‘Got a name.’ Taylor ended the call. ‘Terrence Bartlett.’
‘Say again?’ Jack’s inner voice told him he’d heard that name before.
‘Bartlett. Terrence Brian Bartlett.’
Yes. Jack did remember the name.
Chapter 2
The name of the MMA fighter turned elite trainer instantly rang a bell with Jack. Terry Bartlett was well known to those who followed the primal sport of bare-fisted fighting in a cage. DC Taylor had never heard of him.
‘Who is he again?’
‘A mixed martial arts fighter who became a trainer. Absolute star brawler in his day, so they say.’
‘I thought you were more into boxing, sir.’ Wilson slugged mineral water from a clear plastic bottle. ‘Not cage fighting.’
‘The technical term is “octagon”. I appreciate all combat sports for their own unique qualities. The local MMA scene up here’s small-scale, but growing. I’ve been meaning to get along to a fight, just haven’t been able to find the time. Anyway, you’re back from that search a bit quickish.’ Jack shot him a narrow-eyed reprimand. ‘Find anything?’
‘Not a sausage, sir. The scrub’s almost impenetrable once you get a few metres into it. You’d need a machete to get further. My guess is no one from the car is going to be in the vicinity, either dead or alive and hiding.’ Sweat dribbled from the constable’s chin, spots had formed under the armpits of his uniform shirt. Fat splotches of intermittent rain added to the collage of moisture. ‘Any luck here?’
‘Some suspicious stains. Come tell me what you think of this?’ If he wanted to be a detective, Wilson could show what he’s made of. The constable shuffled past Taylor, hopped into the driver’s seat.
‘If we had a field Kastle-Meyer test, I could tell you for sure.’ The bloke’s no dummy, despite appearances. ‘Since we don’t, I can only give you my considered opinion.’
‘Based on?’
Wilson grinned through slightly gapped front teeth. ‘Appearance, scent. Hang on.’ He bent his head, took a sniff. ‘No idea, sir. It seems to have been there a long time. Perhaps blood. My bet, tomato sauce. Look at all these–’
‘Yes, we’re aware of all the food wrappers.’
‘I’m surprised a sporty guy would be eating so much takeaway food, going by the amount of junk in there.’ Taylor scratched at a spot below her ear.
‘Who says it was him that ate that garbage?’ Jack felt comfortable calling his old favourite snack garbage; his holier-than-thou self was chowing down on broccoli and lean chicken these days. The diet had helped him shed five kilos in the last month. ‘Yeah, might be a family member eating all this shit, a friend, one of his acolytes. Anyway, people who work out like machines can afford to eat high-calorie food and not get fat.’ He jerked a thumb towards the rear of the Mazda. ‘Take a look in the boot. There’s another stain in there. Unless someone’s been playing hide and seek with a bag of chips and a bottle of ketchup, my money’s on it not being a condiment.’
The two detectives and Wilson peered over the lip of the boot as if they were staring into a well. ‘Definitely not ketchup this time.’ Wilson wriggled on a pair of rubber gloves, ran a finger over the dark patch. ‘Dry as a bone.’ He smelled it. ‘Not giving off any scent.’
‘You think it’s blood?’
Wilson nodded. ‘From my limited experience and what I’ve read and studied about forensics, I think the likelihood of this particular stain being blood is quite high.’
‘For fuck’s sake, Sergeant, speak normally. You’ve been watching too many episodes of CSI.’
Wilson took a step back, blushing to the roots of his light ginger hair. ‘I’m, ah…just…’
‘Relax, son. I’m riding your arse. We reckon it’s blood too. DI Taylor.’ Jack patted dust and lint from his trousers. ‘Call the forensics team in. If we’re right about this being blood, we need to start investigating, pronto.’
‘I had a thought,’ said Taylor. ‘Don’t MMA fighters bleed more than the average citizen? Maybe it’s simply blood from after a fight, off a towel, bandages or something. Nothing sinister at all.’
Jack shook his head. ‘Cut and bleeding fighters, whether from a fight or full-contact training, get patched up on the spot by specialists. They don’t drive home with blood pouring out of them like stabbing victims.’
Taylor’s phone rang, cutting short Jack’s lesson about the life of your average fighter. ‘Uh huh. Got it. Thanks.’
