This gave Chandler further concern. Maybe he did have the new Ivan Milat in the cells. Or wandering the town.
Nick carried on. ‘There was also John Wayne Glover in the late eighties. He killed six elderly women ’cause he hated his mother-in-law. He eventually hung himself in prison—’
This statement induced a moment of dread. They had taken all the necessary precautions in removing belts and laces from their prisoner but the necklace cutting into Heath’s skin . . .
Chandler charged to the door leading to the cells, hoping to hear some movement, an echo, a snore, anything. He got more than that.
‘I overheard you in there,’ said Heath, his voice desperate, his breathing choked.
Opening the slit, Chandler peered in. Heath wasn’t swinging from the window bars as he had feared, but was bright red, still playing with the cross, twisting it into his flesh as if trying to force God to help him.
His prisoner approached the gap, leaning down and twisting his head as if to try and squeeze through. ‘I’m not a killer.’
Chandler took a step back, keeping his distance.
‘I’m no monster either,’ he said, pleading. ‘Do I look like one?’
Nick’s voice rebounded off the bare walls. ‘Ted Bundy looked normal, he even volunteered on helplines; Robert Lee Yates too, and he killed thirteen prostitutes. Dean Corll was vice-president of a candy factory and murdered at least—’
Chandler interrupted his colleague. ‘Nick, we get the point. You’re upsetting our guest.’
In a flash of unexpected speed Heath slapped his hand off the solid steel door, letting out a howl of pain. ‘Of course I’m upset,’ he spluttered. ‘I haven’t done anything but I’m locked up like I’m Hannibal Lecter.’
‘You have to be patient, Mr Barwell. If you’re as innocent as you say, I’ll find out.’
‘I am,’ whimpered Heath, looking at a hand that was now as red as his face.
‘Plus, I’ll need that necklace,’ said Chandler.
‘Why?’
‘To prevent any accidents,’ said Chandler.
Heath paused, cursed, then removed the thin, gold necklace and passed it through the slot before retreating to the bench and sitting down.
As he watched his suspect slump to the bench, something gnawed at Chandler. Though he had no proof, something warned him that he had the wrong guy locked up and that he was nothing more than a pawn in a game being played between Heath, Gabriel and now Mitch. The sense of helplessness didn’t feel good at all.
15
In the end, Wilbrook didn’t have to wait long for Inspector Mitchell Andrews’ homecoming. Two hours, twenty-two minutes to be precise. With the roads all but clear, and with authority to speed at will, he had raced down the black tarmac that criss-crossed the barren landscape.
Chandler watched from outside his office as Mitch strode into the station followed closely by his entourage. Knowing Mitch, he had probably insisted on the rest holding back to allow him to enter first, king of kings. He was bedecked in a grey suit that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a 1930’s G-Man: wide, padded shoulders, tapered sleeves and peaked lapels, his trousers creased and tucked neatly at the leg as if he had stepped out of a freezer rather than the blazing heat. The rest of his crew were dressed in matching black suits and looked like a sinister funeral cortège, slyly glancing around as if they were yet to pick out the soon-to-be deceased. Chandler had a feeling it might be him.
Indeed there was a thin smile on Mitch’s otherwise placid face as he loped towards Chandler, completely ignoring Nick’s welcome. No need to fraternize with underlings, thought Chandler.
A little to his surprise Mitch extended his hand. Chandler took it. The shake was cold and somewhat perfunctory, but more than he had expected. In his colleague’s focused expression Chandler saw a connection, a fragile link to the past, good and bad strands wound tightly together. And tightly wound was how he felt. He wondered if Mitch felt the same.
Despite wearing a suit that aimed to broaden his physique, it looked like Mitch hadn’t put on an ounce of weight in the intervening years. He still towered over Chandler, his chin jutting forth, his lips the same cardiac blue. One thing the advancing years and the zigzag of lines around his eyes had given him was a rather statesmanlike appearance. Possibly that was the aim of the suit, a furthering of the aura that he’d created around himself, lending authority to his position, but to Chandler he still looked and dressed like a politician moonlighting as a policeman; plastic, as if pulled from a mould and given moving body parts. The GI Joe of policemen. It was all a far cry from nicking sweets from Penny Hall’s shop by the bandstand in town when they were kids.
