by J. M. Peace
About half an hour later, Terry passed through the dayroom, clutching a handful of paperwork.
‘I’ll be back in five minutes with another warrant for Belinda’s house. Wanna come look for things with lady fingerprints on them? After all, you know your way around the house,’ he said.
‘Sure,’ she replied.
‘Great, you organise the JP,’ he said, and moved out the front door, headed to the courthouse.
The warrant took only a few minutes. They knew there would be no one home. Shirley the JP ambled around after them while they selected a few personal items, picking them up carefully by the edges with gloved fingers and placing them into clip-seal bags. Sammi made a note in black marker on each bag as to where the item had been found.
By the time they got back to the station, Jeremy had already arrived. They handed their finds to him and he and Terry disappeared into the interview room, which had the benefit of a clean table.
About ten minutes later, Terry and Jeremy emerged triumphantly from the room.
‘We’ve got a match,’ Terry said, clapping Jeremy across the shoulder. He then plonked himself in the middle of the dayroom.
Bob, on shift supervisor duties, came out of the sergeant’s office and took a seat.
‘So what are we going to do with this fucken ped-murder-suicide-missing-person-revenge thing?’ Terry asked no one in particular.
‘I don’t think you can write it off as a suicide anymore, mate,’ Bob said, putting his hands behind his head and turning his chair to face Terry. ‘There’s at least one murder there, whichever way you turn it. Get the boss in on this, maybe. I think he might have some useful input.’
‘Yeah, okay.’ As a CIB officer, Terry was not under the control of the station senior sergeant. But with his own boss away, even Terry could see the sense in having a senior officer offer an opinion on this as it snowballed into murder. He went upstairs and returned a minute later with Shane in tow.
‘Okay. Once slowly now, for those in the cheap seats,’ Terry said. ‘The victim is an eight-year-old. Her step-father got hung. Her mother’s car was observed at that scene. Her step-uncle got shot. Her grandma’s car was in a pursuit away from that scene. And now, latest news, hot off the press . . .’ He paused for effect. ‘We can confirm the mother’s fingerprints were the only ones found on the “suicide note”.’ He made quotation marks with his fingers in the air.
Bob laughed. ‘I repeat – I don’t think you can say it’s a suicide anymore.’
‘The victim and her mother have disappeared completely. And here we go, for the grand prize . . .’ Terry continued. ‘Because the mother is on the run because she’s killed the friggin’ lot of them. It’s the one scenario where all the pieces fit.’
‘She did it for her daughter,’ Sammi said. ‘That’s the reason she’s killed the blokes. She did it to protect Nicola. To protect her from the peds as well as the police and the court process.’ Sammi took a deep breath, then exhaled with a puff that carried a little sigh on it.
‘That’s a hell of a thing. If that’s what’s happened,’ Bob said.
‘We weren’t meant to realise it was Barry in the shed. We were meant to think it was Peter, so that we weren’t even looking for Barry anymore. It’s a cunning plan. Nearly worked. The tattoo made the difference.’
‘You’ve got to give Belinda some respect for the sheer scope of it. She did a thorough job.’
‘It might have started off simply in her mind. She was probably only trying to work out how to protect her daughter from Peter. Then somehow she’s found out Barry was involved and, you know, a mother’s work is never done,’ Sammi said with a wry smile.
‘So the question is – have we got enough for an arrest warrant for Belinda?’ Terry asked.
‘Definitely,’ said Bob. ‘Even if she had help stringing up Barry or disposing of Peter, she’s a party to the offence. You still charge her with murder. It would be interesting to hear what she has to say.’
‘This has turned into a hell of a job, Terry,’ the senior remarked. ‘I’m surprised no one’s jumped you on it, you being a PCC and all.’
‘Well, I actually haven’t put a homicide occurrence on the system yet. The pieces have been falling into place so quickly that it’s not really on anyone’s radar yet. That’s why I wanted some input. Make sure I’ve got all my ducks in a row,’ Terry said.
