He passes a report across the table.
‘Stan Felder gave this to me last night, Deb. Ken Fogarty’s phone records for the night of Grimshaw’s murder. You’ll see the highlighted entries. Ken used his phone several times during the period when the intruder in the cap and jacket was inside Grimshaw’s building, including a conversation with the duty officer at organised crime. Now, records show that all of those calls were made from a location at or around Ken’s home in Castle Hill, forty kilometres away from Bondi.’ Blake leans across and taps the report with his finger to make the point. ‘Ken Fogarty was nowhere near the crime scene that night, Deb. He’s in the clear.’
He sits back and considers her with a sympathetic gaze that makes her squirm. ‘You are a first-class homicide detective, Deb. Extremely conscientious and self-sacrificing in pursuing your duties—perhaps too much so. I’ve been looking at the log details for the past couple of weeks, and the number of hours you’ve put in has been extraordinary. Quite excessive. And then there’s the pressure with such a high-profile case as Slater Park. And not content with that, you drove yourself on to become involved in Stan Felder’s Bondi case, and even, I understand, the Palfreyman case out at Blackheath.’ He shakes his head. ‘I blame myself for not paying attention to this sooner.
‘Well, the assistant commissioner has suggested, and I concur, that you have a well-earned break. You’re due three weeks’ leave, and I want you to take it.’
‘Boss, that just isn’t feasible at this stage of Strike Force Spider…’
Again the hand. ‘None of us are indispensable, Deb. It’s only a job. No point in destroying your health over it. Brief Xavier Costas to take over Spider during the course of the day and then go.’
His phone begins ringing. He picks it up and nods for her to leave. She returns to her desk head down, thinking of the arguments she should have thrown at him when she had the chance. When she sits down she realises she’s still holding the schedule of Fogarty’s calls, and, mind elsewhere, runs her eyes over them again. She notices that, apart from the call to organised crime, he made one other call that night after his wife Brenda said she went to bed. It lasted from 23:10 till 23:56. Looking back over the list, which covers a week’s phone activity, she sees that number recurring every day and often for extended periods. It belongs to someone living within a kilometre of Fogarty, a woman by the name of Michelle Crabbe. Deb checks her on the databases and the internet: forty-two, unmarried, no children, short auburn hair, unblemished driving record, a member of the same Uniting church that the Fogartys attend, address in a rented house shared with her mother Caroline. Deb digs a little deeper: Caroline has been on an invalid pension for twenty-three years, following a car accident in which her husband, Michelle’s father, was killed. After the accident Michelle abandoned a degree course at UTS and has had a succession of short-term jobs.
66
Kelly, back at work, catches up with what’s been going on. There don’t seem to be any new developments in the police investigation of the Palfreyman murder, but three members of the public have left messages for her saying that they know the mystery woman the police are looking for and how much would the paper pay for their story? She can find no references to Harry or Jenny Belltree, which she takes to be a good sign. There’s an email from Husam Roshed suggesting a meeting. She calls him, leaving a message.
In her pocket her fingers close around the flash drive from Maturiki once again. She’s unsure what to do. She spoke in general terms to one of the IT guys on the staff, who said he’d have to see the device to know if he could get into it, but she didn’t know him that well and she hesitated. What if he found scandalous pictures of Konrad Nordlund, a part owner of the Times, and reported it to management? How could she explain where it had come from?
There have been several shootings and a kidnapping in western Sydney overnight, and she goes out to Parramatta to attend a police press briefing at which the wife of the missing man, a known drug dealer, makes a tearful appeal for his safe return. Fat chance, Kelly thinks. A text comes in from Roshed inviting her to come to Parliament House ‘to see something interesting’. She confirms and drives back to the city.
