16
As predicted, within fifteen minutes the phones started to sing. Nick quickly became swamped and started diverting calls through to Chandler. Most were from locals riding the biggest commotion the town had witnessed in years; anxious mothers and protective fathers, affronted retirees and giggling teenagers, all curious about the sinister black saloons slowly trawling the streets.
Some wanted to know if they were the Secret Service or a spy convention, their theories wild. As soon as he had calmed one resident down another would ring in, wondering if they should get dressed up and form some kind of vanguard for their obviously illustrious visitor. Some wanted to know who it was just to be the first to spread the gossip around. Others because they didn’t want it to be the prime minister or one of those fucking crooks. To each Chandler offered the same advice, words that stuck in his throat and had to be forced out: that nothing was happening, that they should stay inside for the time being and that if something happened he would let them know personally.
He had fielded maybe ten calls before someone hit upon the question he feared the most, one about the roadblocks and why Jim, Tanya and Luka were actively searching cars. The query arrived from a furious source, Reverend Simon Upton, who couldn’t believe that the police would stop a holy man and search his car, complaining a little too much for someone who was normally rather placid. As if he did have something to hide. Something to confirm the whispers around town that his past was less than holy.
‘Did they search your car, Reverend?’ asked Chandler.
‘No, but they stopped me on my way to Georgina Patterson’s house and she’s very ill, you know.’
‘I do, Reverend. Please send my sympathies.’
‘Why are you searching, may I ask?’ the reverend demanded, his voice now as imposing as it was on the pulpit every Sunday.
Before the notoriously gossipy holy man had a chance to spread even more – not entirely undue – panic, Chandler admitted that it was just a precaution.
‘Come on now, Sergeant Jenkins, you wouldn’t have roadblocks in place for a precaution. You cannot withhold this information from the town.’
Chandler paused. He would have to give the reverend something. ‘You’re right. We have a shoplifter that we suspect is trying to get out of town.’
There was a pause as if the reverend were waiting for divine inspiration on whether Chandler had spoken the truth. The answer arrived. The Lord was unconvinced. ‘You don’t set up stop and searches for just any shoplifter, Sergeant, so I’ll ask again: is this person you seek dangerous? Is he, or she, an escaped convict, perhaps?’
‘No, Reverend,’ said Chandler, calmly, ‘just someone we want to question. But to help find them we need everyone to remain indoors so we can focus on the suspect without distractions.’
The reverend jumped on Chandler’s slip-up.
‘Suspect! Ah, so he is a convict. Or about to be!’
Chandler felt his brain click into crisis management mode, his voice rounding off the edges, seeking to calm the reverend down.
‘Reverend, that’s the term we use. A suspect. If I was to make a call, he’s actually more a person of interest and we are merely checking that he hasn’t taken a ride in someone’s car, or taken one for himself.’
‘I’m not a man who lays down for criminals, Sergeant. He wouldn’t be in my car.’
Chandler was relieved. The subtle change in tone and direction had helped steer the reverend to where Chandler wanted him to go.
‘I know, Reverend, but I’ve instructed my officers to check every car. At this stage we can’t even be sure that he’s still in town. He might be long gone from here making it the State’s problem, but I would like to err on the safe side and search cars just to be sure. I’m sure you don’t have a problem with that.’
The Lord’s representative on earth had no way back from that. There was an almost incoherent mumble in reply, something that sounded like an offer to do everything he could to help. He would ask his congregation at morning Mass – all ten of them, thought Chandler – if they had noticed anything. After thanking him, Chandler hung up.
Still the calls kept coming, people stuck at the checkpoints, ringing in to ask why the hell they weren’t being let into or out of town. By now even Nick had been seconded to help out Mitch’s team, skating sheepishly past Chandler to get in on the action. Chandler was on his own, batting back the complaints of irritated locals while listening to Mitch and his team decide what to do and where to go next.
Suddenly the door to the station slammed open. Two of Mitch’s crew entered and headed straight for Chandler’s office where Mitch had set up camp.
