Flashpoint

by Felicity Young

  He parked the ute in his reserved space behind the station, immediately sensing that something was different. The cars: there were too many of them. Shit, there was a Channel Nine news van, a couple of unfamiliar newer models and a small crowd of people on the front steps.

  Someone hoisted a camera. ‘There he is!’

  Microphones were brandished in the air like cudgels. The crowd moved towards him with the enthusiasm of a Highland horde. He made a dash for the back entrance, only to find it locked.

  Dam Derek to hell. He turned to face the mob. A flash exploded in his face. He saw white ghosts on a dark void.

  ‘. . . the third police suicide in three months . . .’ ‘. . . Royal Commission . . .’

  ‘. . . stresses of the job . . .’

  ‘. . . police corruption . . .’

  ‘Can you give us the cop’s name?’

  ‘No comment.’ Cam pushed his way through the mass of bodies. Just as he reached the front entrance a man said, ‘Are you the same Sergeant Fraser whose family were killed by a bikie bomb in Sydney?’

  He whirled around and faced the crowd. They fell silent, a pack of dogs waiting apprehensively to see who would get the first morsel.

  He drew a deep breath. ‘The name of the constable involved will be withheld pending notification of next of kin. Details of the tragedy cannot be revealed at this stage of the investigation.’

  ‘But it was a suicide, right?’

  ‘Please contact police media in Toorrup if you have any other questions. Thank you.’

  Cam stormed through the front entrance, locked the door on the clicking camera shutters and strode over to Derek at communications. The constable looked up from his crossword puzzle, regarding Cam for a moment through dishwater eyes.

  From his lifeless eyes to the ever-present cup of tepid weak tea by his side, there was nothing distinguishing about the man. His personality was grey. Vince had been a veritable Bob Hope compared to this man.

  ‘I heard you had a rough night. Too bad about Vince.’ Derek rubbed his beaky nose, his gaze falling back down to the paper in front of him. Cam felt like screwing the paper up into a ball and shoving it down the constable’s throat.

  ‘Thanks for your help out there,’ he said.

  Derek nodded without looking up. Cam wondered how Derek would react if the station was burning down. Probably finish the crossword first. He was either the coolest customer that Cam had ever met or the dimmest. Cam hadn’t worked him out yet.

  ‘As much charisma as a cup of warm piss,’ he muttered to himself like an old man. Then in a louder voice he said, ‘You relieve Leanne on traffic this arvo, OK?’

  ‘Right-oh, Sarge.’

  Cam fixed himself a coffee, then went into his office and closed the door. Prising open the Venetian blinds, he noticed with relief that the press had packed up and gone. He settled down to tackle last night’s incident reports, make some phone calls and organise the interviews. He was halfway through his second report when the phone rang.

  ‘Hey, Sarge.’ It was Pete. ‘I’ve just finished having a chat with Toby Bell. He was not impressed at being dragged out of bed at 7 am, I’m telling you.’

  ‘So, did you confront him with the account drawings?’

  ‘Yeah, I did. He just about shat himself. I think he was more scared of his wife hearing about what he’s been up to than anything I had to say.’

  The office door opened and Derek appeared. ‘Mr Smithson’s here. He wants to see you.’

  Shit; a confrontation with that man was the last thing Cam needed right now.

  ‘Tell him he’ll have to wait.’ Cam swivelled around on his chair so his back was to Derek, and continued his telephone conversation with Pete.

  ‘So what was his explanation?’ he asked.

  ‘He withdrew the money in a lump sum and gave it to a Ms Tiffany Davis,’ Pete said.

  Cam smiled for the first time that day. ‘Ah, the niece. Of course.’

  ‘That’s one name for it, I guess. Anyway, Sarge, I followed it through and traced it to a deposit on an apartment. It’s all bona fide; he’s just putting her up in style.’

  ‘You’ve done well, Pete. Good work. That makes up for last night.’

  ‘We even then?’ Cam could hear the cocky smile breaking through the young constable’s voice, picture the deepening dimples of his cheeks.

  ‘Almost. Get back here ASAP.’

  Cam replaced the receiver and turned back to Derek.

  ‘Sarge, he insists on seeing you now.’

