Sold to the Devil

by Blair Denholm

  ‘It’s just procedure.’ Instinct told Turrell they were 100% clean. Everyone knew when it came to murder in the Australian bush, backpackers were more likely to be the victims than the perpetrators.

  Turrell reversed the rattling old Kombi into the narrow parking spot. Two haggard faces gawked at him. On the ride to the police station Jessica sat in the front passenger seat and stared at her lap. Poor bastards. Came to Australia for a fun holiday, only to be dragged into a murder investigation. They’d be allowed to go home once they’d signed their official statements. Maybe summoned back to testify before the courts. If the police managed to track down a suspect. Christ, there wasn’t even a real body, just two bones and a shirt. Where the hell was the rest of Ed Hurst? Meanwhile, he was stuck in the thick of the whole stinking mess. He breathed deeply. Just play it cool and everything will turn out fine.

  Shit.

  Selina. She reported Ed missing. She’d kept quiet about Turrell until now, but with Ed gone, she might open her mouth and spoil everything.

  At the entrance to the ratty hostel, each backpacker gave Turrell a grim smile and a wave. Their statements had been basic, no frills accounts. Nothing to help solve the crime. Turrell caught a cab back to the station. He told the driver to step on it and he’d quash any speeding fines.

  He raced inside police headquarters, kicked over a rubbish bin. Heads popped over office partitions. He nodded at the curious faces as he trotted to the lift. His heart beat fast. He had to get hold of the Missing Person’s report, find out Selina’s address. Angie Shaw did a quick preliminary interview with Selina when she reported Ed missing. Turrell had to take charge now, make sure the constable – or anyone else – didn’t conduct the next interview. Make Selina understand spilling the beans about him was a bad idea. No one would have contacted her yet. Until formal identification was made, Selina was nowhere near the top of their priority list. But it would come soon.

  Thankfully, Selina revealed nothing incriminating about him to Angie Shaw. But his preoccupation with Selina and her possible actions made his stomach ache. Would Selina change her mind and dob him in? Now Hurst had been murdered, there was a chance Selina would rethink her promise to shield Turrell. A big chance.

  He switched on his computer, tapped in the password faster than he’d ever done in his life. A quick scroll through the system tracked down Ed’s Missing Person report. Turrell jotted down Selina’s phone number and address. He ripped the phone from its cradle and punched in the number.

  ‘Hello?’ came a timid voice.

  ‘Selina, it’s Detective Inspector Josh Turrell. I’ve got some news.’

  Silence. He imagined Selina figuring out he was Magnum. Please don’t say that name over the phone. ‘Have you found Ed? Please tell me you’ve found him.’

  ‘Selina, listen to me. Are you at home?’

  ‘Have you bloody found him?’

  Turrell winced.

  ‘Calm down. I need to see you. Are you at home?’

  Nothing.

  ‘Are you there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Anyone with you?’ Please let her be alone.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Hang tight. Don’t go anywhere.’ He hadn’t the slightest idea what he was going to say to Selina.

  She cracked open the door, one tired eye peeking through the gap. The security chain dangled near her cheek.

  ‘Selina, please let me in.’

  ‘No.

  Turrell pushed against the door but the chain stopped it dead.

  ‘Tell me from the doorway.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t. You have to let me inside.’

  The chain dragged across the slot, the door creaked open. Selina shuffled along the corridor, defeated. Her dressing gown hung from her shoulders; she’d dropped a kilo or two since he last saw her. Tatty paisley wallpaper, a product of the 1970s. Just like him.

  ‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  No wailing, no histrionics. Perhaps that would come later.

  ‘I think I know who did it.’ Her voice was croakier than a 50-a-day smoker.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘But I can’t tell you. You have to work it out for yourself.’ The woman was rambling. Delirious.

  ‘You don’t think I had anything to do with it, do you?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course not, silly.’

  ‘And you won’t mention anything about you, me and Ed. The meeting online. What we got up to at the hotel?’

  ‘Never, Magnum. You’re a good guy. A hero. Your secret’s safe with me.’ A sad smiled through shiny tears.

  ‘One more thing. Someone will be around to break the news to you. Can you pretend like it’s the first time you heard it?’

  ‘I guess so.’

  On the drive to Hurst’s house to meet up with Brandt and forensics, he prayed Selina would keep her word; look surprised and devastated. She had to, or he was fucked.

