Linc fixed his gaze on the CSO. ‘I’m asking your opinion, as an expert.’
‘Yeah? Well, maybe you should’ve asked for an expert opinion before you shot that dumb, deluded bastard in Sydney.’
The taunt hit him right in the solar plexus and nearly rocked him off his feet. He should have been prepared. People talked. State lines were no barrier to gossip. He counted to ten, something he should have done back in Sydney, and picked up the robbery folder. He made a show of turning to a specific page.
He said, ‘I notice that on all the robbery cases you’ve been lead CSO.’
‘I’m dedicated to my craft.’
‘Dedicated, maybe, just not very good.’
Wainright shot out of his chair with the agility of a man half his size. ‘Are you accusing me of something?’
‘How is it that at these scenes you’ve never found any useable prints or any trace of forensic evidence? The prevailing wisdom is the offenders are kids, but from the reports they seem highly organised.’
‘Doesn’t take a genius to wear gloves. Or do you have a dumber class of crim up your way?’
‘They do more than wear gloves. In some cases, they’ve got past some sophisticated alarm systems. And even top-notch thieves rarely leave a pristine crime scene. I can take it the scene was thoroughly searched?’
‘You better watch where those thoughts take you, mister.’
‘On the only case you don’t work, your colleague, Peterson, finds a partial and a shoe print. How do you explain that? Coincidence?’
The three constables looked at Wainright with renewed interest.
‘I’ll have you for slander, Drummond. Your pal Forbes Monroe might be able to pull the commissioner’s strings so the great Sydney dick doesn’t have to do ten weeks at the academy, like any other transfer to this State, but that doesn’t give you authority with me. Only reason you’ve got this home invasion gig is ’cos you can’t screw it up. All the important stuff is with real cops who know how things work around here.’
Linc watched the rise and fall of Wainright’s agitated chest. He felt strangely detached from the diatribe. It wasn’t anything he hadn’t already told himself. When Wainright’s brow cleared and a supercilious smile crept into view, Linc pounced.
‘For an expert doing his job, you seem very defensive.’
That killed the smile. ‘Pissed off is what I am. Crime is up. Funding’s down. And everyone with a TV thinks they know how to do my job. Haven’t got the resources to check every inch of a place, unless it’s murder. I have to account for every bit of overtime and every technician I’ve got. Most of the time I’m the bunny working a scene by myself.’
‘So you don’t send the team unless someone’s murdered.’
‘You catch on quick.’
‘What about the Schmidt case? That was murder, but you worked that by yourself.’
‘It’s coming up on suicide season, so we’re spread pretty thin. And that scene was contained to his bedroom. Not that it’s any of your business, Drummond. Wait until Engles finds out you’re stepping on his murder inquiry.’ Wainright dropped into his seat, which gave an alarming crack. ‘Anyway, with a name like that, the old guy fought for the wrong side, didn’t he?’
Dubois gasped. Strzelecki swore. Riker ran a hand through his hair and pretended to read his report.
‘It would be a safe assumption,’ Linc said, ‘an expert would have managed to find at least one useable print or partial. It would also be a safe assumption that most, if not all, of this gang have priors.’
‘Well, you know what they say about assuming. Makes an ass out of you.’
Paper shuffled. Dubois cleared her throat. The air-conditioning stirred the blinds at the windows. Linc placed the folder on the desk and straightened its edges with deliberate care.
‘I see from your file,’ he said, ‘that you’ve got a few health problems.’
‘Not me, mister. Fit as a fiddle and ready for you-know-what.’
‘You’re under a lot of pressure. I’ll talk to the Senior Sergeant. Get you some extended leave.’
‘Just you try, Drummond. Then you’ll see how many friends you ain’t got. Anyone else would’ve got the boot for what you did. You won’t get no help here from your fancy-arsed lawyer daddy. And where the fuck is your uniform, Probationary Constable?’
