Crucifixion Creek

by Barry Maitland

  ‘About six. I was leaving. We had a brief conversation.’

  ‘Did he tell you his plans for the evening?’

  ‘No he did not. I do have an address for family members in Croatia, not here. Perhaps if you could tell me what happened I might be able to help you.’

  ‘We believe he died in the early hours of this morning, and we’re treating his death as suspicious.’

  ‘An intruder?’ For the first time Horn’s face expresses something like alarm.

  ‘Why would you say that?’

  Horn’s face closes down again. ‘What else would you mean? Now look, I am Mr Kristich’s executor, and as such I need to secure his personal papers.’

  He makes to move forward into the room, but Deb stands in his way. ‘This is a crime scene, sir. You can’t come in.’

  ‘I can advise you,’ he says impatiently, ‘if anything is disturbed or missing.’

  ‘Yes, we’ll need to speak to you again. In the meantime Detective Sergeant Belltree will escort you to your rooms to make sure everything is in order there.’

  Horn peers at Harry, then turns on his heel. As he opens his office door he looks back over his shoulder and says, ‘Belltree? Are you related to the judge?’

  ‘His son.’

  ‘Really?’ Horn stares at him for a long moment, registering his face. ‘Well…’ he makes a theatrical sweep of his arm, ‘be my guest, Sergeant Belltree.’

  Harry has a quick look through the offices, then gets Horn to check the Croatian address of Kristich’s relatives. ‘You didn’t really expect to find anyone here, did you?’ says Horn as he writes it down. Then, ‘It wasn’t suicide was it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Was it the whore? Chloe, did she kill him?’

  Harry looks at him. ‘You think that’s likely?’

  ‘Well, that’s the thing, isn’t it? You never can tell.’

  When he returns to Kristich’s suite Deb is examining a box of bullets. ‘Forty-fives, in a drawer in the bedroom. Does that mean the gun was Kristich’s? How did it end up in Lavulo’s fist?’

  ‘Or Chloe’s? Horn just asked me if she killed Kristich.’

  ‘Did he? There’s traces of heroin in the bedroom and a few other stashes hidden away in various places—ecstasy and ice, I’d say. Looks to me like Kristich was dealing.’

  ‘Phone records and computer then.’

  ‘Right. And there’s documents in the filing cabinets in the outer office.’

  They search for a while longer, then Harry suggests he take Chloe Anastos to the local station for a formal interview, and then start checking the CCTV disks. It’s a relief to get out of Kristich’s nest and wind down the car window and smell the fumy morning air of the city. Chloe has had a friend bring her clothes, and she is more alert. He lets her light up in the car; she sits in silence, blowing smoke out of the window. In the interview he gets her to fill in some background on her relationship with Kristich and Lavulo, then releases her.

  He settles down to play the CCTV recordings, wondering what he will do if he sees himself appear. After an hour he relaxes. Jenny’s intervention appears to have been faultless, with each camera showing an unvarying, eventless image between 1:46 and 2:46 that morning. He calls Deb to let her know that he hasn’t been able to find any record of Lavulo entering the building and is sending the disks down to tech support for a more thorough search, then he sets off for the Glebe morgue.

  Garry Roberts carries out the two post-mortems at his usual steady pace. There are no surprises, no unexplained bruises. Roberts’ only comment is mild surprise at the force that Kristich must have applied to drive the knife so deep into Lavulo’s chest. They will have to wait for results from the toxicology lab to find about drugs.

  Harry walks out into the sunshine with a feeling of cautious relief.

  14

  Kelly Pool slams on the brakes as the radio news comes on, leading with two men found dead in a city office tower overnight. One identified as the financier Alexander Kristich, police treating the deaths as suspicious, a task force formed to investigate. She pulls into the kerb and checks the news feed on her phone. There is nothing more. She swears softly to herself. It was only two days ago that Harry gave her Kristich’s name. After their meeting she did a search and came up with the link to Bluereef Financial Services and an address in the Gipps Tower. She’d been planning to go there, try for an interview, maybe trap Kristich on his way in or out. The paper wanted her at the trial of a teenage car thief in the local magistrates court, then the opening of a new wing in an Islamic primary school, and she’d left Kristich till later.

  Now this. It’s as if she’s caught up in a firestorm, with things exploding all around her, unable to see where any of it’s coming from. Tomorrow the big dailies will have profiles of the dead man, maybe dig up a few angles, but they won’t know what she knows, all those tantalising connections—the couple at Balmoral Beach, the Creek, the homicide detectives sniffing around. Something big is hidden in all this, and by rights it’s bloody well hers. She throws a reckless U-turn and heads into the city.

  There is one police car parked up on the kerb outside the Gipps Tower, but otherwise everything seems normal. She finds a parking station and walks into the foyer of the tower, people coming and going to the lifts as if nothing unusual has happened. She checks the tenant board and takes the lift up to the twenty-third-floor lobby; she sees the name Bluereef Financial Services over to her right. Through the glass screen there’s a uniformed police officer sitting just inside the door. She hesitates, and at that moment the door to one of the other suites opens and a man comes towards her. ‘Can I help you?’

