It took me a good part of the morning to visit chemists in the South Melbourne, Albert Park, St Kilda, Windsor and Prahran areas. The first fifteen informed me they’d never sold zinc stearate, and most had no idea what it was used for. Most of them preferred to refer to it as zinci stereas, for reasons I didn’t bother to ask. Must have been the Latin or scientific name of your common household-grade zinc stearate.
Patience paid off, and at 12.54 p.m., I stepped into a small chemist shop at the corner of Chapel Street and Malvern Road in Prahran, not too far from where I resided. The pharmacist confirmed he’d sold zinc stearate less than a year ago.
The pharmacist, an Asian man in his mid-thirties going by the name Thuang Nugyen, was quite willing to answer my questions. I assumed he was Vietnamese in origin since I’d spotted more Vietnamese in Melbourne going by the surname of Nugyen than any other name. It must have been the equivalent of Smith in English.
‘And who bought it?’ I asked, relieved I was finally getting somewhere.
‘Couldn’t tell you that.’
‘It’s for a murder investigation. I have to know. Don’t make me go through all the hassle of getting a search warrant.’ My tone was dry and commanding. I felt short-tempered from having spent the entire morning in horrid traffic, bumper to bumper with trams and white delivery vans marked with dints in every conceivable corner.
‘Oh, that’s not it,’ Mr Nugyen immediately retorted, his hands flying to his chest as if I was about to hit him. ‘I help police. But six months ago, junkies broke into shop and destroyed lots of things, including book which contained name and signatures of prescribed poisonous materials.’
I gave him a look which implied I thought he was pulling my leg.
‘Seriously,’ he went on, ‘all these junkies raid place during night, hoping finding something to get high on. But what they don’t realise is we now lock scheduled drugs in metal cabinets with locks. No way to get them open. So junkies angry at us and trash place for revenge. We never recovered book. Junkies bad people. Thief. No good for business.’
His tone seemed sincere, and I couldn’t see a reason why he would lie. I gave him my business card, inviting me to call me any time if he’d remembered anything.
When I left the chemist, I was annoyed that my search had amounted to little.
Later in the afternoon, while doing my shopping at Coles in Balaclava, my mobile phone went off. I placed a litre of milk in the trolley, and grabbed the cellular phone attached to my leather belt.
‘Hi, it’s me.’
I recognised Frank’s voice. ‘What’s up?’
‘I found something you’d be interested in.’
‘What?’
‘Mrs Noland has secrets. Maybe you were right after all. I think I found a probable motive as to why she’d want to have her daughter killed.’
‘Okay, let’s not discuss this on the mobile. Where are you now?’
‘VFSC, but I can meet you at the St Kilda Road Police Complex in the next hour.’
‘I’ll see you there.’
I punched the end-button and wrapped up my shopping trip.
I parked in front of the St Kilda Road Police Complex at 5.34 p.m., my mind pre-occupied with what could have made Frank change his mind so suddenly about the killer of Tracy Noland.
After passing the security point and the metal detector, I made my way to the elevator.
When I arrived on the ninth floor, I straightened my navy jacket and adjusted my ID-card on my breast-pocket.
Frank was waiting by himself in a small conference room, which we often used to discuss police work in an unofficial manner. A bunch of papers and print-outs were spread in front of him on a mahogany table designed to accommodate up to ten people.
‘So, what have you got?’ I asked, while taking a seat at the table.
‘Checked her back to front.’
‘And?’
‘No outstanding parking tickets or warrants. No particular debts of any kind, in fact nothing which looks particularly suspicious...’ He shuffled some papers. ‘She’s practically owns the house she lives in. Worth about half a million dollars, and she’s only got less than twenty-five grand to pay on it. She hasn’t paid it off, why, I guess I’ll never know. Her parents died in a car accident two years, leaving her a $150,000 inheritance She’s kept it in the bank as cash flow.’
I was getting impatient. ‘So? Get to the point.’
