‘No.’ A confirmation in unison. Upon further questioning the van der Klopps backed up the Mallicks’ account of Cameron Snyder, mentioned occasional parties that petered out before anyone felt the urge to call and complain, had seen no other guests and were aware of an estranged wife called Lydia although neither had met her. On face value, they took much less interest in the neighbourhood than Mrs Mallick.
At 9:55 the detectives bade good-night to the residents of No. 3 Rogers Close.
‘I’d love to be a fly on the wall in there,’ said Taylor, tucking her notebook into her jacket pocket.
‘You reckon Renee was banging Snyder?’ Jack asked as he opened the door of Snyder’s Rav 4.
Taylor shrugged. ‘If you base that assumption purely on her calling him Cam, I’d say that was a long shot.’
‘What does your instinct tell you?’
‘Renee van der Klopp was lying through her teeth. Anything in the car?’
‘Yeah. A note from Proctor addressed to me saying not to touch anything.’
‘And have you?’
‘Only the effing note.’ He clunked the door shut and blipped the lock. ‘I should have realised she woulda been over the bloody car.’
‘Maybe you should put that back where you found it, hey?’ Taylor nodded towards Snyder’s front door. ‘I take it you have a key to get back into the house?’
A nod. ‘Of course.’ He held it up. ‘Hang on, I’ve got an idea.’ Jack called Wilson, made him an offer. Babysit the house until Procter and her entourage arrived in the morning for more toil at the murder scene. Jack would deal with Batista if there was flack about the exorbitant overtime the constable would be accruing for today.
‘What was that all about? All you have to do is lock up the house. There’s tape and stuff all over the place. I’m sure it’s secure enough.’
‘A, I don’t trust Hook not to send someone down to poke about here and B, I wouldn’t put it past the van der Klopps to tamper with the evidence.’
‘Both of them?’
‘Either or. They’re both as dodgy as a three-dollar note.’
‘Come on, Jack. Aren’t you being paranoid?’
‘No, I’m not. Murderers with blood still wet on their mitts tend to have elevated heart rates and impaired judgment.’ Now wasn’t the time to tell DC Taylor he’d been that paranoid person himself several years ago. The feeling still bubbled away beneath the surface. Knifing a bloke to death and then going to extreme lengths to cover his tracks was a path Jack had trodden by necessity. It kept him awake some nights.
‘Still, Jack…’
He pretended not to hear as he pounded on the door of No. 5 Rogers Close.
It opened after the second knock. The smell of stale cigarette smoke whacked Jack in the face like a sparring partner getting in a sneaky one under his guard. The stench was at once repulsive and alluring to an ex-smoker. Taylor winced as the malodour entered her nostrils.
‘About time you got ‘ere.’ The resident, Pat O’Grady, was a skinny woman in her seventies. Her abundant wrinkles reminded Jack of one of his favourite literary characters: Prune Face. ‘I’m itching to hear what’s happened across the street.’
A demonstration of police badges received a curt nod from Mrs O’Grady. Her eyes bulged in anticipation of meeting with the city’s finest.
‘May we come in?’ said Jack.
‘Of course, officers.’ She gestured magnanimously over the threshold of her home, which looked very similar to the other two the cops had visited.
Taylor stood on tiptoes and whispered in Jack’s ear. ‘Perhaps we can conduct the interview out here on the patio? It’s going to reek of ciggies in there.’ O’Grady was wearing a chunky hearing aid, so the whispering was perhaps unnecessary.
‘On second thoughts,’ Jack smiled at the woman. ‘Let’s have a chat out here in the open air.’ It was a warm, pleasant evening, low humidity and a half moon. Jack gestured towards a set of cane furniture set up on the front deck.
‘Won’t the neighbours hear us?’
‘Don’t worry. I made them brush their teeth and sent them all to bed.’ Jack winked and the old lady blushed.
‘I’ll just fetch me smokes and an ashtray.’
