by C. A. Larmer
He needed the extra money now, was going to turn his life around. Was going to reach out and make a difference at last.
But he couldn’t think about that now, he had promised to be in by daybreak and the sun was already starting to peek out from behind the cluttered apartment blocks that shadowed this end of the Cross. He hurried up, reaching the stone steps and taking a few deep breaths before heading down. He wasn’t fit like the old days, those endless hours in the bush, lugging Theodolites and chains, not to mention hammer, axe, fly tent, food, lamp, the works. They were the good days. The strong days. The days of hope.
He had withered away now in every sense of the word, he knew that, but things were going to change. He would see to it. It was his time.
A few steps down, he heard a voice call out. He stopped and looked back, startled at first and then, after several long seconds, surprised.
It couldn’t be, could it?
He wasn’t expecting this. Not at all. But he felt joy for the first time in a long time, and relief. He took one step up, anxious, not daring to believe, and held out his hand, hoping against hope.
But the hope was short-lived.
When he saw the flicker of raw hatred in those familiar eyes and felt the fierce, determined push, he knew it was too late. His legs fell out from under him but he understood completely, and he forgave everything, every lie and brutal deceit, as he tumbled with resignation towards his inevitable demise.
Chapter 23
The early morning call nearly sent Roxy falling out of the bed as she grappled for the phone, half asleep in the dark. She glanced at her clock radio. It was 6:45 a.m. and she half expected it to be Max, so when a woman’s voice came on the other end, she took a few seconds to register who it was.
“Sorry, I know it’s an obscene time to call, but I’ve been waiting a while.”
“Gilda?”
“’Fraid so. We need to talk. Now. Can you come meet me?”
Roxy rubbed the sleep from her eyes and stared at the clock again. “What are you doing up at this disgusting hour?”
“I’ve told you before, Roxy, crime has a really bad case of insomnia.”
“Crime? What crime?”
“Homicide, hence the reason I’m calling. We found a body, not far from you.”
“And?”
“And it’s got your name written all over it.”
Roxy sat up on one elbow. “Huh?”
“Just pull some gear on and meet me at Peepers.” She hung up and Roxy stared at the receiver bewildered. Then she shook herself out and did as instructed.
Fifteen minutes later, after throwing on jeans, her warmest jumper and fleece-lined jacket, Roxy swung a scarf around her neck and a beret on her head, and stepped out onto the cold, wet pavement beside her building. It was now starting to get light but there were very few people about, just a few joggers looking miserable and several equally miserable suits heading into work. Nothing else was open, so she was surprised to find Gilda seated at a table inside Peepers, a giant plate of greasy bacon and eggs in front of her. Roxy didn’t even realise the café served breakfast this early.
“See the things you discover when you get up before noon,” Gilda told her. “Want some?”
Roxy shook her head and ordered a latté from the bleary eyed waiter hovering nearby. He looked as bad as she felt and she slunk into the seat beside Gilda, one eyebrow raised.
“This is a new one for you.”
“Nah, I often stop by if I’m in this part of the world.”
“I mean, dragging me out of bed at this hour. Normally it’s about the time you’re getting me home.”
Gilda laughed. “Yeah, well, suck it up, lady. I’ve been up since 5:30 a.m. trying to identify a body.”
“And you called me because ...?”
“Because of this,” Gilda said, swooping down to pick up a plastic bag beside her handbag. She flung the bag across to Roxy who caught it with one hand, surprised her reflexes were so good so early. It looked like a newspaper, indeed it was a newspaper, yesterday’s, judging by the date.
“So?”
“So, if you turn it over, you’ll see your name scribbled in bright red ink on one side. Care to tell me how your newspaper ends up in the hands of a dead homeless guy?”
Roxy’s heart sank. “Oh my God. Gordon Reilly! It’s not Gordo, is it?”
“Dunno, but that’s a start. He had no ID on him.”
She sighed heavily. “I think this is the paper I gave Gordon Reilly yesterday, when I went to see him at the Matt Talbot Hostel. You remember, he’s one of the guys from the old photo I showed you.”
