by Dave Warner
‘Are you working on this?’
I understood his confusion.
‘Not really. Doing a favour for a friend.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t see how I could help.’
‘I’m talking about the party after.’
‘Oh, right. Not really a party, just pizza and a beer. We didn’t stay that long from what I remember. Left about one.’
‘Maybe if you see the photos. Would you mind?’
He said no but didn’t sound hopeful. I told him I’d ring him back in five after I’d sent them from my phone. He gave me his mobile number. It took quite a few minutes to send the photo I had of Kelly and the still I’d taken off Alex’s video. That one in particular was pretty poor quality. I watched the clock tick by and called. I was already figuring other possibilities if this hit a wall.
‘I remember the girl,’ he said. ‘The best looker, I thought. She chatted to Ingrid for a while. The guy seems familiar but I couldn’t swear.’
I apologised for the photo quality.
‘Like I said, Snow, we didn’t stay that long. I’m too old for pubs, even if the sheilas are cute young things and Shaun, my client, was tired after a long day.’
‘I thought I might try Ingrid.’
‘Don’t think she could help. She and Max left with us. They had an early start.’
It was all less than I hoped for. I thanked him and rang off. Should I call Clement? No, out of necessity he’d delisted me from what was now a big official police investigation. If I told him what I was doing he’d order my arse out of there, officially at least. I chucked my stuff together. I could make the Sandfire Roadhouse for dinner.
As he’d been led to the plane, Crossland had asked constantly what it was all about. Clement had said nothing other than it concerned the theft of a phone and conspiracy to distribute drugs. On the plane ride Crossland had fallen into a sullen funk. Mal Gross radioed through with an update on Kelly, now identified with her full name Kelly Davies. There was no signal on her phone and it had not been used since August 17, the night of the Port Hedland gig. Prior to that gig she’d been surfing Instagram and Facebook but there was no activity since. Her mother had not heard from her, nor had the sExcitation girls. They were awaiting his call in Dampier. Clement had no doubt now that Kelly Davies was the dead girl in the desert. Gross also told him that, as per his instructions, Lisa Keeble and her tech team were already on the road to Wyndham. They had been standing by at Derby and left as soon as Crossland was in custody. If Kelly Davies had been in any part of Crossland’s vehicle, he was certain Keeble would locate traces.
By the time they entered the station it was close to 11.00 pm. The day had begun in the gloom of the mangrove flats near Derby. It seemed interminable. Risely was waiting for them.
‘Perth says you can start questioning.’
Mal Gross led Crossland into the interview room. Nat Restoff was tasked with watching over him. Shepherd stretched out on the sofa and announced he was starving. Clement told him he could go home.
‘No, I’ll stick around.’
Everybody wanted in on the glory. Gross had bought a burger for Graeme Earle. It was cold now but Earle stuck it in the microwave. Clement had declined the offer. He’d make do with toast if he got hungry.
‘You okay?’ he asked Earle.
The microwave pinged.
‘Will be after this.’
It was weird, thought Clement. They all knew they were on the verge of solving the state’s greatest crime mystery but it was as if they were embarrassed to admit that.
Clement grabbed a coffee. It was probably a dumb idea. His head was thumping. It seemed he’d been flying and driving for as long as he could remember. In his office, he popped two Panadol from a blister pack and swallowed them dry. He picked up the report on Kelly Davies assembled by Mal Gross, scanned it to make sure Gross had given him all the relevant facts and then sent a text to Snowy Lane. Got Him.
While Earle ate, Clement went to the bathroom and splashed water on his face. He’d been running since 5.00 am but he felt charged. He made a quick call to Alex Mendleson. She sounded worn down. She told him she’d spoken to Snowy Lane and he had warned her to expect the worst.
It was 11.30 pm by the time he and Earle were sitting opposite Cross-land. Clement passed a white coffee and two biscuits over to Crossland then switched on the camera, gave the time and date and introduced the parties. He asked Crossland for his full name.
‘Shane Jason Crossland.’