‘Yeah, well, I began looking a bit deeper, rang up a few insurance companies, and bingo.’ He pulled a sheet from the pile and passed it across the table. ‘She took life insurance on her daughter nine months ago for an amount of $200,000!’
I stared at the pink-bordered TGB General Insurance document dated February the previous year, which confirmed a premium had been paid in full for a period of twelve months covering the life of Tracy Vicky Noland, be it death or serious injuries, such as blindness, loss of limb or other serious medical conditions. The amount to be paid in case of death was as Frank told me, $200,000.
I puzzled over the document for at least thirty seconds.
‘Has she been paid?’ I finally asked when the shock had settled in. As much as I had anticipated Mrs Noland was hiding something from us, I’d never thought it’d be so obvious.
‘Don’t know. I haven’t found out yet. I can make a call, and you’ll have an answer in two minutes.’
‘Not now.’ Then: ‘And you say she had no debts whatsoever?’
‘Nothing recorded anyway. Maybe she had some secret personal debts, but we won’t know that until we ask her. It would have to be a hell of a debt, especially when she still has over a hundred thousand dollars in the bank.’
I examined the insurance paper and realised it was an original copy. ‘Where did you get that from?’
‘The insurance company.’
‘How did you manage?’
‘Know someone on the inside.’
I nodded, happy to see at least one of us had made a breakthrough. Still the zinc stearate came back to mind as I wondered what association it had with Mrs Noland and the life insurance she took out on her daughter.
‘Something bothers me,’ I said, cornering the document between my thumb and forefinger. ‘If she was debt-free, and lived comfortably, why would she kill her daughter to collect $200,000?’
‘Greed? Maybe she couldn’t afford that nice holiday on Hamilton Island for six months.’
‘I’m sure with $150,000 in the bank she could afford a trip to any islands around the world.’
‘To the moon and back, then.’
‘What about her husband?’
‘She’s been a single mother since Tracy was born. Didn’t want him. Apparently he was cheating on her.’
‘How did you find that out?’
‘Had a talk to the father. They got married when she was pregnant, but it never worked out. She decided to keep his name for reasons he can’t explain.’
I nodded, really impressed. Frank was obviously showing me he had investigative skills beyond threat and physical violence.
‘Okay, this is what we’re going to do.’ My mind was working at a hundred miles an hour. ‘I need to interrogate her, but since she’s got herself a solicitor, it’s not going to be easy. Any suggestions?’
‘Talk to her solicitor first. See what he says.’
‘And you expect mutual cooperation?’
‘No, but if I tell him what we know, it’s better that she talks to us than being charged with murder.’
I placed the palms of my hands on the table. ‘You know we don’t have enough to charge her with murder. Plus, we don’t want to repeat the Malcom Sternwood scenario. He might still be the killer, and the insurance money might have nothing to do with Tracy Noland’s death.’
Frank passed one hand over his face. He checked his watch, which I did at the same time. It was just on six o’clock, and I knew he was getting tired. It had been a long day for the both of us, and there was no denying the only thing
I wanted to do was to go home, enjoy a hot shower, grab something to eat and curl up in bed with a good book. At the back of my mind, I decided that’s what I would do as soon as we’d finished our discussion.
‘I tell you what,’ I went on. ‘I’m going down to Mrs Noland’s place to talk to her, regardless of what her solicitor says. Maybe if I confront her with the evidence, she’ll break down and give the game away.’
‘It’s a good way of getting sued. We’ve been instructed not to talk to her unless her solicitor was present.’
‘Yes, but it could save us a lot of time, which frankly we don’t have since Sternwood is in jail right now. I can grab her on her way out of the house.’ I stared at him, waiting for approval.
‘Don’t look at me. You call the shots. Remember, you’ve told me enough times you’re in charge of this investigation.’
‘Okay. Let’s leave it at that.’ I raised the insurance paper. ‘Can I keep this?’
‘Sure.’
We talked some more on our way down to the car park, but nothing to do with the investigation.
