High Beam

by SJ Brown

  “FBs? Nice.” She winked at him.

  “Ay? Oh no. Well, we help each other out if you like. She helps me with study notes and I kick her along with her fitness program. We’re mates, really.”

  Zoe gave him the full 100 watt grin. “I think you could get me rather fit.” She ran a fingernail down his stomach. “Nice pack.”

  Done deal. Brad was about to suggest a quick exit when his mobile chorused the ‘William Tell Overture’. He was the Lone Ranger after all. He mimed to Zoe that he had to take the call on the street. Better take it. Could be good news hopefully.

  “Hi, Brad here.”

  “Brad, glad I’ve caught you. Not interrupting your recovery session, am I?” Doc Randall gave a generous chuckle.

  “No, Doc. Just catching up with some friends. About to head home actually.” As he actually was but not to rest.

  “Goodo. Just wanted to update you. I don’t think we need to worry too much about the uni problem. Your lecturer has become a bit distracted from that issue. Still, it wouldn’t hurt for us to have a little chat about your footy.”

  Jesus, what now? Brad did his best to keep his voice bland. “Yeah, OK. There’s no problem is there? I did an extra session with the juniors this week. I am giving it a fair go, Doc.”

  Randall’s tone was as smooth as bowling green turf. “Of course not. Far from it. You’re doing a grand job on and off the track. I want to discuss a role you could fulfil for one of our gold level sponsors. Easy stuff and a bit more cash in your kicker, so to speak.”

  Relieved. “Yeah, yeah, no worries. Thanks Doc.”

  “Good. Now it’s just that the chap in question is at my house as we speak. You’ve met Roger Sproule, haven’t you?”

  Certainly have, thought Brad. Club President. A slob of a man. An opinionated, brash, insensitive prick. The starch of his shirt front matched his overbearing efforts to buddy up to the star players at functions. Corker of a wife, though. And a fantastic house too, the little bit of it he’d seen last week. “Yeah, sure. Good bloke.” Sincerity plus.

  “Certainly a strong supporter of the Devils. Well, he’s here drinking my best whisky and wants to have a yarn to you tonight. I’d like you to come around.”

  No if about it. A directive. He must go. The Doc was his puppeteer. “Whereabouts are you now? On the strip?”

  “Yep, at the Metz.”

  “Perfect. You know where my place is on Queechy Lane. Quickest way for you is to cut through the Bowls Club and hop over the back fence. Save a lot of foot leather.”

  “OK, Doc. See you in about ten minutes.” Bugger. Zoe would have to wait till later. He rarely went without but this girl was a bit of alright. He went back in to explain and get her number. Then he was off to a meeting that could not wait.

  CHAPTER 14

  Friday 12th March 11am

  The threatened change to the Indian summer being enjoyed in Tasmania’s South had not materialized. A low pressure system had simply blown through overnight so the morning was again witness to clear skies and a benign sun. Accordingly, Tom Cunningham was out and about with his faithful golden retriever. Busby was let off his leash on the ‘doggie section’ at the far end of Kingston Beach and followed his customary romp across the sand to the low waves lapping the shore . Having made a futile attempt to catch any sea bird near him, he then darted in and out of the line of tussocks that fringed the small car park. Letting the dog gambol merrily, his owner ruefully gazed out across the bay to the Iron Pot lighthouse at the far end of the South Arm peninsula. It would never be the same without his recently dear departed wife, Maggie.

  And now Tom completed the daily constitutional with Busby. They left the doggie zone and trudged along the Osborne Esplanade footpath to the far end of the beachfront. After the children’s playground and the pub, they passed by the southern reaches of the street and, near the end of the flat section, crossed over so he could read a real estate billboard. Advertising yet another residential villa development, the spiel promised prospective purchasers that “there will be space to keep everything that makes you who you are…your boat, the motorbike and the golf clubs”. As his own father had been fond of saying, it was the sort of language that stank up the place.

