Disguising Demons

by Brigid George

  Kellie looked toward her car as if considering escape. However, she accepted the inevitable and answered Dusty’s question.

  “Because you were already treating me like a suspect. If you found out I’d been there, you were bound to jump to the wrong conclusion. Besides, as far as I was concerned, it was my private business and had nothing to do with the monk’s murder.”

  “Unfortunately, privacy goes out the window during a murder investigation. When someone is being secretive, it tends to look more like the person is attempting to hide their guilt.” Dusty raised a placatory hand before Kellie had a chance to protest. “For now, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. However, there’s something else you haven’t told me.”

  Kellie ran her fingers through her hair and straightened her body as though ready to defend herself. Dusty continued.

  “I believe you saw Ram in Macrossan Street the day before he died.” Kellie shook her head and began to protest. Dusty cut her off. “You walked past while he was talking to Beth Pomeroy and gave Ram a venomous look.”

  Kellie frowned. “I don’t remember doing that.”

  “You know what?” said Dusty when Kellie had driven away. “If that had been Kellie on trial in a courtroom, the prosecution would have been scathing.”

  Dusty took a deep breath, arranged her face in an authoritarian expression and spoke in a stentorian voice. “You don’t remember? Don’t remember! Ms Edwards, you expect us to accept an excuse much used by guilty people seeking to avoid incriminating themselves with a truthful answer? And you stretch the realms of credibility even further by asking the jury to believe it was mere coincidence you were on the scene when the man you hated and blamed for your son’s death was murdered?”

  Chapter 28

  I was making no further progress in tracking down Abbie, Kimberley and Lena when it occurred to me that if one of the girls did murder the monk, it was possible she lived in the area. She might have seen Walker when he was in town one day, recognised him and decided to get her revenge. Grey and Patterson were fairly common names but I guessed there wouldn’t be many entries for Kowalski in the local phone book so I started with Abbie. I guessed correctly. In fact, not a single entry for Kowalski.

  However, the electoral roll was more helpful. To my surprise, I found a D. Kowalski living in Mossman. Could this be Abbie’s brother? I went back to social media. I hadn’t checked for David Kowalski previously but now I found his Facebook page which yielded more information than his sister’s had. It was difficult to see what he looked like from his profile picture which showed him underwater in full snorkelling gear. His website didn’t feature many posts. Most of the recent ones were photos of beaches and rainforests and action shots of David kite surfing and abseiling. The caption under one read: Mossman Gorge.

  I couldn’t wait to share the news with Dusty. It was only just after seven on Saturday morning, but I knew she was likely to be out of bed, perhaps getting ready to go for a swim. I tapped on her door with my usual special knock, two slow knocks followed by a hand slap. Dusty answered the door in a knee-length white T-shirt, her dishevelled hair looking like a wild mop of auburn frizz. Covering her mouth with her hand she stifled a yawn, waved me inside and gestured at the coffee pot.

  “Make yourself a cup.” She sank into an armchair. “I’m not ready for anything yet.”

  The espresso machine was soon bubbling, sending out a tempting coffee aroma. I poured myself a cup of the steaming liquid and sat down opposite Dusty.

  “Is this an emergency or do you have something exciting to report?” She poked at her hair with her fingertips, making it look even more dishevelled.

  “I have something exciting to report.”

  Dusty’s eyes widened in surprise to be replaced by a gleam of anticipation as I told her what I’d discovered.

  “Fantastic work, Mr Maze Master! Let’s head off to Mossman right now. Being Saturday morning, there’s a good chance David Kowalski won’t be working. We can catch him at home and surprise him. That way, he’s more likely to unintentionally let information slip.” Dusty jumped up and headed for her bedroom. “It won’t take me long to get changed. Meet me downstairs at the car.”

  My stomach was telling me I should have waited until after breakfast to give Dusty the news.

  “Don’t worry. I haven’t forgotten about food.” She threw me the keys to her FJ Holden. “You can have a big breakfast in Mossman.” Dusty laughed at the expression on my face which was probably one of relief.