Chapter 9
Jack nosed the patrol car out of the cul-de-sac onto a link road and then a major arterial leading to the Yorkville CBD. At close to 10:15pm on a Tuesday night, the streets were practically free of traffic. The radio announcer introduced someone with a Chinese name playing Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2 by Franz Liszt. Not sure if he knew this tune, Jack edged up the volume. It was oddly familiar, like he’d heard it long ago, background music in a cartoon perhaps.
He squinted and blinked to focus on the road. Dead tired after a day of drama, he still had a gym workout to complete before bed. The routine was not negotiable, written in stone. His sacred exercise plan. No excuses, no exceptions. He’d be smashing the heavy bag and jumping rope like a dynamo even if it was after midnight. To the accompaniment of some hardcore UK punk. Maybe The Damned tonight. “Smash it up”. Yes, that would do nicely. His pulse picked up the pace at the thought.
In his peripherals Jack saw Taylor rubbing at the corners of her eyes. Jack chomped on six pellets of gum at once, desperately trying to obliterate the taste of dry charcoal in his mouth. The speed at which Mrs O’Grady had puffed on cigarettes, billowing her CO2 emissions in all directions, and the fact there was no breeze, meant it was only marginally more comfortable questioning the woman outside than in. A reformed smoker with occasional lapses, Jack often enjoyed passive fumes, but not this time. If he and Taylor tested positive for aggressive tumours on the lung tomorrow, he wouldn’t be surprised.
‘Holy mother of God,’ said Taylor, dabbing at her wet cheeks with a tissue. ‘I thought we were going to choke to death back there.’
‘Me too. She’s got some constitution if she can absorb that amount of poison and still live. Maybe she’s related to Keith Richards. If we ever need to speak to her again, it’ll be in the sterile environment of Interview Room 1 down at the station.’
‘What did you make of her?’ Taylor wadded the tissues and kept patting her face.
‘Off her rocker.’
‘She seemed pretty sure of herself.’
‘Do you really think armed men in black suits spilling out of Hummers would have escaped the eagle eye of Miranda Mallick?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Bollocks. The Mallicks have a clearer view of the Snyder home, for one thing. And the very thought of such a scenario is preposterous.’
‘You never know. Remember what Assistant Commissioner Hook said about CHOGM.’
‘I don’t care what Jabba said. And stop using his title, he doesn’t deserve that kinda respect. He was telling bigger porkies than Smokey O’Grady back there.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Homeland effing Security,’ Jack scoffed.
‘What about it?’
‘For someone so on the ball, Claudia, you’ve missed the bleedin’ obvious. There ain’t no such agency in Australia.’
‘Jesus, you’re right! It sounded a bit…foreign…at the time, but he’s a top cop, y’know? I guess the natural instinct is to believe your superiors.’
‘Quell that instinct immediately, DC Taylor.’ Jack stopped the car to let a goanna slowly weave its way across the road. The hip-swivelling monitor lizard had fortuitously picked a well-lit pedestrian crossing to get to the other side. ‘Except when it comes to me.’
‘You always tell the truth, do you? Your record as my partner speaks otherwise,’ Taylor smirked.
‘If I’ve bent the truth with you from time to time, there’s been a good reason for it.’ Like now. Should he come clean with her? Perhaps it was time. He opened his mouth to speak, but Taylor beat him to the punch.
‘I remember now. It’s called Home Affairs!’
‘Well done, sunshine. Speaking of affairs, are you still of the opinion Renee van der Klopp was
having one with our murder victim?’
‘At first I was sure of it. But you bringing up Neighbourhood Watch champion Miranda Mallick makes me unsure now. She never mentioned anything about that.’
‘Look, even the most dedicated curtain twitcher can’t see everything that happens. She might have been, I don’t know, having an extended spell sitting on the toilet while young Renee waltzes into Snyder’s place. Miranda makes a cup of tea an hour later, Renee leaves unseen. The only way Miranda would be able to observe everything is if she’s got a security camera set up. Which she hasn’t.’
‘Maybe Proctor’s going to get all the glory on this one. Wrapping it all up with science.’
‘Normally I’d be peeved at the prospect of her doing that, but this time I’d be glad if she found the killer before us.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’ve got an effing plane to catch.’
