The Charlton Affair

by MJ Doherty

  Sally dialed Marsh and updated him. As expected, he cursed and carried on. She was waiting for him to tell her she was off the operation altogether, but he didn’t.

  “Middleton, get over to Ashgrove and see if the owner of the vehicle sold it to our man or what,” Marsh ordered. He added, “I’ll get some uniforms to search his gym locker and look for any infringements listed against the vehicle. Report to me when you get back.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said.

  *****

  Amanda knocked on Michael’s door. He let her in and she followed him to his kitchen. Michael was clean-shaven, and well presented. His house was neat and tidy. It was the complete opposite of the previous occasion she had visited him there with Darren.

  After making coffee for them both he led her out onto his deck. She sipped appreciatively, admiring the view of the broad expanse of the Brisbane River, flowing languidly.

  “Phoebe used to love sitting out here,” Michael remarked.

  “I can see why,” Amanda replied.

  He said, “How can I help?”

  She pulled her computer out of her shoulder bag and opened it to show him the images she had taken of Sanchez and his large companion outside the gym the day before.

  “Do you know who they are?”

  “That’s Marita’s little brother, Henri,” Michael replied. He added, “I don’t know the other man.”

  “Oh well, it was worth a shot,” she said despondently.

  “Sorry,” he replied, his voice matching her mood.

  She asked him how he was going. He avoided the topic of Phoebe’s disappearance. She knew it was weighing heavily on him. His every movement and look betrayed the depth of his pain and frustration.

  Instead, he described how he felt when his psychiatrist told him about his sister being sexually abused and how he could remember so much more now. None of it was very nice. His memories were painful for her to hear and clearly it hurt him to relate them. He was fragile and open but determined not to bury anything, determined not to keep secrets. She listened, utterly fascinated.

  He detailed his progress with his psychiatrist and told her about his upcoming appointment for therapy. He explained that he was going to see Phoebe’s therapist, Doctor Briggs.

  “I get it now,” he explained, “the less I push it down and away, the more I can remember.”

  He’s really turned a corner, she thought. I hope he can find his way through this, she thought, admiring his resolve.

  *****

  Phillips knocked on the door of a well-kept Queenslander home in Ashgrove. Sally was standing next to him, admiring the perfectly painted fretwork along the old verandah.

  A middle-aged man answered the door. Phillips flashed his police identification and introduced them.

  “I’m Brian Stanforth. How can I help you, detectives?”

  “Actually we’re looking for Mrs. Myrtle Stanforth. Is she here?” Phillips said.

  “My mother lives in a nursing home now. Iona Village at Kenmore,” replied Brian.

  “Right,” said Phillips. “Actually, we’re here about her car. The green Nissan Maxima.”

  “She sold that over six months ago,” Brian said, his expression puzzled.

  “Can you tell us what you know about the sale?” Phillips asked.

  “Come inside. The papers will be in here somewhere.”

  They followed him into his study. He fished around inside several storage boxes until he came up with a small folder marked ‘Mum’s car’ and handed it to Phillips. Phillips leafed through it while Sally looked at Brian and asked him if this was his mother’s house.

  “My wife and I have been living here for the last few years, looking after Mum. But she fell and broke her hip about nine months ago and spent ages in hospital. The rehab people came out and looked and said this place was no good for her. Too many stairs and places to trip. You know what these old Queenslanders are like. She misses the place but Iona is good for her.”

  Sally nodded sympathetically.

  “Why do you want to know about Mum’s old car?”

  “It looks like it was never transferred out of your mother’s name by the purchaser. Has your mother received any fines or tickets in the mail since you sold it?” Sally asked.

  “No. But if I remember correctly, the registration is due next month. That’ll come here if he never transferred it.”

  “Did you sell it for her or did she deal with directly?”

  “I sold it,” he replied.

  “Do you remember the man you sold it to?”

  “Certainly do. A large bloke. I remember thinking he must spend hours at the gym every day. Very fit looking for an older man.” Brian said.

  “How old do you think he is?” Sally enquired.

  “He has to be in his forties,” Brian replied.

  Sally agreed with his assessment. Morrow looked about that age and there was no denying his level of fitness. He had run rings around the much younger Phillips.

  “What was he like?” Sally asked.

  Phillips pulled out the seller’s copy of the transfer form. It was signed ‘Stephen Morrow’ and there was an address and license number on the form.

  “Can we keep this information?” He asked Brian.

  “Of course, whatever’s helpful to you,” Brian said.

  Sally reiterated her question, “What else do you remember about the purchaser?”

  “He was nice. Polite. He didn’t try to beat the price down too much. He could’ve. There was a small crack in the windscreen I needed to get fixed for the car to pass a safety inspection. I would’ve dropped down a bit further if he’d pushed.”

  Phillips asked, “Do you remember how he got out here to see you? Did he have another car?”

  Brian thought about it for a moment, and then said, “Yes, I remember him pulling up in a white van the first time he came out. It looked like it used to be one of those food transport vans. The back window was whited-out. He came in a cab the time he picked up the car.”

  Sally asked eagerly, “Do you know what sort of van?”

  Brian shook his head, “I’d just be guessing.”

