Shot Clock

by Blair Denholm

  ‘Nah. He and me are like this.’ Jack crossed fingers over. ‘Besides, I want his input on this.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He was brilliant helping us on the last case. Plus we’re going to need as many asking questions as we can. There’s a bigger effing cast in this drama than Jesus Christ What’s His Name.’

  ‘Superstar.’

  ‘Thanks. You’re a pretty good cop too.’

  ‘Lured me in like a sucker,’ she smiled. ‘Now, back to this list.’

  For the next thirty minutes the detectives discussed the rest of the team: all Australians. Only one, shooting guard Ollie McTaggart, was a Yorkville lad. Kind of. Born and bred in Cairns, a couple of hundred kilometres away, near enough to be considered a local. Like so many others, dreamers and real-dealers, he came via the US college system. Nineteen years of age with only one season in the big league. Bottom of the interview priority list after Deng Chol.

  ‘What about the rest? You see any likelies among them?’ Jack rubbed his eyes, which had started to itch like he had chicken pox. Another reason drinking was stupid: he couldn’t see straight even when sober.

  ‘No idea. That’s why we need to interview them, right?’

  ‘So, what, alphabetical order after talking to the Yanks?’

  ‘I guess. But we’d better be quick. The team flies to Darwin tomorrow night to take on the Dragons in a best of three semi-final round.’

  ‘Bloody hell, they’ve only just played a hectic game. They need time to recover, mentally as well as physically.’

  ‘There’s not a lot of rest time in this competition. It’s not like hard contact sports where players need a week or more to recover. The NBL finals series is squeezed in over a tight schedule. So our opportunities to speak to them are going to be limited. Especially if they win this semi-final series and get to the grand finals. That’s best of five.’

  ‘Jesus. To win the title they might have to play, what, eight matches? That’s a tough ask. In England you only have to finish top at the end of the soccer season and you’re the bloody winner.’

  ‘Sounds boring.’

  ‘Yeah. Like the game itself. You can have an hour and a half or more with no score. A yawn fest. That’s why the fans start fighting with each other. They’re bored out of their brains.’

  ‘Invalid argument, DS Lisbon. You don’t get hooligans at test cricket matches, and that’s even more boring.’

  ‘Different demographic, innit? More genteel and whatnot.’

  ‘We could discuss the merits of various sports for hours, but we need to get cracking. I’ve taken the liberty of making an appointment to have a chat with the American boys at their apartment downtown.’ She flicked her wrist around. ‘In twenty minutes.’

  Before he could get his left arm into his jacket sleeve, Jack’s mobile erupted. ‘Hello, Jack Lisbon speaking. Wot?’ A series of head nods and ah-has. He ended the call and pocketed the phone. ‘Can we move that appointment back a bit?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Saturday night’s hero wants to speak to us first.’

  ‘Leroy? That makes no sense, we’re headed there anyway.’

  ‘No. The other hero. The Ginger Nut, Martin Welsh.’

  Chapter 13

  Martin Welsh welcomed the detectives to his middle-class brick-and-tile suburban home with an exaggerated bow and a sweeping arm gesture. The air smelled of a meat griller in desperate need of a clean. ‘Please come in, officers.’

  ‘You said you had information for us?’ said Jack to the back of Welsh’s red head. Their host spun on his heel, head wagging. The man was edgy as hell.

  ‘Come through to the lounge room. I’ve sent my wife and kids to the supermarket so we can speak without any distractions. Would you like a drink?’ He looked from one detective to the other, unable to focus. ‘I only have Coke and Fanta, I’m afraid. Or water. If Cheryl was here she’d make you a coffee. I can’t get my head around how the machine works.’ A nervous laugh.

  ‘Water will be fine.’ Taylor shot Jack a look demanding agreement. ‘Won’t it DS Lisbon?’

  ‘Perfect.’ Jack tossed his jacket on the back of an armchair like he owned the joint. ‘We’ve got a lot of people to interview and not much time before your team of hot shots jets off tomorrow. Let’s try and wrap this up as quick as we can, OK?’

  ‘Sure, I understand.’

  ‘Congratulations on the win Saturday night, by the way,’ said Taylor. ‘You must still be floating on air after making that last free throw.’

  ‘Yes, yes, very exciting. Although I’m more anxious talking to you than I was then, to be honest. I’ll get the drinks and be back in a minute.’