  A light breeze was picking up as Cunningham turned for home but Busby was having none of it. He skeltered off to the foundation trenches and, ignoring his master’s calls, began to scuff around the edge of some reinforced wiring. Tom sauntered over to see just what had piqued the dog’s curiosity. After a cursory glance at the nearest work, he came upon an unusual sight. Wedged into a right angle corner was a large hessian bag that looked as if it contained something bulky inside. It was secured at the top with a length of thin rope.

  Although he had never seen a body bag in real life, this was similar enough not to ignore. He got down on his knees and prodded the bag. There was a slight give just as flesh and muscle might give. Busby had calmed down a touch but the dog’s reaction reinforced his growing conviction that something human was in there. Standing erect he pulled his mobile from his trouser pocket and punched in a number he had never before used.

  CHAPTER 15

  Friday 12th March 1pm

  Mahoney received the call almost right on lunchtime. Call received number displaying ‘Big Ted’.

  “DI Mahoney speaking.”

  “Please hold for Commissioner Phillips.”

  “Certainly.”

  “John, it’s Ted. How are you? Nice break?” Clipped and precise…a formality being observed.

  “Just fine, Sir. But I sense my seclusion just coming to a grinding halt.”

  “Sorry, John. I need you on this one. It’s not just a nasty homicide but the victim has a substantial public profile. Not only do we need a result but I want people to know we’ve got the best on it. Whether your modesty permits that view or not.”

  “As you wish. Who and where?”

  “Call DS Robertson in the incident room for all the details but I can tell you it’s Brad Finch. The gun recruit for the Devils. Hence the potential flak.”

  “I understand. Presumably I can bring in the people I need for this.”

  “Whoever and whatever you need. The media will be all over this so you can assume the top levels of government will show a keen interest. I need a safe pair of hands, John.”

  “Yes, Sir. Understood. You’ll receive our best effort.” Wanted to say ‘as always’ but knew not to push it. “I’ll get started immediately.”

  “Thank you, John. A quick result without cutting corners would be ideal. Keep me posted.” With that loaded request, the call ended.

  Mahoney immediately called Robertson and was given an efficient briefing of the salient facts. Packing up took a matter of minutes and he departed his shelter very soon after. Once through the rigmarole of the gate he drove the kilometer to Taldana. As he came into the parking area, he saw a tanned figure in the garden. He parked and got out. Called to the green thumb, “Jerome, I’ve got some more for you.”

  The slim debonair man promptly dropped the weeds in his hand and walked over. “John, good to see you. Can you stay for a drink this time?”

  “I wish but no. I’ve been called away on urgent business. I’ve packed up ‘Bail’ and I didn’t want these mussels to go to waste so here you are.” He handed over another largish package of fresh seafood.

  “Thank you. Much appreciated. As you can see, we’ve got a full house so they will go down nicely as a pre-dinner treat.”

  Mahoney half-turned to observe the four cars in the guest section of the car parking area. Three guest rooms. One car with Victorian plates. Another a rental. Leaving two local automobiles: both very recent models. Jerome sensed the cogs turning. “Are you ever not detecting? Yes, in the Treetops room we have a lusty pair from Hobart who arrived in separate cars. Not a honeymoon couple is my guess but they are certainly giving a
good impression of one. Arrived yesterday and apart from a spot of breakfast have barely been out of their room.”

  Half their luck, mused Mahoney. But he had a more pressing assignment. “Sorry, Jerome. Can’t help it. Natural stickybeak. Anyway, I’d better go. I’m needed in town. Don’t know when I’ll be back down so please keep half an eye on my place. Ta.”

  “Of course. Good detecting to you. See you whenever.”

  Following that salutation he got back in the car, reverse-turned and took off for the highway.

  Mahoney made good time from Huonville, thanks largely to the four lane highway. At Kingston the Huon Highway became Beach Road as it passed the links golf course and ran alongside the aptly named Brown’s River. At the T-junction he turned right into Osborne Esplanade. Many of these weatherboard beachside homes had been ‘spruced up’ in recent times. One, in particular, had taken advantage of the magnificent view across the river to Opossum Bay by installing a large circular window in an upper story wall. Given the surging popularity in this stretch of real estate, it was little wonder a developer had sought to capitalize on the only vacant land available for housing. He parked near the laneway through to the recreation ground.