‘Are you seeing anyone?’ I asked as we stepped out of the elevator to the ground floor.
‘Why? Are you interested?’
‘Frank, I’m only trying to be friendly.’
He gave me a look which seemed to be questioning my trustworthiness. ‘No, I’m not. I’m too old, too bald and too busy. That’s what I keep telling myself, anyway.’
‘You’ll find someone. I’m sure you will.’
He mumbled something incomprehensible, smiled and walked off towards the men’s room.
I watched him go, thought what the hell, and aimed for the metal detector.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
When I got home, Michael wasn’t there, but he left a note on the kitchen bench saying he was at Jason’s with Chris, and if I needed anything I could reach him on that number. I checked the number with the one from the miniature address book I’d just retrieved from my handbag. The telephone number matched Jason Harvey’s. Good, at least I knew he wasn’t somewhere in the city with a bunch of kids causing havoc and being tempted to join in their reckless behaviour.
There was this re-occurring fear at the back of my mind that one day I would get a phone call from the police informing me that Michael had been arrested for something illegal and down-right stupid. I did plenty of shoplifting between my fifteenth and seventeenth birthday, just like most girls do at that age, but I was lucky enough never to get caught. Just as well this never showed up on my resume, otherwise I’d probably be cleaning toilets for a living. These days, with surveillance cameras, laser detection labels attached to goods, security staff who look liked bored housewives, and severe punishment for whomever got caught, the enterprise of shoplifting wasn’t an attractive one.
I went straight to the bedroom, stripped off my clothes and stepped under the shower. I let the steaming water cascade down my body for a good fifteen minutes. While I was under the shower, the telephone rang, but I didn’t bother. Let the answering machine take it, I thought. I shampooed my hair into a thick lather, enjoying the soothing sensation of my fingers massaging my scalp. For a moment I thought about Phillip and longed for him. Or for someone. I couldn’t tell if I loved him or was just desperate. In these difficult moments, I dreamed of falling asleep in the arms of a strong man, someone who’d protect me from the big bad world out there. But no such luck. I stepped out of the shower and hugged myself with a white bathrobe instead.
On my way back to the kitchen, I pressed the play-button on the answering machine. Phillip’s voice came on: ‘Hi, how are you doing? Haven’t heard from you for a while. Give us a call. I miss you.’
I smiled to myself at the thought that we’d both desired each other at the same moment. I wondered if I’d been too harsh on him the other day when he told me to stop worrying about work. And although I knew my job was difficult, in a way he was right. I had to try to leave my work behind when I got home, otherwise I wouldn’t last another five years.
I moved on to the kitchen, where I ate a light snack of crisp bread layered with butter and strawberry jam, dipped into a large yellow bowl of coffee. The caffeine was going to keep me awake all night, but I had plans to read a Sue Grafton novel I’d begun weeks ago and never got a chance to finish.
It was just on 8.30 p.m. when I hit the sack with L is for Lawless. My bookmark, which reminded me I was a Virgo and described me as practical, industrious, scientific, methodical, perfectionist, discriminating, fact-finding, exacting, critical, petty, melancholic, self-centred and sloppy, was stuck at the beginning of chapter ten. The lead character, dressed in a maid’s uniform, attempted some illegal search in a hotel somewhere in Texas. I couldn’t remember any of the story so far and dreaded having to start back from the beginning. One day, I would retire and do nothing but read. Maybe I should have become a book reviewer instead. Getting paid to read books. What a dream.
Half way through chapter ten, Malcom Sternwood kept poking at the back of my mind, and, after much resistance, I finally tossed L is for Lawless aside and headed for my study. I pulled out the three photographic albums I took from his room and returned to the bedroom.
