by Bob Goodwin
‘How many doughnuts was that, sir?’ replied Dempsey instantly.
‘I’ll settle for just the paper. But let me tell you that’s a decision I make purely because I choose, and not for any other reason. Is that clear?’
‘Absolutely, sir.’
On the list of persons who had access to Ward 21 seclusion room keys were the names of five oriental women. Cochran was hopeful that one of these hospital employees might have once used the alias of Cherry Minx. He had recruited the services of Candy, a local escort girl who had past associations with Hartley’s sex club, and a reasonable recollection of what Cherry looked like.
Cochran had turned to page six by the time they pulled up at the first address. Dempsey stopped the car and looked at the inspector.
‘Well, man, what are you waiting for? Get out there and check it out.’ Cochran never lifted his gaze from the newspaper.
‘Yes, sir. Candy, you’d better get out. You’ll never see a thing through all these trees.’
The streetwalker met the detective at the gate. He looked her up and down and rued his impromptu decision. She was clad in a skimpy, body-hugging skirt that partly revealed a bright red pair of lacy knickers that matched her high-heeled shoes and fishnet stockings. Her face entranced Dempsey.
‘What are ya looking at, lover boy?’ said Candy, chewing on gum.
‘Some of your makeup seems to be cracking a little.’ He pointed tentatively to the side of her eye. ‘Just over there.’
‘Well fuck, sweetheart. I’ve been working all fucking night. What’d ya expect?’
‘Yeah, sorry.’
‘Anyway, you don’t root me eyes, do ya? Remember, I’m the whore with the strongest jaw. The best mouth in the south. You can easy find out for yourself, honey.’
‘Good God! I’ll pass, thank you,’ said Dempsey.
‘Your loss, sugar.’
‘I’ll get over it. You wait here at the gate.’
‘It’s a bloody myth, you know,’ she announced coarsely, as the detective proceeded down the pathway. ‘Those slant eyes are no better or tighter than the rest of us. And they can’t handle big men. Maybe that’s why you’re so keen to see her, eh?’
John Cochran continued scanning the paper. It was with some surprise that he found the article he was looking for, tucked away on page six. Over the past few days the various reports on police corruption had progressively moved back through the paper. While steady progress was being made in identifying many who were associated with an alleged protection racket, there seemed to be no further developments pinpointing the ringleaders in the elaborate drug distribution network. Dempsey returned to the car.
‘She’s not the one either, sir.’
‘Dempsey, what do you make of this?’ Cochran folded the paper into a more manageable size and passed it over. ‘It’s a bloody cover-up. The minister says the police drug connection alleged earlier this month might not be as widespread as first thought. What bullshit.’
‘Yes, sir, sounds like crap to me, too. Sir, she’s not the one either,’ repeated Dempsey.
‘Okay,’ said Cochran, still scanning the newspaper. ‘Didn’t expect she would be really. A bit too old I was thinking. Do you think they’ll hang these blokes?’ He pointed at an article in the paper.
‘What blokes?’
‘Barlow and Chambers; in prison in Malaysia. You been living under a rock or what?’
‘Oh, those guys. Drug smugglers. Dead men walking. Bob Hawke may be a legend, but I don’t think even he can save them now. We should press on,’ said Dempsey. ‘Candy, get in.’
‘A please would be a nice courtesy. You’ve not paid me, ya know, so ya got no right to treat me harsh, lover boy.’
‘Okay. Thanks for your assistance. Just one more to go, okay?’ said Richard Dempsey, almost politely.
‘Better be. I’ve gotta get cleaned up. I need to douche, you know.’
‘Please, spare me the details. Will you just get in, please?’ There was a hint of annoyance creeping into Dempsey’s voice. He reefed out his notebook, scribbled a few quick details, and pushed it roughly back into his trouser pocket.
‘Okay, don’t hassle me. Bastard cops,’ she muttered.
Within a few minutes, they were parked outside a low-set white timber home. Dempsey opened his door. Before getting out he turned to Candy.
‘You can observe through the window this time.’
‘Spoil sport.’ She poked out her tongue.
