by J. M. Peace
"Huh?" he mumbled.
And then the top popped off Roy's anger.
He grabbed the young man by both shoulders and wrenched him to his feet. Using the momentum, he slammed him against the nearest wall.
"You fucken little turd!" he screamed.
The man put his hands in front of his face and a high pitched wail escaped from his mouth. The lady who had let Roy in hurried away with her head down.
"You yellow-bellied cunt!" Roy pulled him away from the wall so he could smash him back against it. The back of his head hit the plasterboard with a dull thud.
"Uncle Roy! Please! Uncle Roy!" The man begged, his voice pitching high in fear.
Roy grabbed the front of his nephew’s shirt and twisted it upwards so his knuckles dug into his throat. Mick Hegarty made a gagging noise. He wrapped both his hands across Roy's fist and tried to push it downwards but his uncle had fury and fifty extra kilos on his side.
"Please." It was a hoarse whisper. "Stop. Why?"
"Why?" Roy repeated. "Why? Where's Angus?" He loosened his grip so Mick could answer.
"I don't know. The cops. I'm sorry," he said, sounding on the verge of tears.
"Do you know where Angus is? Your Uncle Angus?"
"I think the cops locked him up. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have run."
"I know where he is," Roy said, very quietly. He brought his face very close to Mick's. "He's in the fucken MORGUE!" he screamed, his spittle hitting his nephew's face.
"What?" he whispered, the horror creeping across his face.
"DEAD!" Roy screamed. Mick vibrated under the words, like they were delivered by a jackhammer. "Angus is dead. I should kill you too."
"No! No!" Mick blubbered, shaking his head in terror.
"You fucken killed him!" Roy shouted.
The impact of this dawned on Mick.
"No! How? No! I didn't hurt him. I swear."
"You punched him out at the pub!" The volume of Roy's voice was lowering. "You king hit him."
"No, no," Mick said, he pushed Roy's fist down and Roy let him. "I swear I didn't punch him. No. Not Uncle Angus. No. Not me."
"You never punched him?" Roy asked it slowly enunciating each word.
"No, I swear on my life."
Mick was the son of his youngest brother, Stan. Roy had known him since he was born, had watched him grow up until they moved to Tannin Bay. His eyes were telling the truth.
Roy unclenched his fist, releasing Mick's shirt. He laid his hand palm open on Mick's chest.
"He fell and hit his head on the footpath?" Roy asked. He wanted an answer.
"No, no," Mick whispered, shaking his head vigorously.
"What happened in front of the pub?" he asked.
"We had a bit of a wrestle. That's all. I shouldn't have. But Angus got pissed off at me and then he wanted to fight me. He was drunk and I thought I'd just duck and weave till he got tired and then I'd buy him another rum. It turned into a bit of a wrestle. I swear I never punched him. I swear." He looked at Roy, shaking his head. The terror was slowly being replaced by sorrow. He choked back the first sob but then he burst into tears.
"Fuck off back to Ipswich," Roy said quietly. "Fuck back off there right now."
31.
The woman looked completely out of place at the front counter of the police station, like she was coming in to ask for directions to get the hell out of Tannin Bay and back to the city.
"Hello," she said with a wide smile that flashed bright white. "Kerrie McNulty, Channel Three news. May I speak with the officer in charge please?"
"Just a moment please." Anita walked away from the counter so she could ring the boss without the journo eavesdropping.
"Channel Three news," she whispered to John as she dialled the boss's extension from the phone on John's desk.
"Boss, a lady's here from the news to see you," she said down the phone. "Were you expecting her?"
She half-laughed before hanging up the phone.
John looked up expectantly.
"Simon just said some exceptionally rude words," Anita said. "Also, he has to phone the media unit in headquarters for advice."
She returned to the front counter.
"Please take a seat," she said to the journalist. "He's just on a call. He'll be down shortly."
Kerrie sat down on one of the moulded plastic chairs in the foyer and smiled at Anita.
"Thank goodness for air-conditioning, hey? It's a hot one today."
Anita nodded and returned the smile. Through the front window, she could see a man setting up a tripod and mounting a news camera. He started filming the front of the station.
"Have you worked here very long?" Kerrie asked.
"Yeah, a little while," Anita replied, her tone non-committal. She tapped a foot under the desk to try to dispel some of the nervous energy building up inside her.
"It's very sad, what's happened. Especially in a tight-knit community like this. Don't you think?" The notebook she was holding was flipped open as if she was going to start jotting down Anita's answers.
Anita nodded, without making eye contact.
"Did you know the man who died?"
"It's a small town. Everybody knew who he was. But he wasn't my friend." Couldn't the woman see that she was going to get nothing out of Anita?
But she persisted. "Are the police officers involved okay? It must have been a very big shock to them too."
"They're okay," Anita said. Hurry up, Colonel.
"Am I making you nervous?" she asked. She tipped her head on the side a little and smiled, like she was talking to a child. "Because you'd better brace yourself. I might be the first journo asking questions, but I certainly won't be the last. A death in custody is a big story. You'd better get used to the cameras."
