An Easeful Death (7 page)

‘Eyes?’

‘Sunglasses.’

‘Hair colour?’

‘Dunno. He was wearing a baseball cap.’

‘What colour hat? Did it have a logo?’

Thompson gave a shrug.

Jeez, this was like speaking to a pile of bricks. Wayne took a deep breath. Thompson turned around and began arranging the boxes on the shelf behind the counter. Wayne raised his voice, trying to penetrate the man’s back.

‘Can you describe what he was wearing?’

Thompson shrugged and looked back over his shoulder. ‘Jeans, I guess.’

Barry ambled over from the display cabinet to join them at the counter. He pointed to one of the aeroplane kits in Sherman’s hand. ‘I made that very Lancaster when I was a kid. You could hardly see it for glue, the props wouldn’t even turn.’

Thompson turned from the shelves and said to Wayne, ‘A yellow Eagles windcheater.’ Then to Barry he said, ‘It’s a difficult model for a young kid. You should have got your dad to help.’

‘Didn’t have one.’ Barry never ceased to surprise Wayne. Only the other day he was complaining about his miserly arsehole of a father.

‘That’s too bad,’ Thompson said.

‘Maybe I’ll have another go at it.’ Barry took out his wallet and handed over a twenty.

Thompson gave him the box and some change. ‘There’s glue in the box. Come back when you’re done and I’ll fix you up with some paint,’ he said.

Barry beamed back; it was the kind of smile a twelve-year-old would use to wangle money from his unsuspecting grandmother.

When they began to discuss the differences between the old Airfix models and the newer equivalent, Wayne wandered off to inspect a model train set.

On a structure that looked like four joined ping-pong tables, a complicated system of rails carved their way through alpine scenery and bucolic European farmland. This is more like it, Wayne thought. Three red buttons he assumed were there to be pressed, controlled the model railway. He tried to work out which one would send the old steam loco across the bridge spanning the thick painted river. Lured by the middle button, his hand reached for it, only to be beaten to it by a cane held in the hand of an old man of eighty, if he was a day.

He watched as the model train nipped around the track like a zip fastener and he grew dizzy: so much for trying to keep his interests on terra firma. He nodded to the old man and swayed his way back to the counter just as Thompson was handing Barry a can of bronze spray paint.

‘Take this, too. It’s from the same batch I sold to the guy. And this is the kind of wooden dowel I sell.’ Thompson gave Barry a dowel and an affable grin; the change in the man was amazing. Wayne could only look at his younger partner and marvel.

‘Hey, you didn’t see what kind of car the bloke drove off in did you?’ Barry asked.

‘Yeah, I did. A new-looking blue Commodore. He parked it right outside the shop. Sorry but I didn’t get a look at the plate,’ Thompson said.

Barry handed him his card, said it was okay, that he was being a big help anyway. ‘If you think of anything else you can reach me on this number.’

Thompson called out as they were heading for the door.

‘Hey, I don’t know if it helps, but he bought a dozen each of gold and silver paint, too.’

***

The killer was going to strike again. Wayne broke the news to Monty from the car. There was no need for him to hold the phone out for Barry to hear the explosive reaction. When Monty had calmed down, he gave him the details of the Thompson interview and received, in turn, a list of further instructions. Wayne pocketed his phone and wiped his brow with a mustard-yellow handkerchief. ‘It’s going to be a long day,’ he said, ‘we’ll need inner strength to get through this.’

Soon they were pushing their way through the lunchtime crowd of their favourite watering hole. The pub in James Street was a popular soaking spot for a heavy cop clientele. Barry went to get their drinks and was still getting them by the time Wayne had completed two more phone calls. Given Barry’s propensity to stop and banter with every person at every table in passing, Wayne wondered just how cold the beer would be when it finally arrived.

Rule of thumb: a dead body will cool to the surrounding temperature at approximately one degree per hour. It stands to reason, therefore, that a cold beer will warm to its environment at the same rate. To kill time, Wayne reached for his pen and notebook and began scratching calculations.

