An Easeful Death

by Felicity Young

  He took a slug of tomato juice and cooled it with a deep breath. ‘For a split second I didn’t think she was real. I thought she was a statue, kids playing a prank, maybe. When I looked at her face though, I realised that she was very real and very, very dead.’

  Stevie had told De Vakey something similar, although she’d managed to hold back mentioning the dizziness, the urge to spew, then to cry—that in the flash of those first few seconds she’d seen her own dead face staring back at her.

  ‘More,’ De Vakey said to Monty.

  ‘She was sitting on the stone bench, directly outside and to the left of the bank’s front entrance. She was naked, her body was hairless and she’d been sprayed with bronze paint. She was posed in a provocative manner with her legs open, her chin resting in her hand and her elbow on the stone table in front of her. I think the intention was to make her look like she was some kind of nude supermodel or a mannequin even.’

  Stevie’s foot recommenced its frenzied tapping. They were cops for God’s sake; the protective barriers they’d learned to erect were the only things that kept them on the job, and here this man was, pulling them all down. She forced herself to remain rigid in her chair. Her tights had twisted at her waist and were cutting into her thigh, but she couldn’t adjust them without squirming obscenely.

  Monty wasn’t faring any better, unless it was the chilli making him sweat. He swiped his brow with a table napkin, reached for his cigarettes and offered one to Stevie. De Vakey declined.

  Monty lit up, blew out smoke and leaned back in his chair until it creaked. Somewhere between the press conference and now, a greasy stain had materialised on his tie. ‘That’s about it,’ he said.

  De Vakey looked from one of them to the other, deliberating, assessing, contemplating.

  Stevie took a drag on her cigarette, determined to turn the conversation back to the bricks-and-mortar evidence. ‘Oh, there’s one thing we haven’t mentioned,’ she said, trying to sound casual. ‘There was some writing down the side of her leg.’

  ‘Is it detailed here?’ De Vakey tapped the notes.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I’ll read about it later. At this stage I’m more interested in your gut reactions than the concrete evidence.’ He held the champagne flute between his long sensuous fingers and took a sip. ‘I’m sorry to have to put you both through this again. You see, I not only have to understand the killer, but I have to understand the team sent out to catch him. You are understaffed, morale is low, you are already under extreme pressure from the press.’

  ‘You must have heard my ex in the lobby,’ Monty said, deciding to lighten the tone. ‘She writes a weekly column for our local rag called “Watching Big Brother”—meaning the police. The name says it all. She’s on a moral crusade—“To keep the bastards honest”—he drew quote marks in the air. ‘There’s nothing wrong with that of course, it’s just her timing that’s so lousy.’

  ‘How awkward for you,’ De Vakey said before draining his champagne with one swallow. ‘But jet lag’s catching up. I’d better get to bed and do some reading.’ He tapped at the file before pushing himself up from the table.

  ‘Pleasant dreams,’ Monty said, causing De Vakey to raise an ironic eyebrow.

  Stevie climbed to her feet in anticipation of leaving, but flopped back down again when the men embarked on a series of extended goodnights. She reached for her phone; she’d let Dot know she’d be sleeping in her spare room, so at least Izzy would wake in the morning to find her there. She wouldn’t be able to walk her daughter to kindy because of the early briefing at Central, but maybe she’d make the special parents’ assembly later in the morning.

  Monty shook the profiler’s hand. ‘I expect you’ll want to examine the scene tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Give Stevie a ring when you’re ready. She’ll pick you up and take you there.’

  De Vakey nodded. ‘That’s fine, I should be ready mid morning.’

  Stevie almost punched the speed dial button through the guts of her mobile. Behind the profiler’s back she glared at Monty and mouthed ‘How dare you!’

  3

  Power is the single driving force behind the serial killer. He will enforce his power through domination, manipulation and control. These traits will not only be evident in his crimes, but in his private life also.

  De Vakey, The Pursuit of Evil

  The Minister pounced just as Superintendent John Baggly stepped under the shelter of the hotel awning.