"Thank you," Anita said and immediately wished she hadn't. "Excuse me," she added and came across to John's desk, out of sight of the front counter.
The boss was at the far end of the hallway.
"Better do your hair and make-up," Anita said to John. "There's going to be news cameras everywhere today."
"Ugh," John replied.
The boss was turning his police hat around in his hands like it was a steering wheel. "I should have anticipated this," he said. "Been ready for the media. But it was the last thing on my mind with everything else going on."
"Was the media liaison unit any help?" Anita asked.
"Yep," Simon replied. "Apparently we're running a press conference a bit later."
"ESC would be used to this, wouldn't they?" Anita asked.
"Yep. I'll be doing the press conference with one of them. I think they're doing rock-paper-scissors to see who has the honour. Anyway." He moved on to the front counter. Anita and John listened out of sight inside the doorway.
The journalist introduced herself.
"I'd like to have a talk to you about the death at the watch house," she said.
"There's going to be a press conference here later today," Simon answered quickly.
"Great. But could you just fill me..."
Simon cut her off. "There's going to be a press conference."
"Yes. But I just wanted to..."
"About 3 o'clock."
"Okay. But..."
"You can ask your questions then. Thank you."
Simon strode past them as he headed back up the hallway to his office. His face was flushed and he didn't even look at them as he went by.
"That's the last thing he needed," Anita whispered. She heard the buzzer on the front door and checked that it was the journalist leaving again.
"Do you think we'd get away with locking the front door?" John murmured.
"It's okay now. I know what to expect. The next journalist won't get past me," Anita said with resolve.
32.
Harry Sharpe made the decision to take over the front room of the Cool Mule. The station was crawling with ESC, Forensics and other coppers who considered themselves to be far more important than the lo
cal blokes. His office, the computers, the interview room, everywhere would have strangers sitting in them.
He sat at the bar. Tess had set up in the bistro. Brad was on the phone rounding up a steady stream of customers from the night before. He was doing everything he could to help. Harry sensed in him a mixture of guilt that Angus had got drunk at his pub and trepidation that he might be done for irresponsible service of alcohol. Either way, Harry was happy to exploit that, and use Brad's particular set of talents. His patrons trusted him and Brad spread the news and convinced them to come to the pub with a good attitude to talk to the detectives.
Angus was well-known and well-liked at the pub. So was Mort for that matter. It was the first most of them had heard about Angus's death and they could be seen through the front window, milling around on the same patch of footpath that the fight had taken place the night before. They were running their own informal interviews, seeing if any one else had further details and drawing their own conclusions.
The interviews with the patrons from the night before were easy but repetitive. He and Tess ran a recorder each, asked about the fight and then a few clarifying questions.
"...Angus was all fired up. I've never seen him go off like that before..."
"...The other bloke didn't even want to fight..."
"...Angus was the one swinging punches but he's not much of a fighter. I've never even seen him raise his fists..."
"... They were just kind of rolling around on the footpath. I would have jumped in if I thought anyone was getting hurt..."
"...I recognised Mort straightaway but the other chick must be new. I would have remembered if I'd seen her before. She's a stunner. Looked like she didn't know what she was doing though..."
"...Mort was going for the other bloke, he was trying to step over Angus..."
"...Couldn't believe it when Angus spat at him, Mort hadn't done anything..."
"...He took Mort down. I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it for myself..."
"...He was drinking with the young bloke, I think Angus grabbed the cop to try to let him get away..."
"...Yeah, he might have bumped his head, but it was only a bump..."
"...That other cop, the girl, she didn't do anything. She just stood there looking stunned..."
"...They just got his hands behind his back and cuffed him. My missus is rougher with me than they were with him..."
"...It was fair enough. You can't tell me he was bashed to death..."
"...I can't believe he's dead. Bloody tragic, that is..."
The stories were all the same. Only minor details differed. The colour of the man's shirt, how many punches Angus swung, who put the handcuffs on. Everyone knew Angus. Everyone knew Mort. No one had come across the other bloke. Or the other copper for that matter. But the fight had been half-baked, no one had landed a proper punch and everyone was stunned that Angus was dead.
It was out of character of Angus to fight and spit. The arrest had been fair and reasonable. Not one person had seen anything that would account for a man dying.
33.
When Krista woke up in her barrack bedroom, it was in a sort of half-light. She wrenched herself out of sleep, sitting herself up and rubbing her eyes. What time was it? When was she meant to be at work? Was it night time already?
That's right. They had said to come in for day shift tomorrow. She looked at her phone. It was 6:25pm. She laid back down and grabbed the extra pillow she kept in the bed. She hugged it close to her, laying her face against it. They had finally let her come back to the barracks just before 1pm. She was still so tired. She closed her eyes and immediately saw the dead's man face. She sat herself back up again. No more sleep for now. She had to pee anyway.