The answer was given begrudgingly. He showed Crossland the Lipton phone, which was sealed in a plastic bag.
‘Recognise the phone, Shane?’
He shrugged. Clement asked him for an answer on the record.
‘I might. Can’t say. Plenty of phones look like that.’
Clement watched Crossland sip his coffee. He’s off balance, thought Clement. He wonders how much we know. Clement began by asking for an account of his movements that day. Crossland lolled his head, bored and annoyed.
‘From when I got up?’
‘Yes, Shane.’
A sigh. ‘I woke up about eight, eight-thirty, I pissed in the bush.’
‘Where were you?’
‘I don’t know. In the fucking bush near Kununurra.’
Clement tried to show no surprise. ‘You sure it was Kununurra?’
‘Yeah. Everybody said go see Kununurra, so I did.’
According to Crossland, he’d been at the pub at Kununurra till 10.30 the previous evening. He’d then driven towards Wyndham but got tired and pulled off the road, ‘doing the right thing, like they tell you’, about 11.00 pm. He’d then woken up and pissed and driven to Wyndham where some time late morning he’d had a breakfast. He didn’t know the name of ‘the joint’ but described where it was and the waitress. ‘She should remember me, I gave her a five buck tip.’
Clement didn’t detect false bravado. He’d already been sceptical that Crossland could have made Wyndham from Derby. He was ninety-eight percent certain now that whoever had been at the creek wasn’t Crossland. He took Crossland through a chronology of when he had hired the car and driven north from Perth. Crossland claimed he was doing a ‘northwest holiday’.
Clement checked his watch. It was after midnight now. ‘So,’ he said, ‘tell me all about your trip.’
It was close on 8.30 when I wheeled into the Sandfire Roadhouse parking lot, rush hour. Three big rigs, a couple of campervans and a handful of cars were scattered like mahjong tiles beneath a breathtaking cape studded with the most brilliant stars. I stepped out into fresh, cool desert air tainted by tobacco smoke. A couple of blokes stood by the tavern door, fags in their mouths, beers in their fists. It felt sacrilegious. Inside, the community of travellers tucked into steaks and hamburgers. I took my spot, ordered a burger with the lot and a beer. By now Crossland might have been shot dead trying to escape whatever Clement had going down, or he might be in custody and have already confessed.
Or they could still be looking for him.
I tried Clement’s phone again just in case and got a voicemail. I left a message to call me when he had a chance. The burger, in Australian tradition, contained beetroot and while it wasn’t the Taj Mahal of burgers, it did the job. There was no need to rush, I sipped my beer while I traced my steps back seventeen years to when Grace was a baby and I’d first begun on the case. Could I really be at the end of that long journey? Resisting the urge for a second beer, I paid up, filled my tank, had a pee and stood under the stars. For an instant I was once more a tiny figure in a huge volume of space. I guessed an astronaut must feel like this when they float outside their ship. It was wonderful and uplifting, and I laughed at the absurdity of forcing myself back into the tiny cramped confines of my little metal ball and hurtling south towards Hedland. But that’s exactly what I did.
Driving a lot faster than I should have, I reached Port Hedland in well under three hours, still too late for the pub to be open but I headed there anyway. I sw
ung into the area out front. It looked dark inside. I checked my phone. One text, Clement: Got Him.
I didn’t feel elation, just relief. I might have given up then, gone and pressed the night bell at the motel and asked for a room, but I saw a side door of the pub open and a young woman exit, smoking. I walked to where she’d emerged from, a saloon bar, low light inside, a few young men and women having a drink and eating potato chips: staffies, an Aussie tradition. You stayed sober till you’d got everybody else pissed, then had a go yourself. I was still kind of floating, I don’t know how else to describe it. Nearly twenty years of your life you’ve had this thing, pricking you, one minute light as a feather, another, deep in your soul. Part of me still didn’t believe it could all be finished. I had to make sure it was. The door had snapped shut so I tapped on the glass. A young guy I recognised from my time here before got up and wandered over to open it for me. He didn’t recognise me.
