A Murder Is Denounced

by Cenarth Fox

  ‘Ah, there’s been a slight problem, boss.’

  ‘What problem?’

  ‘The other guy didn’t make it.’

  Des was only half awake and being told the top Mafia hitman, all the way from the US of A was dead, meant it took time for the concept to introduce itself to his brain cells.

  ‘I hope I heard that wrong.’

  ‘I had to, boss, he hit the wrong target.’

  Des was climbing the wall. ‘You had to? You had to?’

  ‘He blew it boss then blamed me. He called me a useless dog.’

  Des was close to a seizure. The veins in his temples throbbed in stereo. ‘You knocked him?’

  ‘No choice, boss.’

  ‘Are you fucking insane?’ Rabies didn’t like his boss scolding him. ‘Get back here now so I can congratulate you m’self!’

  Rabies knew congratulate was crim speak for testicle removal without anaesthetic. He couldn’t spell depression but the condition grabbed him in a bear hug. Not one, but a pack of black dogs leapt at him with ferocious barking. He felt he was in the world’s deepest cesspit. He was also unlucky, or not, depending on your point of view.

  Tramping along in the rain, his worry beads retired from exhaustion. His career prospects vanished. He muttered, cursed and even wept although with the rain splashing against his face you couldn’t see his tears. He threw up, put his hands to his head, lost his sense of direction, and stumbled backwards towards the road. An airport worker, running late and driving too fast in the wet conditions, only saw the shape a split second before the hit. Whack! Rabies flew into the air and the airport worker braked, swerved, corrected, thought about his life then accelerated. It was a fatal hit and run.

  The body count kept rising as the fallout from the drug heist in Venezuela hit a new low. Or was that a new high?

  Chapter 21

  JO WOKE EARLY. How could she sleep? Her grandmother’s funeral, the break-up with Pierre, and her concern about its impact on her Homicide career, all bounced around inside her head. Her chest pain was new.

  It wasn’t as if Pierre was madly in love with his wife and only used Jo as his bit on the side. He was a gentle man, a gentleman with a velvet voice and the sexiest lips this side of the Eiffel Tower.

  But did I have to dump him? Did I dump him?

  Having to work with him, and knowing her colleagues knew there was something between the DI and the Senior Constable, ramped up the pressure on Jo.

  Should I leave Homicide? Should I move in with Pierre?

  She felt a sliver of relief when her phone rang. It was pre-dawn. This must be work. It was.

  ‘Morning, Sarge,’ said the bleary-eyed and weepy senior constable.

  ‘Rise and shine, my girl; shooting in North Melbourne, and it’s good and bad news.’

  ‘Sarge?’

  ‘I’ll tell you when I pick you up in fifteen.’

  ‘Shit,’ said Jo to a dead phone. Springing out of bed hurt. All that running last night made her muscles scream for a massage. Forget breakfast. DS Billy Hughes was Ms Punctuality.

  Suited and booted, Jo closed her front door as her colleague pulled into the street. There were no journalists hiding in bushes. Jo was back in town and back in the body business—the dead body business.

  Jo sat beside the DS who drove. ‘Nice to have you back, Senior,’ said Billy. ‘Are we sleeping alone these days?’

  Jo’s spirits crashed. If her favourite colleague was having a dig, what would she cop from the others?

  ‘Thanks for nothing, Sarge.’

  ‘Just preparing you for what’s to come. Shagging in-house always leads to tears, and rank and gender always win. He’s the senior officer and male so it’s forty love and balls to him.’

  Jo decided to fight. ‘For your information, Sarge, I am sleeping alone, and DI Richelieu and I are not having an affair. I consider him a friend just as I consider you a friend. So can we please give it a rest?’ Wow. Pause. Silence. ‘Of course, if you’re not happy with my work.’

  Hughes looked at Jo who turned and looked at the DS. ‘Good for you,’ said Billy, ‘and it’s even better to have you back on board.’ Jo wanted to cry. ‘Now for the good and bad news. We’ve solved one homicide and gained another.’

  ‘You’ve lost me,’ said Jo feeling a teensy bit better.

  ‘For Christine Grande, our young mother brutally murdered in Frankston, we have only one suspect.’

  ‘The estranged husband, Kevin Grande.’