  She joined me in the car park a short time later dressed in a lime green T-shirt, turquoise shorts and thongs. “This is a significant development in the case, Sean. If this guy is Abbie’s brother, he should be able to give us an address for his sister and hopefully she will know where Kimberley and Lena are.”

  It was an easy drive to Mossman. We encountered little traffic, arriving just after eight o’clock. Our first stop was a cafe. My large plate of sausages with scrambled eggs and smashed avocado on toast had my undivided attention.

  Dusty wanted to make breakfast a quick meal. With the promise of a sunny Saturday, she was concerned David Kowalski might head down to the beach before we got to his house. Rather than lingering over coffee at the table, she ordered a take-away cappuccino.

  “Since you’re driving, I can enjoy this on the way.” She threw me a cheeky grin as she picked up the container of hot coffee. “Just be careful going over bumps. You don’t want to be responsible for spilling my precious first cappuccino of the day.”

  As it turned out, it wasn’t my driving that would cause her to spill her coffee. I was a short distance behind Dusty and saw the incident unfold.

  She had just stepped out of the cafe and started toward the car when a tall man in his mid thirties whose tousled snowy hair gave him a Nordic appearance collided with her, knocking her cappuccino out of her hand. He had exchanged a few words of greeting to someone walking past and his head was still turned in the opposite direction. As a result, he didn’t see Dusty. Her container of coffee flew out of her hand into the air. The top, which she’d already loosened in anticipation of sipping the cappuccino, flew off in a different direction. When the hot coffee poured out of the container, Dusty stepped back quickly to avoid being splashed.

  Nordic stared at Dusty, momentarily taken aback. Given a little more time, he might have gotten around to apologising but Dusty, suddenly robbed of the coffee she had been looking forward to, reacted swiftly and vehemently.

  “Why don’t you look where you’re going!”

  Her reaction seemed to cause him further surprise. He looked down at the coffee-stained footpath as if trying to take in what had just happened.

  “Look what you’ve done to my cappuccino. I didn’t even get to taste it.” Dusty threw her arms in the air. “Not even one single sip!”

  Nordic’s blue eyes went from the spilt coffee to Dusty, sweeping over her as if seeing her for the first time. The corners of his lips curved in a half smile. Amusement brightened his eyes. He seemed to find Dusty’s anger entertaining. I held my breath, knowing this was a sure fire way to ignite the flames.

  Dusty stared up at him, arms akimbo, nostrils flaring. He was roughly the same height as me but Dusty was in no way intimidated. Knowing she could fling him to the ground with one quick karate movement no doubt gave her confidence.

  “Well? The least you can do is say sorry!” Her green eyes glared at him.

  Nordic looked down at her as if she were a performing dolphin, a crooked smile on his face. When he finally spoke, his words threw Dusty off guard.

  “What are you doing tonight? I’ll buy you another coffee and dinner to go with it.”

  It was Dusty’s turn to be taken aback. However, she ignored his question and took a few steps toward the car.

  “Cool car, by the way.” He’d struck the right note. Dusty was proud of her car which had belonged to her late father. I could see her animosity was beginning to wane.

  “You don’t
see many of these around.” Nordic stepped closer to the FJ, running his hand gently over the bonnet. “Been well looked after too.”

  Dusty melted. “Sorry I flew off the handle.”

  “No way.” He protested emphatically. “It was my fault.” He proffered his hand. “I’m Skee.” Dusty shook his hand and introduced herself.

  “At least let me buy you another coffee.” Skee gestured at the cafe.

  Dusty laughingly declined his offer, telling him she had an appointment to keep. I took that as my cue and stepped forward to join them.

  “G’day mate,” said Skee, shaking my hand firmly when Dusty introduced us.

  Now that friendly relations had been established, Dusty took the opportunity of gleaning some local knowledge. She started by asking for directions to get to the address we had for the man we were hoping was Abbie’s brother. Her car was fitted with a navigator, but Dusty was paving the way to try to get more information from Skee.