  Sally persisted, “Old? New? Beaten up? Clean and tidy? Any logos on it?”

  Brian replied, “I think it was older. I really don’t remember anything else about it.”

  Phillips chimed in, “How did he pay for the car?”

  Brian replied, “Cash. He showed up with the entire amount in cash. I remember I was nervous having that much cash lying around over the weekend.”

  Phillips stood up, “Thanks Brian. If we need a statement from you, what’s the best number to get you on?”

  The men exchanged details before they got ready to leave.

  Sally turned to Brian when they were out on the verandah, “Sorry Brian, one last thing. Do you happen to remember if the white van had Queensland or interstate plates?”

  Brian replied, “I think I would have noticed interstate registration plates. It must’ve had Queensland plates, but I can’t be certain.”

  Phillips drove them back towards the city while Sally called in the license number and address on the transfer form to see if they came back with anything. The license number turned out to belong to a woman living in another town and the address didn’t exist.

  “He made up the details for the transfer form.”

  “He was never going to transfer the car,” Phillips stated. “He probably got it because it had a long registration period left on it.”

  She nodded in agreement. It was beginning to look like Morrow was the real suspect. She wondered what the Inspector would have to say about it.

  *****

  Phoebe’s startle reflex woke her suddenly. Instantly alert, she froze. Listening carefully, she heard nothing at first, and then a resounding metallic clang echoed. It seemed to be off in the distance somewhere, but all the noises she heard in her cell were muffled, so she couldn’t be sure.

  She knew he would come soon.
The next thing she heard was the sound of a door opening and banging shut followed by heavy footsteps. Another door opened and closed. The footsteps disappeared. She relaxed slightly.

  The voice coming throughout the speaker made her jump. “Honey, I’m home,” he said, in singsong. Then he laughed.

  Shocking herself, she replied sarcastically, “Did you have a nice day, dear?”

  “Ah, she has a personality after all,” he commented, “and I thought you were so insipid.”

  Sick of playing games, she said angrily, “What do you want, you sick bastard?”

  “To strangle you slowly with my bare hands…and I always get what I want,” he said, chuckling.

  Suddenly she felt every ounce of her pain and tiredness weighing down on her. It was as if the adrenaline completely evaporated and she was left empty, a shell.

  Sighing, she said in a moderate tone, “Look, the least you can do is tell me what this is all about before you kill me.”

  He paused. Then to her amazement, he did. He actually sounded gratified to have someone to listen to his disgusting plan. Listening to him tell her about what he wanted to do and how he had gotten this far, she felt utterly revolted.

  Before he left, he came to her door and pushed several packets of sandwiches and some bottled water through the slot. He told her he’d be back the following afternoon or later, depending on her husband’s level of cooperation. Those would be her last moments, he explained.

  His voice through the door slot was clear. Suddenly she knew exactly who he was. Her chest spasmed, constricting in sharp pain. Bile rose in her throat and her gut wrenched. She had trusted and admired him.

  Abruptly, nothing felt real to her anymore. Head spinning, she thought, none of it was ever real, it was all a lie from the start. His heavy footsteps sounded as he walked away from her.

  Desperately, she cried out to him, “Wait!”

  He halted and came back to stand on the other side of her door. “Yes,” he said, sounding intrigued.

  “Why?” She asked him. “You’ve explained how it all came together. But you never said why.”

  She had to know why this had happened to her. She knew it wouldn’t make a difference, but she was compelled to make sense of it all. The only thread she could clutch upon to retain her dissolving sanity was the reason why.

  Thoughtfully, he slowly replied, “It’s all Dad’s fault.”

  Putting as much empathy into her voice as she could muster, desperate to get him to feel he could reveal his reasons to her, she said gently, “But your father is gone.”

  “Yes. Long gone. But he never loved me. He never wanted me.”

  “Your father never loved you?” she reflected back at him softly.

  “Mum did, but he didn’t. He should have. He loved the others. Then I found out he wasn’t my real father. My real father was a nobody.”

  Gently, she said to him, “And how did that make you feel?”

  “Angry,” he said, “Really angry.”

  “And you want them to pay?” She lightly reframed his emotions.

  In a mercurial mood shift, he replied happily, “They have paid, all except my baby brother. But he’ll be paying soon.”

  She heard him whistling merrily as his footsteps faded.

  *****

  Inspector Marsh looked more tired than he had earlier, if that was even possible. Sally stood in front of his desk telling him how they’d lost the suspect and explaining what Stanforth had said.

  “A white food van, eh?” The Inspector repeated. Grabbing his desk phone he dialed an internal number, “Cooper, get up here to my office,” he ordered.

  Slamming the phone down, he muttered tiredly, “We’ll see if there’s a connection.”

  There was a knock on Marsh’s office door and he nodded at Sally to open it. Detective Senior Constable Price stood outside with a report in his hand.

  He nodded at Sally and walked up to Marsh’s desk, announcing, “Sir, here’s the preliminary DNA you ordered. Turns out there was just enough of a trace to analyze.”

  “So quick? What’d you do Price? Bend over for them?” Marsh said crudely as he grabbed the report out of Price’s hands. “Well? Spit it out!”