  She recognises him immediately, the black slicked hair, the hatchet face, the clipped phrasing—Nathaniel Horn, solicitor to the crims.

  ‘Oh, um, I was hoping to see Mr Kristich.’

  ‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible. Are you a client?’

  ‘Not exactly. I heard a news report that suggested he was dead, and I thought I should check.’

  ‘Why, may I ask?’

  ‘I’m a reporter, Mr Horn. Were you his solicitor?’

  ‘I think you should leave, Ms…?’

  ‘Only I have heard that he was mixed up in some pretty shady business deals and I wondered if that could be why he was murdered.’

  Horn’s hand reaches out suddenly and grips her arm. He presses his face in close. ‘I don’t know you. What is your name? Which paper do you represent?’

  ‘Let go of my arm or I’ll call that cop.’

  He releases his grip. ‘You’re out of your league, whoever you are. Get out before you get yourself into trouble.’

  ‘I can quote you on that, can I?’ She turns on her heel and walks towards the Bluereef door. She takes a photo through the glass: the uniform, and behind him people removing files and putting them into evidence bags. No sign of Harry Belltree. When the cop gets to his feet she turns and heads back to the lift. As it descends she takes a deep breath, a little unsettled by Horn’s venom but pleased too. There’s something really big here. She needs to speak to Harry, but now is not the time. What else? Speak to Phoebe Bulwer-Knight aga
in? Maybe she’s heard something.

  As she pulls into the kerb she sees two men—bikies wearing colours on their leathers—carrying a sideboard out of Phoebe’s house to a small van. The lettering on the side of the vehicle reads U-Remove. Kelly goes over to them and says, ‘What’s going on?’ They glance at her through their Ray-Bans but don’t reply or stop what they’re doing. At the back of the van they heave the sideboard up and its corner cracks against the steel door. A piece of timber splits off and drops to the ground. Kelly goes through the open door of the house and finds two more bikies in a front room, hurriedly shoving the pieces of a fine china dinner service into a cardboard box while Phoebe looks on, kneading her hands. She recognises Kelly with a smile of confused relief but can’t remember her name.

  ‘Kelly, Kelly Pool, the reporter, Phoebe. Remember?’

  ‘Oh, of course!’

  The two men have stopped what they’re doing, staring at Kelly, although the light is so dim she wonders if they can see anything through their shades.

  ‘What’s happening, Phoebe?’

  ‘Um, these gentlemen are helping me to move.’

  ‘Really? Where are you going?’

  ‘To stay with my sister in Lindfield, I think. I haven’t seen her in twenty years. We had a falling-out but we’ll have to manage now, won’t we? It’s very convenient where she lives, near the library.’ Phoebe sounds doubtful.

  ‘But why? Why are you moving?’

  ‘My lease has been terminated, you see. I had a letter, and then these men came with a van.’

  ‘Can I see the letter?’

  Phoebe goes to her handbag and produces an envelope. The letter, dated two days ago, is from Nathaniel Horn, solicitor, on behalf of Bluereef Financial Services, owners of 8 Mortimer Street, demanding immediate evacuation of the property following nonpayment of rent for a period in excess of six months.

  ‘Phoebe, I think you should stay where you are. The owner of this company died last night and everything will be up in the air for a while. It will give you a chance to work things out properly. You should get your own solicitor to advise you. I can suggest someone local who—’

  She is interrupted by one of the bikies, a huge wall of a man, who moves between them, plucking the letter from her hand and sliding it into his jacket pocket. He takes hold of Kelly’s arm and bundles her out into the hallway.

  When she yells for him to let go he growls, ‘You’re trespassing, lady.’ He pushes her against the wall, pats her down and takes a business card from her wallet, then shoves her through the front door.

  She stumbles out into the street, furious, and grabs her phone. Takes a picture of him standing there in the doorway, arms folded like a bodyguard in some ridiculous cheap movie. ‘Bullies!’ she yells. She can see the headline, BIKIE MOBSTERS: OLD LADY THROWN INTO THE GUTTER.

  When she gets back to her car she sits for a moment breathing hard. She is more shaken by the encounter than she should be, and she wonders if she’s getting too old for this sort of thing. She drives out of Mortimer Street and pulls over again, willing herself to calm down. But what the hell is going on? Those bikies seem to be taking over the whole of Crucifixion Creek. She needs help; thinks of Harry Belltree. It occurs to her how involved he is in this—the siege, his knowledge of Kristich, the connection to the murdered builder, the fire. Harry is involved personally, she thinks. She has to get him to talk.

  She starts the car again and heads back to the office, where she retrieves Greg March’s funeral notices, then searches company records, the phone book. Finally she grabs her bag and heads out again. There is a florist on the corner, where she buys a forty-dollar bunch of flowers before picking up her car.