  Cam sighed and rubbed his eyes. ‘Show him in, then.’

  Derek showed Mr Smithson in, closing the door behind him. Cam gestured to the spare office chair but didn’t get up. Mr Smithson continued to stand. His face was pale; there were beads of sweat on his forehead. He opened his hands and was about speak, but thought better of it and reached into his pocket for a handkerchief instead.

  ‘Mr Smithson, are you feeling all right?’ Cam asked, taking in his visitor’s pasty complexion and the slump of his thin shoulders.

  ‘I . . . I want to know what you’re doing about the fire.’

  Cam searched the man’s face, trying to fathom the true reason for his visit.‘I’m waiting to hear back from forensics, though I’m not pinning much on the physical evidence. I still have some other leads to follow up.’ Cam put his elbows on his desk and steepled his hands. He stared at Smithson for a good ten seconds before continuing: ‘Is that all you wanted to speak to me about, Jeffrey?’

  Smithson unfurled his handkerchief as if it was a flag of truce and began to dab at his face. Cam got up from his desk and poked his head out of his office door, calling to Derek to bring in a pot of tea. He pulled out the spare chair and indicated for Smithson to sit down.

  Smithson stared blankly at Cam for a moment then took off his jacket, sinking into the chair with his head bowed as if all the energy had been sucked from his system.

  ‘When you’re ready, mate. I’m not going anywhere.’ Cam sat back down behind his desk.

  Smithson took a breath. ‘When we got back home last night, my wife and I had a talk. She persuaded me to come and see you to . . .’ He waved a limp hand in the air.

  ‘Put the record straight?’

  ‘Quite.’ He nodded and looked into his lap for a few seconds. ‘I hit him. You know that? I hit him but I didn’t kill him.’

  Cam nodded. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Did Ms Bowman give you the details?’

  ‘Some, but I’d like to hear your side of the story.’

  ‘She caught Herbert Bell stealing Anne’s underthings from the washing line. I was consumed with rage when she told me. When we found him in the shed, I felt like I wanted to kill him. Jo had to hold me back, but not before I got a solid punch off into his face.’ He looked down at the hand on his lap and rubbed at his swollen knuckles, as if still feeling the sting. The glazed look in his eye told Cam he was far away, back in the potting shed.

  Derek knocked then entered the office with a tea tray. Smithson started, took a deep breath and pulled himself back to the present.

  Cam poured tea. Smithson seemed mesmerised by the hot amber liquid, staring at it as if it might provide him with some kind of a release. Eventually one corner of his mouth curved into a slight smile. ‘I felt a lot better after that.’

  Cam pushed a cup of tea towards Smithson and took a sip of his own before saying, ‘I’d consider anger to be a normal reaction to the situation you’ve just described.’ He took a breath. ‘But I consider hitting him to be an over-reaction.’

  Smithson opened his mouth to speak, but couldn’t find the words. Cam continued. ‘From our first meeting, I got the feeling you were trying to protect your wife from something. My best guess is she’s been the victim of some kind of violent crime. That might also explain your assault on Bell.’ He took another sip of tea, not taking his eyes off Smithson. ‘Am I right?’

  The older man sighed, nodding.

  ‘I’m sorry you di
dn’t think of telling me about this earlier.’ Cam tempered his stern tone with compassion. ‘Your lies and hostility to my inquiries have hindered the investigation and cast both yourself and your wife in a suspicious light.’

  Smithson passed a hand across his face, focusing on the teapot. He took a breath and spoke in a flat tone, as if the smallest of inflections might provide a weakness through which his barely contained emotions would escape.

  ‘We lived in Adelaide. I used to work long hours. We almost lived separate lives, both involved with our own careers. I came home late one night and immediately knew that something was wrong. She always left lights on for me, but this time the house was completely dark and the front door was unlocked. I went up to the bedroom and . . .’

  He made a small sound, almost like a hiccup. Cam was sure he would lose it now but Smithson took a breath and managed to keep himself together. ‘She was tied up on the bed. She’d been raped and left lying there. She’d been alone in the dark for hours. The physical scars healed, but . . .’ he sighed, and shrugged, glancing at Cam before shifting his gaze back to the tea tray.

