by A N Drew
"Holy shit,” I whispered.
"What?” Garrett said, twisting in his seat towards me. That guy could hear a fart in a spacesuit.
I stood up abruptly and my office chair spun towards the middle of the cordoned-off area that housed four desks. I grabbed my jacket from the back of the seat, scooped up my keys and wallet and—despite the headache and sweats from the night before— managed an excuse of a smile. "Crimestoppers lead,”
"Oh yeah?"
I'd begun walking away from Garrett towards the car park, but he called out as he strode down the corridor
"What's the go, mate?"
"Bank manager, saw Jessica running out the front of the bank! Later, Ed."
I shoved the back door open and hit a jog to get to the car. Bank East in Croydon would be a reasonable drive if I took the freeway, especially at this time of day. I got in, started her up and reversed as fast as humanly possible, spun the steering wheel to the right and headed out the driveway, waiting to get out onto Spencer Street. I turned on the radio and took a couple of deep breaths to slow down my heart rate, but couldn't shake the feeling that this was it, the lead that would get me somewhere. A turning point.
As I waited at a set of lights before I hit the freeway, I thought about the CCTV footage. I hoped that not only was it Jessica Holmes running in front of the bank, but that maybe the killer had been stupid enough to pass by too, or at least show his registration plate. After ten minutes of throwing up possible scenarios in my mind, I began to relax a little, courtesy of the open freeway and focusing on one task, driving.
My phone rang. I hit the button on the steering wheel to answer the call safely, on Bluetooth.
Caller ID read, "Gary Holmberg."
"Yeah?"
"Where you at? Another lead?”
"Yeah."
"Where to?"
"Bank East, Croydon,”
"Quite a drive,”
"Nearly there."
"What's going on?"
"Since when did you give a shit, Gary?"
"Since now. Must be worth something or you wouldn't be so fucking secretive about it. This isn't the Wild West, Jack"
"It's Croydon, the Wild East."
"Since when were you a lone operator?"
"Since now."
Gary hung up.
I wasn't in the mood for twenty questions. I just wanted to drive. I listened to the Arctic Monkeys asking, 'Do I want to know?"
I did. Badly. I took the Ferntree Gully Road exit, and five songs later, pulled up at a largely vacated shopping centre car park called Mountain Gate.
I got out and looked around. Reasonable-sized shopping centre on the corner of Burwood Highway and Ferntree Gully Road. I locked the car and walked the few steps to the bank’s front entrance. Inside was all quiet heat, navy blue carpet and middle-class suburban activity, tellers behind secure screens, and three customers queued waiting to be served, standing obediently next to a red rope hung between metal stands.
I walked towards the nearest staff member, seated at a desk. Marg wore a name badge and a navy uniform. Reaching for the inside left pocket of my camel-coloured jacket, I flashed my ID at Marg, along with my best attempt at a smile.
"Detective Sergeant Jack Fletcher. The Manager, Brett Jones contacted Crimestoppers. He has some CCTV footage of interest to us in a murder case. I'd like to see the footage please."
Marg looked up at me with eyes wide, took her right hand off the mouse, and stood up slowly. She was short and round, maybe five foot three.
"I'll just see if I can find Mr. Jones,” she said quietly and moved off to the back of the office. I watched her walk to a wooden door where she entered a security code and disappeared. I shoved my hands in the pockets of my jeans, stared at the blue carpet then looked up to see faces turned in my direction. Most of them looked away, embarrassed, other than one old lady who stared back for a moment, then turned again to the teller.
Within a few seconds, the heavy door at the back clicked open again and a balding man emerged. He was short, plump, and wore a blue suit that matched the carpet. The remains of his hairline were black. He walked towards me and, at about the two-foot mark, extended his right hand outwards.
"Brett Jones, Manager." His handshake was firm. As he let go, he sighed and handed a business card over. "Nasty business, happy to help. Please come through."
"Thank you.” I followed Brett through the heavy door, feeling the stares of staff and customers burning through the back of my head.