  Chapter 38

  The whiteboard. How Turrell hated the whiteboard. Particularly when Brandt was in full cry, scribbling away like an economics professor. Handwriting like chicken scratches.

  ‘Let’s examine what we have so far.’ Brandt dashed off the word FACTS. It looked like FARTS. He rubbed a palm across his mouth, probably to stop spittle flying everywhere in his enthusiasm. ‘One. DNA results are finally in. They confirm the victim is Ed Hurst.’ He wrote on the board DNA = HURST. ‘Two. And this is most frustrating. No other body parts have been recovered despite extensive searches of the area.’ NO BODY. LEG BONE RECOVERED ‘Three. No sign of the victim’s missing Megane.’ NO CAR.

  ‘One positive out of three,’ said Senior Sergeant Jack ‘Bluey’ Fraser, an annoying tosser transferred in from Burnie with the reputation of a determined detective but a total dickwad. ‘Not great.’

  ‘Agreed. There’s not much to like about this case. In terms of physical evidence, things look bad.’

  ‘What did forensics find, exactly?’ Fraser again.

  ‘I was just getting to that,’ Brandt huffed. ‘Hurst’s femurs, obviously. Two .308 slugs, fibre samples, possibly from a flannelette shirt. Old tracks from well-worn Blundstones and fresher ones from the Gore-Tex boots the backpackers were wearing.’ He held up an A4 colour print. ‘This is the strangest thing. A weird pile of bracken leaves that makes no fucken sense whatsoever. And there’s a depressed area in the grass suggesting a body had lain there for a couple of days. No blood apart from that on the shirt. All Hurst’s. It’s shaping up as a mystery of Picnic at Hanging Rock proportions.’

  ‘No help with ballistics on the slugs?’ asked Angie Shaw, a hint of encouragement in her tone.

  ‘Common as flies, unfortunately. Used by shitloads of farmers and hunters all over the state. Popular on the black market. We might match the rifling if we ever find the gun.’ Brandt tapped a knuckle on the word BALLISTICS and ran a line through it with a marker pen.

  ‘The victim’s house. Has it been searched?’

  ‘Yes, Angie. DI Turrell and I went over the scene thoroughly with forensics last night. Right after we sealed off the presumed crime scene and Josh’d taken the backpackers’ statements.’ Turrell swallowed. There was a gap of an hour when he’d confronted Selina. Shouldn’t raise any questions. ‘I say “presumed” since there’s no proof the victim wasn’t killed elsewhere and his body dumped in the bush later. But I digress.’ Brandt tapped his pen on the whiteboard. ‘Hurst’s front door was unlocked, but no sign of a break-in. The interior was clean as a whistle. Stuffy like the windows had been closed for a couple of weeks. To sum up, no clues at the house so far. Forensics will continue tomorrow, but I’m not hopeful.’

  ‘Neighbours?’ Shaw again.

  ‘We’ve spoken to most of them. No suspicious activity at the house. They describe Hurst as a private individual and had nothing to do with him. Except for one neighbour, Andrei Vukovich. Said Hurst promised to do him a deal on catering a birthday. Loaned Hurst a four-whe
el drive when the snows ground the city to a standstill. Apart from that, zip. It’s the kind of area where nobody gives a rat’s arse about their neighbour.’

  ‘What about phone records, texts, emails, social media, stuff like that? Has anything been found on his computer?’ Fraser again.

  Turrell swallowed hard. This line of enquiry had to be pursued, but Bluey bringing it up now made his guts squirm. ‘I’m onto it. I’ve requested all the records from telcos and Internet providers. Should have them emailed to me tomorrow morning. I’ll compile a report as soon as I’ve gone over the data.’

  ‘But what about his laptop?’ Fraser pressed. ‘He was a business man, so there’s probably some helpful information on that.’

  ‘He must have had it in his car. No sign of one at his house.’ Turrell felt sweat forming in his armpits. He’d found a MacBook Pro while Brandt was taking a dump at Hurst’s place. Thanks God for Mickey’s irritable bowel syndrome. Turrell stashed it under azalea bushes in Hurst’s garden, covered it in leaves, and retrieved it a day later. The laptop was now concealed in the roof space of Turrell’s own house, hopefully never to see the light of day again.