  ‘John, is it true you’re throwing your hat in for Assistant Commissioner? Doug said you’d approached him on the golf course the other day to discuss it.’

  With a brick wall behind him and slanting rain ahead, Baggly felt cornered and panicky. He glanced to his left and right, dismayed to see the hovering journalists still there. He’d expected most of them to have been lured over to McGuire’s press conference.

  He smoothed down his salt-and-pepper moustache and spoke in a voice that was low and controlled. ‘Minister, I think Doug took my generalised comments about the need for a home-grown West Australian assistant commissioner out of context. While it would be an honour to be considered for the post, the thought of applying hasn’t crossed my mind. The current AC is, after all, still two years away from retirement.’

  His focus darted back to the street. The rain made the lights seem hazy, the cars behind them no more than indistinct blurs. At once he regretted accepting his secretary’s offer to run for the car and bring it around to him at the hotel entrance. He hadn’t anticipated that waiting under the awning with this group from the dinner would have been quite so awkward. And, if that wasn’t enough, the AC himself was pushing his way through the revolving door to stand with the group outside. If word got out that he had already started his campaign of back scratching and clandestine meetings, he’d be in trouble. With the AC still so entrenched in the job, Baggly might just as well be planning his own retirement instead of any kind of career advancement.

  Thank God, here she was at last, pulling up at the curb. He hastily shook some hands. A handsome young doorman opened the door for him. Baggly smiled and pressed a gold coin into his palm before retreating into the safety of his car.

  He wriggled in the seat to get comfortable, but couldn’t get the damned seatbelt to stretch far enough over his girth. Yanking did nothing; he could hardly breathe. He was about to yell in frustration when Christine stretched over and gently coaxed the belt, getting him secured in a jiffy.

  ‘I thought the dinner went well, Sir,’ she smiled as she pulled away from the curb and into the night. She was going to drop him home then pick him up in the morning because, after a heavy night of eating and drinking, John Baggly was not one to take foolish risks.

  He touched the knot of his bow tie. ‘You think my speech was okay, then?’

  ‘Perfectly delivered. I don’t see how they could refuse the funding now.’

  Happy with the compliment, Baggly relaxed deeper into his seat. The belch caught him by surprise, filling the car with brandy and plum pudding fumes. He put his hand over his mouth. ‘Oh, excuse me, Christine. That must have been the second brandy talking.’

  Christine laughed, but kept her eyes on the road. She really is a very nice girl, Baggly thought, though not in that kind of way. His thoughts for her were nothing but paternal and he took pride in the fact that despite the temptations, he wasn’t that kind of a boss. Had he not learned, after all, the havoc these kinds of indiscretions could wreak and the leverage they could give those willing to exploit them?

  He might have had no problems resisting the charms of his delightful secretary, but he wished he could say the same about the fourth brandy. The seediness, like flying particles of powdered cement, began to settle in his stomach and mix with the juices there and he knew he’d be paying for his indulgence by morning, if not before. He fumbled with the button of the passenger window as his eyelids began to droop. The night air was as cold as metal but did little to drive away the alcoholic fog that engulfe
d his brain.

  Despite the icy blast, sweat was prickling on his forehead by the time Christine crunched the car into the driveway of his ordinary brick-and-tile house. He heaved himself from the car and waved goodbye. Overcome by a sudden dizziness, he reached for the wrought iron front fence, clutching it as he watched Christine’s tail-lights disappear down the dark street.

  Christ, he hoped he wasn’t going to be sick.

  Matters weren’t helped when he tilted his face to the sky to seek the refreshment of the gentle rain and caught sight of it, the leviathan silhouette dominating the skyline about three blocks east of his house.

  They’d flicked the switch on the old power station at about the same time as Baggly’s divorce, leaving the historic building to a fate of crumbling decay. The first thing he’d do when he was made AC, he vowed out there in the rain, would be to use his influence to get the damned thing knocked down.