I followed him through the doorway and veered to the left a few paces, walking down a corridor for a few metres. The carpet changed colour from blue to a nondescript beige. A grey door sat at the end of the corridor. Brett gestured to it with his left hand and pushed it open.
"My office. I had security bring the footage in here; thought it might be more private. We won't be disturbed."
"I'm not sure how long I'll be. I'll take a look now, then take a copy with me if possible," Jack said.
"Of course," Brett said, frowning. He didn't sit. "I'm sorry about the delay in getting the information to Crimestoppers, but I was at meetings, busy. You know how it is.” He looked embarrassed, his expression pained. "Security-only brought the footage to my attention a few days ago. I called it in as soon as I could.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
"It's okay,” I said. While it was infuriating, making him wrong wouldn't help either of us, and I wanted to see what was on the tape. It was what mattered now.
"The footage may well help us. We appreciate all tips,” I said. And as I said it, I knew I was spinning the police PR line. Truth was, we didn't appreciate all tips, some came from crackpots, some a complete waste of time, but I knew better than to upset the applecart and discourage callers to the Crimestoppers line. Even if it had been a lifetime ago, I'd made a promise to serve and protect.
If the Crimestoppers line dried up after word spread that police didn't want the tips, then a cop’s job got a hell of a lot more difficult.
Brett finally sat down, leaned over his computer and clicked on the mouse. "I'll set up the footage,” he said. "Then I'll leave you to it.”
"Thanks.” My stomach churned, and my throat swelled. This might be the lead I desperately needed, but then again it might not. The number of times I'd had a 'feeling' and it had let me down were too many to count. While I'd tried not get my hopes up with this one, it hadn't fully worked. I ached to see the footage but felt compelled to give the appearance of being cool, calm and in control. I couldn't give any indication of this desperation, not a hint, not a smell of it.
The security footage appeared on the screen, paused. Brett stood up and moved sideways away from the desk, across from me as I leaned in the far corner to let Brett set everything up. Then Brett walked over and stood at the door, one hand on the doorway.
"I'll come back in ten minutes, okay? How does that sound?"
"Perfect." My pulse hammered in my throat, and blood rushed in my ears. Brett closed the door behind me. The first thing I noticed was the time on the bottom right of the screen, around ten minutes to eleven. Jessica Holmes and her sister were at the park at roughly ten in the morning and her sister Gemma had got home around twelve noon. I pushed a button to speed up the footage to around one a half times normal speed. I waited. And waited some more.
Then there she was.
I shifted forward in the seat and leaned over to get a closer look. The hair, the clothes; it was her. I knew Jessica almost like one of my own daughters. My arms prickled up and I swallowed, hard.
She was wearing the clothes her father had described on the day she went missing. Jessica had her back to the camera, and the wind blew her long blonde hair. An orange van pulled up from the right and stopped in front of the camera. Jessica opened the back door and got in. I couldn't see the driver.
This wasn’t the red truck witnesses had seen her get into at the park, but it was my first direct sighting o
f her, directly before the murder.
My pulse went into overdrive, and I rewound the footage. I replayed it, homing in this time on the driver’s side, to identify the driver. Nope, that part of the vehicle was shadowed; the driver couldn't be identified.
Fuck it.
I jiggled my leg underneath the desk. I replayed the footage again, hoping for a registration plate.
Nothing.
Shit.
I paused the footage, stood up quickly and walked out of the room, searching for the bank manager. I needed a copy of that footage.
Now.
The last known sighting of Jessica Holmes on CCTV was my best lead so far.
I wouldn't give up on her.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Technically, the next day was glorious. The perfect temperature, not too warm, not too cold, sunny without a hint of wind.
But there was no perfect day for the funeral of a little girl, seven-year-old Jessica Mae Holmes. I looked down at the front cover of the service booklet for the funeral and rubbed my left thumb over her picture. Holmberg, Garrett and I waited at the bottom of the pale concrete steps outside the Chalmers Rose funeral home in Upper Ferntree Gully, not wanting to intrude too much.
