Not Dead Yet

by Peter Menadue

CHAPTER 23

  Detective Inspector Marks was reluctant to approve the trip to Byron Bay. He suspected Karen Phillips was more interested in a having a paid vacation than solving Robyn Parsons' murder. But she eventually convinced him there might be a connection between the bombing and the kidnapping, and he approved it.

  She flew up to Byron Bay on a two-engine Fokker, and landed in a different country where the sun shone brighter and hotter, and everyone moved and talked in a lower gear. She tried to downshift to their pace, without success. At least her sunglasses dimmed their constant smiles.

  She checked into a motel just behind Main Street and strode around to the police station. The day before, she'd telephoned Detective Senior Constable Derek Speakman who was investigating the Maddox kidnapping. He promised to make himself available when she arrived.

  Like many country cops, the Duty Sergeant was a beefy guy with sleepy eyes and a shambling manner. He didn't look impressive, but probably knew the town like the back of his hand. When she introduced herself and asked for Speakman, he looked surprised. "You're from the Homicide Squad? What's this about?"

  After she briefly explained, he shrugged. "OK, the detectives' squad room is out the back. Follow me."

  They entered a demountable building attached to the rear of the station. Four gun-metal grey desks were neatly arranged along one wall. Only one was occupied, by a slim, balding man in his mid-thirties. The Duty Sergeant introduced her to Speakman and they shook hands. Then he lingered to hear what was going on.

  Speakman said: "Why're you so interested in this kidnapping?"

  "We think it might be connected with a murder we're investigating."

  "Which one?"

  "I'd rather not say, just yet."

  "Fair enough. But there isn't much I can tell you. Maddox was kidnapped from the Bonanza Motel, a couple of clicks north of town. Checked in on Saturday morning; then, on Sunday night, a couple of guys wearing masks burst into his room and grabbed him. On the way out they shot at the motel manager and drove off in a white Commodore. That's all we know. Maddox hasn't been seen since."

  "Anybody get the licence number of the car?"

  "No."

  "And you've got no other leads?"

  "Correct. Right now, I'm sifting through a molehill of evidence."

  "Well, I've got some news for you: Maddox is back in Sydney."

  Speakman's eyes widened. "Shit. How do you know that?"

  "I had lunch with him yesterday."

  "Jesus Christ. What did he say? Who kidnapped him?"

  "Claims he doesn't know: it was a case of mistaken identity."

  "Do you believe him?"

  "Nope. Total bollocks."

  "I'd love to chat with him. He's got a lot of explaining to do. Got his address?"

  She blushed. "Afraid not - he wouldn't provide it."

  Speakman rolled his eyes. "Great."

  "Did Maddox leave anything behind at the motel?"

  "Yes, his car, a beat-up old Pulsar - it's in our pound - and a suitcase."

  "Did you look inside?"

  "Of course. Found some clothes, a few books and - wait for this - a Tokarev pistol, with two clips."

  "Licensed?"

  "No. That's another reason why I want to talk to Mr Maddox. Unless he's got a very fancy excuse, I'm going to charge him with possession of an unlicensed weapon."

  "Can I see the suitcase?"

  "Sure, it's in the evidence room."

  Speakman led Karen Phillips and the Duty Sergeant down a narrow corridor to the evidence room, where he pointed to a suitcase sitting on a metal shelf. "That's it. Pistol's in our safe."

  She opened the suitcase and looked inside. It was a mess. She turned to Speakman. "Was it like this when you found it?"

  "Yep. Not much of a packer, huh?"

  She rummaged through the contents. Underpants. Shirts. Singlets. Toilet bag. Two books: The Tin Drum and Voss. She was surprised he read books at all, let alone literary works.

  Speakman escorted her out of the police station and apologised for not being much help. "I'm afraid I wasn't much help to the other detective, either."

  "Other detective - what other detective?"

  "The guy who came up here a few days ago to ask about the kidnapping."

  Karen's heart raced. "Do you remember his name?"

  "Of course. But, ah, he asked me not to tell anyone about his involvement."

  "Did he say why?"

  "No." Speakman was obviously annoyed at being asked to keep a secret for no apparent reason.

  A warm smile. "Come on, you can tell me his name. I won't say a word, I promise."

  A shrug. "OK. Detective Sergeant Pringle. Said he was on the Narcotics Strikeforce."

  Jesus, Pringle - the detective who claimed Maddox might be importing heroin. What game was he playing? "Why did he want to know about the kidnapping?"

  "He said Maddox might be part of a drug ring, but couldn't tell me more for 'operational reasons'."

  "What did he ask you about the kidnapping?"

  "Same sort of questions you asked. Seemed very anxious to find Maddox. You know, Maddox sounds like an interesting character."

  "He definitely is."

  After leaving the police station, Karen drove out to the Bonanza Motel and talked to the chunky, bespectacled manager. He described seeing Maddox, wearing only underpants and a singlet, leave his room with two men and get into a car. He thought Maddox was trying to abscond without paying and ran towards them. "Then one of them turned and fired a shotgun at me. Boom."

  "What did you do?"

  "I hit the ground and almost shat myself; I kept hugging the ground until they left."

  "You didn't get the licence plate number?"

  "Nope. I was keeping my head down."

  "Fair enough. Any CCTV footage?"

  "Afraid not."

  The manager showed her around Maddox's now bare room, but she saw nothing of interest.

  He said: "It's bloody dangerous managing a motel. This year I've been robbed three times. Then this happened. So I've applied for a handgun licence. Will you write a letter supporting my application?"

  "What'll you do with the handgun?"

  "Defend myself, of course."

  "Yeah, and get yourself killed. If you get robbed, just put up your hands and be polite. Heroes wind up dead."

  He obviously didn't believe her. Thought he was Wyatt Earp. Silly bastard would end up creating a lot of paperwork.

  Flying back to Sydney, Karen decided that Pringle's behaviour was suspicious, to say the least, and she would find out more about him. The next day, she had coffee with a friend on the Narcotics Strikeforce and casually asked if he knew Pringle.

  Her friend shifted nervously: "Yes".

  "Good. What's he like?"

  "Totally bent. If you've got any brains, you'll stay well clear of him."

  "He's dangerous?"

  "Lethal."

  That piqued her curiosity. She went down to Human Resources and got another friend to slip her Pringle's personnel file - five fat manila folders. She leafed through them and discovered Pringle had been awarded numerous commendations and citations, and his job performance appraisals were uniformly good. Ostensibly, at least, he'd had a distinguished career. If he was dirty, that news hadn't reached his file.

  The last folder she looked through covered his early years on the force. To her surprise, during that time, he completed a couple of courses on bomb disposal. Even got a Grade Two Certificate. Jesus. Bomb disposal. The guy knew all about bombs.