‘Have you organised the artist for the composite sketch?’ Barry asked, interrupting Wayne’s train of thought. He sat down at the table and pushed a glass of beer towards his partner. Some of it slopped over the side and a pattern of foaming threads trickled onto the plastic table.

‘Yeah.’ Wayne slicked his fingers through the drips and made a point of rubbing them on his sleeve. ‘No wedges?’

‘They’re coming.’

Wayne took a gulp of beer and gazed around the room, checking out the patrons with the mug shots he’d lined up in his mind. This habit used to annoy the hell out of his wife, though her complaints about him never being off duty were usually accompanied by an understanding smile. The woman had put up with a lot.

Oh shit.
A familiar face he did not wish to see. He slid further down his seat.

Noticing his reaction, Barry followed his gaze, squinting through the smoke haze. ‘Who’s that then?’

‘Tyrone Davis,’ Wayne said. ‘Before your time, probably. Stop staring. If he sees you he’ll see me, and be over here in a flash.’

‘What’s the problem?’

Wayne spoke from the side of his mouth. ‘Nothing, except the man’s a crystal-dicked fuckwit with about as much conscience as a box jellyfish.’

A pause. ‘You don’t like him?’

Wayne snorted.

‘Crossed swords, did you?’ Barry persisted.

‘No, not exactly, I just don’t like hanging out with bent coppers.’

‘Tye Davis, Tye Davis,’ Barry repeated. ‘The name’s familiar.’

‘He’s the guy who knocked Stevie up. They were shacked up for a while until she threw him out. She blew the whistle on him for taking bribes when he was in Vice. There was an enquiry, he was dismissed.’

Barry blew out his cheeks. ‘That would’ve taken guts.’

‘She’s a tough chick.’

‘Then how come you’re always stirring her pot?’ Barry took a long draught of beer, his Adam’s apple bobbing with each swallow.

Wayne sighed. ‘I stir the pot because she expects me to stir the pot. I don’t like to disappoint.’ He wagged a disapproving finger at Barry. ‘And you got too carried away today. Subtlety, son, you got to learn subtlety.’

‘You self-righteous prick.’

Wayne’s mouth twitched into his first smile in hours. ‘She’s a good cop, but she’d be even better if she’d let go of some of the energy she uses to hold that chip on her shoulder and put it into her work.’

A kick in the shin from Barry alerted him to Tye’s approach. Wayne’s first instinct was to leave, then his curiosity got the better of him; he’d hang around for a moment, see what Tye wanted.

Tye slopped a jug of beer onto their table. ‘I thought you boys looked thirsty,’ he said, even though Wayne and Barry’s glasses were still half full. He pulled up a chair and sat down. He was a cocky bastard, with looks that could have graced the cover of a romance novel—or so Wayne had been told. He wouldn’t know a romance novel if it bit him on the backside. People also said that Tye and Stevie had been a good-looking couple. Wayne had never put that much faith in appearances.

A barmaid placed a bowl of wedges in front of them. Tye gave her an appraising glance before turning back to Wayne. ‘So, how’re you doing? I thought you might’ve retired by now.’ He popped a steaming wedge into his mouth.

Barry winked at Tye. ‘He’s younger than he looks.’

Wayne took Tye’s hand without smiling and introduced Barry. Tye’s gaze returned to Wayne. He scanned the older man’s torso before making a big deal of looking under the table at his legs. ‘Still fashionably retro I see.’

‘Fashionable?’ Barry snorted. ‘He just hasn’t bothered to buy any new clothes since the seventies.’

Wayne gave Tye a blank look. ‘Happy days,’ he said.

Tye was not to be put off. ‘You know who you remind me of, Wayne? That pommy secret agent, the one who says “Shagadelick baby” and all that shit.’

‘More like Eeyore if you ask me,’ Barry said, pushing the basket of wedges across the table. Wayne didn’t touch them, he’d suddenly lost his appetite.