“Oh right. You tracked him down pretty quickly.”
“In the nick of time, by the sound of it.”
Gilda stopped eating and reached back into her bag for a notepad and pen. She jotted down a few things then returned to her meal, waving her fork around as an indication for Roxy to continue. And so she did, filling her friend in on all that had happened since last they met. She told her about the original photograph and how it had the words “Beautiful Bett” scribbled on the back, and how she had tracked down first Betty and then her ex.
“Although Gordon said they weren’t actually divorced, so I guess you’d better get in touch with Betty pretty fast. She says she hadn’t seen him in years, but she seemed to care for the guy, so she’ll probably be cut up. They have a son, Brian, so he’ll be devastated, too.”
She paused while the coffee appeared in front of her and, judging from the lack of steam, took a long, hearty sip. It was exactly as good coffee should be: strong, warm, steadying.
“So what happened to Gordon? How did he ...?”
“Still working it all out and the coroner will have more this afternoon. Some teenage revellers found his body early this morning, at the bottom of the McElhone steps, at Woolloomooloo.”
“Bloody hell, I just walked up and down those stairs yesterday.” She shivered and tightened her scarf around her neck.
Gilda finished chewing and said, “Look, I’m not the lead on this, it’s a guy called Brent Wiles, a good bloke. He’ll be calling on you to question you later this morning, and because I know you, I’m not allowed to be present, but I wanted to give you the heads-up and find out what the hell is going on. So, this Gordon Reilly fellow had digs at Matt Talbot’s, you reckon?”
“Not digs. Said he boarded at a bedsit on Challis Avenue, but worked at the hostel, driving, cooking, that kind of stuff. They called him The Surly Surveyor.”
“The Dead Surveyor now,” Gilda said, stating the obvious.
“Did anyone see anything? Any witnesses?”
“Not exactly. The revellers only saw the end of it—the deceased crashing to the bottom of the steps—and rendered assistance, or tried to. They dialled Triple 0 but he was dead by the time the paramedics got there. Reckon they didn’t see anyone around, but it would have been hard to tell at that hour. Still pretty dark.”
“And do we know if he fell or ...?”
“Was pushed?” Gilda shrugged. “We suspect he was pushed, but who knows? He could have just been drinking and stumbled, wouldn’t be the first time, but as I say, we’ll know more this arvo. I’m not even supposed to be talking to you. They could have my badge for this. But, well, I had to see the paper for myself and once I did, I offered to drop this off at Forensics, mostly so I could have a quick word with you.”
Roxy was shaking her head. “You know, Gordon used to be an alcoholic but told me he’d been sober for over a year.”
“Wouldn’t be the first alco to lie about it. Or fall off the wagon.”
“Hmm, maybe, but I don’t think so. I didn’t take him for an alcoholic. He was pretty low, but he was very articulate and I didn’t smell anything on his breath. Besides, I doubt the hostel would let him drive their van if he was a risk.” She took a gulp of her coffee. “In fact, I was starting to wonder whether he was involved in Berny Tiles’s death but ... well, now ...”
“Oh
?”
Roxy told Gilda about her suspicion that Betty and Berny had had an affair all those years ago and that Gordon had access to a white van.
Gilda looked at her sideways. “So you thought Gordon Reilly had borrowed the van from the hostel and run over Berny? Why, to avenge a thirty-seven-year-old affair?”
She scrunched up her face. “Sounds silly now you put it like that.”
“Sounds absurd, but I’ve heard worse. I’ll pass your thoughts on to Leary. They may as well check out that van at Matt Talbot’s. Of course, now Gordon Reilly has shown up deceased, it kinda deflates that theory.”
“It also puts Wolfgang Bergman in the frame.”
“How do you figure that?”
Roxy repeated the conversation she had had with Gordon the day before and her subsequent conversation with Bergman. “When I told Wolfman that Gordon was alive and was pointing the finger at him for some supposed scam back in 1975, he tried to play it cool but then he started getting tetchy, like I was poking at some wound that he wanted me to stay well away from. His wife went ballistic, he had to send her back inside.”