  ‘Bugger the proposed arts centre,’ he said aloud, still clutching at the railing. For once he would side with the Aborigines. ‘Let the Wagyl have it.’

  His passion for wanting the power station gone wasn’t only because it reminded him of his failed marriage. He had altruistic reasons too. Despite increased police patrols (his doing), it remained a magnet for drug addicts, tramps and street kids. No matter how often the place was cleared and the entrances sealed, no matter how much barbed wire was erected, the undesirables always seemed to find ways of cutting or creeping their way back through the myriad of tunnels beneath it.

  There was a strange clanking noise coming from it now. Baggly squinted at the giant silhouette, trying to find the source. As he stared, the sagging powerlines seemed to fade into the night sky. The fenced coal yards became pre-execution holding pens, the coal chute morphed into the ramp up which doomed animals walked with their mournful bleats and bellows. Under Baggly’s blurred stare, the less like a power station and the more like an abattoir the old building became.

  He finally identified the source of the clanking; it was a piece of loose tin clinging to the edge of the roof by an invisible wire. If the wind tore it loose and tossed it his way, it would cut his throat with one swift swipe.

  His hand flew to his neck to wrestle with his strangling bow tie just as his body decided to relieve his stomach of its contents. Still holding onto the railing, he sank to his knees and added a generous layer of Christmas dinner to the wet mulch of the front garden bed. Feeling a little better, he hauled himself to his feet, spat the remaining particles from his teeth and wiped his mouth on the front of his dress shirt.

  With cautious winding steps he made his way to the front door. Justin’s van was in the carport, thank God. Now he wouldn’t have to spend the rest of the night worrying about what his son was up to. With a sense of relief he entered the front hall and kicked off his shoes. He shuffled in his socks across the beige ceramic tiles, along the featureless narrow passageway towards his son’s bedroom. A light was shining under the door. He knocked and waited for a response before entering.

  Once inside, Baggly scanned the room. It was more like an office than a bedroom he thought, not for the first time. Extending across the length of one wall there was a long table with a fax machine, photocopier, printer and computer. The neatly made single bed was tucked into the corner, hardly noticeable. Justin’s clothes were all folded in his bedside drawers or put away in the cupboard on hangars all facing the same way. His books were arranged on the shelf above his desk in alphabetical order, all non-fiction. No posters, no sporting trophies, CDs or video collections. No dirty socks or testosterone smells, just new books and paper. It was ironic that the only object in the room to suggest the humanity of its occupant was a framed picture of Justin’s mother on the bedside locker, a picture that John Baggly himself could hardly bear to look at.

  Justin was stooped over his desk, as usual. Without looking up from his books he said, ‘You’re back.’

  ‘Yes. Can I get you anything?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  A pause. ‘How’s the study going?’

  Justin tossed his pen onto the desk and leaned back in his chair, rubbing at his eyes with his fists like a small boy and promoting in Baggly a surge of paternal warmth.

  ‘I can’t make head or tail of this shit question: “The abuse of process in pre-trial.” Know anything about it?’

  Without turning in his chair to face him, Justin handed the assignment sheet over his shoulder, keeping his father at a safe distance.

  Baggly tried to focus on the question, but even with his glasses on, the words seemed to swim in swirling currents of confusion.

  He hummed and hawed for a moment.

  Justin said, ‘Never mind. I’ll ask Inspector McGuire about it, he’ll know.’

  Baggly leaned over to put the paper back on the desk, forgetting the boundaries for a moment. Justin immediately elbowed him out of the way. But no sooner had Baggly stepped back to a respectful distance than Justin spun around in his desk chair, his hand flying up to cover his mouth and nose. He fixed his father with accusing eyes. ‘Jesus, what’s that disgusting smell?’

  Baggly froze. ‘Smell? I can’t smell anything.’ His gaze fell to the vomit stains on his dress shirt.

  The boy sprang to his feet. ‘You’re a pig! A big fat filthy slop-eating pig!’ He pushed past his father with an expression of revulsion and dashed down the passage towards the front door.