  ‘Correct, only he’s no longer much use as a suspect, he’s dead.’

  ‘Murdered?’

  ‘Well suicides don’t usually shoot themselves three times including the back of the head.’

  ‘Ouch.’

  ‘So the good news is we can close the Frankston homicide but the bad news is …’

  Jo finished the sentence. ‘We need to find the killer’s killer.’

  ‘Or killers. So, any thoughts?’

  ‘The obvious one is his mate, Cooper Yale.’

  ‘Because?’

  ‘Cooper was Kevin’s alibi and they fell out.’

  ‘Or Cooper was lying and knew if we cracked the case, he’d go down for perverting the course of justice. Best way to stop the investigation is to stop the suspect.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Kevin was found outside that block of flats we visited.’

  ‘Where Cooper lives?’

  ‘Where Cooper lives.’

  Billy and Jo were not the first to arrive. Police, press and people filled the street. It was still dark and flashing lights dominated. Uniformed officers stopped the detectives who showed their ID.

  ‘Jo?’ said a constable who recognised her from their working days together at Flemington when Jo was last in uniform.

  ‘Matt,’ smiled Jo. ‘I’ll catch you up, Sarge.’ Hughes gave Jo a stern look which, in spoken form said, “Two minutes, Senior”.

  Jo and Matt exchanged news. He raved about her success which was known to the universe. Jo asked about life on the beat and felt a flicker of nostalgia for those days working on a booze bus or in properties trying to sort domestic violence issues. Back then there was no French senior officer whispering sweet nothings in her shell-like. Mind you, her yearning for days of yore didn’t last.

  She caught up with Billy and the team. DI Rose fumed and her anger influenced the other detectives. DI Richelieu stared at Jo and she caught his eye. Her heart monitor pinged and she returned his half smile. How could she not?

  Rose addressed them. ‘We know the victim and his situation re the death of his wife. But we treat this homicide like any other. Do not allow his presumed guilt stop us from finding his killer or killers. Understood?’ The word ma’am was heard. She gave instructions and Jo joined Charlie Baldwin on door-knocking duties. As they headed off, they heard the raucous sound of a certain pathologist who quietly bellowed. ‘What time do you call this then?’

  Jo smiled. It was good to be back in harness.

  Baldwin and Jo disturbed residents with most mightily pissed to have anyone, even if they were the cops, knocking on their door so early.

  Almost all saw or heard nothing. Those who did mentioned cans and bottles but on rubbish bin night, such sounds were not unusual.

  After their fruitless search, Jo and Charlie headed back to the murder scene. DI Rose looked at them and both shook their head. Dr Strange looked up and saw Jo.

  ‘Well, well, if it isn’t the international sleuth. Good morning, Detective, and how are you at this ridiculous hour?’

  Jo warmed to her old life when people like Gabrielle Strange treated her as she did. But danger lurked as DI Richelieu came out of the flats and spotted Jo. He approached and Jo held her breath.

  ‘Bonjour, Mademoiselle, ‘ow are you?’

  ‘Bonjour Monsieur, thank you, I am well. And you?’

  He nodded. Others observed, and Jo felt pressure building and fast. People were watching them but the lovers were forgotten when DI
Rose swore, and called the detectives together.

  ‘It never rains,’ she said, standing in the rain. ‘There’s a shooting near Melbourne Airport, definite homicide.’ She looked at DI Richelieu and DI Blunt and hesitated. The Frenchman was newly returned from a harrowing experience in Paris, and the new DI’s last investigation saw him shot at thanks to his stupidity. She didn’t want to appoint either but to not do so would look wrong. She bit the bullet.

  ‘OIC here will be DI Blunt with DS Hughes, and for the murder near the airport, DI Richelieu will run the show with DS Fletcher. Questions?’ Silence. ‘Right, gentlemen, start your engines.’

  Jo dreaded having to work with Pierre. Time may heal her wounds but for now, as little contact as possible seemed a good idea. Billy did the selecting for Blunt and snared Jo. Blunt was not happy and called Billy aside. He mentioned Jo’s troubles. Billy gave him short shrift.

  ‘Do you want to solve this homicide, sir?’ Blunt didn’t answer. ‘Then you need Detective Best.’ A Blunt grunt ended the discussion.

