The 13th Black Candle

by Bob Goodwin

  ‘What?’ His manner quickly changed. He was interested. Some good news in the case was well overdue. Johnson knew she had hooked him. The typing pool had been avoided for the time being. She held the item up and smiled broadly.

  ‘The man at the hardware store, just down the road from Devlin’s flat, remembers selling a bunch of these last Saturday morning. He clearly recalled the sale, as they are not a popular item and he was considering removing them from his inventory. They were purchased by a well-dressed man who was driving a red Mercedes. Sounded like Stacey to me.’

  ‘Nice work, Johnson,’ said Cochran with enthusiasm and just a hint of pleasure. He jumped to his feet, momentarily forgetting about his back problem. He very nearly reached an upright position, but then crumbled back to his seat as the stabbing pain shot down the back of both his legs. ‘Ah! Shit! Damn! Curse you, Stacey!’ he bellowed to the ceiling. Both his hands slammed down on the desk. Cathy Johnson jumped. The fruit yoghurt bounced into the air and landed on the floor, splitting open the plastic packaging and allowing the contents to ooze out. Cathy moved quickly around the desk to offer what assistance she could. As she stepped forward to place her hand on Cochran’s shoulder, her heel slid on the spilled yoghurt. Her right foot shot forward and she was unable to prevent herself toppling backwards.

  ‘Johnson, are you…’ Cochran couldn’t continue and erupted into raucous laughter, interspersed with moans and groans of pain. The humour of the situation was contagious and Cathy, stretched out on the floor, couldn’t help but join in. A moment later the door opened. It was Carter.

  ‘What in the hell is going on here? You two are disturbing the peace. What’s more important, you’re interrupting the wrestling. Johnson, are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks, Sarge,’ laughed Cathy.

  ‘Despite what it looks like, everything... oh shit, my back! Christ!’ Cochran pushed his arms behind his back for support. ‘All’s well here. More or less, I guess. You can be on your way. Thanks, Carter. You may return to… no, no bloody TV, I’ve got a job for you,’ said John Cochran, now collecting his thoughts. ‘You can get me a list of all red Mercedes owners in and around the city. Recent models, say, the last five years. ASAP!’

  ‘I knew it was a mistake to come in here. A fellow comes to offer a helping hand and gets lumbered with paperwork, and on a Saturday, too!’ stated Carter woefully as he left the room.

  ‘You may get up now, Johnson, if you’re able. Sorry about the yoghurt. Now you see what so-called healthy food does for you,’ smiled the inspector through a grimace. ‘If it was a pie and peas it wouldn’t have fallen off the desk like that.’

  ‘I think even a watermelon would have cleared the edge of the desk, sir,’ said Cathy, now taking a seat. She armed herself with a small handkerchief and tried to remove some of the white fruity sludge from her navy blue pleated skirt.

  ‘You’ve done well, Johnson. Now, let me put you in the picture.’ Cochran picked up the few loose pieces of paper lying on the desk. ‘Marshall has gathered a little history on Stacey. It seems our number one suspect was an exceptional actor during his high school days. Some of his teachers expected him to go on to great things. Hmmm.... What else have we here?’ He checked his paperwork. ‘Always in the top five percent of students; numerous gambling misdemeanours. Since school he’s had several jobs as a stable hand, and he has worked with a few local bookmakers. He upset a few as well by collecting on a number of very large bets. But there’s been no regular employment for the past seven years. He met his wife at the racetrack three and a half years ago, she also worked in the betting ring.’

  ‘Sounds like a very clever, plausible man. A con man even,’ remarked Cathy.

  ‘Oh yes. He’s definitely that. Fortunately for us, he’s not going anywhere in a hurry, and should be in the locked psych ward for some time yet after that supposed suicide attempt.’ Cochran ran his finger down the sheet of foolscap. ‘Dempsey and Hogan have been trying to trace Adrian Devlin, but without any luck yet,’ he continued. ‘No one has seen him since Tuesday’s card night at Duncan’s. According to his employer, Devlin is on two weeks’ sick leave. Rang them himself, apparently.’ Cochran traced over a red line with his finger, starting at the name Devlin and finishing at Morgan. ‘Ah yes! An unusual break and enter reported from Morgan’s dental surgery yesterday. Only one thing missing: Adrian Devlin’s dental file. Now why would someone do that, Johnson? I ask you?’

