed under with too much work and there are still unfilled positions. I talked to Bob Edwards last week and he’s been lumbered with heading up this new Unsolved Homicide Unit. As well as running Physical Evidence at Surry Hills. These days everyone’s doing two—sometimes three—jobs.’

Then I had to explain how the police commissioner had recently announced that nearly four hundred cold cases, some dating back to the late seventies and early eighties, were being reopened and reinvestigated in the light of the latest scientific procedures—any case, for instance, where the physical evidence lifts and samples collected at the crime scene were still packed away with the investigating detectives’ briefs. Already, a couple of suspects had been charged over two separate murders.

‘You’ve got to slow down, bro,’ Charlie insisted, turning his attention to Iona. ‘My brother’s very lucky to have you, Iona. He’s starting to
look
like our father with those lines in his forehead.’

Frowning, I put my hand to my head, feeling for the lines.

‘
And
you’re always frowning. Just like the old man.’

‘For Christ’s sake, I hope not,’ I said, awkward as I always was when Charlie got personal with me, and thinking of the sour old man in his shed.

‘Ask him when he last had a holiday,’ Charlie said.

Iona cocked her head and looked back at me, eyebrow raised. ‘Well?’

I searched my memory.

‘See? You can’t remember, can you?’ She gave me a gentle smack and I seized her hand, imprisoning it with both of mine.

‘How
is
Dad?’ I asked, changing tack.

‘Same as he ever was.’

Charlie kept in touch with our father far more than I did. By the time I was fifteen, the old man had pretty well moved out of the marital home and into the increasingly furnished garage. Even after the death of our mother some years later, he’d never moved back into that house. Couldn’t say I blamed him.

Charlie was able to be more compassionate about the old bastard. He was younger and didn’t seem to remember what I couldn’t seem to forget. We were abandoned in that house; we raised ourselves, with a father who never came inside and a mother who had usually passed out by the time I’d got home from school. Somewhere in me was a hard ridge of anger, dense and dark—with my father and mother fixed in the middle of it, like corpses locked in ice. I was aware of it sometimes and it concerned me. Over the years, I’d noticed other recovered alcoholics’ behaviours, seen their clenched smiles, their hot, aggressive reactions to things that weren’t their business. I sensed their anger, cemented over with a denial that did nothing to release it, only locking it down deeper. To my way of thinking, far too many recovered alcoholics died much too early of cancer, angry down to the marrow of their bones.

‘Grandad’s the same as he ever was,’ said Greg, coming back into the room, ‘only more so.’ Neither of the kids had been able to make much of a relationship with the old curmudgeon.

‘He propositioned the community nurse last time she visited,’ Charlie laughed.

‘There goes the inheritance,’ said Greg.

I couldn’t smile at the joke. Whenever I thought of my father and that house in the mountains, with its dripping gardens in the winter and almost no sunshine in summer, it brought back memories that were still too painful to entertain very long. The place had been rented out for the many years since our mother’s death.

‘He told the nurse she had great legs and that it was a pity she didn’t have a husband,’ Charlie said.

‘I can’t imagine anyone marrying
him.
’ My son’s face was a picture.

One woman had married him. Our mother. Maybe only a drunk could do it.

Iona went to bed after
Lateline
and Greg disappeared with his laptop, either to work on an assignment, or, more likely, to tie up the landline, leaving Charlie and me sprawled opposite each other on the two big chairs.

‘I went to a crime scene today and it had been steam-cleaned,’ I said. ‘What do you make of that?’

‘Sounds like a very particular person,’ said my brother. ‘Someone who’s fastidious in their habits. Someone who very much wants to cover their tracks.’ He poked the fire and tiny red-gold sparks flew up the chimney. ‘Or,’ he added, ‘it might indicate a scientist.’

‘I’d arrived at much the same conclusion,’ I said, smiling. ‘Without all the hassle of a Master’s degree in psychology.’