Chandler zoned out the questioning voice on the phone and tried to eavesdrop on what was happening in his office. He picked up nothing but garbled words. Less than a minute later the two exited the station again.
Mitch came to the door as Chandler hung up the call.
‘What’s going on?’ asked Chandler.
‘Nothing that concerns you,’ replied Mitch.
‘Where are they off to?’
Chandler’s phone started to ring again.
‘Just concentrate on keeping the locals calm,’ said Mitch, then asked, ‘Has Mrs Juniper rung in yet?’
Mrs Juniper was the local busybody, Kid Maloney’s ex-wife who married him in a fit of rebellion and divorced him when her senses returned. If it made a smell she had her nose in it. Or at least she used to.
‘She’s been dead four years,’ said Chandler.
What should have been a moment of reflection or discomfort merely brought an unaffected shrug to Mitch’s shoulders and his unhurried return to the office.
Nick passed Chandler, on his way back to the front desk.
‘Where are they off to, Nick?’
The young constable shook his head and kept going. The speed of his escape made Chandler believe he was holding something back. Mitch was slowly unravelling the close-knit station he had built.
Chandler called after him. ‘Nick?’
‘I dunno, Sarge, honest. They whispered it to each other. I didn’t hear.’
Mitch appeared at Chandler’s shoulder. ‘I want to interview Mr Barwell.’
‘What’s stopping you?’
‘You have the keys, Sergeant.’
Chandler rose from his seat, shorter in height than Mitch but more intimidating physically; false padding wasn’t needed for his broad shoulders. ‘I’ll come in with you.’
Mitch shook his head. ‘No, I don’t want any contamination from previous questioning. A fresh sheet of paper.’
‘But I’ll be able to tell if he’s changed his story.’
‘So will I,’ said Mitch, pointing to his temple, ‘I know it off by heart.’
‘An extra pair of ears never hurt.’
Mitch paused, his lower jaw and chin jutting out, an involuntary and ungainly reflex he’d had since he was a boy. ‘Okay, Sergeant, but I lead. You keep your mouth shut.’
‘You lead,’ said Chandler, biting his tongue. Anything was better than answering phones.
Chandler entered the cells, Mitch close behind. He opened the slat, the squeak echoing around the corridor. Heath’s face thrust at the space like a dog seeking food, nothing but his mouth on view. His bark was full of questions.
‘What’s happening out there? Who are all these people?’
‘Mr Barwell, please step back from the door,’ ordered Mitch, calm but commanding, any trace of his boyhood accent gone. Chandler wouldn’t have been surprised to find out he had gone to a voice coach to refine it, given the money and dedication he put into his clothing and manufactured style.
‘Who’s he?’ Heath asked Chandler, indicating Mitch. ‘My lawyer?’
‘He’s an inspector. He’s come to interview you. Now please step back.’
As Chandler prepared to open the cell door Mitch eased his jacket back and rested his hand on his firearm. Chandler wondered if he had ever used it and quickly decided he probably had.
‘There’s no need for those,’ said Heath, his hands up. ‘I want a lawyer.’
‘Why do you need a lawyer if you’re innocent?’ asked Mitch, frowning.
‘Everyone gets a lawyer,’ said Heath.
‘Maybe so,’ said Mitch, maintaining his cool, ‘but only those who are guilty insist on one. All I want to do is go over your story. To catch up with my colleague here and understand what you’ve been through.’
Heath frowned, staring at Mitch, as if trying to gauge his real intentions.
After a moment’s pause he turned to face the wall, allowing Chandler to slide the cuffs over his injured wrists. Chandler felt the man flinch in pain. Ushering him to the interview room, he placed Heath in a seat before carefully removing the cuffs.
‘I’m only going to be repeating myself,’ said Heath, gently rubbing his wrists while looking first at Mitch and then Chandler who had taken up position at his colleague’s shoulder.
Mitch led the questioning, his silver cufflinks glinting in the light – large, angular and expensive, flashy but not showy, elegant with a sense of understatement. Silver had always been Mitch’s favourite, possibly a reminder of the badge he held so dear, but maybe just because silver was a statement of grandeur. Mitch liked statements.
