Mrs Jacobs dragged her eyes from Ed to Dave, who was smiling at her. Her face softened. His praise had struck the right note.
‘Can we get you a cup of tea? We’d like to show you some photos and talk about Ken. Then we’ll see what the officers interviewing Jonathan have to say and hopefully we’ll be able to clear up any misunderstandings and send you on your way,’ Dave continued.
She cocked her head to one side while she considered his suggestion. ‘A cup of tea would be very nice. I’m parched. I haven’t had a cup since this morning.’
‘Ed?’ Dave said.
Ed rolled his eyes and pushed his chair back. Getting a cup of tea for the old bat was the last thing he wanted to do, but Dave was right on two counts. Offering her tea and talking to her nicely would work a lot better, and leaving Ed alone with her was probably a bad idea. He strode out of the room, closing the door behind him with a loud thunk. He was on his way to the kitchen when he ran smack into Crackers barrelling across the floor.
‘Dyson! Tell me you haven’t really dragged some nice little old lady in for questioning? A nice little old lady who runs a hostel for homeless men and her handicapped son?’
‘We have, but she’s not so nice. She —’
‘Is she or is she not the same woman who’s been running a hostel for homeless men in North Adelaide for the last twenty-five years? The woman who has been featured not once, but twice in the newspapers as one of Adelaide’s unsung heroes, and who only two years ago received an Australia Day award?’
‘Um, I’m not sure, but she had her son locked under the stairs.’
‘What?’
‘She locked him under the stairs when she went out. Said it was for his protection. We brought her in because of that.’
‘What does the son say?’
‘Says he went in voluntarily.’
‘Jesus, the media’s gonna have a fucking field day when they hear about this.’ He glared at Ed. ‘What are you doing out here?’
‘Dave offered her a cup of tea. We still need to ask about a missing person who’s a likely candidate for our McLaren Vale body. That’s why we went to see her in the first place. When we got there we heard the son yelling so we entered the premises, thinking someone was hurt.’
‘Christ! Give her the bloody tea, ask your questions and then drive her home and apologise for any inconvenience. I don’t know how they do things where you come from Dyson, but in MCIB we do not harass and interrogate little old ladies, especially ones who have received Australia Day medals.’
‘What about the abuse of her son?’
‘He’s a grown man. She’s a little old lady. You do the maths. You’ve got nothing concrete linking them to your case have you?’
‘No, not yet.’
‘Well until you do I want you to leave them the hell alone. Clear?’
Crackers stomped off, leaving the stench of stale sweat and hair cream in his wake. Ed longed for something to punch. How the hell had Crackers found out so quickly? The man was like a bloodhound trained to sniff out fuck-ups.
Ed made the tea and took it back to the meeting room. He found Dave and Mrs Jacobs smiling and chatting to one another. The guy could work miracles when it came to women.
‘Ed, Mrs Jacobs here was just telling me how to make lemon delicious. It’s one of my favourites and my mum never makes it.’
‘Uh-huh.’ Ed bit back several smart-arsed comments in response to this bit of trivia.
‘So, Mrs Jacobs, if it’s all right with you we’d like to show you a picture of Ken and see what you can remember?’ Dave said.
‘I had a man’s sister contact me a few months ago. Is it the same person?’
‘It is.’
‘Then I’ll tell you what I told her. I don’t really remember her brother very well. I think he came in one night. I fed him and gave him a bed but I don’t recall anything special or unusual about him, and I haven’t seen him since.’
Ed slid the picture across the table. She picked it up and looked at it.
‘Is this the man you remember?’ he asked.
‘He looks familiar. Yes, I think that’s him.’
‘Was he a regular visitor to your hostel?’
‘No, I don’t think so. I only recall seeing him the once. I have some regulars, but he’s definitely not one of them. There are a lot of men that choose to sleep rough. Maybe you should check some of the regular places they go.’
‘Can you give us some suggestions on where to look?’ Dave asked.