Gilda considered this. “What was it about, do you think?”
Roxy shook her head. “I have no idea, that’s what makes it all so frustrating. But it seems too much of a coincidence to me. Gordon Reilly’s been missing for a decade. I find him yesterday, confront his old acquaintance about something he said and next thing you know, he’s dead.”
“Did you tell anybody else about Gordon? About where he was living or working?”
“Well, yes, I told Sondra, she had asked me to track him down, and I told Betty, his estranged wife.”
“Really?” Gilda looked interested but Roxy was shaking her head.
“No way, Gilda. Betty was relieved to hear he was alive and well, there’s no way she did this.”
Gilda shrugged. “She is one of the few people left alive from that photo of yours.”
Roxy sat forward. “Jesus, you don’t suppose someone is knocking off everyone from that Congress? Maybe you’d better get some protection for Betty.”
“Protection? I was thinking she might be the culprit.”
Roxy laughed. “She’s sixty-five, Gilda.”
“So, you think little old ladies can’t push little old men down flights of stairs? Pretty easy if they’ve got their back turned to you.”
“So, what, you think Betty tracks him down, arranges the rendezvous and gives him a shove? Why would she want to kill her estranged hubby?”
Gilda shrugged. “’Cause he left her all alone to raise their son?” She clicked her fingers. “No, maybe she believes Gordon killed her old lover, Berny, and she wants revenge!”
Roxy stared at Gilda and she laughed. “I don’t really buy it either, Roxy, I’m just letting my imagination run wild.”
“No, no, this is good. Let’s say you’re right and Gordon did kill Berny as payback for wrecking his marriage. It’s a crazy theory but let’s run with it. So then Betty hears about Berny’s murder and is distraught, maybe she’s been seeing him all along, or she just can’t ever get past their great love affair. So, I show up and pretty much hand Gordon to her on a platter. She then arranges to meet Gordon and kills him as payback for killing her one great love.”
“Forget biographies, you should write romance,” Gilda said, laughing again.
“Yeah, yeah, but where does all this leave Bob Brownlow? Why was he killed? And how does an elderly man, let alone a woman, manage to beat another man to death on a public street?”
Gilda wiped her mouth with her serviette and sighed. “They don’t. That’s where it falls apart. That and the lack of motive. The other person, of course, who’s still alive from that Survey Congress is Wolfgang Bergman.”
“That’s why I reckon he did it! He’s a scammer, Gordon told me that. He’s obviously hiding something.”
“Maybe, but if you’re wrong about him, he could be next. Perhaps he’s the one who needs police protection.”
“Oh, I think he can look after himself. He’s got Ginny the Doberman by his side.”
Gilda finished off the last of her bacon, then pushed the plate away and signalled for the bill. “All this theorising is good fun, Roxy, but I’ve got to get back to the real world, get this bag to Forensics—honestly, my policing skills have gone AWOL since I met you.”
“So what are you going to do about Betty? Lock her up or get her some protection?”
She shrugged. “Sorry, Roxy, but I’m not sure I can make a case for either.”
“But you have to protect her! Can’t you see, four out of the six people in that photo are now dead, three probably murdered. Surely Betty could be in danger.”
Gilda sighed. “E-mail me the shot, and I’ll look into it. That’s all I can promise. Oh, and it’d be good to get Betty’s contact details. I’ll pass them on to Wiles. He’ll probably want me to go with him to break the bad news.”
“She works at a consulting firm called Henry Mapping something or other, in Chatswood. Just be wary of the beefy, blond receptionist. I don’t know what his problem is, but he makes Ginny the Doberman look like a pussy cat.”
“Duly noted,” Gilda said, scribbling the name down in her pad. She then stared at her friend, one eyebrow raised sky high. “This is the murkiest brew you’ve ever landed me in, and that’s saying something.”
“Me?”
“Yes you! It seems wherever there’s a corpse, you’re not far behind.”