Heath started talking. He recounted a story which stuck pretty much to the original, maybe a little more polished as he recited it a second time, detailed when it came to the part about hitch-hiking, vague about the drugging and escape. Only one difference stood out to Chandler, a recollection of a name on one of the papers in the cabin: Seth. When Mitch pushed him on it, Heath said that it was something he only now recalled, a name written in big, red letters as if of utmost importance. Chandler made a note to check for Seths amongst the records of missing people.
‘If you had managed to steal the car where would you have gone?’ asked Mitch, eyes cast to his notes as if it were merely a question to pass the time.
‘Anywhere,’ said Heath, beads of sweat trickling from underneath his hairline.
‘You claimed in your original statement that you were headed here. To town,’ said Mitch, raising his eyes to stare at his suspect.
‘I was . . . but all I wanted to do was get away from him. I still do, but you’ve trapped me in here, while he—’
Heath’s entire body shook, some stray beads of sweat escaping his flushed skin and landing on the desk.
‘Trying to steal a car is hardly the act of an innocent man,’ noted Mitch.
‘Yeah, it’s the act of a scared one,’ said Heath.
‘What about your past?’ asked Mitch. Chandler knew Mitch was changing topics to try and throw the suspect off and get him to reveal something.
‘What about it?’
‘Family?’
‘Don’t have any.’
Mitch remained quiet, allowing Heath to elaborate. He did.
‘My folks are dead.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Mitch, indifferent.
Heath shook his head. ‘They died years ago. When I was in my late teens.’
‘How?’ asked Mitch.
‘Cancer. Mum, breast, Dad, bowel. Two years apart.’
Chandler felt that this was cause for a moment’s sympathetic pause. But Mitch was on a roll.
‘Do you still think about them?’
Mitch looked at the table for a moment. ‘Yeah but I’ve accepted it. Also accepted that I may be more prone to cancer, too.’
There was a lassitude with how Heath let the words tumble out of his mouth that was almost morbid, as if he expected death were lying in wait just around the corner. Maybe his brush with Gabriel had confirmed this, or maybe this self-imposed death sentence merely made him feel that he should take as many people with him as he could.
‘Have you been told you’ll die?’ asked Chandler.
Heath’s focus switched to Chandler, Mitch clearly enraged at having his flow interrupted.
‘Apart from Gabriel telling me, no. But everyone dies.’ Again the words fell out with nothing to hang them on, just weary acceptance, as if he were already nothing but dust.
‘It’s just a matter of how, isn’t it, Mr Barwell?’ said Mitch.
The loaded question won back Heath’s focus.
‘What do you mean by that?’
Mitch waved his hand to suggest it was an offhand comment. ‘Never mind. Carry on telling me about your family.’
‘I have a brother and sister. Both older.’
‘Names?’ Mitch made a scene of preparing to jot their names down, a tacit promise that he would chase this information up, a warning for Heath not to lie.
‘Ross and Pippa. Philippa. We don’t talk to each other. A dispute over the will.’
‘Your folks left it all to you? As the youngest?’
‘No,’ said Heath, tinged with disappointment. ‘The opposite. I got a few bits and pieces; they got a share of the house. But that’s long gone now. We don’t speak.’
‘Wouldn’t they care that you’re in custody?’
‘They’ll only care when word comes through that I’m dead,’ he said, bitterly. ‘Gabriel was close to granting their wish.’
Mitch nodded. ‘But you don’t have anything to confirm your identity?’
‘He took all that stuff; wallet, driving licence, everything.’
‘Okay,’ said Mitch, non-committal.
‘You have the wrong person, Sergeant.’
Mitch raised his eyebrows, a flash of anger at being inadvertently demoted.
‘At the minute you’re the only person we have, Mr Barwell,’ he said, looking across at Chandler in apparent frustration before moving on. ‘You mentioned the number fifty-five.’
‘That’s what he said I was.’
‘Did he talk about the others?’
‘No.’
‘Nothing?’
‘No. Nothing.’