‘I’d be happy to, Detective Reynolds.’
‘Would any of your regulars have been at your hostel the night Ken was there?’ Ed asked.
She took a sip of her tea. ‘I’m not sure. It was quite a while ago and I see so many men every week. Old Jack might have been there. He’s one of my frequent flyers. I usually see him a couple of nights a week.’
‘Do you think we’d be able to speak to him?’
‘You can try. A lot of the men who stay with me aren’t too fond of authority figures.’ She gave Ed a look that clearly told him she sympathised with that point of view.
‘When did you last see him?’
‘Last night. If he’s still in the area he’ll be back tonight. Pity, I won’t be able to open if I don’t have any food to give them.’
‘We’ll get you home as soon as we can. I think we’re done here. We’ll just check in with Jonathan and see what’s what. We’ll be back in a few minutes,’ Dave said.
They filed out of the room. Ed said nothing.
‘I’ll drive her home,’ Dave said.
Ed felt like he could have gladly crawled into a hole and pretended the day hadn’t happened. He watched Dave walk away with Mrs Jacobs and headed back to his desk. He’d have to write up the whole sorry incident with the Jacobs family.
He’d booted up his computer and was tapping away with two fingers when Janice materialised at his elbow.
‘Have you come to tell me I’m an idiot for hassling old ladies as well?’ Ed said.
‘I thought Crackers already had that covered?’
‘Yeah, I don’t think I’m going to win detective of the week. So what’s up?’
‘It might be nothing but I just had a call from uniform down on Hindley Street. They’ve got a bloke in their holding cells who’s ranting and raving about killing homeless men.’
Ed sat up straighter. ‘He’s saying he’s killed homeless men?’
‘I think so. I thought you’d want to know given your case seems to be revolving around homeless people at the moment. The officer who rang was Sergeant Roger Mawson. He said this guy’s been in before and he might just be trying it on to get a warm cell for the night.’
‘He’s homeless as well?’
‘Apparently.’
‘I’ll pop down there while Dave’s dropping Mrs Jacobs home.’
CHAPTER
19
Ed decided to walk the fifteen-minute stretch from MCIB to the Hindley Street Station. Hindley Street was one of Adelaide’s night spots and offered clubs, bars and other establishments on the seedier end of the entertainment spectrum. The station was right in the heart of the action and usually did a roaring trade between the hours of 10pm and 5am. It wasn’t a large station and didn’t have a CIB presence.
He pushed through the glass doors and went up to the information desk. The officer on duty looked like he needed a few more coffees before he was ready to face the public. He had pale skin with a smattering of angry red acne on his cheeks. He wouldn’t have looked out of place if he’d traded his police uniform for a school one.
‘I’m Detective Ed Dyson from MCIB,’ Ed said, showing his ID. ‘You’ve got a bloke in your cells who’s claiming he’s been killing people?’
‘Yeah, that’d be Mark. I’ll just call Roger. He’s the one who called you.’ The young officer’s tone and look told Ed plenty.
‘You don’t think it’s true?’
‘I think Mark’s after a feed and a place
to sleep. He’s crazy but that doesn’t make him a killer.’
He picked up the phone and spoke briefly into it before turning back to Ed.
‘He’s coming.’
A minute later the security door opened and an older officer stuck his head through. He was tall and lean to the point of looking emaciated. Wispy hair clung to the sides of his head, holding out against the advancing tide of baldness that was spreading across his crown.
‘Come through. I’m the Sergeant on duty, name’s Roger.’ He held out a bony hand.
Ed shook it and introduced himself before following Roger down a short corridor and into an interview room.
‘Have a seat. I’ll go and grab Mr Saunders. He’s been in our cells since last night.’
‘What made you bring him in?’
‘He was loitering under the Morphett Street Bridge with a bunch of other homeless blokes. We got a complaint from some joggers who were running along the Torrens River path that goes under the bridge and we went down there to move on Saunders and his friends. They all went peacefully except for Mark. He got cantankerous and began swinging his fists around. It was after we got him in the back of the paddy wagon that he started to rant about people being killed.’