  DI Richelieu departed for the airport with DS Fletcher and Senior Constables Baldwin and Payne. DI Rose hung around. She didn’t trust DI Callum Blunt and he hated being OIC while wearing L plates.

  As Richelieu and his team approached the crime scene, flashing lights and temporary speed restrictions caused them to slow. They were down to one lane and crawling. Fletcher dropped his window and showed his ID to the cop on traffic duty.

  ‘Problem officer?’ he asked.

  ‘G’day sir. Hit and run, fatality I’m afraid.’

  ‘Do you know who?’

  ‘Sorry, no sir.’

  Fletcher raised his window and they continued to crawl to the body of Wes, the now former top assassin for the Mob in America.

  Chapter 22

  AN HOUR EARLIER, Vlad, a.k.a. Mike, slept peacefully in the arms of Morpheus, a.k.a. the Rubenesque Dani. She was Dani by name and canny by nature. Her no-longer-required boyfriend did arrive, and got the “get lost” message thanks to lover-in-waiting, Mike. By way of thanks, the handyman was offered a bed for the night with a voluptuous body thrown in gratis. He reclined as much on Dani as he did the mattress.

  It was a bit of all right for Mike but ridiculously sensational if you consider the alternative. If Kevin had slept in or Vlad had sneaked out early, Mike could and should be dead in his bed, well, in the street.

  Wes and Rabies were outside ready to ambush and destroy the drug-runner who almost got stiffed in Venezuela. Wes and Rabies got the wrong man. Same body size and outfit plus a dark night and rain, not to mention an idiot with a gun, meant Kevin Grande copped three free bullets while Vlad copped a free shag; well two actually with “anyone for seconds?” being answered in the affirmative.

  Once the ruckus with the police and every man and his dog kicked off, Dani went outside then returned to report the news.

  Vlad was dressed and ready for the off in a flash. He knew he was the intended target. ‘Listen, babe,’ he said sounding innocent and oppressed at the same time. ‘I had trouble with debt-collectors back in Canada. I don’t want to meet your friendly police officers right now. Is there a back entrance?’

  ‘I thought you found that last night.’

  She smiled and he groaned. ‘You’re fabulous but if you ever wanna see me again, babe, I need your help.’

  She gave him directions, kissed him and held his hand until he begged. Down the back stairs he went, hid outside in the washing, and when the coast was clear, slipped along the easement leading to the street in the next block. He was rapt to be free but knew the guy out front who was seriously dead, should have been him. It meant one thing—his cover was blown—again.

  He jogged back to his housemates and slipped into bed. A few hours later when he heard them pottering, he packed his rucksack ready for a departure, and wandered into the kitchen yawning.

  ‘And what happened to you, last night?’ asked Pam. She and Colleen were busting to know.

  ‘Boring, I’m afraid,’ smiled Vlad.

  ‘I’ll tell her you said that,’ threatened Colleen.

  Vlad was keen to change the subject. ‘Listen, girls, I’m in a bit of a quandary.’ They were all ears. ‘Mate of mine has offered me a job, a real job, good money.’

  ‘Lucky you,’ said Pam unable to hide her disappointment.

  ‘You’re leaving,’ said Colleen, who knew when a man was doing the soft soap routine before the male equivalent of the “Dear John” letter.

  Vlad sighed and put on his sad face. ‘The job’s in Perth.’

  DI Rose gave Billy Hughes strict instructions. ‘Do not let DI Blunt make any loopy decisions.’

  ‘I want extra money, ma’am.’ Rose looked at her. ‘I’m a DS, not a nursemaid. And how come he got the job in the first place?’

  Rose maintained her demand. ‘Call me the moment there’s a problem,’ then softened, ‘please.’ Billy nodded and the boss left. Blunt was talking to the pathologist; listening more like.

  ‘Bullet removal works better in the lab, Inspector. Besides, it rarely rains indoors. Pop in this arvo if you’re not too busy. Toodle pip.’

  Blunt now hated Strange as much as he hated Jo Best. Billy and Jo joined Blunt, and Billy guided him towards making a decision.

  ‘Senior Constable Best has already formally interviewed the deceased’s housemate, Cooper Yale, and she and I chatted to residents in this block trying to break the alibi Yale gave for his now dead mate.’