‘Sorry mate, we’re closed.’
His name leapt out of the ether.
‘Dougal. Richard Lane, Private Detective, remember?’
He did with that prompt. I asked if I could have a few minutes of their time. He let me in, locked the door and kindly offered me a beer. I was more interested in the potato chips, I was starving. There were three young women and three guys. I introduced myself.
‘I don’t know if any of you guys remember the night of the sExcitation show here. There was a bit of a drinks and pizza party upstairs afterwards. Did any of you go to that party?’
Two of the guys and one blonde with an English accent, sunburned cheeks and curly hair had.
‘Do you remember this guy at all? He might have been with one of the dancers.’
I produced my phone and showed the best photo of Shane Crossland I had.
The blonde girl giggled. ‘Yes, I remember him: Shane. He wasn’t with a dancer though.’
One of the other girls smiled and slapped her playfully. ‘You didn’t?’
I’m old and slow. It took me a beat to catch on. ‘Are you saying you were with him?’
‘Yes.’
‘How long?’
She made a distance sign with her hands. The others burst out laughing. I wasn’t in the mood for jokes.
‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘couldn’t resist. Basically the whole night. I had to kick him out at a quarter to ten next morning, my shift was starting.’
CHAPTER 32
‘I don’t remember her name but she’s a Pom, blonde and curly hair, and she was deadset up for it, so she’s lying if she says she wasn’t.’
Crossland was more at ease now, toying with his second cup of coffee, enjoying the cream biscuit Clement had offered. He was a lot more relaxed than Clement, the headache was back, pounding harder this time. Maybe it was because he wasn’t getting the smell of fear he’d expected from Crossland, or because the doubts about the time line were growing. They’d blazed past 2.00 am. Clement nodded to Earle, his turn to recap.
‘So, according to you, you left Perth, drove up through Geraldton, Carnarvon, Exmouth, lapping up the sunshine…’
‘I told you, I don’t like the cold.’
‘… you went to the sExcitation show in Port Hedland. You took some photos with the stolen phone …’
‘It wasn’t stolen.’
‘… you went to the after-show drinks for a while …’
‘Not that long. Fifteen minutes. Then I scored the Pommy chick.’
‘And you went back to her room in the staff quarters at the hotel and had sex all night, waking at about nine-thirty next day.’
‘That’s right. She woke me up, she had to go to work.’
Clement chopped in. ‘When you left the drinks, who was still there?’
Crossland shrugged. ‘Couple of the staff, couple of the dancers, some dude smoking a big spliff. Couple of others. I wasn’t paying much attention.’
‘What did you do next?’
‘Took a drive to Newman, then back up to Karratha, Dampier back through Hedland.’
‘Looking for work?’
‘No, just kicking back. I find the desert very relaxing.’
‘You’ve got people who can confirm this?’
‘Course. The motels I stayed at.’
After some to and fro, they established Crossland’s account of his time. He’d spent August 18 at Mulga Downs, then August 19 to 21 at Newman in the desert. He’d driven all the way back to Karratha on the coast and spent the next three days there. He cruised on to Dampier for three days, then back through Hedland for another three days. The ‘Pommy chick’ wasn’t there so they had not hooked up again.
What were you doing, thought Clement, looking for victims, selling drugs, both?
According to Crossland, he’d driven to Broome on September 1st.
‘I stayed at a place called the Divers Retreat, something like that.’
The Divers Rest. Clement knew it.
‘How long were you there?’
‘Just a couple of days. I thought it was a bit expensive so next time I tried the Pearl.’
‘And after Broome, where did you go?’
‘I drove up to Beagle Bay.’
He said he’d spent a couple of days relaxing there before returning to Broome and booking at the Pearl.
Earle said, ‘Under the name Shane Shields.’
‘That was just a bit of fun.’
‘Did you use that name at the other motels?’ Earle playing the hard man.
He grinned. ‘It was an adventure.’
