High Beam

by SJ Brown

  “Where our other participants came into play. DC Kendall will explain.” Munro nearly smiled. His boss’s strategy was clever. Share the responsibility so his officers felt they were true contributors and shared the rewards. Kate was going to shine. She stepped forward.

  “Right from the start Dr. James Cartwright was a person of interest. His quarrel with Finch at the university the week before indicated that. And his role in the piece of subterfuge created by a close friend of Finch, Amanda Pattison, implicates him further. He would have wanted to hurt the victim. However, it doesn’t seem he sought a terminal revenge. He was livid but not so that his reaction was that extreme. Nonetheless, he was foolish enough to be lured into participation in this act of violence. Someone put him up to organizing the site at Kingston as a place the body could be dumped, as per the original scheme.” She was assured in her presentation and it showed in her clear measured voice. “He was not party to the killing but his role as an accessory enabled us to connect some dots. So the question is there, as to who else might want to damage Brad Finch.”

  She picked up a fresh photograph of a very disgruntled face and stuck it to the board. “Roger Sproule.” All in the room recognized it. A TV blitzkrieg of his hardware store advertisements ensured that. “Local business identity and cuckolded husband. His wife enjoyed the company of Brad Finch and he was not overjoyed to discover it, to say the least. He’s downstairs now considering his options. Limited as they are. DS Munro has linked him to the events of that evening via phone records and Sproule has admitted to his role in luring Finch to the scene. More importantly, he has told the interviewing officers that he wanted rid of Finch so we have motive. We anticipate his lawyer will filibuster as per usual but there’s plenty of strong evidence from other people that puts him right in the thick of things. There doesn’t seem to be many prepared to risk their own necks for him. He wasn’t anywhere near as well respected as he believed. He may yet have his Macbeth moment.”

  She returned to her seat maintaining a totally straight face. Not even meeting Munro’s glance. It was the moment she truly arrived in the job but self-satisfaction could not even be considered. Do not give anybody an inch. She had learned the hard way.

  * * *

  Mahoney walked in through the side door of the Customs House Hotel. On the corner adjacent to the understated colonial elegance of Parliament House, the pub was in a prime position given that it also fronted on to Sullivan’s Cove itself. Despite its location, it had been something of a sleeper until new management refurbished the interior and opened the whole place up. A brief flirtation with the dreaded pokies was now extinguished so tourists and locals could enjoy a relatively peaceful drink. What struck Mahoney as slightly odd was that the solitary drinker in attendance was standing at the bar. Although the public bar area was arrayed with a series of matt black plastic stools and a smattering of tables with bentwood chairs, the lone man stood bolt upright at the bar with a full pot of lager in front of him as he stared at the top shelf drink bottles. He blithely ignored the television above his head of lank greasy hair.

  Mahoney stood beside the man. He too was unacknowledged but Mahoney could sense his presence had registered. “It’s a bit early to start working your way along the spirits isn’t it, Alan?” The delivery was light but no response was forthcoming. All that happened was the slow extension of the right arm towards the glass. Instead of picking it up, the forefinger drew a vertical line in the condensation on the outside of the glass. Then it was picked up but instead of necking it the man placed the amber liquid in front of Mahoney. The gnarly hand gripped the rail of the bar; gripped it so hard the knuckles whitened. After a minute or so, the tension was released and the man straightened up and started speaking to the empty space behind the bar. “That’s where it would go. I’d begin at Dewar’s and finish at the fancy cognacs. No problem. Stand and deliver. Give ’em to me. I can do it. No worries. Look, I’m still standing. The champ. Whole top shelf and still on my feet. Legend.” The ironic celebratory tone shifted down a gear. “Weak as piss.”