‘It’s been a few years hasn’t it, Sergeant Jenkins?’ said Mitch, still soaking up the dreary view of a station that looked as if it had been carved from a single piece of concrete.
‘It has,’ responded Chandler, knocked off guard by the niceties.
‘The town still seems stuck in time,’ said Mitch. ‘As are the people,’ he continued, nodding towards his motionless entourage but aiming the jibe fair and square at Chandler. A preview of what was to come.
‘We have business to do,’ said Chandler, hoping to get straight back on the front foot.
‘Yes, cleaning up your mess, Sergeant.’
‘We don’t know what it is as yet . . . Inspector.’
‘If you have to drag us all the way in from the coast to deal with it – it’s a mess.’ Mitch looked around again. ‘And where’s the coffee?’
‘We didn’t drag you; you came. I’ll get someone right on the coffee,’ said Chandler, with more than a hint of sarcasm.
‘You do that, Sergeant, and while we’re on it, we didn’t have enough parking space.’
‘I didn’t know you were bringing the whole division,’ said Chandler, pointing to the black suits slowly fanning out around the office like cancerous cells. ‘Plus, if you’re all parked out there, you might start some rumours – spark off some of the social media activity you’re so terrified of.’
‘Don’t worry, Sergeant. The cars are all unmarked. And most are parked on the next street across,’ said Mitch removing his hat and placing it firmly in the middle of the table, as if marking his territory. ‘Besides, by now the first people going past the roadblock on the highway will probably have tweeted about it, so if our suspect has access to the Internet, he’ll know what’s out there. And who’s hunting him.’
‘That might not be a bad thing,’ said Chandler. ‘It might increase the chances of surrender.’
‘Or force him into hiding,’ countered Mitch. ‘Assuming he hasn’t escaped already.’
‘Well, neither suspect possessed a mobile when they came in. Both claim that it was taken off them during the incident so there’s a chance Gabriel might not know.’
‘Might not is not good enough for me, Sergeant. We need answers. We need to locate and apprehend him.’
‘What do you think we’ve been trying to do?’ said Chandler, standing across the desk, not prepared to back down. ‘Most of my officers are out there looking.’
‘All three of them,’ said Mitch with a smile.
‘Yeah, three good officers.’
‘Tanya, Jim and . . . ?’ said Mitch, head cocked to the side, the smile persisting.
‘Luka. Plus our new constable Nick over there,’ said Chandler, looking to the front desk. Nick waved across.
Mitch didn’t wave back, instead setting his crew into motion. ‘Roper, Darren, Flo, you take that desk,’ said Mitch, pointing to Luka’s cluttered workspace. ‘Yohan, Suze, Erin, you take that one,’ he added, pointing at Jim’s empty desk. ‘The rest of you, find any place you can.’
Chandler watched as the Port Hedland team set up base, stuffing Luka’s unfinished paperwork into a pile in the corner before whisking out shiny black laptops, jamming the ports full of electronic swabs and implements, the processors whirring as they started up, lights flashing like a control tower at an ai
rport.
‘Do you want to set yourself up in the interview room?’ asked Chandler. The more doors between him and Mitch the better.
‘Oh no, that’s not necessary, Sergeant. We might need it. I’m going to commandeer your office.’
‘Right, I’ll clear some space.’
‘Clear all the space. We really don’t need anything you have other than the testimonies.’
‘You can’t come in here and—’
‘And what?’ said Mitch moving closer, the volume lowered but the invective increased. ‘I can do what I want . . . Chandler,’ he continued, dropping the formality but making sure none of the others heard.
Chandler felt like a dog being scolded by its master. He tried to retaliate. ‘And where do you expect me to go . . . Mitch?’
Mitch stepped back, undeterred. ‘Let’s not allow petty disputes to get in the way of this investigation, Sergeant. We’re all here to work together.’