‘And you think he’s legit?’ Ed said.
‘I don’t know. I think most of what he’s saying is probably crazy talk but there’s something there that made me wonder. Can’t quite put my finger on what it was. You know how it is.’
Ed did. Sometimes it was more how you felt about a suspect than what they actually said.
Ed sat and waited. The room was small and airless. He smelled their approach well before they appeared in the doorway. Ed wrinkled his nose as the stale body odour hit him. The guy was dressed in clothes that looked like they had been washed sometime in the last decade, maybe. His hair was long and a bushy beard covered half his face, but it was his eyes that pulled Ed’s attention. They were dark, wide and darting around the room, never resting in one place for more than a few seconds.
Roger pushed him into a chair. ‘This is Detective Dyson. He’d like to ask you a few questions about what you were telling me earlier.’
‘Dyson, dying son. Did your son die, Ed?’ Saunders threw his head back and cackled.
‘You told Sergeant Mawson here about the deaths of some homeless men,’ Ed said.
‘Dead man walking. Dying to get in, dying to meet you, death and taxes, dead calm, dead of night. Always at night.’
Ed decided to be more direct. ‘You told the sergeant that you’ve been killing people, Mark. Can you tell me about that?’
‘Dead men. Lots of them. Nobody notices. Shadows. Shadows disappear and nobody notices.’
‘And it was you who made them disappear?’
Saunders threw his head back and laughed.
Ed sighed inwardly. He wasn’t going to get any sense out of this guy. It was going to be a colossal waste of time just like everything else that day.
‘How were they killed Mark?’
‘Killed them with kindness, that’s what happened. No such thing as a free lunch.’
The laughter started again. Louder and more hysterical.
‘Where did you put their bodies, Mark?’
‘Bodies? What bodies. No bodies, nobodies that’s who we are.’
Ed looked at Roger and shook his head.
‘I think that’s enough for now Roger.’
Roger shepherded Saunders out of the room and back to the cells. The sound of his cackling echoed down the hallway, receding as they got further away. Roger returned a few minutes later.
Ed stood up and stretched. ‘Did you search him when you brought him in?’
‘Yeah, just in case. Death in custody rules and all that. We didn’t find anything except for some loose change and an empty gin bottle.’
‘No evidence of blood on his clothes or person?’
‘How can you tell through all the dirt?’ Roger said.
‘He might know something but it’s hard to tell through all the ranting. I’m not sure if he thinks he’s the killer or someone else is. How long will you hold him?’
‘Not long. We’ll need the cells again tonight. I’ll see that he gets a feed and then kick him loose.’
‘Any ideas how we’d find him again if we want to question him?’
Roger screwed his face into a grimace. ‘Not easy. These blokes don’t have addresses. If we need to find him again it’d be a matter of sweeping all the usual places. I think he goes to a few of the hostels if he gets really desperate but he sleeps rough most nights.’
‘All right, thanks for your time, Roger. I’ll be in touch if we need to hunt him down again.’
They shook hands and Roger escorted him back out through the security door. Ed stepped out into the cool sunshine and paused, filling his lungs with the crisp air. Dave would be back at the office and they had an interview to crack on with. He picked up his pace.
Dave was just in the door when Ed got back. Ed filled him in on the interview with Saunders and they both slumped back in their chairs. The morning had been a complete write-off; they had no solid leads and were no closer to working out who their vics were. They’d probably never know if Ken Forster was one, and the DNA from Thomas Simpson wouldn’t be back for at least twenty-four hours. The only thing they had to show for the morning’s efforts was an extensive list of places homeless people liked to frequent, courtesy of Mrs Jacobs.
Their next step was to talk to the family of their third possible victim. Janice had found that Len Crowley’s daughter worked shifts and would be home by 2pm. They had an hour to burn.