‘Dempsey,’ said Cochran softly, while still fiddling with the paper.
‘I’m sorry, but it’s not something that particularly interests me at this moment. Perhaps the police corruption thing is a matter for a royal commission or some special enquiry, sir,’ sighed Dempsey.
‘It’s not that. It’s the sign on the fence. Good luck.’ The inspector raised his eyebrows and gestured toward the gate.
‘Shit,’ cursed the detective on seeing the bold notice: ‘Beware of the dog. Enter at own risk.’
He walked confidently through the gate and up to the veranda door. His loud knock accomplished two things; a close look at the gnashing teeth of a Rottweiler, and the arrival of a black-haired oriental lady. The lady opened the lattice door and patted her hand loudly against her hip. The dog stopped growling, moved up the three steps, and sat at her feet. She fed him a treat she had in her hand. The detective displayed his badge.
‘Detective Richard Dempsey. I’m looking for a nurse from the hospital. Her name is Kym Sharma.’
‘Yes, I’m Kym. I have already spoken with the police at the hospital. They have taken my statement. Eddy was a friend of mine. This is all very distressing.’
‘I know my colleagues have already spoken with you, and I apologise for this intrusion. Would you be so kind as to show some form of identification, Miss Sharma?’
‘I need identification in my own home? I do have a driving license. But is that really necessary?’
‘I’m afraid so. If you wouldn’t mind.’
‘Just one moment, Detective.’ She went inside. Dempsey looked down at the black dog; which now sat quietly just staring at him. He glanced back at the car. Candy held her fist at the car window with her little finger extended. The lady returned with license in one hand and a tissue in the other. She blotted her eyes.
‘There you are. I hope that will be okay. It’s an old photo and I have had my hair changed a little since then.’ Dempsey quickly checked it over.
‘Yes, I see. Thank you, Miss Sharma, that’s fine.’ He passed the license back. ‘Now, if you wouldn’t mind stepping forward a little, there’s a lady in the car who thinks she may know you.’
Candy looked intently. She wound down the window just to be sure.
‘That’s not her, either. I’ve never seen that woman before.’
‘Damn! Are you absolutely definite about that?’ said Cochran.
‘Of course I bloody well am. I don’t know her. Now let’s piss off, I’ve got things to do.’ Cochran waved to Dempsey. The detective tipped his head politely, apologised once more, and backed up cautiously to the gate. Once outside he smiled and nodded again to the woman. She blotted her eyes and nodded back. Dempsey joined his companions and drove away.
The lady closed the doors, walked casually along the veranda and back inside.
‘Thank you. You were wonderful. So composed, so confident,’ said Kym proudly. ‘And I think Satan has taken a liking to you. He’s just a big softie when he wants a dog biscuit. That was a very special performance.’
‘That’s what you’re paying me for, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, yes indeed. Here you are.’ Kym counted out ten fifty-dollar bills.
Chapter 33
A Waiting Game
‘Okay, that about sums it up. The whole sordid story,’ said Cochran. ‘It’s Friday the 13th, sunset will be in two hours, and there’s a gang of psychopathic devil worshippers out there somewhere. And if my guess is right, those bastards are planning to butcher an inno
cent young child sometime tonight, just like described in that damned book. We are not going to let that happen.’
Cochran, Johnson, Marshall, Briggs, six young constables, and four cadets had spent an hour going over many of the case details. The book on sorcery and magic appeared to be the cult’s bible, and Cathy had read out several relevant passages. The most disturbing sections related to bloody sacrifices of young children whose bodies were described as being in synchronisation with Lucifer. References to massive surgical incisions, disembowelling, anointing sacrifices with urine, and the drinking of fresh blood had left everyone feeling uneasy and some of the new recruits quite ill.
Dempsey and Hogan were maintaining surveillance on the Bodytone Club. Police Operations had been informed of the probable satanic ritual, and all mobile and foot patrols had been placed on alert.