Earle threw to Clement, knowing he would want the meat. Clement sensed he was getting to the climax and his one shot before Perth took over, probably first thing tomorrow.
‘The Pearl Motel was burgled that night and Chelsea Lipton’s phone stolen. You didn’t report it. If you hadn’t stolen it, why was that?’
Crossland had his back to the wall and knew it. ‘Alright. I took the phone, okay? Mine was on the blink and I was about to go away. Come on, I’ll buy her a new one. You guys must have something better to do.’
‘No, Shane, this is what we live for.’ He wanted to get his timing just right. He pulled the drugs taken from Turner and tossed them in front of Crossland in their plastic evidence bag. ‘These were stolen off you too.’
‘What? No way. I knew you’d try and fit me up.’
Confronted with the hard evidence, Crossland was not such a good actor.
‘Shane, we know you were selling these, we know they were stolen from your hotel room. Along with this.’ It had all been building to this moment. He’d seen Crossland lie twice now. He could read him. He felt the weight of nearly twenty years of police investigation on his shoulders. He pulled out the pendant and dangled it.
Crossland sat back and folded his arms.
‘I’ve never seen that before. Or the gear. This is bullshit.’
No false note on the pendant but the denial on the drugs had a hollow heart. One more time on the pendant.
‘You’ve never seen this before?’
‘Stolen is it?’
‘Just answer the question.’
‘No, I’ve never seen it before.’
There it was, the brick wall. Perhaps Crossland was such a consummate actor he could seem transparent on the drugs but convincing on the pendant. Clement would have liked to take the questioning along the Autostrada line but that would be wrong. Even if he got something, Crossland could claim he was fatigued, didn’t know what he was saying.
‘Can you account for your actions on Thursday the seventh of September?’
‘Give us a break.’
Clement walked him through the days.
‘I think I was on some diving tour. I’m not sure.’
‘What diving tour?’
‘I don’t know. I walked into their shop in the main drag.’
‘Kimberley Diving?’
‘That’s sounds right. There were about ten of us on the boat.’
‘Do you know this man?”
Clement
produced a photo of Sidney Turner.
‘Nope.’ Nothing that showed recognition.
It was almost 3.00 am.
‘Alright, Shane, that’s it for now. You’ll be charged with stealing the phone and attempting to distribute drugs. You’ll spend the night in the lockup.’
An eager Risely was waiting for them when he and Earle emerged. Clement had made a list of notes he wanted double-checked, foremost Crossland’s Hedland alibi with the barmaid, and his claim about being on a diving tour the day Turner went missing. Before he spoke, Clement made sure Crossland had been escorted out the back to his lockup transport.
‘He copped to the phone, lied about the drugs, claims he has an alibi for the night Kelly Davies disappeared, denied he’d ever seen the pendant. I have to say, on that he was convincing.’
‘Well, he would be.’ Risely though looked deflated.
‘Even if his alibi with the barmaid checks out,’ said Earle, ‘it’s not really an alibi. He could have killed Kelly Davies, stashed the body in his boot, gone back, rooted like a rabbit, then driven into the desert the next day and dumped the body.’
Clement was worried that Crossland’s car wouldn’t make it into the desert.
Risely said, ‘He might have borrowed or hired another one.’
All that was true. And yet there was something, that internal alarm, that Crossland just had not set off. Risely asked Earle what he thought.
‘I don’t have your experience. I thought he was bullshitting about the drugs. I reckon he came up with a bootful of drugs and worked his way around the Pilbara selling. The pendant, I couldn’t say.’
Risely clapped Clement on the shoulder. ‘You’ve done exactly the right thing. Detectives Collins and Stroghetti will be arriving first thing tomorrow to take him back to Perth for questioning. We are to continue to pursue the Kelly Davies case and let them know of any convergence.’
Clement fought the frustration of having to hand over Crossland. There was no sign of Shepherd, not surprising.
‘The footy star head home to bed?’
‘No,’ said Risely, ‘he offered to help Manners on confirming the time lines Crossland gave us for arriving in Broome. They are checking CCTV.’