by Neil Cossins
Almost an hour later, with their handover complete, two prison guards came to collect him. They led him by the arms down a long corridor and into a large room where new prisoners were processed. His shackles were finally removed and he was made to strip off all of his clothing and stand inside a telephone box sized metal detector. From there he was fingerprinted, retinal scanned, a sample of his DNA was taken from inside his cheek and then he was finally given a freshly laundered prison uniform.
As he pulled on his clothes, the enormity of his situation struck him and it was all he could do to finish dressing himself before nearly collapsing into a chair while he waited for a senior officer to arrive and conduct his entry interview. Another thirty minutes of silent, queasy, abject boredom passed before another officer entered the room. He was a heavily built man of around six feet in height with a large round gut, sloping, yet powerful shoulders and expressionless dark eyes. He carried himself confidently, with an air of authority lingering in his wake. He sat across the desk from Craig and began looking through his paperwork that had been attached to a wooden clipboard. Craig noticed his name tag read ‘Mike’.
“So, you’re the guy that topped Fogliani,” he said with a cold sneer which showed crooked, nicotine stained teeth. Craig thought about denying it but decided not to bother wasting his breath on someone who wouldn’t have believed him and was of no value to him even if he could convince him of his innocence.
“That’s what they’ve charged me with.”
“You must be one dumb fuck. Are you a dumb fuck Thoms?” said Mike, double checking the clipboard to check if he had his name right.
“Maybe I am.”
The guard sneered, disappointed not to have got a rise out of the newby. “There’s no maybe about it dumb fuck. You know there’s been a lot of talk in here about you already. Fogliani had plenty of friends and some of them are in here. I hope you’ve got some friends too because if you don’t, some people are going to be testing you out pretty soon and we can’t keep an eye on everything that happens in here. Enjoy your stay dumb fuck. Take him to Pod 3 in D block,” Mike said to the other guard. “I’ve had enough of dealing with scum for today. We can finish up with him tomorrow.”
It was eleven-thirty p.m. before Craig Thoms was led down the bleak fluorescent lit corridor that led to D Block. Lights out at eleven meant that all was dim and quiet in D Block except for the occasional cough or snore. Craig looked straight ahead as he was marched to his cell and was watched by those who had not succumbed to sleep in the cells that he walked past.
“This is it Thoms,” said the guard. “Open 103,” yelled the guard back down the corridor to the control post. The door to cell 103 slid back with an efficient motorised clang. Craig stepped through the threshold into the darkened cell.
“Close 103!”
He turned as the door closed, holding his bundle of meagre possessions which consisted of a spare uniform and toiletries that he would soon realise made home brand look luxurious. The sight of the steel bars in front of his face made his soul shudder. He choked back the emotions that threatened to spill out and turned away to face the inside of his cell.
On the top bunk was a form from which a quiet snore emanated and Craig quietly hoped that his cellmate wasn’t one of Foglianis’ friends. As he lay down on the lower bunk he realised for the first time that he was exhausted and starving. He hadn’t eaten since lunchtime and had barely slept in the previous seventy-two hours and although it was quiet and warm and he had his own bed, sleep was the furthest thought from his mind.
Chapter 33
Detective Robards reviewed his notes from the interview the previous day, where Craig Thoms had spoken about Harvey Petersham, his drug buyer. He wasn’t even certain why he was chasing this lead up, if you could call it that, and doubted it had anything to do with the case, but Nelson’s brief phone call to him earlier in the morning left no room for negotiation. It seemed like a futile fishing expedition and Robards figuratively and literally hated fishing, particularly trout fishing because those things never took the bait and when they did, they invariably spat it out before you hooked them good.
