by SJ Brown
“Hard man? Old school?”
“I’ll say. Well, at least according to his son. Brad really liked him but he did admit that his upbringing on the North West Coast was a bit ‘my way or the highway’.”
Mahoney nodded and breathed deeply. He knew exactly what she meant. But that was another story so kept quiet.
“So Cartwright has got Brad a beauty. Seemed a bit unfair to me so I engineered a bit of a reprisal. We went to dinner and I played him. Flirted full on. He got a bit pickled and made a few very un-PC comments about overseas students. He wasn’t to know I was recording him on my mobile. The new ones are fantastic. I teed up with a student doing a journalism placement at The Mercury to write a scoop. Take him down a notch or two.”
Mahoney was unsure how to react. It was unlikely a quick lecture on fair play or the intricacies of the Telecommunications Act would get them very far. He was just glad he wasn’t taking her on. “And where did this material end up?”
“Nowhere. That’s it. Grace, the budding journo, wrote the article, submitted it and thought it was good to go. It was even advertised on the Monday evening TV promo as a story in the next day’s paper. But then it just disappears. Wasn’t printed. Grace was fed some line about legal concerns and it’s been buried deeper than nuclear waste since.”
Mahoney frowned. This was redolent of week old fish. “And the copy of the article and the recording?”
Amanda gestured as a magician sending an object into a puff of smoke. “Grace took my phone in with her to the offices to write the article. Was too keen to get going on it to make a copy. Sent the article through to the news editor’s desk and handed over the phone. Silly girl.”
“Then what?”
“Well, the article doesn’t appear. Grace asks what’s going on. Gets given a load of rubbish about legalities. Blah, blah! Goes back to her desk and discovers that the article has been wiped from her hard drive. No back-up copy made. She was in a rush, you see. But what is really strange is that the recording is gone too. And now nobody knows anything about it.”
“And that was your only corroborating evidence of Cartwright’s conversation with you?”
“Yep. Foolish, I know. We were so hot on the scent and wanted to get it in Tuesday’s paper that the whole thing was rushed.” A rueful smile. “We could have done with a few tips on securing the chain of evidence, couldn’t we?”
Too right, thought Mahoney. “So the scheme has come to nothing. Have you heard any more?”
“No, Grace has tried but just gets stonewalled. I tried to rouse some interest but made even less ground. Then the events of the rest of the week sort of overtook us.”
They both declined an offer of more drinks. Mahoney pressed on. “When did you last see Brad?”
“Thursday afternoon. We had lunch. He was off to training later in the day and then out. I didn’t hear anything from him on the Friday. Not so unusual. I went round to his flat on the Saturday morning to see if he wanted to go to the beach. It was a stunning day. I didn’t know then but obviously I was never going to get him swimming that day.”
“No, no, you weren’t. Did you call him or actually go to his flat?”
“No answer on his mobile so I went round. No sign of him. Just another visitor there.”
Mahoney could not help reacting abruptly to this news. He leaned forward. “Visitor. Inside?”
“No. She was just there when I arrived. About midday. Bit of a cougar but nice enough, I guess. She seemed a bit concerned Brad wasn’t there. Something about leaving something in his flat. Anyway, Brad wasn’t there and we both left.”
“Did you get her name?”
“Yes, Felicity. No surname, sorry.”
“No problem. Probably nothing.” He stood and put some gold coins on the table. “Well, thank you for this information. I think I have a visit or two to make. You understand that our conversation is completely confidential?”
“Yes, you can trust me on this one. I hope you get somewhere. I’m going to miss him very much.”
“I understand. We’ll certainly be doing our best. Goodbye for now.”
CHAPTER 22
Monday 15th March 10am
The two detectives drove from headquarters up Liverpool Street, past the Pickled Frog Backpackers Hostel. After literally two minutes, they were out of the CBD and Munro steered the unmarked Commodore sedan into Liverpool Crescent. In that instant, the built environment altered from businesses, cafés and workshops to a much quieter street, lined with an eclectic collection of old houses. A further half kilometer on, it was hard to believe they were anywhere near the city center.
The road cut along a steep hillside that ran down to the South Hobart rivulet. Amongst the large gum trees were perched a series of pole houses and double storied bungalows that clung determinedly to the precarious slope. The occupants were thereby afforded a glimpse of the Derwent River and a perfect view of the congested Victorian workers’ cottages on the strip of Macquarie Street.
As they neared Cartwright’s address, Mahoney, in the passenger seat, could see the freshly labelled precinct of SoHo. It was nothing like the raffish den of iniquity that was its London namesake. There was, however, a tenuous link to the uber-groovy doppelganger in Manhattan by virtue of its variety of florists, delicatessens and cafés. One of his favorites, Magnolia, was at the Darcy Street end of the area. Excellent coffee and a breakfast item of spicy fruit porridge had constituted a very sound start to his day.
Munro pulled the car into the curb outside number 78. As they got out, the senior officer spied the green expanse of the South Hobart soccer ground. He had played many, many games there in his younger years and wished he could still play in the veterans’ competition. Certainly, the odd match here and there was possible but the constraints of work meant that being consistently fit enough to survive the rigors of those matches was not really feasible. He simply did not want to be left hobbling around for forty-eight hours after the final whistle.