‘Okay. What do you want me to do then?’ asked Chandler, testing that theory. If the man had a plan – and knowing Mitch he had already developed one – then he should be able to rhyme off what Chandler and his team were designated to do.
‘Let’s get set up first,’ said Mitch with a grin, before shouting across the room. ‘Suze, get on to the sergeant’s computer and rip me those two interviews.’
Suze, late-twenties in age but dressed like a forty-year-old banker, left her newly allocated desk and flew past them both into Chandler’s – soon to be Mitch’s – office. The black suit draped off her thin shoulders, the lapels of the white blouse flapping with each step. What was apparent was that in the years since they’d met, Mitch had grown adept at ordering his minions around. Whether he’d grown any better at listening to the advice of others was yet to be ascertained.
In a flash the small-town station became Mitch’s headquarters, his staff darting around like spinning tops, setting up printers, taping numbers to phones, labelling equipment like an angry divorcee tagging items allocated in the settlement. There was a fury in how they worked and Chandler had to admit, a presence and authority in the way Mitch led them that he was impressed with, exhibiting an arrogance that Chandler wasn’t capable of. Chandler supposed that to climb the ladder you had to be able to step on a few fingers.
‘Meeting in my office,’ announced Mitch. Chandler held his tongue and crowded into the office with everyone else, a dozen extra bodies raising the temperature in the small room a notch further.
Mitch addressed them, the ancient projector casting an overhead map of the town on to the wall.
‘Okay, I assume we’re all fully briefed regarding the situation, but to summarize, we have a suspect at large, possibly holed up in town, possibly on his way out of town. So far we’ve been trying to contain him, but now we need to be more proactive.’
Brandishing a laser pointer he aimed it at the screen. ‘Roper and Flo, you take Watkins to Fenley; Darren and Neil, Pomarroo to the Creek. Erin, you and Mick take North down to Eagle’s Brook; and MacKenzie and Sun, you have this area,’ said Mitch, pointing to George Street and Dieskirt, where Chandler’s house was situated.
‘What about my team?’ said Chandler.
Mitch didn’t turn from the map. ‘They can remain where they are and check the traffic as they have been doing.’
‘And me?’
‘You’re in command, Sergeant,’ said Mitch. ‘With me.’ With this he raised the laser pointer, guiding the dot back to the map. ‘We have until dark to locate the suspect. If we cannot we will be forced to try something else. Everyone understand?’
His orders issued, he faced his audience to accept the obedient nods before his team swiftly exited one by one like unthinking robots. Chandler hoped that all emotion hadn’t been whipped out of them like it had been in their boss.
Chandler remained behind. He was curious what Mitch had meant by being ‘forced to try something else’. It seemed to suggest that he had a plan for that eventuality. If Chandler was really in joint command then he should divulge what it was.
‘So what if we don’t track him by nightfall?’ asked Chandler.
Mitch didn’t bite. ‘Then, as I said, we try something different.’
‘I know you, Mitch,’ said Chandler. ‘You know exactly what you want to do.’
Mitch nodded. ‘Correct, Sergeant. And if it comes to pass, I’ll reveal it.’
If it wasn’t bad enough being sidelined when Mitch wasn’t here, it felt ten times worse now that he was – it was an additional, personal, brush-off.
‘So what do we do now?’ asked Chandler. ‘What else do you need to know?’
‘What I need to know, Sergeant, are all possible ways in and out of town.’
‘You can see that on the map. Why don’t you use your laser pointer?’
‘Yes, but I want to know from you which are the most viable. Draw them up and get them to me. Show me how a rat gets in and out of town with the least chance of being noticed.’
‘Gabriel won’t know them; he’s from Perth or that direction. You know those runs better than him.’
Mitch stayed quiet for a second, taking a breath. ‘Okay. I’ll put it a different way. Let’s assume he does know. Let’s assume he is a rat. Find out how best he could get out, Sergeant. Come back to me when you do.’
And that was that. Mitch stopped talking and flicked his eyes towards the door.
Chandler took the hint, glad to get out of there. The office was empty, the ants having fled the nest to begin their hunt for prey. At the front desk Nick looked disturbed but eager.