Roshed is waiting for her in the lobby at Macquarie Street, and leads her quickly through to the exhibition hall in the heart of the building, with its display of important events in parliamentary history and stories of members who served in the Great War. He seems slightly furtive, checking over his shoulder as she examines the exhibits, wondering what this is all about. When he’s satisfied that there’s no one else around he hustles her down a corridor to a door marked Meeting Room 3, and takes her inside. The room is windowless, completely dark, and Kelly has a moment of panic as he closes and locks the door behind her. She gropes for her phone, but then he finds the switches and light floods the room. She sees seats and tables arranged around a central space in which stands a huge architectural model.
‘Take a good look,’ he murmurs, and they step closer. ‘You see the river frontage over there? The main road on this side? The old buildings preserved in the centre?’
She slowly takes it in, the new buildings in pristine white, tall towers set in a green woodland, the small cluster of unpainted timber blocks representing the old buildings.
‘It’s huge,’ she says. ‘A whole city. It’s not…?’
‘Yes, it’s Slater Park.’
‘But it’s so big.’
‘The biggest vacant urban site left in Sydney. For a developer, worth killing for.’
‘What’s it doing here?’
‘Last night the developers from Ozdevco—Maram Mansur and Konrad Nordlund supported by some technical guys—gave a presentation. It was supposed to be secret—selected government and opposition front bench members only.’
‘Maram Mansur was there?’
‘Yes, looking super-fit and brimming with confidence, I’m told. Nordlund looking tragic over the loss of his niece. A great double-act.’
‘How did you hear all this?’
‘It was supposed to be secret, but this is Parliament House. By this morning the whole place was buzzing like an excited beehive. I first got wind of it from the porters who helped carry this lot in. Then I cornered one of the crossbenchers and he told me what he’d heard. The premier is going to make a statement in parliament this afternoon. I’m told they’ve given the scoop to your rivals—photographs, images, Ozdevco interview.’
‘Can I take a picture?’
‘Go ahead. Just don’t tell them how you got it.’
‘Right.’ She walks round, taking a dozen shots on her camera. ‘What’s the premier going to announce, do you know?’
‘That they’ve agreed to sell the site to Ozdevco, I imagine. What else could it be?’
‘What time?’
‘Two-thirty.’
‘I’ll be there.’
67
Deb sits in her car, staring at the lavender front door, trying to bat down the jagged thoughts of breakdown and wild goose chase that keep popping up in her head.
A good five minutes pass before she opens the car door and walks across the street. The car in the driveway has a disabled parking sticker on its windscreen, and there’s a steel ramp covering the step outside the front door. She rings the doorbell.
Michelle Crabbe opens the door. From inside Deb can hear the sound of voices on the TV. She says, keeping her voice low and serious, ‘Michelle? I’m a colleague of Ken’s.’ She sees the swelling in the other woman’s belly. Six months, she guesses, maybe seven.
Alarm flares on the woman’s face. ‘Oh! Is something wrong?’
A voice, frail but penetrating, calls from inside the house, ‘Michelle? Who is it?’
‘It’s nothing, Mum.’ She steps out into the porch and draws the door shut behind her. ‘Is Ken all right? I haven’t heard from him for days. I’ve been so worried.’
‘He’s had a few problems, Michelle, and I thought I should come to reassure you that it’s goi
ng to be okay, but it might be a while before he can contact you himself.’
Deb, feeling oddly detached, watches the panic spread across the woman’s face, her body gestures.
‘What sort of problems? It’s not about the money, is it?’
Deb gives her an awkward, sympathetic smile and shrugs.
Michelle hesitates. ‘What, he confides in you?’
‘He’s been under a lot of pressure. Well, you know that. He hides it pretty well, but underneath…’
‘Yes, yes.’
‘One time he said something I picked up on. I felt I recognised the situation, something I’d experienced myself, and I told him so, and he opened up a little. No one else knows—well, except for Eden. He knew.’
‘Eden…What happened to Eden? The police have been here, questioning me, searching. They wouldn’t tell me why.’
‘That would have been the homicide squad, investigating Eden’s murder. They poke into everything. It’s what they do.’
‘They surely can’t suspect Ken?’
‘They suspect everyone.’