  Baggly only found the words once the front door had been slammed in his face. ‘You’ve no right to speak to me like that, you ungrateful spoilt brat!’

  thursday

  4

  How? Why? Where? And to whom did it happen? By seeking the answers to these questions, the lead detectives will come closer to finding the offender.

  De Vakey, The Pursuit of Evil

  The rain had continued all night and everyone seated around the T-shaped arrangement of desks in the incident room showed evidence of a mad dash from the car park. Damp tousled hair, rain-specked shoulders and miserable expressions came with the first sneezes of winter colds.

  Monty’s mood did not seem to have been dampened by the weather or the uncomfortable meeting with the profiler the previous night. He nodded and smiled good morning to his detectives and took his seat, fanning a sheaf of papers on the table before him. Stevie was still not convinced by De Vakey’s methods, but she could see that he had his uses; there was a lot to be said for a burden shared. The loneliness of her own dilemma seemed all the more apparent. She bit hard on the lid of her pen, determined not to let her preoccupations interfere with the case in hand.

  ‘You first, Angus,’ Monty pointed a finger at the senior detective.

  Angus scanned his notes as his hand raked through his wet hair. ‘Everything seems straight down the line with this photographer feller, Mont.’ The incongruity between Angus’s appearance and his ocker accent never ceased to amaze Stevie. ‘His story checked out. After the photo shoot, he walked Linda Royce down the stairs of his warehouse studio and unlocked the door for her. He saw her step into the street, then went inside and called his wife.’

  ‘They’re a one-car family,’ Stevie added. ‘She always picks him up after work. I checked his phone records, spoke to the wife, everything rings true.’

  Angus nodded. ‘He said she was a nice girl, was pretty shaken up by her murder.’

  ‘Media, Stevie?’ Monty queried.

  ‘I spoke to the head of ABC productions. They said they’d organise a re-enactment whenever we’re ready.’

  ‘We should go for Sunday night then. Hopefully the same people will be in the area carrying out their Sunday-night routines,’ Barry said.

  ‘It won’t do us any good if it’s pissing down with rain, though.’ Wayne looked over his shoulder to the rain still beating against the incident room window, his facial expression sour as stomach acid.

  ‘Long-term forecast is for a fine day with rain developing,’ Angus answered.

  ‘That’s settled then, Sunday it i
s.’ Monty turned to Stevie. ‘Can you organise that?’

  Stevie wrote herself a reminder.

  ‘Who’s going to play Linda Royce?’ Wayne asked.

  All eyes turned to the only female on the team.

  Stevie looked at Monty, smoothed her fingers down the length of her ponytail. ‘I don’t mind. I’m tall, blonde, I meet the physical description more or less.’

  ‘Sure,’ Barry flashed her a teasing grin. ‘A dead ringer. Fifteen years older and about ten kilos heavier—but who’s counting? And they really want to take your photo in this.’ He pulled at the sleeve of her bomber jacket.

  Dickhead. She jerked her arm away and stopped the retort before it left her mouth. It was a struggle to keep her voice level. ‘Just leave my wardrobe to me, okay?’

  Monty coughed, regarded his detectives. ‘Sounds fine by me. What does everyone else think?’

  Murmurs of agreement filled the room.

  ‘That’s settled then.’ Monty took a swallow of cold coffee and pulled a face. ‘To recap, we know she was somehow abducted from the street, taken somewhere else to be murdered, then somehow transported to the bank and posed.’

  ‘What about a taxi?’ Barry asked. ‘She could have decided not to catch the bus and gone for a taxi instead.’

  Wayne nodded, pulling thoughtfully at a long feathery sideburn. ‘That could have happened. That or someone she knew stopped and gave her a lift.’

  ‘Would she have got into the car of a stranger?’ Barry asked.

  ‘By all accounts she was a sensible girl,’ Angus said. ‘Her uncle and grandfather were cops, there’s no way she would have been unaware of the dangers.’