  He turned to Mahoney. “You know what? Six months doing the steps. Going to meetings. Making the calls to my AA buddy. Walking the line. Doing really well.” The voice was earnest and passionate now. “On the verge of being employable again. Job interview last week. Went all right.” Mahoney nodded. Knew when not to speak. “And then my ex rings to tell me how happy she is with her new bloke and the kids would be better off with her at Easter. This snoozer has a beach house at Noosa and the kids would love it up there. What can I do? Refuse and assert my rights to access for the hols? Be the worst bloke in the world. So I agree. I can’t give ’em that.” He started stabbing at his sternum. “I’ve pissed all my holiday money away. No house. No beach shack. No wife. No job. No ticker. So I decide to pop in to my old favorite for a cleanser. Just the one, mind. Before you walked in, I’d been contemplating that beer for a few minutes. Bit like a bloke at the top of a bungee jump. But did I have the courage not to leap into that abyss? Was seriously getting there and then you waltz in to remind me where it would lead.” He turned and smiled at Mahoney. “I guess you’d call that community policing. Thanks. Still think you’re a prick, but thanks.”

  “No problem. Saw you through the window looking a bit intense. Thought I could halve the problem. Sounds like the half you’ve got is enough to deal with.”

  “Yeah, right enough.” He looked again to Mahoney. “Sorry, you’re not really a prick. Tell you who is though. Bloody Daniel Weightman.” Alan Massie shook his head at the very thought of him.

  “He’d be the Mr. Sheen who’s grabbed Mandy’s attention?”

  “Spot on. Shafted me in all sorts of ways that one.” Mahoney knew the outline but let Massie color in the body of the story. As head of the Forestry Department, Weightman had let the word drop in a few places of influence that the chief executive of the Pines Timber Corporation was becoming unreliable. Liked a long lunch a bit too much and could not cope with the pressures of such an important position. Not at such a crucial time in negotiations of how best to manage the state’s most bountiful natural resource. The whispering campaign leaked its way through to the Board of Directors. Massie did not help himself overly much. It was true his boisterous manner sometimes alienated people and the reduced economic circumstances provided the board with sufficient reason to forego his promised contract extension. It was no surprise to Alan when one of Weightman’s cronies from the yacht club parachuted into the top job.

  And that was when Alan Massie really started to give the booze a pretty decent nudge. Through the bottom of a glass, he watched his wife walk out with the children in tow. Once divorce proceedings had commenced a remarkably short time later, they had walked right back into the family home as Massie moved into what was to become a series of short term hotel stays. Having hit the wall, literally, during a session at the Theatre Royal Hotel, he had taken his broken hand across the road to the hospital for treatment and later his broken soul to the first AA meeting he could find. Half a year on he thought he was doing well. Until that phone call. And now here he was with the police inspector.

  Mahoney silently agreed with the assessment of Weightman. He had been introduced to the man at a symposium on maintaining harmony in the state’s natural heritage areas. It soon transpired that the Department Head’s idea of harmony was a blanket ban on all forms of protest. It looked bad for the state, you see. Affected jobs. The tired clichés trotted out by powerbrokers who found grass roots democracy an inconvenience. Mahoney wanted to teletransport the man back to 1970s Queensland but had to opt for thoroughly washing his hand that had been shaken by the malodorous bureaucrat. The officer of the law in him said, “Leave it, Alan. Actually doing harm to him would do you no good at all. Might feel satisfying but it would leave you a whole lot worse down the track.”

  Massie patted him on the shoulder. “I know. Don’t worry. Besides, he’s got Fothers on side. And you
don’t want him as your enemy. Could end up with a bit of my own four by two round the skull.”

  “Gets things done on the quiet, does he?” Mahoney now knew of the man and was interested.

  “Yeah, you could say that. Where you off to anyway?”

  “Public Prosecutions Office. Need to run a few things by the Chief. We’ve achieved a good result on a case. Pretty significant one but the trial process could present a few hurdles so I want to talk through a few of the potential issues. Make sure it’s tight from our end at least.” He wanted to tease out a thread of what Massie told him. “Fotheringham’s a bit of a mover and shaker, then?” Tried to sound nonchalant.