Robards sighed and mentally shrugged his shoulders. He took the time to pull up Harvey Petersham’s criminal record on his computer and shook his head at the staggering length and breadth of his criminal career. Starting at the age of fourteen and spanning the ensuing twenty-six years, there had been arrest after arrest after arrest, mostly for small amounts of drug possession, but there were also charges for drunk driving, assault and even a public mischief charge relating to indecent exposure. Robards concluded sagely that he was a small time, pathetic and obviously not too smart career criminal. Lenient judges and a soft hearted criminal system ensured that despite his repeated infractions with the law, Petersham had only been to prison four times that added up to a grand total of just over two years.
According to his file, Harvey Petersham was currently serving twelve months probation, courtesy of his most recent drug arrest. Robards was grateful that he would be able to access his current address through his probation case officer, however that feeling soon dissipated, and he again sighed deeply, when he noticed on the file that the probation case officer was Sourav Bedi. Robards had dealt with him before on a number of occasions and his dislike for him was so intense the thought of calling him nearly caused him actual physical pain. Bedi’s arrogance and confidence in his own superiority were equally and oppositely matched by his incompetence and laziness. Nevertheless, Robards pushed through the pain barrier and picked up the phone. He was almost ecstatic to actually catch Sourav at work as he had a reputation for exploiting the already generous leave provisions of the New South Wales public service to the limit. After an initial few minutes of idle greetings and small talk which stretched Robards’ patience to breaking point, Sourav confirmed what Robards had deduced in the few moments it had taken him to review his record, Harvey Petersham was a serial deadbeat.
“However, I think it unlikely he would be into anything serious though. He is mostly small time you know,” Sourav said in a thick nothern Indian accent.
“You’re probably right Sourav but I need to speak with him anyway. So where can I find him?”
“As far as I know, he lives out at Manly and works at a takeaway shop on the Steyn.”
Robards cursed under his breath, already dreading the minimum forty minute drive that lay ahead of him. He took down the addresses for Petersham’s home and work, did his best to muster a thank you to Sourav and hung up. He tried to look on the bright side in that he had actually found Sourav at work and he had been mildly helpful on this occasion.
Despite skirting the worst of the inner city traffic by taking Lane Cove Road and Lane Cove Motorway in succession, it still took Robards almost an hour to get out to Manly because as soon as he hit Military Road the traffic slowed to a near crawl. He arrived at Manly annoyed and frustrated and drove to the boarding house that Harvey Petersham had told his probation officer he was living at. It was a rundown weatherboard house probably around eighty years old and was badly in need of a paint job. Its owner had assiduously identified a need in the market and partitioned off the house into ten tiny bed-sitter apartments which were rented for the princely sum of one hundred and ten dollars each a week to men who for one reason or another could afford nothing better.
The grass was long and unkempt and pamphlets, newspapers and beer bottles littered the front lawn. Robards looked at the house with distaste and gave a cursory thought of sympathy to the neighbours. He took a deep breath in preparation and made his way inside the front door which was ajar. Upon entry, he was physically assaulted by the stale smell of unwashed men, cigarettes and musty carpet. To his left was a large communal living room which was crammed full of mismatched lounge chairs in such poor condition they looked like they had been salvaged from the dump. A couple of dregs of society were watching a morning news program on a small battered television and either didn’t notice his presenc
e or ignored it.
“Harvey? Harvey Petersham?” Robards called to them.
“Number eight up the stairs,” replied one of the men without removing his eyes from the television.
Robards made his way up the creaking wooden stairs to the second floor, found unit eight and proceeded to bang on the door for two whole minutes. There was no response. He put his weight against the door and found that it had a surprisingly solid feel to it. He sighed theatrically and decided he’d have to give Petersham’s work address a try. One of the men who had been watching television was now sitting on the front doorstep having a smoke. He was small and wiry and despite it being only twelve degrees outside he was shirtless. Robards noted the tattoos that covered most of his torso.
“Do you know where I can find Harvey Petersham?” The old man interrupted his smoke and looked disdainfully up at Robards.
“I ain’t seen him in weeks pig.”