‘What news?’ Jack peeled off his rubber gloves.
‘We’ve got Bartlett’s home and work addresses.’
‘Phone number?’
Taylor nodded. ‘Yep. We could have found that ourselves. He’s not exactly elusive. Apparently he’s got his number all over the Internet, touting for business as a fight coach and gym instructor.’
Jack dialled Bartlett’s mobile. No answer, straight to voice mail. He thought about hanging up, decided to leave a message. ‘DI Jack Lisbon of Yorkville CIB. Please call me back as a matter of urgency.’ He glanced at his watch. 10:46am. ‘Right, Claudia, come with me to Bartlett’s workplace. If he’s not there, we’ll try his house. Wilson, wait here for the boffins to arrive. Contain the scene; if anyone stops, grill them. You know what they say about perps returning to the scene of crime, right?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Wilson smiled broadly. ‘Anything to help.’
‘Take notes. We’re counting on you.’
At the next roundabout, take the third exit. The Sat Nav lady spoke in an efficient, affable tone.
‘Ever think of trying out for that job?’ Jack flicked the indicator with a forefinger and gently turned the steering wheel in the thick traffic. Other drivers drove with due care and caution, perhaps they knew they were in the company of an unmarked police vehicle.
‘What job?’ Taylor screwed up her eyes.
‘GPS voice over. You’ve got those deep, husky tones to set men’s hearts aflutter.’ Jack wasn’t sure if this was over-stepping the mark. Taylor’s throaty chuckle told him he hadn’t crossed the boundary. Her next comment confirmed it.
‘Why just men’s hearts? I’ll have you know a few of the female constables flirt with me, too.’ She did a pop diva hair flick.
Jack felt his Adam’s apple bobble. ‘Really?’
‘Sure.’
Jack couldn’t tell if she was being serious or not. ‘Aren’t you still going out with that Duty Sergeant from the Southern Districts station?’
‘Nah. Turned out he was hooking up with all kinds of women on the side.’
‘You’re not a detective for nothing.’ He touched the side of his misshapen nose.
She turned to Jack and smiled broadly. ‘You’ve got that right.’
He was about to question Taylor again about her current relationship status when he was rudely interrupted. Your destination will be on the right in 50 metres. Taylor cheekily repeated GPS woman’s words with the same intonation; in Jack’s assessment, there wasn’t much difference between the two.
The gym loomed large in an area where suburbia and industrial grunge melded seamlessly. Poorer folks lived here in the suburb of Thurston, one of Yorkville’s working-class suburbs. Well behaved compared to areas with better employment rates, the crime stats would suggest. Go figure. Next to the blue-collar residents sprawled a hectare or two of steel hangars and sheds, take-away shops and storage facilities. Recreational sea craft, machine parts, snack foods in this street alone. Half a dozen legal brothels operated in the precinct. Jack, missing the intimacy of female companionship, had been tempted to visit them. So far he’d resisted the temptation. He’d only been in the deep north six months. Give it time, son. You’ll meet someone nice sooner or later.
Billboards dotted the industrial landscape advertising the various businesses, most of them owned by Yorkville’s well-heeled white collar elites. They lived far from the poverty, on fancy canal estates by the azure waters of the Pacific Ocean or the ritzy elevated suburb of York Hill with views to the
horizon.
Nestled among all of that, gym and fight club, The Iron Horse.
Outside, it presented as an imposing double-storey breeze block edifice. A huge sign sporting the red, black and white logo of a horse snorting fire was affixed above the entrance. Manicured tropical gardens surrounded the club, filled with decorative coconut and fan palms, fragrant hibiscus and frangipani, red and deep-pink azaleas.
The automatic glass doors whooshed open, ushering Jack and Taylor into a cool air-conditioned space, chequered brown and beige carpet tiles adorned the floor. This was a world away from DI Lisbon’s old South London stomping ground. McNair’s boxing club was a no-frills shit-hole. The Iron Horse was deluxe all the way. The air smelled of fresh paint; the interior renovated to within an inch of its life. A clinical-white melamine reception desk shielded a young woman, presumably hired to greet visitors, file stuff and answer the phone. Behind her, a large colour portrait of the gym’s owner and manager; the name at the bottom: Carl Masiker. Say it aloud and you get “massacre”, Jack realised. The man’s battle-scarred mug suggested he was capable of carrying one out.