  ‘Maybe Devlin was unhappy with Morgan’s dental work and wanted a second opinion?’

  ‘Johnson, I’d like to think you’re trying to be funny, but I’ve got a feeling that you’re serious. Please tell me I’m wrong.’

  ‘Just thinking aloud, sir. How about impersonation? Someone plans a murder and wants to make the deceased look like Devlin.’ Cathy tilted her head thoughtfully to one side and looked at the inspector.

  ‘Well, perhaps you’re onto something, but don’t hold your breath. You have missed the most obvious reason. Devlin’s body may be very difficult to identify without his dental records, particularly if it’s mutilated or burnt.’

  ‘You think there may be a plan to kill Devlin as well? That does seem to make more sense, sir.’

  ‘Well, thanks for the vote of confidence. For all we know he may already be dead. Now, continuing on.’ Cochran referred to his notes. ‘No leads on the male corpse found at Stacey’s place, and that I can tell you is a real pain in the arse.’

  ‘Any chance that —’

  ‘Of course it’s not Devlin,’ interrupted Cochran, anticipating her remark. ‘Unless you believe he somehow gained an extra seven kilos and lengthened his body by four and a half centimetres.’

  ‘I guess that’s unlikely.’

  ‘I guess it is. As I was saying, the final autopsy report has cause of death as drowning. The head wound was enough to kill him, but the water did the job first. There was pool water in the lungs, and his blood was found in the pool.’

  ‘That makes his being naked a little easier to understand then. But how did he get from the pool to the shed?’

  ‘Don’t you think that the more correct question is who, not how? Who moved him from the pool to the shed?’

  ‘Well, that’s more or less what I meant. Naturally, I knew he didn’t walk there or anything,’ added Cathy. Cochran just stared at her for a moment.

  ‘More or less are not good detective words, Johnson.’

  ‘No, sir. I realise that, sir. Sorry.’

  ‘Now, our friend Briggs,’ continued the inspector after a big sigh. ‘He has spoken with dear old Miss Ashbridge, the neighbour of Edward Duncan. She confirms Stacey’s story of the argument with Duncan, but can’t be sure of the time. She also says that there was another argument at around two on Wednesday morning. She remembers being woken by the noise. She looked out her window and saw what she believed to be a Mercedes, possibly red, driving away in a hurry.’

  ‘Surely that must have been Stacey,’ reasoned Cathy. ‘Haven’t we got enough to charge that mongrel?’

  ‘It doesn’t add up,’ pondered Cochran, running his fingers through his short, greying hair. ‘You said yourself, Stacey’s a con man. This doesn’t sound like the work of a devious character like Stacey. I reckon on three possibilities. One, Stacey simply stuffed up and we’ve got him cold. An unlikely option I think.’ Cochran spoke with his hands, unfolding another finger each time he spoke. ‘Two, someone’s going to great lengths to point the finger at him. To make us think he’s guilty of this whole damned mess. And three, Stacey wants us to think he’s being set up. With the help of others, he is creating some very unusual and perhaps misleading details, like the dental file, the moving of the body from the pool, the suicide note, and the murder of Edward Duncan poorly disguised as a suicide.’

  ‘Do you think he just got careless under pressure?’

  ‘Maybe. If only it was that simple. Stacey had that other Mercedes six months back. It was reported stolen and never located. It was wh
ite, but perhaps it’s had a paint job. Johnson,’ said Cochran, looking at Cathy as if trying to impart his thoughts. ‘Well, Johnson. C’mon, let’s hear it!’

  ‘Someone could be using the car to set up Stacey, or Stacey could be using his first Mercedes to make it look that way.’

  ‘Very good! Hallelujah! And God said, let there be light, and there was light.’ Cochran raised his hands to the ceiling with joy. ‘Okay then, let’s move.’

  ‘Where are we going, sir?’

  ‘We’re going to Eagle Farm Racecourse. I haven’t been since last Melbourne Cup day. I’m hoping it will be a pleasant afternoon. We need to talk to some of those bookies that had dealings with Stacey.’

  Carter was still engrossed in the television wrestling show when the two emerged. As he caught sight of Cochran, he jumped to his feet and quickly turned the volume down to zero.