  ‘She took the long service leave she was owed and we began to re-evaluate our lives. I never wanted to be in a job that took me away from her again. I resigned from my company, did a Dip Ed, then we applied for the position at Glenroyd. It all seemed so perfect. Just the challenge she needed to help her to forget the trauma. We threw ourselves into turning the school around. You’ve seen how much we’ve achieved in such a short time.’

  Some of the old pomposity had returned to his voice, but Cam forgave him for it.

  ‘But then the underwear theft seemed to open up the old wounds. I suppose it was the sexual connotations . . .’

  ‘Was the rapist ever caught?’

  Smithson shook his head. ‘No. We’ve had no closure.’

  Cam cleared his throat. ‘You know, Jeffrey, it’s as much in your wife’s interest as it is in ours that we find the perpetrators of these violent crimes at the school.’ Cam paused, studied Smithson for a moment then said, ‘Do you see where I’m going with this?’

  Jeffrey looked at him and licked his thin lips. ‘I’ve been stupid. I’ve not cooperated, I’ve lied to you.’

  Cam acknowledged this with a nod. ‘You may not have had closure for the rape case, but working with us now, helping us solve these crimes, will at least give you both peace of mind in this instance.’

  Smithson took a deep breath, closed his eyes as if trying to ward off physical pain. ‘What do you want to know, Sergeant?’

  The many unanswered questions: the murder of Herbert Bell, the fire, Vince’s death – maybe Smithson couldn’t provide answers to those, but there was something else.

  Cam tapped at his teeth with his pen.

  ‘Tell me about the estate of the late Miss Jane Featherstone.’

  Smithson looked perplexed. He shrugged his bony shoulders. ‘She was an old girl of Glenroyd, passed away about eighteen months ago at St Luke’s retirement home in Toorrup. She had no family and left all her money to the school. That’s really all there is to it.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Just under a million dollars. It covered the science lab and some of the new classrooms.’

  ‘And who was the executor of the will? I’d like to see a copy.’

  ‘I haven’t seen a copy myself, Sergeant, it was a private will. The executor transferred the money to our account. It was all so easy, so uncomplicated, a gift. I signed for it, I declared it to the tax department, I did nothing wrong.’ His voice rose. He was on the defensive again, almost back to his old self. Cam made placating hand gestures then took a sip of tea, giving the man the chance to calm down.

  ‘Who was the executor?’ Cam asked.

  ‘A teacher at the school, an old girl herself and the granddaughter of Miss Featherstone’s best friend. You’ve met her: Ruth Tilly, the head of our science department.’

  26

  Cam continued with the paperwork and the phone calls, occasionally pausing to tap his pen against his teeth or squeeze the palm exerciser, as if hoping to extract answers from it. The last violent crime committed in Glenroyd was an incident of road rage over six months ago. A year before that a pub brawl resulted in a serious head injury. Now, three violent acts since his arrival – a coincidence? Cam didn’t believe in coincidences. His instinct told him they were related, but how, why and by whom?

  At one stage Derek knocked and entered, leaving a fax on his desk. It was from Scotland Yard and contained information he’d requested earlier. He became so engrossed in his reading he forgot his meeting with Angelo and started with surprise when Derek showed the boy into the office.

  ‘Hey,’ said Cam, getting up from his desk. ‘Glad you showed up.’

  ‘Cliff doesn’t know I’m here. He’s gone out for lunch. I walked so he won’t see my car gone.’

  Angelo walked over to the Venetian blind and prised open the shades. Cam almost suggested he wear a false nose and glasses next time, but managed to stop himself. Angelo didn’t seem such a bad kid, but the kiss he’d witnessed irked him and what Angelo might get up to with his daughter in the future worried him even more. He had a feeling of animosity towards this kid he knew he would have to get over. At times like this he missed Elizabeth more than ever.

  ‘That’s fine,’ Cam said. ‘What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.’

  He locked the fax in his desk drawer then drove Angelo to the scene of Sunday’s bushfire.