  ‘Make mine a soft drink, will ya sunshine?’ said Jack. With Welsh out of the room, Jack took the opportunity to snoop around the loungeroom. He picked up knickknacks and magazines, peeked under them, put them back.

  ‘What the hell are you looking for?’ Taylor sat in a soft armchair. ‘You’re edgier than him. What’s up?’

  ‘Nothing’s up.’ It was bullshit. The hangover was starting to have delayed secondary effects. Fidgeting around took his mind of his internal organs protesting against the punishment Jack had put them through. Slight headache, pulse faster than it should be, stomach churning, water pooled in his mouth like he wanted to vomit. Stay calm, it’ll stop. ‘I’m just filling in time till he gets back. Nice touch congratulating him. Should have thought of it myself.’

  ‘Relax, Jack.’ Taylor pointed at a green velvet sofa with a couple of rips in it. It sat under large sash windows overlooking a weedy garden. Or maybe they were ferns. ‘You’re making me nervous, and then it’ll be three of us hopping about like fleas.’

  Jack snatched at the drink the second Welsh returned and placed it on a coaster, no “thank you” offered. A quick glug was rewarded with the rush of an instant sugar hit. The parched desert that was the inside of his mouth welcomed the wet coolness. Taylor gawked at her partner before snapping back to the task at hand. ‘Please, Mr Welsh–’

  ‘Call me Martin. Or Welshy.’ He pressed his spine into the soft embrace of an upholstered chair. He wore a black Adidas tank top with white trim, cargo shorts to the knees, bare feet. An old-school barbed wire tattoo snaked around his left bicep, no other ink visible. Short ginger hair spiked like tiny dancing flames. Appearing short and stocky among his gigantic team mates, without them around he was a big, imposing man. ‘I’m only too glad to help.’

  Both detectives nodded sympathetically.

  ‘I was watching the news on TV before you arrived,’ Welsh continued. ‘That reporter Holly Maguire’s got it in for you guys, hasn’t she? She was heaping shit on the Yorkville Police. Reckons you’ve got no idea where to start looking.’

  ‘We’ve only just initiated our investigation, so anything she says can be safely ignored.’ Jack couldn’t hide the defensive attitude. Any mention of Maguire got his back up.

  ‘Still, she’s got a fair–’

  ‘Let’s cut to the chase, shall we Martin?’ Jack locked his gaze onto Welsh’s green eyes. ‘Tell us what you know.’

  ‘Well, Detective Lisbon. I’m not sure how to put it.’ The man switched his position in an instant, now leaning forward, hands on knees. ‘It’s about an…improper relationship at the club. I think it may have something to do with Dale getting killed.’

  ‘We’ve had our suspicions about that.’ Jack nodded, tossed back more Fanta. Taylor hadn’t touched her water.

  ‘Really?’ Welsh half-jumped out of his seat. ‘I thought I was the only one who knew about Dale and Helen.’

  ‘Who the fuck’s Helen?’ Jack blurted.

  The point guard’s eyes widened like donuts. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I said who’s Helen? Never heard that name.’

  ‘We figured Fil Collins as the one possibly having an affair, not her husband.’ Taylor’s voice registered the same degree of surprise as Jack’s.

  ‘Oh no. Fil was devoted to Dale. She’d never
stray. But Dale, he had a wandering eye. We all knew it. Always ogling the players’ wives and girlfriends.’

  ‘I take it Helen was such a woman?’

  A quick head nod. ‘Yeah. She was, is, married to a guy called Steve Sarsby.’

  ‘Tell us about him,’ said Jack encouragingly. The cuckolded husband shot to the top of the suspect list. ‘And don’t rush. It’s clear you’re overwhelmed by the whole situation.’ Out of the corner of his eye he saw Taylor scrolling through her phone. He knew she’d be googling for information on Sarsby while Jack did the talking.

  ‘Steve? He played a couple of seasons at the top level. Finished up two seasons ago. Me and him were pretty close for a bit.’ He stopped talking, stared at his feet, took a couple of deep breaths. ‘Oh, shit…’

  ‘Go on.’ Jack waved a hand languidly. ‘Like I said, son. Take it easy.’