  Massie nodded. “Yep. You wouldn’t know it but he’s one of the wealthiest people in the state. And not just old money either. Fronts the wider world as a business consultant but he’s got his fingers in lots of pies. Forestry plantations, farming, real estate development. You name it. He’s in there somewhere. Milks the government for any subsidy that’s available. Knows where the pressure points are. I’m damned sure he provided the impetus for Weightman to make his move. And why. Because guess what? Two months later, a very large contract using Forestry Department largesse between Pines Timber and Runneymede Plantations, Fotheringham’s company, is signed. Did you hear about that one by the way?” Massie was warming to his conspiratorial theme.

  “Err, no. Nothing really.”

  “Too right. Pens went to paper on New Year’s Eve. Good timing if you don’t want much publicity. Someone might pipe up in June when the Legislative Council Budget Committee meets but given Fotheringham’s reach I doubt it. The guy’s got leverage all right.”

  Mahoney was surprised he was not more aware of such intrigue. He acknowledged deals were done: that was the machinations of government. But he was chastened by his ignorance of some of the main players. He decided to rectify that. “Is he involved with the Devils footy club?” Did not like showing his hand that much to Massie but the man was not a loudmouth.

  “This relates to your current case?” A light smile.

  Mahoney nodded. “Not central, but there’s the odd loose end.”

  Massie nodded. “Thought as much. Papers have been full of it. Yep, he’s in there too. In a big way. Sproule’s the puppet on show but Fothers pulls the strings. Admittedly, so I hear from the drums, he masterminded the whole push that turned the AFL Commissioners’ minds around. His tentacles stretch across Bass Strait too, it would seem. But guess whose company won the bid for construction of the new stand at Bellerive Stadium?”

  Mahoney nodded at the rhetorical question. “Doesn’t seem to be much he doesn’t do.” He definitely wanted to have a good talk to this man who was starting to look like the central point of a few of the radii of the case. May not get anywhere but he itched to have a go at one of the faceless men that Kate had referred to at the cinema café. Even if it meant a few more eggshells would go. What the heck; no use shuffling along on your knees. He now knew where he would be going straight after the DPP’s Office.

  “Thanks, Alan. You’ve been very helpful. Cone of silence and all that.”

  “Don’t fret, John. No fears there.” They shook hands. “Seems the Samaritan is going to walk out the pub door with a fresh agenda.”

  “You could say that.” Mahoney clapped the man on the shoulder and turned to leave.

  “You’ll be heading out with me?”

  “Yep. I’ve stared it down. All good.”

  CHAPTER 37

  Friday 19th March 1pm

  Rory Fotheringham walked into the Salamanca Galleria Hotel as if he owned the place. Which he did. The freehold. The accommodation was operated by a national chain which specialized in boutique hotels. It catered to a niche market of discerning travelers who could afford life’s luxuries regardless of where things were in the economic cycle. Once through the sliding glass doors he strode across the marble foyer to the stairwell. He preferred to ascend on foot to quicken his pulse for the assignation ahead. On the third level he walked fifteen meters to the double doors of the honeymoon suite and used his access card to let himself in. One of his favorite privileges of membership of that circle of people who never have to ask the price.

  As the door swung quietly shut behind him, he detected the sound of a smooth buzzing. He snorted to himself. On the enormous bed lay a beautifully sculptured nude female. She was wearing an eye mask but she was certainly not sleeping. Her right hand held a pink rabbit on low vibration that was rhythmically caressing her breasts. “Perfect timing, Roar. I’m very ready for you.”

  “So am I. You can turn bunny off now. I have a better way to get you humming.” At the end of the bed he quickly discarded his clothes and then knelt to address the wonder of her pubic topiary.

  Half an hour later they lay sated on the rumpled sheets. “That was a delectable swansong, Rory. Thank you.” The matter-of-fact tone surprised him as much as the content.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  Jane Watson slid the Cathay Pacific First Class eye mask off and turned her head on the pillow. Eyes like flint.

  “Swansong, Rory. As in finale. I’m moving on. It’s been fun. Great fun. All good things come to an end. You must know that.”

  He did. But it was he, the big hitter, who called the shots. There was no sentiment involved. That was never a factor in any of his dealings with people for any reason. And, truthfully, the pleasure was transitory and fitful. Mainly it was a means of exercising power: knowing that females wanted him. It was his ego that he enjoyed being stroked. And here was one of his concubines pulling the pin. Out of nowhere some long ago learned lines of Shakespeare passed his lips: “Therefore, I lie with her, and she with me, and in our faults by lies we flattered be”.