  Unsurprisingly, the forensic team vehicles were already here. Mahoney strode forward to the huddle of officers standing a few meters from a foundation trench. As he neared them, he noticed that although the wire supports were tied in place, no concrete had been poured.

  “Hello, John. We’ve got the real thing I’d say.” The speaker was a tall rangy man with gold-rimmed glasses and a neatly trimmed salt and pepper moustache. He reminded Mahoney of an older version of the TV cop character from the ’70s who patrolled the New York streets on his horse.

  “Afternoon, Sergeant McLeod.” Mahoney loved the fact that was the scene of crime photographer’s real name. Resisting the urge to ask if Jim had ridden from town, he turned to the two female officers standing next to them. McLeod did the introductions.

  “DI John Mahoney, this is Constable Lyn Manning and Constable Libby Postma who are organizing collection of physical evidence.” The latter he already knew. Manning was new to him.

  “Good afternoon, Sir,” they chorused.

  Postma took up the running. “It seems we have a fairly uncontaminated scene. There were no builders here when we arrived about half an hour ago.”

  “You can thank Rumneys Concrete Haulage for that.” Nobody had noticed the uniformed officer approach. “Sergeant Wilkes, Kingborough District Section. I responded to the initial call. Arrived at 12.40pm and barricaded the area as best I could. I know there have been no workers on site today because the cement delivery trucks were postponed until next week. I got hold of the boss and he was resigned to the inactivity. They’d told him a few days ago. Guess that’s good for us though.”

  “Yes, definitely,” replied Mahoney. “With luck there’ll be very few fresh footprints around the trench. So what have we got here, Sergeant?”

  “A local retired chap out walking his dog happened on the body a bit after two o’clock. The dog sniffed it out and the chap swears he only prodded the bag. Thought it suspicious and rang us. One of my constables has escorted him home so you can talk to him later if you need. All I did was to open the top and check for any response. Otherwise it’s as I found it.”

  “OK. Anything else?” The others stood silently by in deference to Mahoney’s rank.

  “Well, it seems you have a relatively tall male in a large hessian sack jammed at right angles into a foundation trench. Whoever did it must have loosened the ties on the framework to lift a section out, shoved the body in, threw in some dirt and then secured the whole thing again.”

  “Right, thanks Sergeant. If you could co-ordinate your available officers to keep unnecessary visitors off the site in the short term and then we’ll look at the logistics of door-to-door later.” Mahoney knew ‘local knowledge’ was always helpful and the more manpower the better.

  As Wilkes moved off, he turned to the others. “Let’s get on with it then. Jim, have you all the shots you need?”

  “Yeah, pretty much. Just the ones of the body to go. Now Dr. Johnson has dragged himself off the golf course it’s pretty straightforward. Fortunately he was just up the road so we didn’t have to wait too long.” It was common knowledge among the relevant officers that the contracted police pathologist resented having to leave the fairways for jobs such as these. Mahoney suspected it wasn’t the cessation of the round that riled Johnson so much as the fact that the other members of the foursome were consulting private surgeons who always set their schedules to suit themselves.

  His professional pique was understandable but Mahoney wished Johnson could see that his police work was more valuable to the working of a fair society than someone who did elective rhino surgery. At the heart of this situation was good old-fashioned snobbery. Some in the medical profession found the prospect of working with the police demeaning while others resented the fact that their lack of pertinent knowledge had been shown up in courts by defense experts. Johnson, despite the misgivings he sometimes aired, was efficient and very capable.

  “Thank God for small mercies,” Postma sarcastically chipped in. Mahoney was not surprised. A brief romantic liaison between the young redhead and the pathologist’s law student son had been scuppered by the father. Some sons did take heed of paternal advice or veiled threats. Obviously, young Jack valued his free board and lodgings more than the tenderness of Postma’s embrace.