‘And that’s Mitch,’ said Chandler.
‘He’s very . . . serious,’ offered his young constable, pausing to find the right word.
‘It’s the badge talking,’ said Chandler. He wanted to believe that the old, semi-reckless teenager resided within Mitch somewhere.
‘At least he’s getting things moving,’ said Nick, before backtracking. ‘Not that you weren’t as well, Sarge, it’s just that he’s brought more people and . . .’
It was obvious that his constable was impressed with the display of authority.
‘It’s okay, Nick. Just do what he says . . . if he ever talks to you.’
With his own computer shoved into the corner of Mitch’s new command centre, Chandler logged on to Tanya’s and brought up a map of the town. He quickly discovered that there were no end of rabbit holes that might have shielded Gabriel’s route out. The back of Fraser Street and down into the storm drain; Yoppy’s Lane behind the football field; Rose Avenue; Lincoln Street; even the alley behind Cook if he were sneaky enough. He drew them all up, red lines sprouting from the hotel like lava flows and brought them to his superior.
Mitch was leaning back in Chandler’s chair, the smile on his face confirming his delight at watching his former partner do his bidding.
‘This is what we’ve got,’ said Chandler. ‘Plenty of ways in and out. Jim’s here,’ he continued, pointing at the image projected on the wall with his finger and trying not to be blinded by the glare of the bulb. ‘Tanya here, Luka here. State are on 95 and 138. The hotel he absconded from is the Gardner’s Palace, which is—’
‘I know where it is.’
‘Right. So if he took the fire escape, the quickest way out of town is Rooster’s, tucking in around the side of the laundrette, before crossing the alley into the wasteland behind. No more than ten or fifteen minutes, if you want to make sure to stay hidden.’
‘You know that laundrette’s always busy,’ countered Mitch. ‘They’re always out back hanging clothes on the lines.’
‘Yes,’ said Chandler, jumping on the opportunity to get one up on Mitch and persuade him that he needed his local – and recent – knowledge. ‘But that laundrette closed down last year, so there’d be no one to disturb his exit. If he decided to go that way. Jim checked it out and saw nothing to indicate he did.’
Mitch seemed undeterred by being caught out. ‘Plausible, Sergeant, plausible but as yo
u said there was no sign of the suspect. You may know this shithole better than I do, but you haven’t found him yet so some fresh thinking is needed.’
‘You need my help,’ said Chandler.
Mitch corrected him. ‘I need your input, Sergeant. And I need the input of your team. But your help? If I need your help, I’ll ask,’ he said, the smile gone, face turning to granite; hard, pockmarked and impenetrable. ‘And the input I need from you at present is to make sure that this place is running smoothly and that my team out there have everything they need. Paper, stationery, phones, a constant line to State and anyone else that they ask to be put in contact with. You are the cog that keeps this thing running, Sergeant.’
Chandler had heard enough. He turned to leave.
Mitch called after him. ‘It’s an important job, Sergeant. The big boys get nothing done without their secretaries doing all the graft.’
Chandler turned. ‘I’m not running around fetching cups of tea and feeding you biscuits.’
Mitch laughed. ‘Of course not. My team don’t need you to do those things, they are more than capable themselves. What you can do is take care of the local angle. There are bound to be questions regarding what’s happening, police walking the streets and strangers in black suits moping around town. It’s your job to allay their fears, Sergeant,’ said Mitch, the constant use of formalities fraying Chandler’s nerves. But his old colleague wasn’t finished. ‘You take care of the small picture and I’ll do the big.’
Chandler took a deep breath. ‘You haven’t changed have you, Mitch?’
Mitch held back a grin. ‘I could say the same. Shit never turns to gold no matter how long it spends in the ditch.’
‘I thought this wasn’t going to be a battle?’ said Chandler.
A smile broke loose, a smile that seemed to hide something behind it. Chandler caught a glimpse of the old Mitch for a moment, the Mitch forever with a trick up his sleeve to shimmy his way out of trouble.
‘The battle hasn’t even started, old friend.’
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