  ‘OK, sorry.’ A weak cough into a fist. His face turned that shade of pale pink you only get with freckly redheads. ‘One night, three years ago, we had this really hard training session. I mean, Collins pushed us to breaking point. By the end of it, we could barely move, some threw up their lunch. After we’d rested up a bit, we all went home to prepare for a flight to Sydney next morning. I was driving along the freeway when I realised I’d forgotten my mobile phone back in the dressing rooms. At least I thought I had. Turned out it was under the passenger seat of my car. Must’ve knocked it under there without noticing. I’m such a klutz, ya know?’

  Why did I tell him to take his time, dammit? He’ll drag this out for hours. ‘Yes, yes, Martin. Get to the point.’

  ‘Oh, sorry officer.’ The man wore a mildly wounded expression. ‘It was late, about 10:00pm. I parked the car and let myself into the stadium. We’ve all got keys to the joint, but the door was unlocked. Lots of the lights were still on, which I thought was odd. I called out, but no answer. I figured the cleaners were in doing an after-hours job or something like that. I walked down the corridor towards the dressing rooms when I started to hear noises coming from inside. Then I thought, no, it’s not the cleaners, it’s one of the players come back to do some individual training. We’ve got weights in the dressing room, so it wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility, right? The noises could have been huffing and puffing from exercise.’

  ‘Why would anyone be exercising in there, Martin?’ said Taylor, her tone also reflecting annoyance with the circuitous journey to get to the point. ‘You just told us this all happened after a tough training session and it was late. Who’d have the energy left for exercises?’

  Welsh bit his bottom lip. ‘I dunno. It’s what crossed my mind at the time. So I’ve just turned the door handle and waltzed straight in there.’ He paused, gathered his thoughts. ‘I’ll never forget it.’

  ‘And what did you see?’ said Jack.

  ‘I couldn’t believe it. Both of them were stark naked. She was lying on a bench with her thighs wrapped around him, squealing. Dale was pumping away furiously like the Energizer Bunny. I closed the door as quickly and quietly as I could and got the hell out of there.’

  ‘Did they see you?’ said Jack.

  ‘No. They were…preoccupied. Completely focused on…what they were doing.’

  ‘Does anyone else know about this?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Her husband Steve.’

  ‘Just him?’

  ‘No idea. How would I know who he’s decided to tell?’

  ‘Fair call. We’ll definitely be paying him a visit. I guess it wasn’t easy for you to break the news to Steve, huh?’ said Taylor.

  Welsh nodded. ‘Yeah, but I kept the secret for a year, didn’t even tell my own wife. I only told Steve about it after he left the club.’

  ‘Why wait? What could be gained by delaying it?’ Jack slugged more Fanta to assuage his dry mouth. He’d have to ask for another if the interview dragged on much longer. ‘What kind of friend leaves his mate in the dark about a cheating spouse?’

  ‘He was under a lot of pressure to keep his spot. His form was up and down. I didn’t want to do anything to upset him to the point it would jeopardise his career. He trained so hard it was crazy. He had to, really. Steve lacked the natural talent and genetics others have been blessed with.’

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Taylor was on her feet. ‘You were prepared to let him continue playing under a coach who was having sex with his wife? Without his knowledge?’

  ‘I know, I know.’ Welsh shifted his gaze from one detective to another, his eyes pleading for understanding. ‘You don’t think I was torn in my mind what to do? Jesus, I knew Steve was going home to a wife he thought was being faithful, only to be taking instructions from a man rogering his missus. I barely held it together when Dale singled out Steve for extra attention at training. You can see why this darling of the community wasn’t such a hero now, can’t you?’

  ‘You say Sarsby trained harder than everyone else,’ said Jack. ‘Maybe it left him too tired to…ah…perform adequately.’

  Taylor rolled her eyes. ‘Come on, Jack. The coach is nearly 60 and Sarsby is, how old is he Martin?’

  ‘Younger than me,’ said Welsh. ‘He was 25 at the time.’

  Taylor fixed annoyed eyes on her partner. ‘Are you seriously suggesting a young, fit, athlete like Steve Sarsby couldn’t satisfy his wife and the old bloke could? Give me a break.’

  ‘It’s not unheard of,’ said Welsh quietly. ‘It’s a combination of factors. Extreme training, long flights, the mental stress of the competition, fighting to keep your place in the team. I read up on it. High intensity training can lower men’s libido.’

  ‘See, DC Taylor,’ Jack said smugly. ‘I was right.’