Chapter 10
‘You going to be OK there, Constable?’ said Jack into his mobile, towelling sweat from his armpit with his free hand. Limb stretching and warmup over, he’d decided to check in with last-minute night watchman Wilson before embarking on a proper hard training session.
‘No worries, DS Lisbon. I had a power nap when I got home. I can hold the fort here until Proctor and her crew arrive in the morning. I’ve settled in on the couch in the lounge room. He’s got an awesome sound system hooked up to his TV. You oughta…’
‘No, no, no! You need to be in the car, opposite the house, about 30 metres away. Exercising discretion.’
‘What? All night?’
‘If need be. If you’re sitting inside eating chips on the couch when the bad guys arrive, they’ll have you hogtied before you know it. Plus you’re going to contaminate the scene inside the house.’
‘But Sarge, what if I need the toilet?’
‘Bloody hell, Wilson, can’t you think for yourself? There should be a large empty bottle in the boot of the car. Pee in that if you feel the urge.’
‘What about number twos?’
‘Shit in your police hat.’
‘You can’t be serious, sir.’
Jack smiled politely at a supremely muscular female striding past on her way to a weight machine, gave a little finger salute. She snarled back at him. Ouch.
‘Look. Go inside the house now if you need to evacuate your bowels. I’ve gotta get back to my workout. Before I hang up I’ve got one last question for you. Have you had your Glock serviced lately?’
‘Last week. Wait…what? Do you think I’m going to need it?’ Wilson chuckled uneasily, failing to mask the apprehension in his voice.
‘With all that cloak and dagger malarkey from Jabba Hook, we gotta be open to the possibility of terrorism. And you must be prepared. I repeat, is your gun functional?’
‘I guess. You’re kidding about terrorists, right?’
‘This is no joking matter, sunshine. If you see any suspicious activity while you’re there, call the station immediately.’
‘What if there’s lots of ‘em?’
Jack swapped the phone and towel to opposite hands, wiped his other armpit. ‘Make sure they don’t see you. Think of this as an undercover stakeout. We’re all counting on you, Constable.’
‘Geez… I’m thinking I should have said no to this job.’
‘The odds are slim this is anything other than a common or garden murder, but you never know, innit?’
‘Bloody hell. Are you sure I don’t need someone with me?’
‘Positive. See you in the morning.’ Jack placed the phone in his backpack and grinned. He may have gone overboard with painting the nightmarish scenarios, but at least Wilson would be wide awake until dawn, too terrified to nod off.
He slugged a draft of tepid water, labelled orange-flavoured but more reminiscent of rusty steel, put the bottle back in his sports bag and pulled out his favourite pair of black 16 oz Everlast boxing gloves. The Clash decided to make an untimely racket inside the pocket of his tracksuit pants. Surely Wilson hasn’t had an unexpected visitor already.
Jabba. Again, curiosity overrode common sense and Jack answered the call.
‘You better have a good reason to be interrupting my precious free time,’ said Jack. A prickly heat ran down the back of his neck. ‘It’s five minutes to midnight and I haven’t even got into my stride. What the fuck d’ya want?’
‘Language, DS Lisbon.’ Strained breathing rasped down the line. Hook wouldn’t last five minutes on a walking machine at its lowest setting without keeling over from a heart attack.
‘Oi! It was you who set the tone for our dealings, not me.’
‘Do forgive me.’ The man’s words sloshed around in his mouth. He must’ve tucked away some booze before making the call. ‘I just thought I’d give you a bit of advice.’
‘Yeah, what’s that? I already feel like a schmuck for deceiving my colleagues when I agreed to help you out.’
‘But you never did what I asked!’ Hook sounded desperate, almost teary. He must be close to plastered.
‘Of course I never. The man went and got himself offed, didn’t he?’
‘Yeah, but…the retractions in the press. They never happened like we agreed.’ Jack heard a crack and the sound of air escaping a pop-top can. ‘That’s what I needed from you, Lisbon. To clear Snyder’s name. I ordered Batista to send you back, but he wilfully disobeyed me. He’ll pay for that.’
‘Don’t be a mug, Hook. A murder investigation takes priority over everything else. You know that.’