‘You need to let your inspector know,’ the senior cautioned. ‘I know it’s exciting being in charge, but if you fuck this up you’ll be processing shoplifters and drunks for the rest of your career.’
Terry acknowledged this with a nod, but didn’t let it deter him.
‘So we only have one body,’ Sammi said, ‘and we’re still waiting for toxicology to see if he was drugged. I’m certain it is Barry. The tattoo proves that, even if we’re still waiting on dental records. The coroner won’t accept anything less now. I think we can discount Faye’s visual ID.’ She looked pointedly at Terry. ‘And I think we can safely assume Peter’s in a shallow grave somewhere. There’s nothing solid to link Belinda to the shed Peter disappeared from. The fact that Belinda’s mother drives the same model car as the one Aiden chased from the scene is circumstantial.’
‘If Belinda was driving her mum’s car, there’s a fair chance she’d be staying with her mum. Aiden tracked the address down to Sunnybank,’ Terry said.
Sammi nodded. ‘Belinda needs someone she can trust after everything that’s happened.’
‘This is still a Crossing job, isn’t it?’ Terry asked, looking at the senior.
Bob snorted. ‘You want this pinch, don’t you?’
‘Fuck yeah! How often does a plain clothes constable get a crack at a murder charge? Possibly a double murder at that. I’d get any job in the state with that sitting on my resumé. No one else has got wind of it. There’s only the Form One for a suspicious death. I can bring my inspector up to date but leave the homicide report till the last moment.’
‘You think Homicide would try to take it?’ Sammi asked.
‘Yeah, for sure, now that I’ve . . . we’ve done all the work. It’s a cracker of a job if you can catch the mother. It’s just a matter of finding her. It’s a walk-up pinch after that,’ Terry said with a broad smile. They all laughed. There was no such thing as a walk-up murder pinch.
‘You’ve jinxed yourself now,’ Sammi said.
‘What do you think, Shane?’ Bob asked, and they all turned to look at the senior.
Shane looked pensive, drawing a hand across his face before answering. ‘This is an Angel’s Crossing job. It started over ten years ago, here at this station. I’d like to think one of the Crossing staff can finish it. You need to check with your inspector, Terry. But if you think you’ve got this, then I’ll back you.’
Terry grinned, showing all his teeth.
‘Don’t worry about the inspector,’ Terry said. ‘He’ll understand what an opportunity this is.’
‘You’ll need to cross your t’s and dot your i’s in a big way,’ Shane said.
‘Of course.’
‘I don’t think she’ll be any problem once you’ve found her,’ Sammi speculated.
‘Yeah, I think you’re right. But we’ll need a couple other coppers at least, to make up the numbers at the grandmother’s house,’ Terry said.
‘Definitely. You don’t know what’s waiting for you down there,’ the senior interjected.
‘So. Anyone know any coppers in Brisbane?’ Terry asked.
Sammi paused and allowed herself a half-smile. ‘Oh, you know I do.’
61
Janine Postlewaite was holed up in her office as usual. They’d ended up giving her her own space after the Black case. It wasn’t a promotion, but she took what she could get. It was really more an operation room than an office, but it offered a degree of peace and quiet away from the cons
tantly ringing phone in the detective’s dayroom. Not that Janine’s phone was silent. But most of her work these days revolved around Black. Although the matter involving Sammi had been finalised, she was lead investigator on the four other murders connected to him. They had made so much progress, investigating every line of enquiry and verifying every detail. She had promised Sammi they’d nail him for each murder, make sure he never saw the light of day. That thought flitted through her mind every time she sat down at her desk at the start of a shift.
There was a framed photo on her desk, to the right of her computer monitor, where some people might put a photo of their husband or children. It was a picture of a river. It wasn’t any river. It had been taken by a forensics officer at Captain’s Creek State Forest. It looked like a scenic photo from someone’s photo album. Shafts of morning sun streamed through the trees, striking the water in bursts of golden sparkles. It looked serene and relaxing. It was also the spot where Sammi had outsmarted Black, the killer pursuing her. It was the point where the balance had shifted, and Sammi had moved from victim to survivor. To Janine, it signified hope and courage. When her shift dragged and the work seemed tedious or pointless, she stood up and took the photo in her hands. Then she would walk across the room to the doorway – only a short distance. And she would remind herself that every victory was a series of steps. Sometimes slow and tedious, but always moving in the right direction. One more step, just one more step.