  “It’s just around the corner.” He obligingly told us how to get there.

  Dusty then asked if he knew David Kowalski. In a small town like Mossman, the two men could easily be acquainted.

  Skee shrugged. “Everybody knows everybody around here.”

  As if to prove the point he nodded and smiled at a passer-by. When Dusty started asking him about David Kowalski, the friendly relations seemed to cool.

  “Why do you want to know about him? Are you with the police?”

  Dusty explained she was a journalist and wanted to get in touch with Abbie Kowalski who was possibly related to David.

  Skee’s brow furrowed. “Good luck with that.” He stepped back onto the footpath. “Gotta go. See ya.” He hurried away before we could respond.

  Dusty looked after him thoughtfully. “I wonder why he assumed the police might want to talk to David. Maybe Abbie’s brother is a bit of a larrikin.”

  Chapter 29

  Although David Kowalski’s home was not far, we decided to take the car rather than leave it parked in the street.

  “Someone might take a liking to the hub caps,” Dusty joked as she opened the passenger door.

  “Or your number plate.” Dusty’s eyes widened in horror at this suggestion. The car’s number plate, STAR77, reflected her superstitious side. STAR is for lucky star and seven is a lucky number.

  When we arrived at our destination, I pulled up outside a blue weatherboard cottage raised from the ground and surrounded by palms and other tropical vegetation. Like many homes in the area, it was unfenced, giving it a welcoming look.

  Just as we reached the steps leading to the front entrance, the door opened. A woman in her early to mid thirties stepped out. Her long fair hair was pulled back from her face and held firm by an orange headband. Seeing us, she smiled a greeting and left the door open before running down the stairs, a large bag swinging from her shoulder. Dusty called after her.

  “Does David Kowalski live here?”

  “Kovalski,” she said as she descended the steps. “Spelt with a ‘w’, pronounced with a ‘v’. Go on in. He’s in the kitchen.” She continued her hurried exit.

  Despite the invitation and the open door, Dusty was hesitant to walk in unannounced. She tapped lightly on the door and called out as she stepped inside.

  “In here.”

  Before I could place what was familiar about the voice that answered, we entered the dining area and came face to face with the fair-haired Nordic we had encountered in the street. He was sitting on a stool, an elbow resting on the breakfast bar and a mug in one hand. I could smell freshly brewed coffee. He greeted us with a cheeky grin and a mischievous gleam in his eyes.

  “Fancy seeing me here, eh?” Skee was obviously pleased with our reaction at unexpectedly seeing him again.

  Dusty was not in the mood for jokes. “Why didn’t you tell me you share with David?”

  “I don’t.” Skee was still smirking.

  “Whatever.” A note of impatience had entered Dusty’s voice. She didn’t want to be distracted by a smart alec. “Where’s David? I’d like to talk to him.”

  Skee placed his mug on the breakfast bar and, without getting off the stool, bent at the waist in a mock bow.

  “At your service.” He laughed; enjoying the irritation he was causing Dusty. “Also known as Skee as in Kowalski.”

  He used the same pronunciation as his blonde housemate and emphasised the last syllable. Dusty didn’t join in the laughter.

  “Have a seat, why don’t you?” Skee gestured toward a table near the window. “Now is my chance to offer you a coffee. No cappuccino maker but plenty of hot coffee in the pot.” He held the coffee plunger aloft.

  Dusty shook her head, her expression making it clear she wanted to get down to business.

  “Suit yourselves,” Skee said when I also shook my head at the coffee pot.

  “Anyway, you’ve just missed Abbie.” His tone was less jocular now.

  “That was Abbie?” Dusty glanced back in the direction of the front door. “Your sister?”

  “Yeah! That was Abbs.” A note of defiance in his voice suggested he had alerted Abbie to make herself scarce before we arrived. “She’s gone off to meet her boyfriend.”

  Dusty’s brow furrowed. “You knew I wanted to speak to her.”

  He shrugged. “What do you want with my sister?” A serious expression now clouded his face as though he’d guessed Dusty wanted to talk to Abbie about her past.