Robards smiled tightly and put aside any thoughts he had of attempting to teach the old bastard some much needed manners. His day was just getting better and better. Robards had an intense dislike for this part of policing, having to chase down deadbeat losers who wouldn’t tell you anything once you caught up with them anyway. And when they did tell you something it was either a lie or of little consequence. He was tempted to call off the search and head back to the station, but knew that Nelson would probably insist that he come out again tomorrow and search for Harvey Petersham if he returned to headquarters empty handed.
He worked his way down through the streets to the Steyne which girdled the crescent shaped Manly foreshore. Although it was only ten in the morning there were already hundreds of long-socked tourists looking for their next photo opportunity, thousands of squawking seagulls crapping on the pavement and looking for their next chip and a handful of young people spending their sickie on the famous beach. Petersham had told his case officer that he worked several shifts a week at his uncle’s takeaway shop. Robards thought it would be a convenient location for Pethersham to ply his trade to the profusion of backpackers, tourists and anyone else in the area that was in need of a little chemical pick-me-up.
He scanned the shopfronts and picked out the takeaway shop amongst all the others. He had noticed the prices on their outdoor billboards and wondered why anyone would pay near on twenty bucks for the privilege of eating few greasy chips and a piece of fish likely to be imported from some muddy Vietnamese creek. As Robards approached the shop from the south, his presence was noted by a man sitting at an outside table studying a form guide for Randwick races later in the day. Their eyes met and both instantly recognised each other as a natural enemy. Petersham took a brief moment to look around, searching the street in the other direction for more enemies. When he saw none, he leapt up out of his chair like a startled rabbit, knocking chairs and a table over and tripping himself up in the process. He got up and took off at a run in the opposite direction from which Robards was approaching. Robards took after him, moving with surprising speed and grace for a heavily built man. Petersham kicked off his thongs as he ran, in a frantic search for more speed, his skinny brown legs flailing in all directions. It was of little use however, as two strong hands latched onto the back of his shirt and propelled him forcefully to the ground. Petersham did an unplanned forward roll and came to rest on his back, staring up at the clear blue sky above. Robards stood over him enormously, a man-made eclipse of the sun.
“Harvey Petersham?” he growled through his teeth.
Petersham tried to think of something smart or tough to say but his alcohol and drug abused mind refused to cooperate to any great degree.
“Yeah. What do you want? I ain’t done nothing.”
“Then why’d you run?”
Petersham picked himself up off the ground, surprised and thankful that all the parts of his body were as they should be and still seemed to work reasonably well.
“I just don’t like cops ok? Especially when they want to talk to me. I’d rather just sail under their radar you know. Nuthin’ personal. What’s all this about anyway?”
“It’s about your good friend Craig Thoms.” Robards noticed that Petersham’s eyes narrowed perceptibly at the mention of the name.
“What about him?”
“Well for starters, did you threaten him when he said he wouldn’t be supplying you anymore?”
Harvey thought for a moment and smiled through a mouth with a couple of missing teeth and a couple well on the way out. He was a walking talking advertisement for a national dental health program.
“What are you talking about? I wouldn’t do nothing like that. He’s pulling your leg if that’s what he said.”
Robards rolled his eyes and thought of a drink he’d once had at a party, a Harvey Wallbanger. Although he didn’t like it much at the time, the thought of banging Harvey into a wall greatly appealed to him, however when he looked around he saw a host of potential camera bearing witnesses looking in their direction.
“Craig Thoms said he’s been selling you drugs that he’s been stealing from the hospital he works at.”
“Drugs? I ain’t into no drugs. That would be a violation of my probation you know.” Petersham was beginning to feel more confident. He started to wonder why he bothered to run at all seeing that he’d never been particularly fast.
“Yeah I’m sure it would be. How about last Friday night. Where were you then?”
“Dunno. I can barely remember what I did this morning let alone last week.”
Robards had just about had enough and he closed in on Petersham menacingly.
“Just answer the fucking question or so help me I’m going to mess you up and I don’t care who is watching,” he growled through clenched teeth.