My head propped up against two pillows, I flicked through the albums methodically. I recalled seeing some of the photos, while others I had paid little attention to the first time I went through the albums. I stopped at a page where a group of children played together at the upper end of Vincent Court. I recognised some of the children as those whom I spoke to when I first visited the street. In a couple of photos, which I hadn’t noticed before, Tracy seemed to be talking to a girl in a wheelchair. I pulled the picture out of the album so that I could take a closer look. The expression on the girl’s face told me she might have some form of mental retardation, but I knew facial features were not a clear indication of someone’s thinking ability. She could have had some kind of motor-coordination handicap, in which case she might still be able to think and reason at a normal level.
As I continued to flip through the album, I now noticed the girl in the wheelchair in more than one picture. I’d never noticed her in the past because she blended with the other kids. Altogether, there were five pictures featuring the young girl. Out of those, three also featured Tracy Noland talking to her or standing beside her. This indicated to me that there must have been friends. I hated to come to any hasty conclusions, but if the girl was in fact of friend of Tracy Noland, she must have known things about Tracy which other children didn’t. After all, apart from Malcom, there was no indication Tracy was friends with anyone else. And come to think of it, everyone I interviewed so far failed to mention the girl in the wheelchair.
After a good fifteen minutes of flipping through the photo albums, I piled them up on my side table, next to the clock radio, and stared at the white ceiling, wondering about the best way to find out about the girl in the wheelchair. It didn’t take me long to figure out Malcom would be the person to seek. If he and Tracy had a lot in common, like he claimed they did, then he must have known about the girl in the wheelchair. I decided to pay him a visit tomorrow afternoon, straight after my unannounced visit at Mrs Noland’s.
It was 10.22 p.m. when I heard the front door being opened. I had just finished chapter eleven of L is for Lawless. I knew it was Michael, and when I realised it was so late, I decided that it was time to put a curfew in place. At the age of thirteen, he shouldn’t have been riding his bike from Albert Park to St Kilda, where there were so many lunatics around. Tracy Noland was virtually the same age as him when she got killed.
I stepped out of bed, slipped on my bathrobe, and headed for the kitchen, where I heard the fridge door creak, announcing Michael’s presence.
‘Is this a time to come home?’ I asked, forgetting my manners.
He turned around, a stunned look on his face. ‘God, you gave me a fright, sneaking up on me like that. And me who was trying to be quiet so I wouldn’t wake you up.’
‘Look at the
time. It’s nearly ten thirty. Where have you been?’
‘I left you a note. Didn’t you get it?’
‘Yeah, yeah, you said you were at Jason’s. All that time?’
‘It was really cool. You should have been there.’
He looked so excited, I hated to be the one spoiling his good mood. ‘Did you have something to eat?’ I asked, wondering what he was looking for in the fridge.
‘Jason ordered pizzas with lots-a-cheese-and-peperoni.’
‘Mmm... you have to stop eating junk food, or it’s going to eat you alive one day.’
He poured himself a glass of Coke, which I’d bothered buying for him after he complained about the medicated taste of Dr Pepper.
Then I remembered. ‘You ever heard of some stuff called zinc stearate?’
‘A compound of zinc oxide.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Did it in Chemistry.’
‘What’s it used for?’
‘Can’t remember. I know it’s toxic if you breath it in. I might be able to get you some information on it from the Internet.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, there’s these really cool data safety sheets, which are put out by chemical manufacturers. They have to provide instructions for handling and disposal of chemicals, otherwise they can be sued for negligence if one of the end-users injures himself from using the chemicals in question.’
Wow, I was impressed. And he’d only been doing chemistry for a year.
‘And you learned all that at school?’ I asked.
‘Yes and no. They gave us an assignment to do where we had to locate safety data sheets on the Internet. It’s really cool research.’ He drank half his glass of Coke and added, ‘It’ll only take a minute. I can look it up for you now if you want.’
I checked the clock on the kitchen wall, which read 10.32 p.m. ‘You better go to bed now. You can look it up tomorrow if you’ve got time.’
‘Okay, cool.’
He gave me a peck on the cheek and left for his room.
The Kristina Melina Omnibus: First Kill, Second Cut, Third Victim Page 42