On the way there we hadn't bothered talking about being anonymous; cops stood out like dogs’ balls, with or without a uniform. Besides, as usual, the media were still all over this one. They'd arrived earlier than us, taking pictures from the other side of the street. Holmberg, Garret and I left them to Tracey from the media unit, who'd already arrived. She was talking to them. Thankfully, the cameras and stares had stopped. We wanted to pay our respects not deal with journalists.
We'd arrived there, with only a few mourners congregated in the area roughly fifteen minutes earlier. We were all waiting for the service to start, awkward and unsure, forming clusters at the bottom of the steps, on the outdoor porch, and inside the main foyer.
We'd taken a walk around when we arrived, to get a feel for things, and register the faces of attendees.
I'd memorised as many faces as possible. We took a step up to the glass entry doors, where sweet music piped through the speakers in the plushly-carpeted foyer, and the light scent of flowers clung to the furnishings. Just inside the foyer, Will Holmes stood on the left surrounded by what could only be close family. One dark-haired man with a moustache draped an arm around Will's right shoulder, while an older lady with grey hair in a bun supported him on the right.
We took a couple of steps in their direction, our steps silent on the carpet. Holmberg stopped about a metre from the trio. "I'm so sorry. My condolences,” he said quietly.
Will had shaved and changed into a suit, but it didn't disguise his grief. Head bowed, his shoulders curled in on himself, he sniffed as he lifted his head. Pale and drawn, he looked as though the life had been sucked out of him. Eyes reddened, he looked directly at me and spoke with lips quivering, struggling to speak.
"Find them. Find the bastard, for me, for my girl.” His voice was subdued and gravelly. His face collapsed in on itself and his mouth contorted as he sobbed. The man and the woman made soothing, hushing noises and the woman pushed a handkerchief into Will's hand. She glared at us as they ushered him away.
"I'll find him,” I mumbled but Will Holmes didn't hear me, lost in a world of grief and despair.
I turned and walked back outside, followed by Garrett and Holmberg. We walked down the steps and stood on the outskirts of the groups of mourners.
I rubbed my forehead, wondering how the hell I would keep my whispered promise to Will Holmes?
"Oh, God,” this time Garrett mumbled, barely heard.
Holmberg straightened up, his attention caught by a lone man walking along the street, past the media, at the edge of the downward-sloping driveway. The man stopped walking and stared back at us briefly before increasing his stride. "Is that the suspect? Marlin Jones?” Holmberg kept his voice low, frowning hard.
"Huh?” I said, snapping my head up. "Jones? You're fucking kidding me.”
With a tilt of his head, Garrett pointed him out.
"Marlin Jones, you piece of shit,” I growled. In a split second, I took off at a run towards him, oblivious to the media and the crowd. I'm sure all heads turned in my direction, but at that point I couldn't care less; all I cared about was bringing Jones down. Judging by the panting and curses behind me, Gary Holmberg took off as well as Ed Garrett.
Marlin Jones sprinted along the street and veered off into a no-through road, where thankfully there was little to no traffic. My chest hurt like hell and so did my arms and legs, but I ran like I hadn't run in a long time. Jones swung into a small park with me sprinting after him about ten metres behind. I needed to close in on him. Ignoring the pain, I pushed ahead and gained a couple of metres. I thought my chest would burst and my head explode.
A red-haired man pushed a toddler on the swings. If he swung out to the left and put his arm out, he could grab Jones who was almost there.
"Police! Stop that man!” I yelled with the last of my air. I sprinted forward with every bit of energy left. Every desperate wish, every alcohol-soaked nightmare propelled me forward.
Grab him. Now.
The red-haired man moved sideways from the swing towards Marlin, grabbing at his jumper and spinning him backwards. Marlin screamed. The toddler began to cry. The red-haired man backed away.
"Get off me you fucking bastards!” he roared, screaming more obscenities and swinging wildly in an attempt to get away and land punches on one of us.