‘But they must know that he’s an honourable man.’
‘Yes, I’m sure they do. But even honourable men do desperate things under pressure.’
Michelle puts a hand to her mouth, horrified, as if she’s experienced a revelation. ‘It’s me. It’s my fault. I’ve done this to him.’
‘He’s very fond of you, Michelle.’
‘Yes, I know. But I’ve been selfish, wanting him so much.’ Her hand drops to her belly, as if in explanation.
‘You only get one life.’
‘That’s what he says!’ A desperate smile. ‘He said that it was only a little job, a private job, and then we’d be able to get everything sorted, and be free. But I was worried about Eden. I wished he wasn’t involved. Sometimes he’s so…unreliable, out of control. I could tell that Ken felt that way too.’
‘Yes, exactly.’
Michelle turns as they hear a cry from inside the house. ‘I’ll have to go.’
‘Okay, Michelle. Don’t worry, you’ll be hearing from him soon.’
‘Thank you, thank you so much for coming. Please, try to make them understand. Ken is a good man, an honourable man.’
68
The duty inspector is talking with one of the sergeants in the front lobby when she arrives. He tells her that he hasn’t heard from homicide this morning, but that Fogarty is with his lawyer at present. Deb asks him to inform them that she wants to interview Fogarty again.
‘Who’s his lawyer?’ she asks.
The inspector screws up his nose. ‘Nathaniel Horn. Bad look for a cop, eh? Nathaniel Horn as your brief.’ Deb asks if he can spare the time to sit in on the interview.
When they come into the room Deb notices the changes in Fogarty, his slack posture, pallid colouring, abstracted look.
As soon as Deb starts recording and makes the usual introductory statements, Horn says bluntly, ‘I should say straight away that I’ve advised Chief Inspector Fogarty to answer no more questions.’
Deb ignores him, staring silently at Fogarty until he meets her eyes, and then says quietly, ‘I’ve spoken to Michelle.’
Fogarty looks at her for a long moment, then he sags, and his head drops.
Horn, puzzled, says, ‘What’s that? What did you say?’
Deb is silent, waiting. Finally Fogarty sits up straight, as if with a huge effort of will, and says, ‘I want to make a statement.’
Horn cuts in sharply, ‘No, no, Ken. Do as I say.’
Fogarty doesn’t look at him and says to Deb, ‘This man does not represent me. I want him to leave.’
There are further protests from Horn, but Fogarty sits impassive until the inspector escorts the lawyer out of the room.
When he returns, Deb says, ‘Go ahead.’
Fogarty takes a deep breath.
‘Back in early September I was approached by Detective Sergeant Grimshaw about doing a private job together. It sounded simple, tracking down a document, something we’ve done in the course of our duties many times. The document had been stolen from a big company and contained information that could hurt them commercially. The thief was known, and I understood that it would involve entering his premises illegally for the purposes of a search, but there would be no repercussions because the document itself had been obtained illegally.
‘The thief was a man called Terry Palfreyman and we used police resources to track him down to a cottage in Blackheath. When we reconnoitred the area we discovered that he appeared to be very friendly with a woman who was his next-door neighbour. On Monday the thirteenth of October we watched them going into a pub in Blackheath in the late afternoon, and when they ordered drinks we decided to take the opportunity to search Palfreyman’s house.
‘But it went wrong. Palfreyman came back much sooner than we’d expected and walked right in on us. Eden reacted quickly and violently, grabbing him and forcing him to the ground. He tried to get Palfreyman to tell us where the document was, applying some sort of wrist or finger lock that made him scream with pain. I was trying to tell him to take it easy—the bloke was making too much noise. I was over the other side of the room, near the window, and something caught my eye. I turned and saw the woman outside, staring in at us. She saw me, turned and bolted.’
Fogarty’s breathing has become ragged, sweat gleaming on his forehead, and the inspector gets to his feet and fetches him a bottle of water from the side table. Fogarty takes a few gulps and resumes.