‘Now let’s not imagine for a moment that these people are your regular, run-of-the-mill crims,’ continued the inspector. ‘I suspect that many of these people are the so-called respectable pillars of society who hide their gross perversions behind suit and tie. Ordinary people? No, far from being ordinary. Crazy? Perhaps, but not insane in the true sense of the word. They are obsessed, not possessed. And I don’t want any of that mystical and spiritual bullshit being used to explain some of the bizarre features of this case. We are dealing with real people and real murders, facts and figures, not phantoms, spirits, and demons. These people are cold, calculating, ruthless, and amoral. Let’s distribute some justice tonight.’ Cochran looked about the room. Six of the ten new recruits were standing against the back wall. The other four, all female, were sitting.
The inspector had not been backward in expressing his disapproval and disappointment to head office. He let them know that his request for additional officers had been rewarded with a wealth of inexperience — worse still, forty percent were female. The department had other, more serious investigations of a very high priority, he had been told. An attempt to discuss if this was the investigation into police corruption or the drug trafficking allegations met with silence and a hang up.
‘I’ve divided you all into teams to cover several key areas.’ The inspector distributed photocopies of the evening plan. ‘You will all remain in radio contact at all times. If for any reason you need to leave your vehicle, you will have a two-way with you, so make sure it’s charged and switched on. Stay alert, report anything unusual, and wait for instructions.’
Dempsey and Hogan worked well together; it was a shame to split them up. But with so many areas to cover and an absence of experience, there was little choice. Dempsey could remain close to the fitness club, accompanied by two of the new recruits. Hogan would have to go elsewhere. With no indication of the whereabouts of the meeting, Cochran was forced to allocate teams of two or three to various areas. It was possible that the cult may attach some spiritual significance to the murder scenes, so for the time being, while there was nothing more definite to go on, these areas would need to be watched, as would the Goldsmith’s house. Devlin’s flat was a central location, and it was from there that he and Johnson would base themselves. Even Briggs, much to the surprise of the regular team members, had been given some rein. He and a young male cadet were to watch over the burnt-out ruins of Stacey’s house.
The meeting ended. All except Johnson and Cochran left. Cathy stood at the whiteboard studying the inspector’s notes. There was certainly a lot of evidence against Stacey, and probably even enough for a conviction, but there were also some doubts. The old woman who thought that she might have seen a Mercedes at Duncan’s house on the night he was murdered, and the alcoholic hardware storekeeper who couldn’t pull Stacey’s photo from a group of three others, were far from reliable witnesses. There were no fingerprints, no murder weapons, and excluding some loyalty to the satanic-type cult, there appeared to be no clear motive to pin on Stacey, either. Cathy picked up a handful of notes from the desk.
‘Sir, mind if I take these with us?’
‘Take what you like,’ said Cochran. He stopped checking his revolver and grinned.
‘What’s wrong with you? What did I say?’
‘Nothing, Johnson, nothing.’
‘Well, why look at me like that then? I don’t know what you might be thinking, do I?’ said Cathy. There was just a slight hint in her voice to indicate that the big man might be thinking something a little unsavoury.
‘I wasn’t thinking anything of the sort, Johnson!’ snapped Cochran. There was a tinge of colour in his cheeks, and for once it wasn’t anger. ‘If you must know I was admiring your application to your work. For someone who’s a wizard with a shopping trolley you’re not going to make a bad detective.’
‘Well thank you very much, sir. That wasn’t really that difficult to say, was it?’ John Cochran grunted, looked away, and finished checking his weapon before securing it in the holster inside his jacket.
‘You ready then?’ he asked.
‘As ready as I’ll ever be.’
‘Okay, first we go to interview Melissa and Doctor Goldsmith. His own child, although it seems totally incomprehensible, fits into the age group described in that book. And that, together with the frequent references to surgical techniques, leads me to think nasty thoughts about the doctor. Besides, sedation or not, I want to see Melissa. And if that upsets her posh pommie bastard of a husband it’s just too fucking bad.’
* * *
After Cathy spent fifteen minutes head down going over documents she had already read several times, they arrived at the prestigious Goldsmith residence. She pressed the brass doorbell once while Cochran wandered about among the rows of gardens. Cathy stood patiently waiting at the entrance. After the third ring, the door opened.