“God, you sound like my mother.”
Gilda paid the bill then walked Roxy back to her building. “Thanks for meeting me. And for identifying the deceased, at least giving us an idea who it might be. I’ll let Wiles know and I guess he’ll ask Betty to do the official honours.”
They said their goodbyes and Roxy returned to her apartment, her heart low, her head buzzing with questions.
Yesterday Gordon Reilly had been alive and well. Okay, he was living in a bedsit and working at a homeless men’s shelter, but he was alive. Then she had gone and spoken to him, even half suspected him of murder, and now he was dead.
What the hell had she done? And who, she wondered, would be next?
Chapter 24
It didn’t take long for Detective Inspector Brent Wiles to come knocking at Roxy’s door. He was a sharply dressed thirty-something with a clipped goatee and piercing blue eyes, and had a female detective with him, a relatively plain woman called Doreen Oliver who wore a drab grey suit and her hair in a tight ponytail. As they began questioning Roxy, it was clear they had already spoken with Gilda because they cut straight to the chase.
“We just need to confirm, in your own words, please, how your Sydney Morning Herald happened to be in the hands of the deceased, please,” Wiles said.
Roxy nodded and repeated the story she had told Gilda.
“So a Ms Sondra Lane asked you to locate the deceased?”
“Yes, she was trying to track down the people in an old photo of her father’s.”
Roxy showed them a copy of the picture on her laptop and they studied it. “I can e-mail it to you,” she said but Doreen was already holding out a thumb drive.
“Now, if you don’t mind.”
Roxy took it from her and downloaded a copy of the image onto the thumb drive, then handed it back.
“And where were you this morning, around 5:20 a.m.?” Wiles was asking.
Roxy felt a wave of anxiety as she replied, “In bed asleep and alone, I’m afraid.”
This didn’t seem to bother him and he simply nodded and then double checked Betty Reilly’s office address before departing, Roxy guessed, to break the terrible news.
She didn’t really believe that Betty was the culprit and she wondered how the poor woman would take it. Sure, she had been estranged from her husband for years, but did that make the news easier to bear, or much, much worse?
After fixing herself another coffee, Roxy tried Sondra’s number again but it went straight to voice mail and she
groaned aloud. Sondra had warned her she was busy, something about three weddings and a flower expo, but Roxy was anxious to talk to her. The week was almost up and she had done exactly as she had been asked, she had located the original photograph, and everyone in it.
Of course, nothing had turned out as she’d expected, and the picture was even cloudier than before. It was now indisputable that Sondra was onto something big. Something had happened at that Survey Congress and no one wanted to talk about it, yet their silence spoke volumes—as did all these suspicious deaths—and Roxy’s curiosity was on red alert.
There was no turning back now. She was no longer searching for answers for a grieving daughter; she was hunting for a killer. She tapped her screen again to stare at the seemingly boring old photo, and then sighed.
What really happened in 1975? Why had Browny, Berny and Gordon met such sad and violent ends? And why now, after all this time?
Roxy knew that was the crucial question. Why was it happening thirty-seven years down the track? She glanced at her mantelpiece clock and stood up. It was time to get some straight answers from one of only two people still left alive from that fateful day.
As Roxy made her way back to Chatswood to see Betty Reilly, she hoped that Wiles had had the chance to break the awful news about Gordon, and she wondered if she would even find her at work. When she did spot Betty, standing in the outdoor car park below her office block, it was clear the deed was done. The older woman looked puffy eyed and a little dazed as she stood beside a small, silver hatchback, keys in her hand, not moving, and Roxy felt dreadful for even considering that Betty could have done this awful thing.
“Betty?” Roxy called out.
Betty looked up at her and for one moment didn’t seem to know who she was, then it must have dawned on her and she tried for a smile but couldn’t quite pull it off.
“Mr Henry told me to take the day off ... I just can’t seem to find the energy to leave. I’m not sure where I would go.”
“How about a cup of tea?”
She glanced around furtively. “I don’t know ... Brian said I should go straight home ...”