‘I yelled at Eden and ran out after the woman, who disappeared into the bush. I went after her—she was heading away from town, towards the cliffs overlooking the Kanimbla Valley—but I lost her, because the scrub was getting thicker and the light was fading.
‘I turned back to the house and when I got there I couldn’t believe what I saw. Palfreyman was on the floor with a knife sticking out of his chest, blood everywhere, Eden standing over him. I said, “Christ, what happened?” and he said, “You get her?” I said no, and told him how it would be hard to catch her, and he said, “Better be quick then.”
‘I said again, “What the hell happened?” and he replied, calm as anything, “She did this, mate. They had a fight…” He reached down and pulled Palfreyman’s trousers down to his knees. “Tried to rape her and she turned on him. We need to fix up the evidence quick and disappear. Problem solved.”
‘He told me to go fetch the car while he went around laying an evidence trail between the two cottages. When he was satisfied we drove off. By then it was dark.
‘I accept full responsibility for my part in this. That’s all I have to say.’
Silence. Deb consults the notes she’s been making. ‘Just a couple of points I’d like to clarify. Who was the client who wanted you to trace the document?’
‘I don’t know. Eden didn’t say.’
‘Why did you accept the job, knowing it would involve illegal entry?’
‘I…personal reasons.’
‘How much were they paying you?’
Fogarty bites his lip. ‘A hundred thousand.’
‘Each?’
‘Yes.’
‘And did you find it, this document?’
‘No.’
‘Did you know the woman who saw you through the window?’
Fogarty hesitates, gives a reluctant nod. ‘Yes, I’d seen her before. I believe she was the wife of Detective Sergeant Harry Belltree, who served in my command in Newcastle last year.’
‘You were surprised?’
‘Gobsmacked. I couldn’t believe it.’
‘And she recognised you?’
‘I assumed so.’
‘Did you tell Eden?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what did he say?’
‘He said…we’d have to find her.’
‘And?’
Fogarty shakes his head, looks away.
‘And kill her?’ Deb insists.
‘Yes,’ he says, voice barely aud
ible.
‘And did you find her?’
‘No. When we heard that your prime suspect was a woman of her description we thought we were in the clear. I heard no more about her.’
‘Last Friday night, late, towards midnight. Where were you?’
‘Friday? At home, with Brenda.’
‘We have you in a patrol car with Eden Grimshaw.’
‘Friday?’ Fogarty looks puzzled. ‘No, no. What would I be doing in a patrol car? I was off duty. Check it. Last Friday Brenda and I went to see a show at the local club—some girls doing a takeoff of the Supremes. Then home and bed.’
‘Where was Grimshaw?’
‘I’ve no idea. Look, I’ve made my statement. I was an accessory after the fact in the murder of Terry Palfreyman. That’s all I have to say.’
‘One more question, Ken. Did you kill Eden Grimshaw?’
‘No, I did not.’
After he’s taken away, the inspector turns to Deb. ‘Well…did you see that coming?’
Deb shakes her head, trying to think it through. ‘No.’
‘Why did he confess?’
She hesitates, then says, ‘Maybe because he’s an honourable man.’ Under the circumstances it seems an absurd thing to say, and yet she thinks it may be true.
69
Harry checks the brass plate on the wall of the sandstone building, goes inside and takes a lift up to the eighth floor. The receptionist shows him to a small meeting room and offers him a drink, which he refuses. After a moment a plump middle-aged man comes in.
‘Mr Belltree, good morning. I’m George Schwarz. My father was the Schwarz in McKensey, Schwarz and Comfrey, the founding partners. I knew your father distantly—he addressed us on our graduation. A great man. How can I help you?’
‘It’s good of you to see me, Mr Schwarz. I was hoping to discuss something that involved my father and your Mr Comfrey. I believe they had a meeting on the day that Mr Comfrey was killed in that plane crash.’
‘Did they indeed? I didn’t know that. My office was two floors down at the time.’
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