‘Perhaps you would like some flowers for your wife, Inspector!’ called the housekeeper through the locked security door.
‘No thank you.’ Cochran walked slowly back to the door. ‘Would the good doctor be in?’
‘No, I’m afraid not. Out on business I believe. Don’t know when he will be back.’
‘Where’s he gone?’
‘He didn’t say. Didn’t leave a contact number, either.’
‘Is that unusual?’
‘A little,’ replied the woman cautiously.
‘I see. Would Mrs Goldsmith be available then?’
‘She’s still under sedation. Perhaps if you try tomorrow.’
‘I’d rather see her now, if you don’t mind,’ said Cochran, almost politely.
‘No. Doctor’s orders. Sorry.’
Cochran turned his head away for a moment and stroked his chin. He swung back to face the woman once more.
‘Oh, one more thing, if you wouldn’t mind. I have a young child in my vehicle. He’s not speaking. It could be young Daniel Goldsmith. Would you mind taking a quick look for me?’
‘Oh, my God!’ She unlocked and opened the door immediately.
Cochran pushed himself through the doorway.
‘Apologies. There is no child. I just needed the door opened. Come on, Johnson.’
‘How dare you!’ squealed the woman indignantly. ‘She is not to be disturbed. That’s the doctor’s orders!’ Cochran turned sharply and moved close to the lady’s face.
‘Pardon me, madam, but I am expecting a murder to be committed tonight and there is a chance it may be Mrs Goldsmith’s son. And your attitude makes me think you may know something about that.’
‘I most certainly do not.’ She took a step back to regain her personal space. ‘The good doctor did say under no circumstances whatsoever — ’
‘A murder, I said. A child, I said. Tonight, I said!’ shouted Cochran.
‘There’s no need to behave like that,’ she stammered. Her eyes watered. ‘Upstairs, second on the left.’
‘I thank you.’ The inspector tipped his head. ‘C’mon Johnson.’ Cathy followed him up the carpeted staircase.
‘I might lose my job for this you know!’ called the woman, blotting her eyes with a tissue. Cat
hy looked back with some concern for the sobbing housekeeper. John Cochran, with the help of the railing, moved his bulk surprisingly quickly to the upstairs hallway.
‘Will you come on, Johnson!’ he insisted. ‘The doctor is out and about, and I don’t like that. Don’t like it at all. Time is of the essence.’
The two entered the bedroom. The king-size hand-carved four-poster bed took up little space in the huge room.
‘Shit, this room is bigger than my entire unit,’ announced Cathy.
‘Remember what I said yesterday?’
‘Yeah, the rainbow. How could I forget?’ Cathy’s attention turned to the patchwork continental quilt, where there was some movement. Melissa Goldsmith was almost indiscernible under the bulkiness of the bed cover. The duo approached the bed. Cochran drew an antique-looking chair alongside and sat down gingerly, a little unsure whether it was for use or display.
‘Melissa. Melissa Goldsmith. I’m Inspector John Cochran. I need to talk with you about your son. It’s most important.’ He spoke quietly and clearly. The lady rolled onto her side. Her eyes and cheeks were sunken back into her pale face. Her shoulder-length auburn hair seemed thin and brittle. The prominent bones of her face and around her neck and shoulders reminded Cathy of famine victims she had seen on television.
‘Oh, my God,’ said Johnson in a loud whisper. ‘She looks dreadful. Does anyone feed her?’
‘Melissa, I’m Inspector Cochran. This is Constable Cathy Johnson. We’re here to help you. Can you answer some questions? It’s about your son. About Danny.’ The mention of the boy’s name caused her eyes to open slightly. She coughed. There was a deep rattle of thick mucus in her chest. Her cough was too weak to drag the secretions up to her throat.
‘She’s sick. She needs a doctor. A proper doctor,’ said Cathy.
‘Melissa. Devil worshippers, Satanists, witches. Is your son being held by these people?’ John Cochran had moved closer to the poor woman’s face. Her eyes opened a little wider.
‘The doctor. The doctor,’ she said feebly.