Almost as soon as they were on the curb, Munro typically verbalized his first thought “Christ, what a monstrosity.”
“Yes, it is startling, isn’t it? It certainly makes a bold statement.”
They were standing in front of a three-story concrete block construction that looked as if someone had plonked a gigantic ablutions amenity direct from Santa Fe into the Tasmanian bush. Instead of being rendered a potentially harmonious adobe color, it was painted cream. The color scheme was further devalued by the streaky rusty run-off down the sides of the walls from the chocolate brown metal window frames.
To say it jarred with its surroundings was an understatement at the very least. The building allowed for a magnificent vista reaching from the river right up to the heavily forested foothills of Mount Wellington. The reverse view would hardly be as pleasing. Perched atop the house’s tower was a castellated deck that gave the whole place the feel of a tacky fortress.
They strode towards the front door, an impressively solid chunk of oak with a grille over a small glass viewing panel at head height. Munro banged on the black iron knocker just below it and stood back. Quite quickly the door was opened by a dark haired man wearing a crimson robe, sandals and the sort of glasses that had become rather popular: narrow rectangular lenses with broad black temples. Munro thought “wanker”. Mahoney said, “Dr. James Cartwright, I hope?”
“Yes, it is. And who has come calling at this hour?”
“Detective Inspector Mahoney and Detective Sergeant Munro.” They both displayed their warrant cards. “We would like to briefly chat about a serious matter you may be able to assist us with.”
Cartwright looked over his lenses at the two men. They younger man was brawny and his nose seemed a bit crooked. Pugilistic tendencies? The rest of his face was boyishly handsome and he had enough product in his hair to fuel a dozen fry-ups – the same upswept style favored by that bloody
footballer. His colleague looked far more somber with his dark suit and more normal closely trimmed hair. Old school or just plain boring? But the eyes were sharp.
The academic adjusted and re-tied the robe’s cord around his midriff. “Did it occur to you to call ahead instead of rolling up here unannounced?”
Of course it did, smarty-pants, thought Munro. But as the whole aim of our visit is to find you unprepared for us we’re not going to telegraph our arrival, are we?
“Yes, it did and we apologize for dropping in so early,” offered Mahoney. It was 9.30am and Munro knew Mahoney didn’t care one iota for decorum during the hot phase of an investigation but his boss could soft-soap people as well as anyone. “It’s just that when we contacted the university, the department secretary informed us you were working from home and, unfortunately for us, was resolute about not releasing your private number.” Nice touch!
Mahoney could have insisted but he did not want her letting on to Cartwright about their immediate interests though she’d probably called anyway. “We found your number was unlisted so we thought it best to simply pop around.” Munro managed to keep a straight face. Something the Beekeeper had effortlessly mastered.
Cartwright let out a theatrical sigh. “Oh well, may as well come in then.” He led the detectives along a slate tiled hallway and through an open door to a large room with a far wall of floor to ceiling windows. The floor was polished pine and on it was perched a single plush leather lounge that faced the southerly view. That was it in the furniture department.
What also rendered it unusual, weird even, in Munro’s mind was that there was no ceiling. The double-storied room (the top level must be the tower) was completely lined with oak bookcases and where the ceiling should have been was a gallery landing on three sides that meant all the hundreds of books were accessible to a six-footer. What a waste of space, thought Munro. He kept his mouth shut. Mahoney could not. “This is magnificent. Are you sure we haven’t wandered into the abode of Professor Higgins?”
Straight over Munro’s head: not Cartwright’s. He swelled at the chest like a robin and managed a modest reply. “Thank you, Inspector. I had serious reservations about this house when I first viewed it five years ago but I could see the potential for this space and purchased it almost on the strength of that alone. Because we’re on the southern slope there isn’t a great deal of sun but the aspect from here is golden. I hope you didn’t judge this place by the cover. It’s the inside of a house that matters to me.”
Mahoney thought that was alright for him. Unlike his neighbors he didn’t have to look at it. But he could not help expressing his genuine admiration. “This is a striking library. It could have been a bit OTT but it’s in proportion.” Mahoney sauntered to the nearest wall. “Even arranged by genre, I see. I take my hat off to you. A genuine reading room.”
“Yes, it is. And if you could excuse me briefly, I’ll get changed into some more conventional attire.”
“By all means. As I said, we’d just like a quick chat.”
Cartwright exited. In his absence Munro sat himself in the luxurious sofa and gazed at the surrounding hillside. Mahoney ventured up onto the gallery landing and perused the titles. He noted with approval the bias towards certain fiction writers: Barnes, Hornby, Lowry, Faulks and Banks et al. Cartwright’s tastes were certainly catholic.
“This place suits you, Sir” piped up Munro after several contemplative minutes. “I reckon my partner, Jackie, would like it too. She’s big on books. Loves organizing her bookshelves at home. Once, to wind her up, I took a whole heap down and replaced them in groups according to the color of their spines. Geez, by her reaction, you’d have thought I burnt them. Took a pretty expensive restaurant meal to cover that one.” Munro smirked at the memory. The make-up sex afterward had been fantastic.