  ‘Yes, it’s a shame about the lack of a computer. Let’s hop it turns up.’ Brandt pointed the marker pen at Turrell. ‘Mean time, see if you can make sense out of all those numbers.’

  ‘Do my best, Micky.’

  ‘Let’s move on to motive and potential suspects. Angie, you’ve been through the notes from initial interviews when Hurst was reported missing. Whatcha got?’

  The constable cleared her throat. ‘Little to report, I’m afraid. I interviewed the girlfriend, Selina Jarosky, here at the station,’ Shaw consulted her spiral notepad. ‘She brought along a friend for support, a Fern Bingham.’ Shaw looked up at Brandt. ‘Now we’ve confirmed the deceased is Ed Hurst, should we interview Ms Bingham separately?’

  ‘Yes. Continue.’

  ‘Selina reported Ed missing after he failed to show for a coffee date. All she had was one faint lead.’

  ‘What?’ Brandt’s eyes widened.

  ‘She said Ed was pissed off about a supplier trying to get one over on him. Said it was part of the last conversation she had with him. Then she burst into tears.’

  ‘How pissed off was he at this guy?’

  ‘Probably not enough for him to figure as a suspect.’

  ‘Chase it up. Anything else?’

  ‘No, sir. She said Ed kept to himself pretty much. But I’ve got a feeling she’s not telling us all she knows.’

  Turrell felt a tremor develop in his ankles and run up his legs. His eye twitched.

  ‘You think Selina might be involved in his murder?’

  ‘My gut says no. But who knows?’

  ‘Put some pressure on her,’ said Fraser. ‘Want me to have a crack, DI Brandt?’

  ‘That’s okay, Bluey,’ Turrell almost shouted. ‘I’ll handle her for now, if that’s all right with you, Mickey?’

  ‘Sure. Give her some time to relax. Talk to her in a few days, try and catch her off guard. Please go on, Angie.’

  ‘I later spoke on the phone to Hurst’s mother. She knows practically nothing about his private life or his associates. Just that he had a girlfriend called Selina who he’d been seeing for a few years; he was into body building and ran a business. His father died of liver disease five years ago. A younger brother lives in Adelaide. I called him. The pair had a falling out in their teens and barely spoke after that.’

  ‘Probably a dead end,’ said Brandt. ‘We’ll still keep an eye on the family members. I highly doubt it, but they could’ve benefitted financially from his death. What else?’

  A neon light in a corner of the room flickered, aggravated Turrell’s growing headache.

  ‘That’s all I’ve got so far.’ She closed her notepad.

  ‘What about his business, Devil Food Catering?’ Turrell asked. Time to push this meeting in another direction. ‘Any of its employees look like a suspect?’

  ‘I’ve had a sniff around the company this morning.’ Senior Constable Darren Fitch looked up from his mobile. Turrell rated the guy an adequate cop, but like most of Fitch’s generation, addicted to technology. ‘Hurst’s business is an odd entity. Small warehouse with a commercial kitchen in Moonah. His part-time manager, a Somalian migrant called Mustafa, does all the work. Hurst visited suppliers now and again, attended functions. There’s a staff of four, also part-timers. Work’s haphazard. Sometimes weeks between catering gigs. The manager reckons Hurst must’ve made his real money in other ways.’

  ‘Drugs?’ prompted Fraser.

  ‘The bloke didn’t say outright, but, yeah. That was his impression after managing the business for three years. Not enough cashflow to justify Hurst’s expensive tastes. He did, however, tell me about Hurst’s gym. A boutique outfit in South Hobart. I paid it a visit this afternoon. A sweaty woman there told me something interesting.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Ed struck up a friendship with Tassie’s businesswoman extraordinaire Beverley Cooke. Apparently he was the old duck’s personal trainer. Rumour has it, his sessions came with a bit extra, if you get my meaning.’

  ‘Holy shit,’ Brandt’s eyes lit up. ‘Turrell. Let’s grill her first thing tomorrow.’ Brandt wrote B. COOKE at the bottom of the whiteboard, double underlined it.

  ‘No problem, Mickey.’

  ‘Thank you, everyone.’ Brandt perched himself on the edge of a table. ‘This is going to be a tough case to solve. Without a body, circumstantial evidence will be vital. Angie, you come with me to deliver Ed’s mother and Selina Jarosky the sad news. Fitch, call the media. Set up a press conference for 6:00pm tomorrow. Me and Josh’ll grill old Bev Cooke in the morning. The rest of you, chase up all possible leads.’