Linc held the CSO’s fish-eyed stare until the fat guy’s jowls flushed. He was surprised Wainright didn’t realise his threat was empty—even with the help of Forbes Monroe he had no clout. Yet the guy wasn’t exactly sensitive. He seemed oblivious to Dubois’ glare and the clenched fists of Strzelecki. The way he was going, his colleagues would string him up by the end of shift. And Wainright was wrong about his father. Nicholas Drummond wouldn’t put down his scotch glass long enough to help his son. If by some chance he had, Linc would have quit rather than have that hanging over him, held in abeyance until Nic Drummond deigned to call in the debt. As for the uniform—they could take his rank, cut his pay and give him a crappy desk in a breezy corridor, but after nearly ten years in the force he was damned if he’d wear a uniform.
He gathered his papers together. His fuse was too short to risk much more time around Frank Wainright.
‘Strzelecki, you and Riker take another look at Carlson,’ he said. ‘Go beyond his alibi. Get me as much about him as you can. Dubois, when the autopsy report arrives, I’d appreciate a copy. That’s all for now. Thanks for your time.’
Strzelecki was first out the door swiftly followed by Dubois and Riker.
‘Wainright. A word.’ Linc caught his arm as he passed. The guy reeked of stale smoke and Nicorette gum. ‘I’ve requested Crime Scene attend the Everton house. There’s been a break-in.’
‘What do you want me to do about it?’
‘Make sure it happens.’
Wainright laughed. Heat erupted in Linc’s belly and flooded his chest. He counted down and kept his arms close to his sides, just in case. Anger had taken him by surprise once. He wouldn’t let it happen again. The CSO swaggered across the room like he owned half the world and the other half owed him big. Linc followed. He caught Wainright in reception reaching across the desk and leering at the administrative assistant. It looked like he was trying to cop a feel.
‘Stella?’ Linc asked. ‘Everything okay?’
Stella flushed and got busy with some paperwork.
Wainright straightened up. ‘Bugger off, Drummond.’
For a guy with stumpy legs and a belly like a whale, he sure thought a lot of himself.
‘A home was broken into last night. A young woman was attacked.’ Linc’s stomach kicked at the memory of the bruise on Mina’s temple and what he’d found when he searched the house. ‘You should have been there early this morning.’
‘Shows how much you know. No overtime, so we gotta wait until normal working hours.’
‘It’s normal working hours now.’
‘Yeah, and I told you I’m busy.’
‘Not too busy to harass the staff.’
Stella glanced up from her paperwork and smiled tremulously. Wainright favoured Linc with a frosty stare as he shoved another piece of Nicorette into his mouth.
Linc said, ‘These anti-smoking laws must be hell on you.’
‘Making nice, are you? Lonely at the bottom, isn’t it?’
‘Word is you’re only months away from a nice fat pension. Wouldn’t want to see you lose it.’
‘Well, don’t that just make my day? You care about me.’
‘I care that you do your job.’
‘Why should I help you?’
‘You will be helping a young female victim, not me.’
‘You’re doing the asking, ain’t you?’
‘And you’re a professional. Aren’t you?’
Wainright chewed the gum and regarded him with a gaze as opaque as his intelligence. Linc didn’t have time for power games. Whatever had happened at the Everton house, it didn’t play like an opportunistic b
reak-in.
It wasn’t just the girl’s behaviour that worried him. After she’d left, he’d checked the entrance doors to her flat, which were fitted with a Yale and a deadbolt. Hardly the flimsy locks Forbes had claimed. Except for a few scratches on the face plate there was no sign anyone had tried to force entry through her front door. Yet when he’d pressed his gloved palm to the weathered door of the main entrance, the one Forbes claimed was never used, it had swung open. A quick check revealed an unknown person had taken the time to remove the lock’s strike plate and chisel a void in the architrave. Whoever had broken in intended to return.
The wet sound of Wainright’s chewing mingled with the traffic noise and the hum of conversation from beyond the privacy glass behind Stella. He had his arms folded and the hint of a smug smile on his face. Perspiration beaded his forehead and upper lip. It wasn’t hard to figure what he was all about. King Dick in his little world of crime scene processing, he’d probably been slacking off for years. Couple that with a massive chip on his shoulder—he’d made it clear he thought Lincoln Drummond was a ‘rich wanker’—and you got a man who wouldn’t get off his arse unless there was something big in it for him.