  ***

  It came as no surprise to discover the body had been found in the same area Cliff had abused Angelo for spraying. Cam had yet to interview Bell’s de facto over his disappearance, but the more he thought about it the more the names Cliff Donovan and Ruth Tilly occupied his mind. But what was missing? What was the simple clue that tied them to these crimes? Their names continued to float around in his head with no anchors but wary circumspection and gut instinct.

  ‘How long have Cliff and Ruth been going out?’ he asked Angelo during the drive back.

  ‘A few months, maybe.’

  ‘So what’s she like, then?’

  Angelo selected one of the shrugs from his wide vocabulary. ‘She’s OK.’ He reached into his top pocket for a cigarette.

  Cam shook his head. ‘No smoking in here, son.’ His sentence dangled in the silence as he appraised his passenger. ‘You’re acting nervous – you nervous, Angelo?’

  Angelo rubbed at his mouth, craving that smoke. ‘If Cliff knows I’ve been talking to you, I’m history.’

  Cam risked another glance. ‘Have you stopped to think that might be because he’s got something to hide?’

  Angelo said nothing. The white fence posts on the side of the road flashed past in a blur.

  ‘If your boss was doing something illegal, would you tell me about it?’

  Angelo pointed to a truck stop ahead. ‘You can drop me off here. I’ll walk back.’

  Cam continued driving. ‘You know I’m conducting a murder investigation, don’t you?’

  ‘Cliff wouldn’t murder anyone.’ Angelo’s eyes darted to the speedo then to the door of the ute. He seemed desperate enough to make a jump for it. Cam didn’t want to push him that far.

  ‘OK, fair enough, but what about handling stolen property? A tanker truck was stolen in Glenroyd about ten weeks ago. I’m guessing it ended up in a chop shop somewhere, maybe a chop shop near where it was stolen – any ideas?’

  ‘Vince talked to Cliff about that. I wouldn’t know. Listen –’

  ‘Talk much, did they?’

  ‘They were mates, OK?’

  Cam was getting under the boy’s skin, just as he’d hoped.

  ‘Vince used to come around, but then they had some kind of a blue. They were yelling in the workshop. I heard them. I thought they were going to kill each other. He stopped coming around after that.’

  ‘What were they yelling about?’

  ‘I dunno really.’ Angelo turned his head away. />
  ‘Something about the tanker maybe?’

  Angelo looked at the passing scenery and stitched his lips together.

  ‘How long ago did they have that blue?’ Cam continued.

  ‘A few weeks, I guess.’ Angelo fidgeted in his seat. ‘Listen Mr, er, Sergeant Fraser. I’ve done what I can, I’ve shown you where I was doing the spraying, where Cliff did his rag at me, I really can’t help any more. I can only tell you what I know, right?

  Whatever else Cliff is up to is his business. I stay out of it. I don’t like Cliff much and I guess you know that, but still, I don’t go dobbing people in just for the sake of it either. You asked me about the fire, I told you. That’s all I know.’

  Cam pulled over to the side of the road and let him out. He sat in the car and watched Angelo kicking a beer can along the dirt verge until a cloud of red dust swallowed him up.

  So what did the kid know that he wasn’t telling?

  27

  Cam arrived at Jo’s house at about two that afternoon, his steps ringing hollow on the wooden veranda. He felt a flutter of apprehension. After what they had been through last night, the stiff formalities of a police interview seemed inappropriate.

  He wondered if she would feel the same.

  The door opened before he had the chance to knock and Ruth Tilly stood before him. If he’d been a serial sex offender he might have received a more benevolent look. Her eyes narrowed and the top of her lip twitched into a slight curl. He repressed a flinch when her arterial red fingernails rested against the scarred skin of his forearm.

  Leaning towards him she whispered, ‘She’s really not yet ready to be interviewed, Cam. The doctor wanted her to stay in bed.’

  ‘It’s important, Ruth.’ He became aware of the brackish odour of the river stagnating near the back boundary of Jo’s house.

  ‘Go easy on her then,’ Ruth said in a low husky voice. ‘She’s had a bad night.’ She took in his pale face and the bags of fatigue under his eyes. ‘Come to think of it, you don’t look much better yourself.’

  The pressure of her fingers increased. Cam decided he could do without her concern and allowed his arm to drop. There was a shadow of movement from behind and Jo appeared from the interior of the dark house.