‘They must be afraid you might break in, Mrs Bulwer-Knight,’ Kelly says, and the old lady chuckles and invites her in for tea. When they are settled among plump flowery cushions, sipping Earl Grey from Wedgwood, Kelly says, ‘I recognised you from Facebook. And YouTube, you’re very big on YouTube.’
Phoebe clearly has no idea what she’s talking about.
‘At Balmoral Beach. The waitress filmed you, with your friends.’
‘Yes, and I told her to stop. Don’t you find it rather ghoulish?’
‘Yes.’ Kelly goes on quickly, ‘It must have been a terrible shock for you.’
‘Oh very much so. Mind you, I’ve seen a good few dead bodies in my time. I was a nurse during the war, you know.’ The war? As Kelly tries to calculate how old she must be, Phoebe begins a meandering account of how long she knew Charlie and Grace Waterford, and how much they meant to her.
‘And such an extraordinary coincidence,’ Kelly prompts, ‘for them to pass away together like that.’
‘Oh hardly.’
Kelly stops writing and looks up at her. ‘How do you mean?’
‘I saw the ambulance man take two pill bottles from Charlie’s coat pocket, and frown when he read the labels. When I asked him he was evasive, and later he showed them to the police officers, and they had a very serious conversation.’
‘So…what are you saying? Do you think they killed themselves?’
‘Oh yes. And I wouldn’t blame them for that, sitting there at their favourite table in the sun, a final glass of wine, holding hands. But I think they felt that they had no other choice.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, the state they were in. Filthy dirty, clothes ruined, and so thin, as if they hadn’t had a square meal in weeks. If you knew Grace and Charlie, how fastidious they were, how spoilt, you’d hardly believe it. It was as if they’d become street people, beggars.’
‘But you said just now that he was a successful businessman.’
‘Oh very. I should know—I kept his books. He was a millionaire when that meant something, and they owned a number of properties around here—this house, for example. When I retired from the business Charlie gave me free tenancy for life, as part of my retirement package.’
‘So what happened?’
‘I’ve no idea. As soon as the ambulance left and I’d given my statement to the police I went back up to the bus stop and set off to see their son Justin over in Rose Bay. It took me some time to get there, and when I finally arrived someone from the police had already called and broken the news to him and Jade.’ She frowned, shook her head. ‘I thought I was doing the right thing.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘They were so rude. Didn’t even offer me a cup of tea. Couldn’t wait to push me out the door.’
‘They’d be upset, I suppose?’
Phoebe sniffs. ‘I’ve known Justin since he was born. I know that sneaky evasive look he gets when he’s been up to something naughty.’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know, but when I mentioned that the last time I’d seen his parents I’d overheard them arguing about someone—a man called Crosstitch—Justin got positively aggressive with me, told me to mind my own business—he actually used the f-word to me!’
As the old woman continues, it occurs to Kelly that it is Phoebe, not herself, who is leading this conversation. In fact, it feels as if she is being assessed for a task. Finally Phoebe comes out with it. ‘So I think you should go and talk to Justin. I believe he’ll be a little more open if he’s confronted by a member of the press.’
Kelly thinks about that. It’s a story anyway, the old couple passing away in their favourite café. And if there is more to it, a scandal of some kind, a failure of the social services, a suggestion of fraud?
‘Crosstitch, did you say?’
‘That’s what it sounded like. Justin certainly reacted when I mentioned the name.’
Kelly writes down the son’s address and phone number and promises to think about it. On the way out she takes a photograph of Phoebe at her front door. ‘How long have you been here, Phoebe?’
‘Forty years. Charlie bought the house from an Italian family. There were lots of Italians around here then, with market gardens in the land behind. Charlie built factories on the fields and made a lot of money. He was a very smart businessman. That’s what makes it so hard to understand what happened.’
‘And then the Crows moved in?’
‘About ten years ago. They’re not bad boys really. They sometimes give me a lift back from the shops.’
‘On their motorbikes?’ Kelly tries to imagine it.
Phoebe laughs. ‘No, no. They have a big black four-wheel-drive too.’
5
Harry is working at his desk, typing and scanning his notes into the [email protected] database. It’s a routine chore, but the army taught him the usefulness of routine chores as a corrective to the moments of chaos. He’s been hoping to get through tonight without chaos, but Deb Velasco shatters that hope.
‘Harry?’ She’s out of her seat as if she’s been tasered. It’s a killing, over by Crucifixion Creek again.
She drives fast while he gets on the phone for more information. Unidentified white male, stabbed to death in the street. No phone or wallet, no witnesses.
The ambulance is drawing away as they arrive, leaving the victim in a pool of blood and the uniforms securing the scene. Harry and Deb move in, Harry shining his torch at the body. He stops dead. He swears softly and Deb says, ‘What? You know him?’