‘If you did your job,’ Linc said, ‘you might just crack this case.’
‘Like you cracked that case in Sydney?’ Wainright laughed so hard that along with the masticated Nicorette he flashed an array of dulled fillings. ‘Maybe I should go find myself a domestic and shoot some poor bastard because he’s off his meds.’
Wainright’s self-satisfied smirk competed with his efforts to chew the gum. He stood close enough that Linc could smell the nicotine beneath the mint flavouring, so close Linc could shove his fist into that big bloated stomach and Heimlich the gum right out of his mouth. It’d feel great. But he wasn’t going to let this self-important bastard rile him into blowing his one chance at redemption. And it wouldn’t get him forensics.
‘The Everton house is on the Esplanade,’ Linc said. ‘Stella will have the address.’
Wainright laughed. ‘You won’t get anyone to go there.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’m due out at a real crime scene.’ He jabbed Linc’s chest. ‘Just in case you think about going behind my back, Hollywood, you remember the name Everton rates pretty low around here.’
‘It doesn’t matter how low a crime scene ranks. Something happened in that house and it’s our job to find out.’
‘Piss off, Drummond. I don’t care who you were in Sydney. Here you’re lower than a ’roach and less welcome.’
If anyone knew about cockroaches, it was this guy. How he’d made lead CSO was anyone’s guess, but that he kept up with such blatant sexual harassment meant he knew the location of a few political bodies.
‘You’re not doing yourself any favours, Frank.’
‘Don’t ‘Frank’ me. I’m not your mate and I never will be.’
‘You still need to do your job.’
‘Not for you, I don’t. When it comes to you, me and my boys are busier than monks in a whorehouse.’
Chapter 9
MINA DID HER BEST to hide her stiffness as she unfolded the six-panelled room screen just delivered to Gibson’s store. Her back ached. If she bent or twisted too far, her breath caught. Luckily, her mentor hadn’t noticed the bruise on her temple, though he had commented on her liberal use of makeup and her package delivery.
‘That looks like an awful lot of packaging for a couple of spoons,’ he’d quipped as the delivery men struggled through the heavy rear door.
She’d nodded at his attire. ‘Vintage?’
‘All except the bow tie.’ He’d held his arms wide so she could appreciate the tweed plus-fours, argyle pullover with socks to match, and tweed jacket with leather arm patches. All completely unsuited to the summer heat. ‘My appreciation of yesteryear doesn’t extend to other people’s neck sweat.’
She’d laughed and distracted him from any difficult questions by erecting the screen. The detail showed Chinese bearers, fishermen, and nobles in traditional robes crossing a bridge that arced over a river teeming with life. Vibrant with turquoise, red and gold, the busy scene looked astounding amongst his other treasures.
Derek Gibson stared, his cheeks flushed. ‘Wherever did you find this?’
‘An estate up Lyndoch way. The family had been there for three generations.’
‘Hoarders?’
‘Close to.’
He pulled at his lower lip and tilted his head, perhaps realising he’d revealed a little too much enthusiasm to engage in an effective transaction. The screen might be her atonement for failing to present him with the desired tea caddy spoons, but she wouldn’t let it go for nothing. She had bills to pay, a business to build.
Yesterday had started out well. First, she’d discovered this screen in a dusty attic, and then an old farmhouse had offered up a few treasures. After that her day had taken a dive. So far, today hadn’t gone any better. She’d hoped to arrive early, get the screen set up and dusted to allow Gibson the full force of its impact when he arrived. That plan had been shot to hell by her early morning visitors.
That Drummond! He was probably pawing through her house right now. What would he think when he saw her mother’s rooms? Would he puzzle over the undusted furniture, the peeling wallpaper, the remnants of the still-life their past had become? After her mum’s funeral, she had locked every window, drawn every curtain, and draped most of the furniture in old sheets. One turn of the key meant she hadn’t had to deal with any of it—not her grief or her guilt. And now someone had violated her home. Her past was once again a curiosity for strangers.