  Turrell bit his lip. Why was it always him who had to accompany Brandt everywhere? Bev Cooke was going to be a handful and a half.

  Chapter 39

  ‘What’s your relationship with Ed Hurst, Ms Cooke?’ Brandt picked up a delicate china cup in his hairy-knuckled hand. He analysed its intricate floral pattern, took a sip. Turrell wished he’d asked for tea. Nerves had made his mouth as dry as the bottom of a budgie’s cage. His coffee was bitter and undrinkable.

  ‘Purely business, Detective. I met Ed at my fitness centre and he offered to be my personal trainer. I thought it a splendid idea.’

  ‘That’s all?’ Turrell almost stammered. The woman didn’t merely sit in her chair, she occupied it the way Hitler occupied the Sudetenland.

  ‘What are you insinuating, DI Turrell?’

  ‘Oh, erm. Nothing, sorry.’

  Brandt gave his partner an incredulous look that said surely you aren’t scared of the skinny old broad? ‘He’s not insinuating anything, Ms Cooke.’

  ‘Rubbish. His tone was most impudent.’ She fixed an unflinching gaze on Turrell, who sank back into his chair. ‘But you flatter me. Do you seriously think a strapping young man like Ed wants to get intimate with someone of my mature years?’

  There were only wrong answers to that question. Turrell shrugged. They’d be needing some clever tactics to get Cooke to give anything away. She hadn’t reached her lofty position in the business world by being an idiot.

  ‘I’m sure my partner wasn’t trying to be funny, were you Josh?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Ed’s been missing for some time now.’ Brandt leaned forward. ‘We’ve only just learned of your association with him. Didn’t you think to contact the police when the media announced he was missing?’

  ‘I must have missed that report. I only pay attention to the financial pages and barely turn on the TV. Besides, I’ve been flat out with my business dealings. So I wasn’t aware he’d disappeared until you lovely gentlemen called on me this morning.’ She poured herself more tea. Stirred in a teaspoon of sugar. ‘If you think I know anything about this, you are sadly mistaken.’

  ‘He’s been missing for two weeks,’ said Brandt. ‘Surely you ha
d appointments with him lined up.’

  ‘No. There was no schedule. I just called him when I needed him.’

  ‘When was the last day you saw Ed?’

  ‘Three weeks ago, more or less.’

  ‘Can you be more precise?’

  ‘No. I think it was a Wednesday afternoon, but I can’t be sure.’

  ‘What were the circumstances?’

  ‘A martial arts workout. Here, at my place.’

  Brandt smacked his lips. ‘Delicious brew, Ms Cooke.’ He placed the empty teacup on the table. ‘DI Turrell has a few technical questions he’d like to ask.’

  Cooke raised an eyebrow, tried to look cool. Turrell saw she was slightly rattled. ‘I’ve got nothing to hide. Fire away.’

  An electronic alert sounded from Turrell’s briefcase. ‘Must be the data report, Mickey.’

  ‘About time. I’m glad that’s your department.’

  Turrell grinned wanly. Me too. He fished an iPad from his briefcase, logged on and pulled up the telephone records spreadsheet. ‘Mrs Cooke, we have all the phone records between you and Ed. Every call and text, right here.’

  ‘You’re the rudest man I’ve ever met, DI Turrell.’ What the hell? He’d been polite as pie. ‘Lying to me so brazenly. I don’t approve of texting. It’s so impersonal.’

  Fuck it, he should’ve been more careful. ‘I apologise. I jumped the gun.’ Turrell ran his finger down a list. ‘There have been many calls between you and Ed. And, yes, no text messages. And…oh, this is most interesting. The last call made on his phone was placed by him to you. Duration, 28 seconds. Care to elucidate?’

  Brandt shifted his weight forward, hands on knees.

  Cooke took a deep breath. ‘He rang to say he couldn’t meet me for a while, some trouble with his girlfriend, then hung up.’

  ‘Just hung up? And you say I’m rude.’ Turrell tut-tutted under his breath.

  ‘Any more insolence from you, and I’ll show you the door, detective. Ed hung up because he was driving at the time. He said there was a police car ahead. He didn’t want to be caught talking on his mobile and fined so he ended the call. Perfectly natural thing to do. And, like I said, he was preoccupied with his girlfriend.’