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘His name’s Greg March. He’s my brother-in-law.’
‘Sheez. He live around here?’
‘No…’ Harry shakes his head, fighting off the sense of disorientation. ‘No, miles away, northern suburbs. But his yard is around here somewhere. He’s a builder.’ He turns to the uniforms. ‘Car keys?’
‘No.’
Harry runs back to their car and pulls up Greg’s car number on the computer, then puts out an alert. Within seconds a report comes in of a chase in the inner west, a vehicle driving at speed to evade a patrol car. The number matches Greg’s blue Ford.
Deb joins him and he says, ‘Give me the keys.’
She hesitates. ‘We should leave this to the uniforms, Harry.’
‘Deb!’
‘I’ll go. You stay here.’
But as she starts the car he jumps in the passenger seat and buckles up.
The Ford appears to be circling back towards the south-west, fast enough that the patrol car is ordered to abandon the pursuit. Other cars and Pol Air are being called in. As Deb turns onto Liverpool Road they see the traffic parting up ahead and then the blue car barrelling through towards them. She switches on her warning lights and the approaching car makes a sudden wild skidding turn to the left into a side street. She follows while Harry talks into the radio. The road ahead is deserted and she slows down, then jerks her head over to the right. The sound of a crash. She turns into a residential street and they see the car up ahead, smoking, reared up against a tilting power pole.
Deb pulls in across the street and they run over. There is a girl in the front passenger seat, face pressed against the blood-smeared window, eyes open, lifeless. No one in the back or the driver’s side, banknotes spilled all over the seats. While Deb calls in their location, Harry draws his gun and sets off down the footpath, following a trail of black spots on the concrete. Deb shouts after him, but he’s already disappeared into an overgrown front garden. He sees feet sticking out from beneath a bush and pulls the foliage aside, gun raised, but the figure is slumped like a doll, hands empty. Harry crouches and reaches for his throat, and the boy’s head jerks and his eyes open. He stares at Harry, then says something. It’s hard to make out, but it sounds like, ‘He wana me do it.’ Then he closes his eyes and the head flops to one side.
Deb races up behind him, takes in the scene and cries, ‘Oh fuck, Harry, what have you done?’
He looks up at her. ‘I haven’t done anything, Deb. He’s dead. I was just feeling for a pulse.’
He gets to his feet and holsters his pistol.
‘You should have let me, Harry. You should have stayed at the car.’
‘I’m just doing my job, Deb.’
They return to the car as headlights converge from both ends of the street, and he asks her again for the car keys.
‘What now?’ she says.
‘I need to be the one to tell Nicole. I don’t want some flatfoot barging in on her in the middle of the night.’
‘Oh…right. But this is a critical incident. Are you sure you’re okay? You should wait for them to clear you.’
He nods and takes the keys.
On the way he phones Jenny and tells her to get dressed. He imagines her getting up and taking a shower in the dark, and opening her wardrobe, every item of clothing in its designated place. When he arrives at the end of the lane she is waiting, wrapped up against the cold. She smells fresh and he doesn’t like to kiss her, feeling contaminated. He explains about Greg and she gasps.
‘He phoned me tonight,’ she says. ‘It was a mistake—he meant to ring Nicole, hit the wrong number on his phone.’
‘Did he say anything?’
‘Just that he was sorry for bothering me. He sounded flustered. He said it twice, that he was sorry, really sorry, then he hung up.’
‘What time was this?’
‘About ten-thirty. I was still on the computer.’
Three hours before he was murdered. ‘He didn’t say where he was?’
‘No.’ She thought for a moment. ‘I think he was in a lobby of somewhere—an office building or a hotel. I heard a lift chime. It happened a couple of times…Poor Nicole, and the girls. What was he doing out there?’
‘I don’t know. It wasn’t far from his depot, but at that time of night?’
‘Maybe there was a break-in. Maybe the security firm called him out.’
‘Yes.’ But he was half a kilometre away from the yard.
They stop outside the house and Jenny phones Nicole to say they have to speak to her and not to wake the girls. She looks tousled and frightened seeing them standing there at the door, and the first thing she says is, ‘It’s Greg.’
They sit in the little sitting room just inside the front door, an odd, in-between kind of space that nobody uses, the women on the sofa, Jenny’s arm around her sister. Nicole is in shock. Finally she looks at Harry and says, ‘Was it a robbery? At the depot?’
He knows this mental process: if only she can find a simple answer to this, Harry might realise it’s all a mistake, and Greg will walk through the door.
‘We don’t know,’ he says gently. ‘Did he tell you it might be?’