  Dusty reached into her bag, drew out the photo of the younger Paul Walker and laid it flat on the table.

  “Do you know this man?” She pushed it toward David. Although he’d remained on the stool, he was not far from the table. When he looked down at the picture in front of him, his face darkened, his eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched. He glanced involuntarily in the direction of the front door as though wanting to make sure his sister had left.

  “Paul Walker.” With a sneer of disgust, he flicked the photo with enough force to send it across the table. It sailed over the edge onto the floor. “Look. I don’t want to be rude, but I think you’d better go. My sister’s got on with her life. She doesn’t need all this thrown in her face again. She certainly won’t be interested in rehashing it for the sake of some magazine article or whatever it is you’re writing.”

  I bent down and retrieved the photo which had landed face down on the wooden floorboards.

  “I’m not writing a magazine article. I’m an investigative journalist. I’m investigating…”

  David interrupted. “Has that bastard done it again?” His face hardened. His fingers closed into tight fists.

  “Paul Walker is dead.” Dusty studied his face as she spoke.

  “Dead? Good! Bloody good riddance. Vile piece of scum.”

  “He was murdered.”

  “Even better.” A grim smile of satisfaction. “Finally got what he deserved. Abbs’ll be relieved to know he’s dead. Mostly because it means he won’t be able to hurt anyone else. I don’t want you bothering Abbs with this crap. She’s doing okay these days. Let her be.” Then a thought occurred to him. He looked at Dusty. Before he could ask the question, she answered it.

  “Yes. Walker was living in this area. In Port Douglas to be exact.”

  “Holy shit! He would have ended up dead a lot sooner if I’d run into him.”

  He seemed so genuine. I felt sure he was speaking the truth. Unless he was a very good actor.

  “Is that right?” Dusty eyed him with suspicion.

  “Could you blame me? After what he did to my sister.”

  “You would have killed him as payback for what he did to Abbie?”

  David glared at Dusty, determination shining in his eyes. “Yes! No, actually, I would’ve kept him alive and tortured him for days.”

  “David, where were you on Wednesday February 19th between four-thirty and six in the morning?”

  “I wasn’t murdering that maggot if that’s what you mean. Unfortunately!”

  Dusty put her
head to one side and waited.

  “Five months ago?” said David when he realised Dusty wanted an answer. “You’re asking me to remember where I was early in the morning five months ago?” Dusty nodded. “Hell! I dunno. Probably still asleep or getting ready for work.”

  “You start work early?”

  “Yeah. Most days. Usually on the job by seven. That way I’m not working in the heat of the day. I’m an electrician.”

  “Paul Walker was a monk at Sunyarta Sanctuary in Port Douglas.”

  David shook his head in disbelief. “A monk? What a sneaking, sleazy hypocrite!” He clamped his lips shut as if he was in danger of saying something he shouldn’t – probably a string of graphic expletives. “You’re not telling me he was the monk who was murdered.”

  Dusty nodded. “So where were you that morning?”

  “Well, if we’re talking about the day the monk was killed, I can tell you exactly where I was. I was working in Port as it happens. That day, I started work at seven. Left here around six-thirty.”

  Something as unusual as murder, let alone the murder of a monk, was bound to stand out, especially in an area consisting mostly of small towns. However, Dusty didn’t take that as a given.

  “How is it you’re able to be so precise about your movements that day?”

  “Because when I heard about the monk’s murder, I realised I’d been working on a house in Port the day it had happened. So that day kinda stuck in my head.” Picking up on Dusty’s scrutiny, he added. “Because he was a monk and because a murder had happened in this area, not because I knew he was Walker. I didn’t.”

  “So you often do jobs in Port Douglas?”

  “Sometimes. I work for a big company in Cairns. They send me all over the place.”

  “To be more precise,” said Dusty. “What were you doing early that morning before you started work?”

  David shrugged. “Obviously, I was climbing out of bed and getting ready. Where else would I be at that hour of the day?”