  ‘Made a start on those lists, J. C… I mean sir. More to come yet.’ Carter placed two sheets of paper on the counter.

  ‘Thanks, Sarge. You hang onto them for the time being. Get in touch with Dempsey or Hogan. I want another search of that flat. We have an empty recorder and I want the cassette tape found, if it exists. And get me another list of all missing persons and known bad guys that resemble that naked corpse, and this time cover all states and territories. Marshall can help when he gets back. We’ll be at the racetrack.’

  ‘What if I go to the races and you two do the paperwork, then we’ll all be happy?’ quipped Carter. John Cochran raised his middle finger in response and walked out the front door. Johnson followed.

  ‘No harm in trying,’ said Carter to himself.

  ‘Sarge.’ It was Cathy, poking her head back around the corner of the door. She caught Carter’s attention, repeated the inspector’s gesture, then disappeared.

  ‘You’ll keep, Johnson!’ he shouted. ‘You’ll keep!’

  * * *

  The drive to the track, although slow while trying to avoid too many bumps, was uneventful. Cathy Johnson, in sympathy for her injured leader, dropped him off near the main gates while she found a suitable car park. The section reserved for police vehicles was packed with everything but, so she had a lengthy walk back to the entrance. The unlikely couple made their way to the grassed area in front of the main grandstand. Cochran stretched out flat on the lush turf and sighed with relief. The prolonged sit in the car had amplified his back pain.

  With fifteen minutes until the first race, the immediate area was free from many patrons. Several children were running up and down near the racetrack fence, chasing each other. A few family groups were scattered about on the lawn, and the grandstand was only filled to about one-quarter of its capacity. With the gardens in bloom, the light breeze and the clear blue sky, it was a perfect day. Cathy sat down cross-legged next to Cochran, who had now closed his eyes. She knew they were here to talk specifically with two bookmakers: Harry Waterman and Martin McPhee. While it was very pleasant sitting on the cool grass, Johnson was keen to get on with their intended business. She kept glancing at Cochran, wondering when he would be ready to find his feet.

  ‘Be patient, Johnson. You wait until you hear the starting signal, then you can go and talk with McPhee,’ said Cochran, sensing his pupil’s restlessness. ‘He’ll be much too busy to talk to either of us at the moment.’

  She smiled and nodded to herself. While still of the opinion that Cochran was primarily a rude belligerent slob, she was aware her respect for his judgement had grown since the start of the present investigation. Perhaps his sense of humour isn’t too bad either.

  ‘You and Carter are good friends then?’ asked Cathy.

  ‘What gave you that idea?’

  ‘The way you talk to him. Which is often harsh, but not particularly convincing. And he called you J. C.’

  ‘A detective lurks within you, Johnson. Yes, we’ve known each other for years. And J. C. is an off-work title only. Don’t go getting any ideas.’

  ‘Certainly not, sir,’ smiled Cathy. ‘I might go for a stroll around. Be back shortly.’

  ‘When you return, do us a favour and bring back a cold drink. My back’s telling me it’s time for some more painkillers.’

  ‘How about a hot pie and peas as well, sir?’

  ‘The woman’s getting educated at last. Thank you, Johnson. That would be much appreciated.’

  ‘See you soon.’

  ‘I’ll still be here.’

  Cathy Johnson took a leisurely walk to the rear of the grandstand. The lost crowd had been discovered. Every consumer outlet was jammed with people. The bars, food counters, tote windows, and betting ring were all operating at a hectic pace. Generally, it appeared to be an orderly confusion, except for the bookmaker’s area, where pushing and shoving seemed to be the order of the day. Bodies five and six deep, waving money in the air, surrounded the stands, desperately attempting to gain the best price for their fancied runner. With a turn of the dial on the odds board, the bookmaker could disappoint up to a dozen potential customers at once. The unsatisfied gamblers were quick to withdraw the offered cash and weave their way through the masses in frantic pursuit of a more suitable price. Cathy had been listening to the shouting from the ring; one name had stuck in her mind. As she stood watching the commotion, she heard the call of another bookmaker.

  ‘Our John’s Back. Two hundred to twenty each way.’ Cathy opened her handbag and joined the tote queue. She reached the window as the starting signal sounded for the runners to move into the starting gates.