She frowns, forcing herself to think. ‘He rang. I was just going to bed. He said he had to go out there and not to wait up. He didn’t say why.’
‘Do you know where he rang from?’
She shakes her head. ‘He went out after dinner, to see a client.’ She puts a hand to her eyes, whispers, ‘Oh, Greg,’ and begins to weep.
*
When he gets back to the car he turns his phone on and finds a string of messages, from Deb and from the duty inspector at homicide, all containing the word URGENT.
At Parramatta he senses heads turning as he walks through the open-plan office. He doesn’t see Deb and reports to the office of the duty inspector, Toby Wagstaff, who gives him a bollocking for not answering his phone.
‘Sorry, sir. I turned it off—I was breaking the news to the widow.’
Wagstaff, a plump, rosy-cheeked man with curly blond hair and an Ulster accent, gives a sigh. ‘Aye, well Harry, you have my sympathy, but you’re in deep shit.’ He reaches for the phone and murmurs into it, ‘He’s here, sir,’ and after an uncomfortable minute Detective Superintendent Marshall marches in. Wagstaff gets up and leaves, closing the door firmly behind him.
Marshall turns on Harry. ‘What the bloody hell are you playing at?’
‘Sir?’
‘You attend the murder scene of your close relative, involve yourself in the pursuit of his killer, and end up alone with your hands around the bloke’s neck.’
‘I was feeling for a pulse, sir, like we’re trained to do.’
‘Then you leave the scene of a critical incident, switch off your phone and pay a visit to the victim’s wife. What was going through your mind?’
‘I was trying to do the right thing, sir.’
‘No you weren’t. The right thing would have been to step back as soon as you recognised the victim and let others get on with it. You were involved, compromised, and you knew it but you kept on doing the wrong thing, and compromised a fellow officer, until you finally ended up compromising the whole bloody investigation.’
‘Sir, I don’t think…’
‘Shut up! I shouldn’t even be talking to you. The critical incident team are downstairs waiting to crucify you. Before you go down you will surrender your weapon to Inspector Wagstaff.’ Marshall leans forward and lowers his voice. ‘You’ve disappointed me, Harry. I was a great admirer of your father. That’s why I supported your transfer to homicide. I wanted you to shine as he shone, and I feel let down. Most of the time your performance is exemplary, then a personal issue intrudes and you’re off—you throw your training and judgment to the winds, and you do your own thing. And it makes you a menace, Harry, a menace to your colleagues.’
‘Sir, I responded as I believed the circumstances demanded.’
‘Really?’ Marshall sits back, staring at Harry, then gets to his feet and snatches up a plastic pouch from Wagstaff’s desk. ‘What’s this?’
The photograph of the tow truck he took from the siege house. He opens his mouth but Marshall cuts him off. ‘Yes, I know where you got it. Why did you ask for tech support to follow it up?’
‘I thought it might tell us more of what the guy was up to.’
‘You’re disappointing me again, Harry. I expect honesty from you. You asked them to find out where the truck is now, yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘Because?’
Harry is silent, and after a pause Ma
rshall continues. ‘Because you want to take a scraping of the paint and test it against the marks on your folks’ car, right?’
Harry nods.
‘You see? Secretive and obsessive. Three years and you’re still diverting police resources to your personal quest.’
‘It’s still an unsolved case, sir.’ He is thinking of Greg telling him much the same thing.
‘Get out, Harry. Think about what I’ve said. And tomorrow, if the critical incident boys have finished with you, you’ll report to the police medical officer and the police psychologist for a fitness for duty assessment. That’s an order.’
‘Sir.’
He does as he’s told, surrenders his pistol and heads downstairs, where he gets an extended grilling from the CIT. When they’re finished with him he finds a note on his desk with the time of his appointment with the workforce safety psychologist. In the locker room there is a second padlock on his locker door. It is the public symbol of his humiliation—this man cannot be trusted with his gun. The others frown at the two padlocks, looking uncomfortable as they pass by.
Deb, on her way home, puts her head round the corner. ‘Sheez, Harry, I’m sorry.’
‘Yeah, well. I asked for it, I guess. You warned me.’
‘Yes.’
‘Though you didn’t have to tell them I had my hands round the bloke’s throat.’
‘I never said that! I said you were feeling for a pulse.’
‘Well, maybe forensics and the PM will put them right.’
He goes home to the empty house feeling filthy, stained with aggression and death. He doesn’t want death, he wants life, he wants Jenny. As he moves through the house there are reminders of her everywhere and of how she has to live: a little patch of dirt and grease missed on a worktop that she has scrubbed clean, a towel abandoned in an otherwise spotless bathroom. Most telling of all, her best friend sitting in the corner of the living room.
Crucifixion Creek Page 3