Dave was busy tapping away at his computer, writing up the morning’s events. Ed felt a niggle of guilt that he’d managed to dodge the paperwork, but consoled himself with the thought that Dave was much better at that stuff than he was. Ed was a classic two-finger typist who wrote everything out longhand before typing it up, something Dave liked to take the piss about.
Ed pulled up Len Crowley’s file and reread it. His daughter’s name was Beth Crowley. Wayville was a nice suburb, within the city’s five-kilometre donut. Ed screwed up a piece of paper and hurled it towards the bin. It hit the wall, bounced on the rim of the bin and then onto the floor. With a grunt he stood up to retrieve it. ‘I don’t know about you, but I need some food,’ he said. There was no way he was going to see someone difficult on an empty stomach.
Dave looked up. ‘Ten more minutes and I’ll join you. We should be able to get a DNA sample off the daughter without too much trouble.’
Ed wandered over to the window and stared down at the streetscape. A cold front had moved in and sheets of drizzle were sweeping across the city, making everything hazy. Office workers braving the weather during their lunch breaks were striding along the footpaths at a brisk pace, shoulders hunched, staying close to the buildings for shelter, their umbrellas jostling for space.
He went back to his desk and googled ‘Martha Jacobs’. Sure enough, a bunch of references to newspaper articles popped up, all of them singing her praises. He scanned down the page, looking for anything about the history of the hostel itself. One result jumped out at him. ‘House of horrors becomes a house of hope.’ Ed opened it up and scanned the text.
‘Ready?’ Dave walked up behind him.
‘Check this out,’ Ed said.
Dave leant over his shoulder. After a minute he let out a low whistle. ‘Well, that explains Mrs Jacobs’ Draconian approach to discipline. Sounds like she learned from a master.’
The article detailed how the North Adelaide house had been raided by police in the early nineteen forties and the owner, Mr Arthur Pritchard, had been arrested for acts of cruelty to his wife and child. He’d subsequently been found guilty of assault, false imprisonment and failing to provide adequate care for his child. A picture showed a girl of about five who was so painfully thin her cheeks were hollow and her arms skeletal.
‘Is that Mrs Jacobs?’ Dave said, his voice crackin
g.
‘I think so. Says here that Martha Jacobs née Pritchard triumphed over adversity and has gone on to turn the house where she was treated so badly into a place of kindness and shelter for the homeless.’
‘Casts things in a different light doesn’t it?’ Dave said.
‘I don’t understand how a man could do that to his own child. I hope he rotted away in a cell. But I still don’t think that excuses Mrs Jacobs locking her son under the stairs. I bet her own father did the same thing to her. I’ve never understood why abused children grow up to be abusive parents.’
‘We don’t know for sure she’s abusive. But enough of Martha Jacobs and the Freudian analysis. We need to go see Beth Crowley and we’ve got to eat first.’
‘I think we’d better take the car and go somewhere on the way,’ Ed said, looking at his watch. ‘You’re the expert, any good lunch spots out near Wayville?’
‘Are you kidding? That’s near King William Road. There are heaps of places to eat. We can go to this great little Italian …’
Ed handed Dave the keys and let his words flow over him, secure in the knowledge that wherever they went he’d be well fed.
‘Ms Crowley?’
The woman in the doorway wore a scowl that would have had most people heading for the safety of the footpath.
‘I’m Detective Dyson and this is Detective Reynolds. We’re here to discuss your father’s disappearance.’
‘It’s Dr Crowley.’ The furrows on her brow deepened further. Ed wondered what she’d look like if she smiled. She was probably only in her mid-thirties. Her hair was white-blonde, pulled back into a severe ponytail. She wore no make-up and no jewellery, making her black polo neck and pants even more dramatic. Her eyes were light grey. The overall effect made Ed feel like he’d suddenly stepped into a black-and-white movie. He could imagine her playing the role of an evil Russian or German scientist in a dodgy B-grade flick.
‘Is this a bad time?’ Dave asked.
Missing (The Cass Lehman Series Book 3) Page 14