‘You can still do it, mate. Posthumously. It’s essential for national security. CHOGM mustn’t be compromised.’
‘Piss off with your babbling nonsense. What’s Snyder got to do with all that stuff?’
‘Sorry, that kind of information is above your pay grade.’
‘Nah-ah. There’s something else going on here. What is it?’
‘Shut up, Lisbon. I paid for your damn ticket re-scheduling, got you an extra week’s holiday. You will do as I say!’
‘I’d love to, guv, but it’s gonna look very dodgy if I start doing your bidding while Snyder’s the subject of a murder investigation. I have to stay objective, not run around trying to defend him against, what was it again?’
‘Fraud. It’s all manufactured lies!’ Hook started making moaning, guttural noises that sounded like distraught sobs.
‘And what if they are? You know full well you can’t defame a dead person. And why are you crying?’
‘I’m totally fine. Just hay fever.’ The sound of a gulp as more alcohol was despatched down Hook’s neck.
Then a thought occurred to Jack. ‘Oi. You don’t know about any connection between Snyder and radical political groups, do you?’
‘More lies. Someone informed the security agencies he was associating with rebel bikers and had Eureka flags on display in his home. Is that a c-c-crime? No! And that’s how he ended up on the radar of ASIO and the foreign agencies. It’s all one big data base these days. A whisper of anything not a hundred percent politically correct and eyeballs are on you. I tried to convince the spooks he was no right-wing threat, because I…feared looking at Snyder so closely was…detracting them from their real job.’
‘Who reported him?’ Hook’s explanations were garbage. ‘And why do you seem so personally invested in this?
Ragged breathing, attempts to formulate words that came out as meaningless grunts. Finally Hook managed something intelligible. ‘Because I, ooh….shit…’
Jack pressed his ear harder to the phone. ‘What? I missed that.’
A muffled scream followed by a loud crash and pitiful groans. Jack disconnected the call, dialled the emergency number, informed the operator that Assistant Commissioner for Police Raymond Hook was in a spot of bother.
‘Address please?’ asked the operator.
‘I don’t bleedin’ know, do I? Ring Cairns police station. Someone there’ll be able to assist.’
‘Sir, I’ll need you to stay on the line
for a moment.’
‘Sorry, I’ve got some important training to do.’
‘At this hour of the night?’
Jack hung up on the incredulous operator, tore his shirt off, donned the gloves and proceeded to knock the stuffing out of a 45 kg punching bag. The chain connecting the bag to the ceiling clanked with each ripping blow. The woman on the weight bench stopped and stared open mouthed at Jack. He caught a glimpse of her out of the corner of his eye, upped the ferocity. His peacock display must have impressed. She stepped off the machine and approached Jack, the previous snarl replaced by a cheeky grin and a glint in her eye. Muscly women weren’t usually his type, but he was prepared to make exceptions.
Chapter 11
Get a move on, Lisbon. The case had to be solved in three days or Jack’s trip to the UK was in the bin. Jack glanced at his wristwatch. 12:36 pm. Make that two and a half days. Shit! Last night’s late-late romp with gym-nut Marietta Szabo had been fun, but now he regretted going back to her place instead of making a date for later. Like, post-UK-trip later. Now, his eyes shrunk to coin slots behind the Aviators as he stepped out of the Kia Stinger and headed down an alley leading to the back entrance of the pool parlour.
With urgency top of mind, he’d split the main interview tasks with Taylor. He’d speak to the manager at Trick Shot pool parlour, Cameron Snyder’s primary place of business. Taylor got the grieving widow. She was better at handling recently bereaved women. After that, all they could do was throw darts at shadows and pray Proctor and her geeks would come up trumps with the scientific shit. Ray Hook had plenty of questions to answer, too, if he didn’t die before his inevitable bypass heart operation. In reality, it was stomach stapling the bloke needed.
But Jabba’s health was not Jack’s concern. First job this morning, explore the business side of Snyder’s life. That’s where all the Internet heat was pointing, what all the accusations of impropriety centred on. Hook claimed it was all bullshit. But was it?
Trick Shot: an absolutely gripping mystery and suspense thriller (The Fighting Detective Book 3) Page 7