  The woman who answers her knock seems slightly uncoordinated, hair awry, a flush in her cheeks. ‘Mrs March?’

  ‘Yes? Ooh…’ Nicole stares at the flowers that Kelly thrusts at her. ‘They’re lovely.’

  She’s started early, Kelly thinks, then feels she’s being uncharitable. Probably on sedatives.

  ‘I’m from the Bankstown Chronicle, Mrs March. Your husband worked in our area, and we wanted to express our deepest sympathies. We’re all so upset at what happened.’

  ‘Oh, thank you…’ Nicole frowns at the flowers, as if having trouble focusing. ‘Would you…?’

  ‘Maybe just for a minute, thank you. I don’t want to intrude.’ Kelly steps in and closes the front door behind her. ‘My goodness, this is an amazing house. It’s beautiful.’

  ‘Thank you. It was Greg’s masterpiece.’

  ‘He built it himself?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  Kelly goes over to the top of the stairs. ‘And it goes down all those levels—and wow, the views!’

  ‘Yes. Um, I’ll show you if you like.’

  ‘Oh, I’d love to see. It’s so original.’

  They go down to the main living area, Nicole clutching the flowers, a little unsteady. She puts them on a table and offers Kelly a seat.

  Kelly says, ‘People are just so upset that this sort of thing could happen, with the fire on top of everything else.’

  ‘I know.’ Nicole shakes her head. ‘I can still hardly believe it.’

  ‘I suppose the police think the two things are linked?’

  ‘I…I’m not sure. I haven’t spoken to them since the fire. My brother-in-law has handled all that. He’s with the police.’

  ‘Really? I know some of the cops in that area. What’s his name?’

  ‘Belltree, Harry Belltree.’

  Kelly feels the buzz of revelation. So that’s the connection. ‘I wonder if they think it could be to do with the bikies down there.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ Nicole looks alarmed. ‘I hardly ever went over to Greg’s depot, but I remember once I picked him up there and one of the bikies came in to see him. Greg was quite angry, and told him to go away. When I asked him about it afterwards he said they were just troublemakers. Do you know something about them?’

  ‘There have been stories.’

  ‘You should speak to Harry. I’m sure he’d want to hear anything that might help them.’

  ‘Yes, maybe I should. Do you have his contact details?’

  ‘I’m not sure where he’s based, but I could give you his phone number.’ She gets her mobile phone from her handbag and gives Kelly his home and mobile numbers. ‘He’s very nice, very approachable. I’m sure he’d like to talk to you.’

  ‘Right. I was wondering if there was a photo of Greg with the family that I might use if I can persuade my editor to do a feature?’

  Nicole obliges, and Kelly jots some notes on his life and work. When she gets up to leave, Nicole says, ‘Of course, we had our ups and downs over the years. Being a small builder isn’t easy. I remember Greg saying that he sometimes felt there was a conspiracy against him.’

  ‘Really? A conspiracy?’ Damn. Too eager. Nicole’s face shuts down.

  ‘That was just his way of putting it.’

  Kelly thanks her and leaves.

  15

  When Harry returns to the homicide suite at Parramatta HQ,
Deb is yelling into a phone. He gets the idea that someone in authority is being uncooperative. She finally slams the phone down and glares at Harry. ‘Bastard lawyer Horn—he’s got an injunction to prevent us accessing Kristich’s computers or paperwork.’

  ‘What?’ Harry pulls up a chair. ‘He can’t do that, can he? With a homicide?’

  ‘Well he has. He’s got a magistrate to put a forty-eight-hour block on access pending a review by a higher court. Strike Force Gemini is stuffed before it’s begun.’

  ‘That’s very interesting, isn’t it? Where are they now, the computers and paperwork?’

  ‘We brought them back here for analysis, but our lawyers have now got them secured in a locked room that we can’t get into.’

  ‘Okay, what’s your theory?’

  ‘I think…Lavulo and his bikie mates were supplying Kristich with drugs, which he was then distributing to his business and social contacts. Lavulo came to put the squeeze on Kristich, up the price or whatever, they quarrelled and knocked each other off. Now Kristich’s customers—“people of influence”, shall we say—are scared shitless that he’s kept records.’

  Harry ponders. ‘Get tech support to hack into the computers?’

  ‘Come on, Harry.’

  ‘Start preparing a case for the Crime Commission to get involved?’

  ‘Sure, but that’ll take time.’

  ‘Okay, another idea—Lavulo was a member of the Crows. That’s where the drugs will have come from. We should pay them a visit.’

  ‘Raid the Crows?’ Deb thinks for a moment, then begins to nod. ‘If we can find a link there to Kristich, then Horn’s case will collapse. Let’s go get the big man’s OK.’

  ‘There is one thing you should know, Deb. I have a previous involvement with Kristich.’