  ‘Two dollars each way on Our John’s Back, please.’

  ‘Horse number?’ asked the lady ticket seller.

  ‘I don’t know the horse’s number, sorry,’ said Cathy. The lady sighed in annoyance and checked the list taped on the counter.

  ‘Twelve,’ she announced gruffly as she punched in the numbers.

  ‘Thank you. Have a nice day,’ said Cathy, as she collected her ticket. The public-address system was in operation, announcing the horses’ names as they quickly assembled at the start. The mass exodus from the betting ring was like a stampede, all rushing to gain a vantage point from which to cheer their money to the winning post.

  There were still a few punters running around in the clearing betting ring, some looking a little frantic and desperate. Within a couple of minutes of the starting signal the bell sounded, and the race was underway. The last few punters, eager to place their bets, were turned away, disappointed. Cathy approached the stand she had spotted a moment earlier; it was just one of at least forty. At the top of each stand was a name that identified each bookmaker. There was a short, dumpy gentleman with greying hair perusing the writings on the oversized book at the back of the stand marked ‘M. McPhee’.

  ‘Excuse me, but is Mr McPhee here?’

  ‘Who wants to know, lady?’ replied the gentleman abruptly.

  ‘Constable Johnson, CI Branch,’ replied Cathy in her best official voice and displaying her ID.

  ‘CIB!’ said the man with surprise. ‘I’m McPhee, and I didn’t do it.’

  ‘I’m pleased to hear that, Mr McPhee. I would appreciate just a couple of minutes of your time.’

  ‘Always got time to talk to a pretty lady, love.’

  ‘I want to ask you about Alison Stacey. I believe she used to work for you?’

  ‘Oh yes. A terrible thing, that fire,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Alison was a nice girl. Pity she got mixed up with that Simon Stacey. I told her he was trouble, but she wouldn’t listen to me.’

  ‘I’m listening. Please go on.’

  ‘Call me Marty, nearly everyone does, and those that don’t certainly wouldn’t call me mister.’ The initial rough exterior of the chunky man had been put aside. ‘Stacey was well-known round here a couple of years back. He’d hit the ring with thousands of dollars at a time. He’d bet on only one local horse every other Saturday. The bastard cleaned us out, time and time again.’

  ‘Are you suggesting there was something improper going on?’ />
  ‘Yes I am, but I could never prove anything, mind you, and I wouldn’t want to say anything that might be found to be liable.’

  ‘Strictly off the record, Marty,’ said Cathy reassuringly.

  ‘Well,’ said McPhee, moving a little closer to the constable. ‘I suspect that he was doping horses to make them lose. He’d nobble two or three of the fancied runners, and then bet on the best horse remaining.’

  ‘What about swabs and urine tests?’

  ‘They never showed anything, but I don’t believe they routinely screen for marijuana.’

  ‘Marijuana!’

  ‘Shush, shush! Yes, biscuits, marijuana biscuits. The night before the race,’ said Marty softly but emphatically. ‘The officials tell me they can pick up anything in the testing, but I’m not convinced.’ McPhee looked at Johnson; she was smiling. ‘Yeah, sounds funny, I agree,’ continued the bookmaker. ‘Those horses still performed fairly well, but just not up to their best. Quite simply, they were still stoned, and couldn’t give a shit about racing.’

  ‘Right, thanks for that,’ said Cathy unsurely. ‘Can you tell me, why did Alison Stacey stop working with you?’

  ‘I’m telling you the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, at least as I see it, lady,’ said Marty, lifting his hands in the air as a gesture to show he had nothing to hide. ‘Alison left after I refused to accept any more large bets from Stacey. I took a bet of forty grand, at five to one. I was only able to lay off eighty, so he took me down to the tune of one hundred and twenty thousand dollars. To bet like that you’ve got to buy more than the form guide. Alison and Simon worked like a bit of a tag team here in the betting ring.’

  ‘Do you know anyone who would have liked to see Stacey or his wife out of the way?’

  ‘If you’d asked me that two years ago, you could have had the names of every bookie here, and no one lost more to the bastard than I did. We were just glad to see the back of him,’ said Marty, still using hand signals to assist his answers. ‘Generally though, we’ve found it not a good idea to murder our winning customers. It tends to discourage the other punters.’