Cartwright reappeared, dressed in a button down green shirt, canvas slacks and loafers. “So, gentlemen, what would you like to know? I assume this is not merely a social call.”
Mahoney descended and took up the running “Just a formality. As you may know, one of your students, Bradley Finch, died late last week in suspicious circumstances. We’re at a bit of a loss at this early stage so we hope to shed some light on the case by talking to those who had any dealings with him recently. Background, you could say.”
“So I don’t need to alert my lawyer then,” joked Cartwright.
Yes, you do, thought Munro.
“I’d say not,” soothed his superior. “I understand he was in your class last Tuesday week and there was some, how to put this, tetchiness.”
Cartwright made a show of thinking back carefully with a slightly overdone frown. “Oh, you mean the lad who thought he could take notes by texting on his mobile. That’s the victim?”
“Yes, it is unfortunately.” It beggared belief that Cartwright did not admit to making the connection but Mahoney let it slide. The feigning of such blissful ignorance could come back to bite him. Stow it away for later. Munro knew his boss had a mind like a steel trap. Fresh ideas might penetrate it but it was rare if anything got out.
“Yes, yes, Inspector, very unfortunate. The incident was over in an instant and forgotten by me just as quickly. It’s just that I abhor the prevalence of the damned things. Did you know that along Brick Lane in London the local council has put padding around telegraph poles so that people texting don’t hurt themselves when they walk into them? Ludicrous, isn’t it?”
Mahoney had heard but feigned mild astonishment. “Yes, remarkable. So that’s it, a brief verbal altercation. Nothing more?”
Cartwright looked his questioner levelly in the eye. “As far as I can recall. A minor spat. Over and done with in the blink of an eye.”
Munro would have liked to push him but averred to Mahoney who seemed perfectly content with the response. “Out of interest, Dr. Cartwright, how many pupils attend this class? What is it again, Australian Political Systems?”
“Yes, that’s correct. It’s a compulsory unit for first year political science students. About one hundred and sixty regularly attend. Quite popular really.”
“It would seem so. I bet your colleagues in Classics would love those numbers.”
Munro observed with admiration as his boss quietly engaged the academic. Get them talking and keep them talking. You never know what might slip out.
“I dare say, Inspector. It’s a sign of the times. For this generation Alexander the Great will remain very much as Ancient History. Admittedly a fair number of students opt for my unit as it’s relevant to the law course some will transfer to. There’s a smattering of radicals and even some who are genuinely interested in the content for its own sake. I doubt anyone chooses it based on the reputation of the lecturer.” He raised his eyebrows and shrugged in a play of mild disappointment.
Could such a man be seriously aggrieved by a dearth of attention? Mahoney thought so. “And the manner of your presentation. How did that go?”
“In the traditional manner, mostly. A straightforward lecture for fifty minutes. Some PowerPoint slides for diagrams and images of significant figures from the past. It does help if you know what former leaders such as Menzies and Whitlam looked like. Questions are dealt with in tutorials. I talk and the students write. Some a lot and some a little.”
“And Bradley Finch was one of the latter?”
“No, he wrote nothing. Turned up without a pen or notebook. Bit arrogant, I sensed.”
Pot, kettle, black, thought Munro.
Mahoney tried to tease out the irritation. “You mean he just sat there?”
“If only. He obviously felt it amusing to text his buddies and to try and distract the serious young lady next to him by showing her the responses.” Cartwright managed unsuccessfully to disguise his agitation at the memory. He snorted. “Stats of his training probably.”
Before the alarm bell could be noticed, Mahoney quickly c
hanged tack. “This young lady you mentioned. Do they regularly sit together?”
“Yes. Amanda, I think her name is.” Butter would not melt. “Very able student from what I hear in the faculty. Why she would sit near that oaf is a complete mystery to this mere mortal.”
But not half as much as how this lecturer was so well apprised of these two particular students a couple of weeks into the academic year. Cartwright was fudging the truth but until he knew more Mahoney decided not to press the point. Assuming Amanda Pattison had been giving a true rendition of events, there were some telling holes in Cartwright’s version of what transpired. There was little to be gained at this stage by confronting the man with his duplicity. When a few more strands had been woven into place would be the time.
Munro had gotten out of his chair and was casting an eye over a collection of framed photos on the side table. “Are these family snaps, Jim?”
The immediate reaction was electric. “Please do not touch those.” Their host hastened over and took a picture out of the sergeant’s hand and delicately replaced it. “And I would appreciate it if you would address me by my professional title as your superior officer has the good grace to do.”
Munro did not bat an eyelid. Looked slightly amused if anything. “And what would that be, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Dr. Cartwright.”
“So you’ve done medicine too?”
Before Cartwright’s eyes could fully pop out, Mahoney yanked on the lead. As much as he was enjoying the way Munro’s act wound up the academic, he knew it could go too far. “My apologies for the confusion. Sergeant Munro isn’t very bookish. They are very nice shots by the way.”