‘Looking for a membership?’ White-as-milk teeth shone through the girl’s purple lips, puffed like a wasp had attacked her. Packed with filler, most likely. Geometrically perfect semi-circular eyebrows sat closer to her hairline than her eyes. Jack wasn’t sure, but he thought the brows were tattoo jobs. A cherry red blazer revealed cleavage bookended by golden tanned breasts so fake someone who’d never seen fake breasts before could spot them a mile away. The name tag said Melinda O’Hare.
DC Taylor placed her arms on the shiny surface of the counter. For the first time Jack noticed a tattoo on her inner left forearm, a blue wren or some bird or other. ‘No, Melinda’ said Taylor. ‘We’re looking for a chap called Terry Bartlett. We understand he’s employed at this club.’
‘He is, yeah. But he’s not here today.’ She fussed about with some papers, stuffed them into a ring binder, snapped it shut. ‘Sorry I’m not able to help.’
‘Is the boss in?’ Taylor gestured towards the portrait. ‘We’d like a word with that handsome fellow.’
‘I’ll just check.’ She picked up the phone, exchanged a few words with someone, put a hand to the mouthpiece. ‘Can I say who’s asking?’
‘The police.’ Jack said flatly.
‘You’re in luck.’ No muscles in her Botoxed face moved. ‘Follow me.’
Melinda led the two detectives down a wide hallway, water coolers spaced every fifteen metres. A soundproof glass wall ran down the right side allowing a full view of the innards of the gymnasium. Jack’s eye was drawn to the frantic activity of young men, and a couple of females, training their guts out on state of the art equipment. Lifting weights, skipping, punching speed balls and laying into heavy bags. In a raised ring, a slight, well-toned Aboriginal lad in blue headgear toyed with his sparring opponent like a cat terrorising a mouse; the white fighter was unable to land any punches or kicks, all energy spent on desperate defensive moves. Jack smiled at the proficiency of the Indigenous man, fists a blur as he pummelled his victim. He’d have to find out the man’s name and get some betting money ready. The kid looked unbeatable.
Inside, the manager’s office reeked of money, power and influence. The gym owner stood and extended a hand the size and colour of a large rump steak, first to Taylor then to Jack. He towered over both detectives, perhaps six foot five inches. ‘Carl Masiker, how can I help you?’
The flash of a badge usually elicited a look of surprise or fear. Masiker didn’t flinch when Jack showed his ID. ‘Detectives Jack Lisbon and Claudia Taylor. Nice place you’ve got here.’
All three sat in upholstered office chairs Jack guessed cost as much as all the furniture in his own rented house. A large dark timber desk separated the law enforcers from the civilian.
‘We like it. I guess you’re here about the incident the other night?’
‘Why do you think that?’ Nothing better than receiving information from punters without having to ask.
Masiker shrugged broad shoulders that filled out a lime green polo shirt. The man smelled of expensive cologne. ‘Makes sense. A casual member got kicked out for being inappropriate with one of our female members. He got so wild a couple of uniformed cops rocked up to make sure the bloke didn’t do any damage. I’m not interested in taking the matter any further. All under control.’
Jack coughed into a fist. ‘Actually, no.’ He’d not heard about the matter. ‘We’re interested in speaking with one of your employees. Terry Bartlett.’
‘Absolutely. Would you like a coffee?’
After the morning’s disgusting servo effort, Jack agreed. If it stimulated the urge to smoke, he’d suck another nicotine lozenge. Taylor declined. Masiker buzzed Melinda, placed the order: one coffee for him, one for the copper.
‘Yes,’ Masiker said, walking to a side cabinet and returning with sachets of sugar and stevia. ‘Terry, or Tezza as we like to call him. I haven’t seen him for a few days.’
‘How many days?’
Masiker placed a finger to his lightly stubbled, square jaw. ‘I’d say maybe a week. I’d have to consult my diary to be certain. May I ask why you’re here? I would have expected a phone call first.’
Melinda brought the coffee. Jack regretted his decision to imbibe. Weak and cold. Even three sugars couldn’t improve it.
Taylor sat forward in her seat. ‘That’s not the way we do things. Often if you give someone the heads up, they do a runner or hide evidence.’