Mitch took a deep breath, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together. Chandler recognized the habit. The lighting of a fuse, as if trying to create a spark between the two digits. Chandler was curious what form the explosion would take these days.
‘What about this Seth, could he have been one of the victims?’
Heath shook his head. ‘It was just a name I saw. It might mean nothing.’
‘But you saw the graves.’
‘I saw what looked like graves.’
‘How many?’
‘I dunno.’
‘Take a guess.’ Mitch’s temper was building.
‘It happened too quick. I don’t know for sure.’
‘A number, Mr Barwell, give me a number. Five? Ten? Twelve? More?’
Heath stuttered. ‘Six, seven, eight . . . I can’t be sure. I was running for my life.’
With this Mitch stood up sharply, leaning over the table, face to face with the suspect. His voice was raised. ‘We need something more than that, Mr Barwell. So far you’ve given us nothing but hearsay. What you claim to have seen and what you claim to have had done to you. So give us a straight-up fact we can work with, or you’ll be in that cell for a long time.’
With Mitch close enough for Heath to grab him, Chandler stepped in, dragging Mitch away, his hands searching for purchase on the cool silk.
Mitch’s ire switched target, glaring at Chandler. ‘Get your hands off me, Chandler!’
‘You’re not going to get anything more out of him,’ said Chandler under his breath.
‘What the hell do you know? How many murder suspects have you interrogated?’
‘None,’ admitted Chandler, ‘but look at him, he’s a wreck – tired, injured, sweating. Anything we get out of him now could be the truth, a lie, or just something to shut us up. Let him cool down for a while.’
Mitch didn’t drop his stare. But he didn’t say anything either. The anger that burned in his deep brown eyes tempered. Chandler searched for some of his old friend in there but any compassion had be
en bled from them over the last ten years.
‘Take him back, let him rest for an hour and try again later,’ said Chandler.
Mitch batted Chandler’s hands away from his slick suit, and swung towards Heath with a forced smile.
‘I believe that’s enough for now, Mr Barwell. The sergeant here will escort you back to your cell.’
Mitch strode for the door. Reaching it, he glanced back at Chandler. Angry though he was, Mitch wasn’t about to be accused of deserting his duty and allowing a colleague to handle a dangerous suspect alone.
Chandler approached a now shivering Heath and clicked the cuffs into place. Looking up, Mitch had disappeared from the door, Tanya standing in his place.
17
Chandler steered Heath into the cell. He was like a drunk after a heavy night, manoeuvred without trouble or resistance. Not what Chandler would have considered the conduct of a dangerous killer. But what was the conduct of a dangerous killer?
As he entered his former office, Mitch was flicking the mouse furiously, eyes cast on the glowing screen.
‘So . . . do you believe his story? Or Gabriel’s?’
Mitch tore his eyes away from the screen. His voice was flat; he clearly hadn’t forgotten that Chandler had confronted him in the interview room. ‘Mr Barwell’s story seems plausible, even more so with the continued absence of our second suspect. We need to find him and find out who this Seth might be.’ With that his eyes returned to the screen, the store closed, blinds drawn.
Chandler sat down at Tanya’s desk and got to work. He felt like a dog that, despite the constant abuse, came running back to its master. He forced himself to focus on the job in front of him. In the database for Missing Persons he trawled for people named Seth, hoping to find a match. The search engine brought up a result immediately. A complete blank. He recalibrated it to include the last decade. Murdering fifty-four people without drawing undue attention would take some time, even for the most brilliant mind – which Heath was certainly not. Or so it seemed. Again the search drew a blank. No Seths. He began to think that the name was the barely remembered thought of a frightened man.
Or an intentionally false lead to distract them.
Frustrated at being mocked and cast aside, then brought back into the fold only to immediately hit a dead end, he leaned back in the chair. Staring out the window at Gardner’s Hill in the distance, Chandler’s feet jack-hammered on the floor with growing impatience. The impatience forced an idea through. So far they had been unable to locate Gabriel but that didn’t mean they couldn’t locate the place both had described in detail: the woodshed. Gabriel might even have wound his way back to it seeking shelter, confident the police wouldn’t be able to find it.
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