She pulled a dressing gown on and stopped at the bathroom before heading towards the kitchen. There were no lights on but she could hear the TV blaring. Mort was sitting in the twilight, staring through the television. His eyes were glazed and he didn't seem to notice her move into the room. For one horrible second, a comparison between the dead man's stare and Mort's blank eyes flashed through Krista's mind.
"Hey." He turned to look at her, flicking the television off. "How are you going?"
She shrugged.
"Did you get some sleep?" he asked.
She nodded. "Did you?"
"Yeah," he said, but his puffy bloodshot eyes gave a different answer.
"I was going to make a toasted sandwich. Do you want one?" she asked.
He shook his head.
"I was going to have a beer too. Do you want one of those?"
He nodded. She went into the kitchen and came back with only the drinks.
She handed a stubbie to Mort and sat down on the couch facing his recliner.
"Hell of a thing last night. Are you okay?" he asked.
"Are we allowed to talk about it now?" she asked in low tones, as if they might put a recorder in the room. Might they put a recorder in the room?
"Yeah, we've both been interviewed. They know we live here together."
Krista folded her hands together and leant forward. "What do you think happened?" she asked in a hushed tone.
Mort shrugged his shoulders. "He's an old alco. He must have taken a bad hit in that fight. Who knows how long it was going for before we arrived. Maybe his head smashed against the footpath because he was just out of it and too floppy. I feel bad for him. He was harmless."
"He spat at you," Krista said. "I wouldn't call that harmless."
A shadow passed across Mort's face. "Yeah. He's never done anything like that before. I don't know why he would have done that. He's always been okay with me."
"Do you have to get blood tests and that?"
Mort nodded. "They sent me up to the hospital as soon as the interview was finished. The only thing I could catch from saliva is Hep B and that's unlikely. I didn't know that."
"Even though it went in your eyes?"
Mort nodded. "It will be three months before I know anything certain though." He put his glass on the coffee table and rubbed a hand across his face. "It's fucked. But if I'd have had the slightest inkling he might die..." He trailed off and put his hands over his. Krista leant her head back and looked at the ceiling as if it may hold an answer.
Mort roused suddenly, looking at his watch and grabbing for the television remote. When he switched it on, the front of their police station popped up onto the screen. A death in custody. Of course it was going to be the lead story in the news.
"... Who was located dead in the Tannin Bay watch house after being arrested for assaulting a police officer. The incident happened as a result of a brawl in front of a local pub."
And now it was the Colonel's face filling the screen. He had his hat and tie on, and a grimace that he might have thought made him look serious but Krista thought made him look angry.
"The deceased was lawfully arrested and had no apparent injuries when he was lodged in the watch house. When he was located unresponsive a few minutes later, police have undertaken CPR until the ambulance arrived."
They now cut to the Detective Inspector Pat Mulroy. Krista read his name off the bottom of the screen, so she knew who she'd been interviewed by. That was a step up from referring to him as 'that detective from ESC'.
"The matter is being thoroughly investigated. We are in the process of interviewing all persons involved and all potential witnesses."
There were a couple of shots of the forensics guys in their suits from a distance, obviously shot down the rear driveway. The voiceover said he was declared dead on arrival at the hospital. The news anchor then moved onto the next story about politics and Mort flicked the television back off again. They sat in silence for a moment.
"They didn't say our names," Mort observed.
Krista considered this. "Will they release our names?"
"Dunno. I'm trying to remember some other time I've seen a death in custody on the news. I don't think they release our names."
"Everyone in to
wn will know," Krista said.
"That's okay. No one knows you anyway. That’s the positive to being new in town.” Mort shrugged. “The people who were at the pub saw what happened. They know we did nothing wrong.”
"But he didn't die at the pub. He died at the watch house. With me in charge."
"Beside the point. It happened at the pub."
"I didn't know what to do," Krista said. She grimaced at the recollection, then the words came tumbling out. "When I realised he wasn't breathing, I just started yelling for you. He was dead already though. Well, he looked dead. It felt like it was pointless. But the boss came in and it was like I had to do something. I had to do the breathing part." She paused. "It was horrible," she added, softly. "Breathing into a dead man's mouth." An involuntary shudder passed through her at the recollection.
Mort made a small sympathetic noise. "You can say you did everything you could," he said. "That's what the Colonel would have been thinking. You can say on the TV that you did CPR. That would have been important to the boss."
"I can't help but think it was my fault. If I had lodged him properly, not just tossed him into the cell, I'm sure I would have noticed something was wrong. I could have got the ambulance sooner. They might have been able to do something. I'm useless. I shouldn't be a cop," Krista said miserably.
"It wasn't your fault," Mort said, and his voice sounded like it came from somewhere else. "It was all over for him before he even got to that cell."
"But..."
"It wasn't your fault, damn it!" Mort hissed. He stood up abruptly and went to his room.
34.
The forensic pathologist noticed it immediately. That was his job anyway, to look for injuries. It was mostly under his hairline, so it made it a bit harder to see the swelling at the front of Angus’s head.
"You'll need to shave his head for this one, Natasha," Doctor Neville Johns said to the morgue attendant.