The phone rang and Janine recognised the number immediately.
‘Hi, darl’. Haven’t talked to you in a while. How are you?’ she asked.
‘Hey, I’m good,’ Sammi replied. ‘I finally got back on the road.’
‘Good for you. How’s that going?’
‘Would you believe the first job back and we’re looking at murder?’ Sammi replied.
‘Oh no! That’s not what you want. You want to ease back in. Start with a shoppie, a couple of breaks,’ Janine exclaimed. ‘Then you can work up to murder,’ she joked.
‘It’s been all right,’ Sammi said. ‘I kind of fell into this job at the start, now I want to see it through. It’s a branch job but I’ve been involved from the beginning. It looks like a woman killed her husband and her brother-in-law. They were interfering with her little girl so she took matters into her own hands. She’s been very smart about it too.’
‘Sounds interesting. But you didn’t ring up to chat, did you? Did you need some advice or something?’
Sammi laughed. ‘You saw right through me. Might need a favour off you. Looks like the woman might be hiding out at her mother’s house. In your division.’
‘I’ve got enough murderers to chase at the moment,’ Janine said with half a snort.
‘We want to do it ourselves. I mean, the bloke from our CIB wants to do it. We just need a local crew to do a reccy and maybe back us up on the warrant. It will only be two of us coming down. But I thought this might be the only opportunity we ever get to work on a job together. Do you know how much I’d love to work on a job with you?’ Janine could hear a note of excitement in Sammi’s voice which she hadn’t heard before.
‘Please? I’ll buy the coffee,’ Sammi added. They had met frequently in the early days after Sammi had been released from hospital, when Janine was piecing together all the evidence against Black. Then there had been the trial – lots of hours waiting in the courthouse. And lots of coffees. But they hadn’t seen each other in weeks.
Janine smiled down the receiver. ‘I’ll have to clear it past the boss,’ she said.
‘But you will ask?’ Sammi pressed. ‘It’s not a dangerous job. The woman was only ever a threat to the men who hurt her daughter. But she’ll be playing ducks and drakes. I doubt she’ll walk out with her hands in the air. Once we’ve got her, that will be it. She’s not going to rush us or box on or anything.’
Janine had taken the river photo into her hands while they were speaking. She would love to see Sammi again. See her in uniform, working. It would be fantastic to see how she had put herself back together again after what had happened. She’d had no doubt that Sammi would do it. Sammi had an iron will that could get her through anything.
‘So no punching on, and I might meet another murderer?’ Janine asked.
‘And you get to work with me!’ Sammi replied.
‘You’ve sold it to me. I’m in.’ Janine laughed.
62
Things had not all gone to plan for Belinda on the night she became a murderer. A Friday night had been the obvious choice because Peter often came around to their house for dinner. Barry had been keen to see his brother regularly and Belinda had felt a little sorry for Peter, living by himself with only the dog to keep him company. So she would cook a roast and they’d sit down as a family. Sometimes Faye would come too. After dinner, Belinda would put a movie on for Nici. If Faye was there, they’d play cards. Otherwise the men would drink rum and talk, while Belinda curled up on the couch with her daughter. It had seemed like a harmless ritual, unwinding in the company of family, the sort of thing everyone does. Now it made Belinda’s skin crawl.
She had organised one last dinner. With two exceptions. She had dropped Nicola to the safety of her best friend’s house for a sleepover. Then she had stuffed toilet paper down the toilet until it backed up. She had apologised to Barry and suggested that maybe they could go to Peter’s house for dinner. The roast was cooking in the oven already. They could bring it along. And a bottle of rum to thank him for hosting them. Barry had agreed without hesitation.