  Sally rolled her eyes. Marsh displayed every characteristic she loathed in a superior officer, or in anyone, but at least she knew he actually cared.

  “Sir, the hair we took from the apartment matched Mitchell’s. The blood didn’t match any records we have, but analysis indicates the same matrilineal decent as Michael Rawlins.”

  The room fell silent.

  Eventually Inspector Marsh said with a slight tone of grudging respect, “Well Middleton, looks like your theory pans out.”

  Sally looked thoughtful, then said, “Sir, I think we need to increase the scrutiny on Rawlins.”

  The Inspector raised his eyebrows, “Go on,” he said, interested.

  “Sir, if Phoebe Rawlins isn’t already dead, then maybe Stillman’s using her to get Michael to transfer his share of the inheritance over to him? If we can stop that happening, maybe we have a chance of keeping her alive?”

  The Inspector nodded, “Makes sense,” he said, “And Mitchell?”

  She replied, puzzled, “I can’t see why he’d keep him alive, but he took him from the scene, so he must have a purpose for him.” Sally shrugged.

  Inspector Marsh frowned and said, “Maybe it was just to make us think it was him? Distract us?”

  Sally nodded sadly, thinking it was likely. There was a distinct possibility Mitchell was already dead, his body hidden somewhere. He didn’t need to be alive to fulfill that purpose.

  Marsh thumped his desk in frustration, growling, “We need to get on top of this. It’s been more than twenty-four hours.”

  Looking at Price, he ordered, “Tell the Senior Sergeant I want everyone in the MIR in thirty minutes for an update.”

  “Yes, sir,” Price said, leaving the office to carry out his orders.

  Cooper arrived as Price left.

  “Wait a second, Cooper,” the Inspector said as he rose from behind his desk, his movements stiff with tiredness. He went to his door and opened it. He spotted the nearest Constable. A uniformed officer who happened to be walking along the corridor.

  “Constable,” Marsh ordered, “come here.”

  The Constable immediately approached. Marsh shoved his car keys and a one hundred dollar note into the hapless Constable’s hands, ordering, “Take my car and get as many decent flat white coffees as you can with that. I want that coffee in the MIR no later than thirty minutes from now, understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” the Constable gulped as he replied.

  Marsh barked at him, “Get going!”

  The Constable fled.

  Stomping back into his office, Marsh said to an amused Sally, “The coffee here is shit.”

  She nodded, keeping her face straight.

  Sitting back at his desk, Marsh said to Cooper, “Take Middleton back to the first floor with you. She’s going to tell you about a white van we need to look for.”

  “Yes, sir,” he said.

  Sally filled Cooper in as they walked to the lift foyer together.

  He said, “We’ve had a few white vans so far, but none of them have checked out.”

  Sally frowned, “What are you looking for when you check them?”

  “If they’re owned by a muscular man. It’s very slow work. We check the database and then send crews out to meet the owners or speak to people who know the owners.”

  “What about the commercial vehicles?” Sally replied.

  “We’re doing those too,” he replied.

  “He could be an employee at one of the companies and had access to a van?” Sally said.

  Cooper frowned, “I know. We’ll get there, it’s slow work. I need more people to be able to do everything quickly.”

  *****

  Roman sat with Leo on his Italian leather sofa, hugging him close, crying into his fur. Despite freque
nt calls to the police, he’d heard no news all day. He knew he was in for another long night. Apart from taking Leo for a walk in New Farm Park earlier, he hadn’t left the house. With a supreme effort, he pulled himself together. Sitting around crying wasn’t doing anyone any good, least of all Mark.

  Gently ruffling Leo’s neck, Roman got up and went to the kitchen to get something for them both to nibble on. Leo padded after him. Roman looked down at his canine companion with gratitude and wonder.

  Leo seemed to understand how he was feeling. He hadn’t left Roman’s side since Roman had come home yesterday. Looking up at Roman with love and concern in his dark soulful eyes, Leo leaned against Roman gently. Roman reached down to touch his head before turning his attention to the task of cutting up some roast chicken.

  Roman wondered, how have I lived in this world for more than thirty years and never had a dog? Thinking about Leo led to thinking about Mark. As usual Mark had known that getting a dog was the right thing for them. He always seemed to know what was right.

  Seized again by fear and grief for Mark and Phoebe, Roman was unable to continue with the chicken and sank to the kitchen floor sobbing. Leo stayed close, silently offering canine comfort.

  *****

  “Yes?” Charlie demanded, answering Darren’s call.

  “I’ve just heard from Sally Middleton,” Darren said. He added quickly, “No they haven’t found them yet,” anticipating Charlie’s response.

  “What then?” Charlie emended.

  “A trace of blood they found in the apartment belongs to someone who had the same mother as Michael.” Darren explained.

  “Oh my God! It really is Stillman!” Charlie exclaimed, horrified.

  “Yes. They don’t know where he is or his current identity, but they’re doing their best. They’re meticulously going through thousands of vehicles. They think they might be looking for a white van, but they’re not sure. Eventually they’ll find him.”

  Charlie groaned, “They won’t be quick enough, Darren.”