  ‘Right,’ said Blunt scrambling for an idea. Billy helped him out.

  ‘If you’re happy, sir, we could re-interview those same people, then report to you as co-ordinator of the two homicides.’

  ‘Co-ordinator?’ Blunt’s mouth opened and stayed open.

  ‘Didn’t DI Rose tell you, sir?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Right, carry on and report to me later.’

  He turned and left. The women looked at one another.

  ‘You just made that up,’ said Jo.

  ‘You’re in no position to criticize, Senior.’ Billy winked and Jo shook her head. ‘Let’s get a few folk out of bed, especially Mr Yale.’

  When DI Richelieu and his team finally got to the murder scene, uniformed police and forensic officers were there and busy. The detectives approached the vehicle and peered inside. The driver was shot in the head—a lucky shot by Rabies whose luck ran out 200 metres up the road.

  Fletcher, Baldwin and Payne awaited orders.

  ‘Not a lot of witnesses, sir,’ said DS Fletcher, looking at the surrounding building-free land. They were close to the airport and this bush land would remain free of development forever.

  ‘We need Dirty Harry, sir,’ said Baldwin who was a fan of music theatre. The others didn’t have a clue. ‘Clint Eastwood had a hit with I Talk to the Trees.’ Fletcher grinned.

  Payne thought aloud. ‘Pity the hit and run victim died. He might have seen the killer.’

  Richelieu topped that. ‘Or per’aps ‘e was killed because ‘e saw the killer or even was the killer.’ If only they knew.

  The new pathologist, Dr Petr “Rowdy” Laudi arrived, dressed for action. Did he sleep in his gear? The time and cause of death seemed straightforward. Forensic officers collected and bagged certain items some of which were shown to Richelieu.

  ‘American,’ said the French speaker. ‘Tourist visa, and ‘e arrived this week.’

  ‘Was he heading back to the airport at the end of his trip?’ asked Fletcher.

  ‘Per’aps,’ replied Richelieu, ‘but ‘e landed in Sydney.’

  ‘Not wanting to upset DI Rose, sir,’ said Baldwin, ‘but surely the murder in Flemington requires more bodies than out here with few if any witnesses.’

  ‘Unless,’ said DS Fletcher, nodding, causing his colleagues to turn and see DI Blunt striding towards them.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ boasted Blunt, ‘DI Rose has asked me to co-ordinate the two murders.’ His colleagues, with darting eyes, all thought the same thing. Sh
e what?

  ‘What do we know, Inspector?’ Blunt asked his colleague.

  Richelieu explained then added, ‘And we may ‘ave too many officers ‘ere, Inspector. Per’aps some could return to the other ‘omicide.’

  Blunt found decision making tricky, and besides, it wasn’t his idea.

  Fletcher tried to help. ‘Is there a connection with the fatality up the road, sir?’

  ‘We’re Homicide, Sergeant. Let Traffic do their job.’ He looked at them. ‘Carry on,’ he said, turned and left. His colleagues exchanged looks with the word tosser forming on their lips.

  Billy Hughes and Jo knocked on Cooper’s door. They heard him grumbling before he appeared. When he saw them, his mood nosedived.

  ‘What now? You drag me to the cop shop, wind up me boss and me mother, and now kick me door down in the middle of the night.’

  ‘Good morning, Cooper,’ smiled Hughes. ‘May we come in?’

  He didn’t reply, just walked inside, so they followed.

  ‘I’m not changin’ me statement. Kevin was with me the night his bitch of a wife got bashed.’

  ‘When did you last see Kevin?’

  He stopped. ‘Kevin? Why?’

  ‘Answer the question.’

  The detectives stared at Cooper. He was either a damn good actor or didn’t know.

  ‘Last night. He’s driving the first tram out of Preston.’ Cooper pointed to the sofa covered with crumpled blankets. ‘He was asleep there when I turned in.’

  Billy kept probing. ‘Did you hear any strange noises during the night?’

  ‘Nothin’. I sleep like a log.’

  Billy made a face at Jo as if to say, “He doesn’t know” then said it. ‘Kevin’s dead, Cooper.’ She paused and they watched his reaction. Again he was either a natural at acting or ignorant.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Kevin’s dead.’

  He slumped on a chair. ‘Dead? How? When?’