‘A runner? Evidence?’ Masiker’s eyebrows elevated, furrowing a scarred brow. ‘Am I suspected of something?’ His voice grew louder, gruffer. ‘What the fuck’s going on?’
‘We found your employee’s car abandoned, engine running, keys in the ignition. No Terry. Looks suspicious and we’re naturally worried about his welfare.’
‘Have you tried his home?’
‘Not yet. We tried ringing, no answer. We’re going to his place after we’ve finished talking to you. It’s a workday, so here seemed the logical place to start.’
Taylor fixed her unflinching gaze on Masiker. ‘What can you tell us about him? Family, friends, colleagues, things like that.’
‘He’s had a bit of a rough trot in his personal life.’ The gym owner took a dainty sip from his mug, winced slightly as he tasted the brew. ‘Lives alone after his wife left and took three-quarters of his money. His son won’t speak to him. I will say this about Terry, though. He works damn hard to attract and retain clients. His only fault, if you can call it a fault, is sometimes he gets depressed. He took the split from his wife pretty hard.’
‘Did he?’ said Taylor.
‘Yeah,’ Masiker sighed. ‘It gets him down, you can tell by his demeanour. It was just over a year ago. I don’t think he’ll get over it for a long while yet.’
‘Are you aware of any substance abuse, drinking?’ Jack pondered the possibility of Bartlett getting into trouble with illicit drug suppliers, bikie gangs or triads, which may have led to him being harshly dealt with out on Connors Road. ‘He could be trying to dull his senses to deal with the loss.’ Something you’re familiar with, old son, Jack thought to himself.
Masiker shook his head. ‘No chance. He’s squeaky clean, a health nut.’
‘Doesn’t touch steroids, human growth hormone?’ Taylor ventured. ‘I hear those things are rife in the gyms around Yorkville. All the bodybuilders are into it.’
Masiker’s soft crow’s feet crinkled, eyes narrowed. ‘Aren’t you listening to me? What did I just say? He’s clean. As is everybody who trains here.’
‘Really?’ said Jack. ‘Even that bloke who caused a ruckus that you chucked out?’
A deep breath from Masiker. ‘Fair go, not every act of violence is linked to drugs, is it?’
Jack nodded. ‘True.’ He paused for a couple of seconds, turned his head to the people training in the expansive gym space. ‘Still, HGH use is on the rise, innit? Out of control.’<
br />
‘Not here it isn’t!’
‘I’m sure you’re right.’ Jack pursed his lips and gave a tiny nod. ‘Only it’d be a shame for rumours like that to get out.’
‘What the hell are you implying?’ Masiker was standing, hands flat on the desk and fingers spread wide. Taylor side-eyed her partner with a frown.
‘Nothing, sunshine. Only I’d hate for that kind of, ah, speculation, to impact on your gym’s reputation.’
‘Why the fuck are you saying this shit? I’m answering your damn questions.’
Jack gestured for calm. ‘Whoa, big man. Relax. It’s just, I dunno, I think there’s more about Terry you could be telling us.’
Masiker raked a hand through his close-cropped hair, greying around the temples, sat down. ‘Tezza sometimes comes in to use the gym after midnight to train.’
‘Does he have a key?’ said Jack.
‘No. We’ve got keyless entry via a passcode.’
‘Why does he do that?’ asked Taylor. ‘Bloody weird. Is he an insomniac gym junkie or something?’
‘None of my business.’ Masiker shook his head. ‘I’ve never asked him. My guess is he likes the peace and quiet. He’s got plenty of exercise gear at home, but it’s not the same thing, is it? Our setup is state of the art. As far as drugs and booze go, Tezza’s more likely to find comfort in video games. He’s probably at home right now. Once he told me how he can fall into a catatonic trance on his PlayStation.’ Masiker’s forced smile gave Jack the creeps. Taylor’s just-sucked-a-lemon expression told Jack the man was having a similar effect on her. ‘He’s hopelessly addicted to Mortal Kombat.’
‘You don’t sound very worried about him,’ said Jack. ‘The scenario we just described with his car is bizarre to say the least, and you laugh it off. I’m surprised by your flippant attitude towards someone who works for you.’
Kill Shot Page 2