Petersham’s eyes went wide with genuine fear and he took an involuntary step backwards. “Ok, ok, let me think. Last Friday night? Last Friday night? Ah, that’s it, no wonder I can’t remember it. I spent most of last week visiting some friends in Newcastle. Unfortunately I had a bit too much to drink on the Friday and made a bit of a spectacle of myself. The local boys in blue picked me up and dragged me off to the lockup to sober up. They didn’t let me out until the next mornin.”
“You’d better not be bullshitting me because I won’t be happy if I have to drive all the way out here to talk to you again.”
“I’m telling the truth. Go check with them. I been picked up there a few times before. Talk to Sergeant Garland. He’ll vouch for me. He can probably tell you I was there most of the week.”
Robards decided he’d had enough for the time being and left Harvey to his own devices. On the walk back to his car he called the Newcastle city centre police station and Sergeant Garland confirmed Petersham’s story. He had been picked up at eight p.m. in a local park, drunk as a skunk and raising hell with a couple of friends and hadn’t been released until the next morning. There had also been sightings of him during the week. They hadn’t charged Petersham with anything and didn’t bother to inform his probation case officer. Robards thought it a reasonable decision. He had wasted enough of his own time and energy on Petersham himself. But as he made his way back toward the city, on his way to Parramatta, a tight smile formed on his face. The trip hadn’t been a complete waste of time as he had learned that Petersham was most probably a dead end. He was most probably too stupid and small time to have been involved with any mythical setting up of Craig Thoms. Robards mentally penciled in another small stroke of guilt on the hangman picture he was drawing for Craig Thoms.
Chapter 34
Nelson pushed the accelerator to the floor and heard the engine respond in a barking growl. The wind whipped over the windscreen and battered his ear drums. He grabbed fourth gear but eased up as he reached the highway limit of one hundred and ten kilometres per hour - plus a little bit extra for good luck - all too soon for his liking. He was glad to leave the city behind him and felt his spirits and energy lift as he wound his way down the coast, occasionally glimpsing the grey white-capped
Pacific Ocean to his left. The day had dawned dark and ominous, but the clouds were beginning to be pushed to the north by a south-easterly breeze that was gaining in strength.
Nelson hadn’t told Robards where he was going when he spoke briefly to him earlier in the morning. He felt slightly guilty about that, but felt justified in keeping his cards close to his chest after he had read the article in the mornings Telegraph on the Emilio Fogliani case. The page three story devoted half a page to the ongoing investigation and contained far too much detail about the case for Nelson’s liking. He pondered where the information might have come from but soon gave up on the thought, conceding that it could have come from one hundred different sources. He decided to switch off his mobile phone for a while because he didn’t want to be the first person Superintendent Crighton spoke to after he read the story. Let him take it out on someone else, Nelson mused.
He was pleased he had bet against the chance of rain and chosen to take his Cobra convertible for the drive down the coast. It was his pride and joy. He had built the car himself from a kit, and had originally expected to have it finished within a year of getting it. Seven years later he finally managed to get it roadworthy and registered, although it still required some body work on a few rust spots that had developed over time thanks to the salt sea air and a paint job to cover the grey undercoat and its many blemishes. The three hundred and two cubic inch V8 engine rumbled beneath him. The sound and vibration of it hypnotised his senses and helped him put the case far from his mind for a while.
After three hours of steady driving he crested the final hill and saw the coastal town of Batemans Bay ahead of him. He knew the area well. At the age of nineteen he had graduated as a cadet from Goulburn Police Academy and had been posted to Narooma, some thirty minutes drive south of Batemans Bay. Back then, Batemans Bay and Narooma had been little more than sleepy hamlets with just a few shops, fishing boats and beach houses. But during the holiday seasons, as with most coastal towns, they would witness an invasion of people from Canberra, Sydney and the surrounding areas and became noisier, or livelier, depending on your point of view. Nelson was stationed at Narooma for just six months before being posted back to Sydney at the first available opportunity. He hadn’t been back since.