  ‘Doesn’t affect everyone,’ Welsh was quick to point out. ‘Some guys never have an issue getting it up.’

  ‘OK.’ Taylor’s blushing brought a sardonic smile to Jack’s lips. ‘We’re getting off track here. Let’s assume Sarsby couldn’t perform his matrimonial duties. Why Collins?’

  ‘The man could charm the pants off Mother Teresa. He was good looking for his age, too. Plus he kept in good physical shape.’

  ‘I see how she could be attracted to him, can’t you DS Taylor?’ said Jack.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Taylor.

  ‘I gotta say,’ continued Welsh. ‘Collins and Helen were good at covering their tracks. If I hadn’t stumbled on them, perhaps their affair would have remained a secret forever.’

  ‘How do you know it wasn’t a one off? Maybe they took advantage of an opportunity and never went there again.’

  ‘I’m pretty sure they were hooking up.’

  ‘On what do you base that assumption?’ said Jack.

  ‘Steve had vision problems for a couple of week after he got a nasty poke in the eye during a match. He couldn’t drive so Helen started to bring him to training. She coaches a women’s team across town, so I guess that gave her an excuse to talk to Dale without raising suspicion. After I spied them fucking that time – excuse my language – I’d catch sight of them stealing glances during our training sessions, like they were sharing a dirty secret. That’s why I reckon they were meeting up and it wasn’t just a one-off.’

  ‘How did Steve react to the news when you told him?’ said Taylor.

  ‘What do you reckon? He was furious. Ranted and raved, said he was going to leave Helen. Never did, though. They’re still together.’

  ‘Did he confront Collins about it?’

  Welsh shook his head. ‘Nah. He said he was going to, but at the end of the day he was too scared. That’s when I kind of lost respect for the bloke. I reckon he probably was impotent – sexually and, ya know, as a man.’

  ‘You’re a fine one to talk.’ Taylor gave Welsh a cynical side-eye. ‘It was you who kept Steve in the dark while his missus was being…serviced on the side.’

  ‘Listen, I told you it tore me up inside. Maybe I should have told him straight away.’

  ‘It’s too late to worry about that
now.’ said Jack. ‘Do you think Steve may have harboured his anger and jealousy over time until it exploded in the hit and run that killed Collins?’

  ‘Yeah. Maybe he was fuming under the surface, biding his time. If you ask me who I’d rate most likely to bump off Dale, I’d say Steve.’ The sound of the front door opening stopped Welsh’s account. Giggling female voices and the slapping of flip-flops on the tiled floor drifted into the living room. ‘Look, my wife and kids are home. I’ve told you all I know.’ He gestured towards the hallway with his head. ‘Let’s call it a day, huh? Do with the information whatever you need to do. If you can leave my name out of it, I’d be much obliged.’

  ‘I’m sure we can do that.’ Jack drained the last drop of orange nectar from the glass. Sarsby would infer Welsh had spilled the beans, but Jack was under no obligation to divulge his source.

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘I don’t make promises I can’t keep. But I certainly won’t go out of my way to drop you in it.’ Jack stood, slipped on his jacket. He extended a hand to Welsh. The damn thirst raked his throat again. Another Fanta would have to be purchased at a petrol station. Or a Coke, anything cold and fizzy. ‘Thanks for your time. I’ve just got one more question.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Where can we find Steve and Helen Sarsby?’

  Chapter 14

  The sprawling department store hummed with the hyperactivity of excited shoppers. People crowded the aisles and hassled sales staff. Bored kids ran amok, toddlers tugged the arms of their exhausted parents. The red and green tinsel and plastic fir trees reminded Jack there was only two weeks left until Christmas. He’d need to get something in the post to Skye quick smart or she’d miss out. Or wire the ex some money to buy the girl a present. Damn, he hated this time of year.

  He squeezed past two women discussing the merits of an Italian leather lounge suite and strode purposefully towards the electrical section. It was easy to spot the person-of-interest, who stood head and shoulders above the crowd. The man was finishing up a sale. With a cheesy smile he handed a teenager a plastic bag, the pair of them laughing at some triviality. Things were looking promising. Then Jack spied a young woman homing in on the same target, eager to get her shopping done. Her eyes lit up as she observed the freshly processed customer walking away with his treasured purchase. Hurry, before she gets there first. The woman noticed Jack lengthen his stride, in turn she hastened her approach, zeroing in on the sales desk.