  Rich sardonic laughter was unexpected. “Oh, please Rory. Not the Bard. You’ll be passing yourself off as Othello next.” A sly smile. “And we both know, darling, that your true role is Iago.”

  Bitch. Clever bitch. Sassy, smart and ruthless. In some parallel universe they would make a formidable couple. But not here and now. The best he could hope for was a dignified retreat.

  “Perhaps. Anyway, whatever you think is now pretty academic.” He rolled off the bed and began to dress. “So, what’s your future then?”

  “A health and well-being retreat in Bali. I’ve negotiated a five-year lease on a run-down resort at Sanur. I’ve lined up a landscape designer to fix up the layout. It’s at the end of the main beach; perfect location. Loads of cheap labor to refurbish the rooms to deluxe standard and build the treatment center. The existing restaurant, once upgraded, will double as the cooking school. Might even run writers’ retreats in the off-season.”

  He didn’t need to ask how this would be funded. By selling off the local properties, liquidating her bank shares and collecting on her husband’s life insurance, there would be plenty of money to throw at the project. Particularly, once you factored in the favorable exchange rates. “Are you going solo? What do you know about this stuff?”

  “You’d be surprised what you can learn over a few holidays if you keep your eyes and ears open. There’s a lovely expat in Ubud called Janet de Neefe. Runs a couple of divine restaurants and a great cooking school. Even co-ordinates the October Literary Festival. I plied her for information and as I’m operating far enough away she was happy to oblige with lots of ideas from her business model. Seems you can literally hire an extended Balinese family and you instantly have a whole catering corps with a lifetime of local knowledge. And you don’t have to pay much more than peanuts. Same goes for the beautiful girls who’ll work in the health spa. Ditto for the yoga. Fit-out will cost the most but, as you can imagine, I’ve gleaned enough from close contacts in the trade to be on top of that. It should be a cash cow really.”

  “And is it just you in charge?”

  She smiled. “I’ll have a lovely deputy under me. I think you know Felic
ity Sproule.” She absentmindedly stroked her flat stomach. “She and I get on ever so well. Hardly seems necessary to have men around really.”

  Now that she was rubbing it in, Rory actually felt better. She was trying to get under his skin but it wouldn’t work. He knew manipulation backwards and had lifelong immunity. Not much could dent his armor. “All I would say to you, Jane, is be careful what you wish for.”

  “I suppose you have to be philosophical in some situations, Rory dear. Like now. But let’s not bicker.”

  “Didn’t realize I was. Just a bit of genuine advice, that’s all.” From his position at the end of the bed, he turned away to leave. Over his shoulder he said, “Leave the room pass at reception. Bon voyage.” As he went down the corridor, he started dealing with the message bank on his phone.

  CHAPTER 38

  Friday 19th March 3pm

  In his younger days playing club soccer, Mahoney never fully appreciated the concept of home and away matches. Many of their games were played at neutral venues operated by the Council; others were technically away games but as they were at grounds with much better surfaces then the pitch at his own club, Mahoney’s team generally preferred them. Only when he started supporting Liverpool while living in England did he begin to comprehend the enormity of the task facing some teams when they ventured to away games in another stadium. Fewer supporters meant less vocal backing and that really did affect morale. For the Reds, playing home fixtures at the fortress of Anfield could be worth a couple of goals. Many clubs came not to attack but to survive. The venue was crucial.

  Policing was much the same. Who did the interviewing and how the interchange was handled definitely contributed to the success or otherwise of an interrogator. But the place was paramount. A plethora of PhD studies factored in to the design and layout of modern police interview suites. All based on the latest psychological research. Mahoney was glad the funding lag in Tasmania meant their interview rooms would still be oddly familiar to PC Snow from Z Cars. No see-through windows here! A bit of discomfort never hurt and after a short stint in a holding cell, the starkness of the old-school interview space helped those new to the whole experience to “get a few things off their chest”.