Why did it have to be him hunting through her secrets? The thought of a stranger was bad enough, but knowing it was Drummond made her stomach churn. Stupid. It wasn’t like she wanted to impress him. So what if the way he’d looked at her when she’d opened the door made her insides turn to butter? Big deal! After the way he’d treated her it was obvious he couldn’t think any less of her. He didn’t need leads about those precious objects in his obsessively organised folder. At least, she assumed it was obsessively organised; the man wore a suit with shirt and cufflinks in the heat of summer. The claim about leads was just a ruse. It had to be. Because he’d obviously come prepared for a search, unless he was so uptight he always had a packet of fresh gloves in his pocket.
‘How much do you want for it?’
Gibson’s question broke into her thoughts. She could have kissed him for it but managed to play it cool. This was a negotiation, after all. ‘What do you think it’s worth?’
He scrutinised every inch of the screen, humming over the intricate detail, a familiar habit that gave nothing away. She followed him as he moved to peruse the ebony backing where a series of bright-gold Chinese symbols gleamed. He pursed his lips and stroked his thumb and forefinger along his clean-shaven chin as though he sported a Vandyke.
‘Of course,’ he mused, ‘there is a very good chance this is a reproduction.’
‘The handpainted artwork is a copy of a famous sixteenth century wall hanging.’
He hummed again, the intonation clearly negative. He loathed reproductions, unless, like his Louis XIV-style desk, they had their own inherent value. One of the earliest dealer strategies he’d taught her was to point out everything wrong with a piece. That way, unless the seller really knew what they had, they’d be more willing to take a lower price.
‘This screen is as close to unique as you’ll get,’ she said.
She flourished the original bill of sale beneath his nose. After years in a grimy attic the note was mouse-nibbled and stained and Mina had placed it within a plastic sleeve to protect the tissue-thin paper. Dated 1910, the price was recorded in shillings and pence. Gibson snatched it from her hand and peered at the thin scrawl before returning to avid gaze to the room screen. Sunshine gave depth to the curling river, flowing robes and gleaming gold detail, and when glare bounced off the windscreen of a passing car, prisms danced acro
ss the surface and made the figures writhe.
‘Oh, my goodness!’ Gibson sighed with delight.
Gotcha! Warmth radiated through her body, and she had to stop herself from the telltale puffing up. Her first day on the job, he’d told her, “Never show them how you feel. It doesn’t matter if you’re buying or selling. It has a value to you, just like it has a value to them. Your job is to get as close to your value as possible. The more they forget themselves and show you they want it, or conversely, need to sell it, the easier your job will be.”
He had forgotten himself and if she didn’t play that card she wouldn’t be honouring his teaching. And honouring him was the least she could do. Gibson had been one of the few people to look beyond the burden of her family name. She owed him her career, perhaps even her sanity, but he had taught her well, and a spirited negotiation would be proof of that.
‘It will really impress the clientele,’ she said. ‘Add some atmosphere.’
He nodded absently.
‘It’s just what I need in my new shop.’
Gibson jumped as if she’d prodded him. Then a deep-chested laugh rumbled out of him. When she’d first heard it, she’d been amazed that such a rich sound could emerge from his thin chest.
‘Glad to see my lessons at work,’ he said. ‘Tea?’
He retreated to the kitchen and flicked on the kettle. Gibson’s Fine Antiques was renowned for quality and authenticity, but that didn’t mean he would do without a microwave, a shiny new kettle and the freshest, most obscure blend of tea available. The mid-Victorian Limoges tea service laid out on a late 19th century grape-embossed silver serving tray was much more his style.
‘I take it this means you didn’t find those spoons.’ He kept his back to her, displeasure obvious in his stiff posture. ‘Well, I can’t say I’m not disappointed, Mina.’
She wanted to snap that most dealers would kill to own a screen that unique, that she could have taken it anywhere and negotiated twice the price she’d get from him. Why couldn’t he just admit she knew her stuff? After all, she’d learned from the best. And she’d learned long ago not to challenge him when he was in this mood.
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