  “Well, he’s here now Libby so it’s probably best if you widen the search area, assuming you’ve got what you want from near the body.”

  “Yes, Sir. I’ll sort that out. There were just the five sets of prints due to the circumstances. We’ve ruled out the dog, the old man and Sergeant Wilkes so there’s one set of clear marks left by a size ten set of work boots and one set from what I’m guessing are Dunlop Volleys. Fairly deep impressions on the boots as you’d expect from someone carrying a pretty solid corpse. I’ve made plaster impressions of them. A few interesting nicks in the pattern that may help us. I’ll get the wider search going.”

  “Good. Thanks, Libby. Lyn, anything?”

  “Not yet, Sir. I’ll check the bag and ditch thoroughly once the body’s been looked at.”

  “Fair enough. Can you help Jim with the body photos? An extra officer on hand helps with the good doctor as well. I’ll just be with the Sergeant for a bit.”

  Although he wanted to see the body in situ, Mahoney first wanted to square things away with the local officer. He made his way back to the entrance of the building site where Wilkes was directing a subordinate. The constable jogged off.

  “Sergeant, have you got a second?”

  “Yes, Sir. You want to know about the ID?”

  He was no fool, thought Mahoney. “Exactly. Who else apart from you initially knew who the poor bugger was?”

  “No one. I recognized the lad from when he did a footy clinic for our junior teams last year. Not a bad fella; turned up late but then ran really useful sessions for the kids. Took it seriously, unlike some of the boofheads who come down. Anyway, I know he’s the franchise player and there’d be a fair bit of interest so I went straight upstairs. I figured the fewer who knew early on, the better.”

  “Quite right.” So that’s how Mount Olympus came to be delivering instructions. “Sounds like you made the right call. We certainly don’t want any external interest right now. Hold off any reporters, actually anybody for that matter, for as long as possible. The Media Liaison Unit can deal with the press tomorrow. Keeping it out of tonight’s news will greatly assist us.”

  “No problems. Door knocking?”

  “How much light left?”

  “Three or four hours? Should be a good time to catch people coming home from work. I’ll put my best man on the gate and co-ordinate door-to-door.”

  “Yes, good. Usual
drill. Noises, anything suspicious.” Mahoney turned on his heel and strode back towards the trench.

  Their southerly latitude, coupled with daylight saving, would mean a proper line search of the site by the cadets could be carried out. Using floodlights was an option but never the best one. As he neared, he could see the pathologist was intent on his task of examining the body. “Samuel, how goes it?”

  “Ah, John. Early days but I’d say it’s fairly straightforward.” The stocky man stood up from his kneeling position. “There is a substantial fracture at the side of the skull which caused the death. A blow to the other side is probably what caused him to fall and crack his head on something very solid. That’s all I can reasonably say at present but we’ll know more from tomorrow’s autopsy.”

  Dr. Samuel Johnson was not given to verbal circumlocution: indeed he was almost taciturn. He left the hypothesizing to the detectives but could be relied upon to provide astute observations upon the carnage he often had to witness. “The level of lividity suggests he was contorted into that position quite soon after death occurred and initial temperature readings suggest he’s been dead more than twelve but less than twenty-four hours. Bodies left outdoors are problematic but the bag insulated the body so that will assist the calculations. As I’ve said, we’ll know a lot more after the autopsy.”

  “Alright, thank you Sam. Sounds like we’ll have no problem with the coroner releasing the body from the site. Highlight anything unusual in your preliminary report and we’ll talk later.”

  “Of course. I’ll be off then. I’m not sure if I’ll be there in the morning. May have to delegate that one. Goodbye all.” And with that the man Mahoney so wished to be an amateur philologist departed.

  Mahoney turned to McLeod who was packing up his tripod. “Has anyone told Ballistics not to worry about coming down?”

  “Yes, already done. Fortuitous really. McMullen’s on leave and Burrell is off to a shotgun accident at a farm in the Coal Valley. And Constable Manning, before she went head down and bum up in the trench, contacted Dr. Geddy so he’ll be here shortly.”