Peter had the sharpened self-preservation instincts of a guilty man. He had regarded Belinda’s apparent generosity with some suspicion. She had tried so hard to act normally throughout the evening. It had been torture, sitting opposite the two men who had abused her daughter. When Barry leant over to kiss her, it had taken all her resolve not to spit in his face. She had poured the first rums immediately. She never drank rum, so they had not given it a second thought when she only poured glasses for them. She had been free to tamper with the bottle in the kitchen. Barry had passed out from the potent combination of rum, cola and bovine tranquillisers before he’d even finished his dinner. His last meal.
But Peter, cagey and cautious, clearly had not drunk enough rum and ran the moment Barry passed out. Brotherly love only stretched so far.
Despite the unexpected events, Belinda kept her nerve and re-thought her plans. She knew Peter wouldn’t go to the police. But now he was aware that she had found out about Nicola. He would run and hide, possibly interstate, and probably never be heard of again. She hoped so. He might as well be dead. The police might even suspect he was dead, especially when his brother disappeared at the same time. The police might think Barry had killed him. No one but her knew that Barry was as bad as Peter.
A germ of an idea had formed in her mind. She breathed evenly and looked at this new plan from every angle. What were the possibilities? What were the consequences?
She knew no one would be looking for Peter any time soon. He kept to himself, working on the farm. Peter and Barry were a similar size and shape. In the course of her work as a nurse at the hospital, she had seen a decomposed body before. She knew the bloating and discolouration that inflated and disfigured a person. She could guess what Barry would look like if he spent two or three days in the hot shed.
She took Barry’s watch off, then changed his shirt for one out of Peter’s wardrobe. It was hard work, heaving around a dead weight. As a nurse, she was used to moving incapacitated people though, and this was similar. It was also a body she knew well. She dragged him out of the house by tipping him back on the chair he was sitting on, and pulling it out like a wheelie bin. It was inelegant, trying to keep him balanced, with limbs dragging and head lolling. But she made it out to the shed.
Although the logistics had changed, the actual killing had been premeditated. She had gone through many different variations of the same plan i
n her head, but the end result was always the same: murder. But those plans had been for her foul brother-in-law. As she stood in the shed looking at her husband of six years, it all seemed suddenly impossible. This was her husband. She wasn’t a murderer. How could she kill this man, or any man?
She looked him up and down. He needed a shave, brown and grey hair was speckled across his chin. A strip of paunch escaped from the gap between his pants and his brother’s shirt. Its white softness repulsed her. There was no love there anymore. She focused on the hate. Her gaze settled on his hands. One was in his lap, the other was swinging close to the floor. He had the rough, stained hands of a mechanic with black under all the fingernails. Hands that had once caressed her body and touched her in ways that had made her moan. These rough, dirty hands had also touched her tiny daughter in the same intimate way.
She let the pictures that she hadn’t wanted to imagine flick into her mind’s eye. Him naked and hard with Nicola in their bed. The ugliness and wrongness of the picture revolted Belinda. A red fog of hatred descended on her and she fed on it, fuelling her anger. She slapped Barry’s face, nearly knocking him off the seat. Then, without dwelling any further on it, she tied a noose – like the one she had sent to the police station – slipped it over her husband’s head and strung him up from the rafters. He made some choking noises as she turned her back on him and walked out of the shed.
Belinda returned the chair to the kitchen and erased all the drag marks she had made. Then she took her and Barry’s dishes, and every other trace of their visit, and packed them into the car. She poured the poisoned rum down the sink and took the bottle and the empty glass to the shed. She’d written the note as an afterthought. She couldn’t say why exactly. She justified it in her mind that she was adding to the illusion that it was a suicide. But perhaps she had written the apology she wanted from the man she married. Part of her wanted remorse, and explanations, a way to understand and maybe even forgive. But there was no explanation she would accept. It was criminal, immoral and downright disgusting. The single word scrawled in block letters with her left hand had seemed fitting.