In a second, I caught up and l grabbed both Marlin’s arm's, pulling him to the ground. I wrenched them fiercely behind his back and pushed Marlin to the earth, grinding my right knee into his back. I gasped for breath.
"That's what they all say. Shut it, there's kids here.” I pulled harder on his hands. "Shut it, or I'll hurt you, I swear.” Marlin's screams died down to whimpers.
Ed dangled a set of cuffs in front of me just within reach. I snatched them and swung them into my hand, lowering myself to secure Marlin’s hands at the front of my knees, which were still in his back. He let out a high-pitched squeal, much to my satisfaction.
Holmberg stood at Marlin's head, heaving to catch his breath as I snapped the cuffs onto Marlin's wrists. We got him.
I looked at Garrett who moved over to stand on the other side of Marlin, face squashed into the dirt. I looked to the red-haired man who now held the young boy and was speaking soothingly to him.
"Thanks,” I said.
"I'll take your details.” Garrett took a step towards the man, notebook ready.
"Let's take him back to the station.” My voice caught between breaths, wavered. Garrett and I yanked Jones up to a standing position. He tried bending his knees.
"Don't bother, there's three of us,”
Jones straightened up slightly. "Maybe we need to push him against the fence, so he gets the idea." Garrett didn't bother holding back his anger.
Jones stood up straight.
Garrett and I grabbed an elbow on each side of Marlin and pushed him back down the path to the street, and to their parked vehicle.
"I didn't do anything! This is illegal!" yelled Marlin. None of us was buying what he was selling.
"Why did you run?" snarled Garrett, who I figured now had Red Hair's details. The man had his back to us, walking quickly down the path.
Marlin didn't answer as we bundled him into the car, got in and headed back to the station.
***
Back in the city at Crime Command, Marlin was brought through the sliding doors and shoved into a tiny interview room, until we worked out how we'd play it and which charges to throw at him. At that point, obstructing an investigation and some type of stalking charge looked good.
"Let me take him, Ed.” I leaned against the wall in the corridor outside the interview room. Ed's shirt was rumpled, hair in disarray. I hadn't bothered worrying about how I looked, other than the comb my hair received when I'd run my fingers
through it in the car. Lucky if I had any black hair left after the drive with Jones in the back. Surprisingly, only a few had gone grey. Ferntree Gully to the city had meant a lot of screaming and lashing out. Thankfully, the plexiglass barrier and the radio had blocked the bastard out.
Holmberg appeared and put his hands on his hips. "Mate, not a good idea. You're likely to deck him; you know what the brass will do. Better we both interview him."
I dug my hands deeper into the pocket of my pants. "It'll be fine, Gary. I want this guy bad, but I'll keep it cool, okay?"
Holmberg didn't answer.
"Half an hour, okay? Gimme half an hour with him. If I'm not out in that time, you can come in and umpire."
Gary Holmberg dropped his chin and walked away down the corridor, towards his desk.
He didn't look back. Considering the lack of conversation, Garrett had given up at this point. He blew out a breath, shook his head and followed Holmberg.
I sighed and looked around. Just another day in paradise, cops and office workers staring at screens and paperwork. I opened the interview door. Marlin sat on the other side of a small table that was nailed to the floor. He rested his elbows on it, pointing the steeple of his fingers at the top of his nose. He lifted his head as I sat down. There were no windows in the room at all.
"This will go a whole lot easier if you spit it all out.”
Marlin sneered. "You sound like a TV show."
"You already lied to us more than once. You didn't tell me about your history of sex offences against children, and you said you weren't at the park the day Jessica disappeared. We know you were."
Marlin barely batted an eyelid. "But I didn't kill her."
"Witnesses placed you at a park, the kids’ playground, they saw you talking to Jessica, saw your truck at the playground, you have a background. And now, today, you show up at the funeral.” I breathed slowly. Calm and professional, Jack, play it cool, stay calm and do your job. My fists were clenched under the table, resting on my knees. I slowly released my fingers from their death-like grip.