Tye slammed his fist on the table and grinned. ‘Fuckin’ oath.’

Wayne’s patience was wearing thin. He knew Tye was playing the redneck for Barry’s benefit, making himself out to be one of the boys, a talent that had gained him a fair degree of support from his colleagues at the time of his dismissal. While Stevie was proved technically to be the ‘good guy,’ it was Tye who had won the sympathy vote.

Tye shifted in his seat. Maybe he’d got the message and was thinking about leaving. But then Barry blew it; sometimes the kid just couldn’t help himself.

‘So, what’s your story then?’

‘Working on the mines, Baz, three weeks on and one off. Haven’t been down to the big smoke for a couple of months, only arrived yesterday. Figured I’d catch up with a few mates, visit my kid.’

‘I suppose the restraining order’s well past its use-by date now.’ Wayne couldn’t resist the jab.

Tye’s face reddened and Wayne caught a glimpse of the violence that simmered just under the handsome surface. ‘It was a temporary order, only for a couple of months. Just a misunderstanding.’ He took a slug of beer then turned to Barry, clearly the more malleable member of the partnership. ‘I hear Stevie’s joined you blokes at the SCS. I can’t see it being a wise move, but here’s to her anyway.’ He lifted his glass for a toast and scanned their faces, leaving the bait dangling.

Barry took a nibble. ‘What’s the problem with Stevie joining the SCS?’

‘I would have thought that was obvious. Frankly I’m surprised her application was taken seriously,’ Tye said.

Wayne sighed. ‘C’mon, Barry, drink up. We’ve got places to go and people to see.’

‘What with the history between her and Monty, I can’t see how his being her boss could lead to anything but a conflict of interest,’ Tye continued.

Barry was hooked. He put his hand out to stop Wayne from leaving the table. ‘Wait a tick, let me just hear this out.’

Tye ignored Wayne’s impatient huffing. ‘Monty’s an old pal of the Hooper family, at school with her big brother...’

‘I’ll be in the car,’ Wayne said.

And he left them to it, along with the beer Tye had bought him, untouched on the table. He might have a moral obligation to stir Stevie’s pot, but gossiping about her behind her back was not a part of his agenda.

The investigating officer has to be able to think like the killer in order to pre-empt him. It is an unpalatable talent that few are able to master and still fewer able to adjust to without some form of adverse physical or behavioural effect.

De Vakey,
The Pursuit of Evil

The sun was a distant pearl in the leaden sky, the city streets still black and slick with rain. Stevie sat in the parked car and watched the profiler retrace Royce’s last walk down Wellington Street. In order to put himself into the mindset of the murderer, De Vakey had explained, he needed to be alone. That suited Stevie; the man was still having an unnerving effect on her and she was glad of the break.

She rubbed a clear patch in the mist on the car window with the sleeve of her jacket and took advantage of the opportunity to sit back and think.

Her role in the investigation had broadened to include liaising between De Vakey and the primary investigating officers. At first she was pleased; it meant Monty thought she had sufficient grasp of the case to relay information accurately between both parties. Upon further reflection though, she could see how the others might read it as a sign of Monty’s favouritism, and could only hope the team would remember the shit jobs he usually allocated to her.

She’d had several triumphant moments collaring criminals in her career, top grades in her sergeant’s exams, near-perfect scores in her firearm proficiency tests—but nothing notable since joining the SCS six months ago. Maybe this would be the case in which she could prove herself; show pricks like Wayne she was as capable as any of them. In order to succeed though, she would have to keep her personal feelings in check.

It didn’t help that communication with De Vakey was proving to be more difficult than she’d imagined. He might consider his skill an art, but he handled the evidence with the empiricism of a scientist, reluctant to formulate any theories without proof. He had been studying the case notes and watching the videos all night: she felt he must have reached some conclusions by now. But when she asked him questions he dodged like a politician. When she put forward her own ideas, he shot down her theories with the flamboyance of a TV prosecutor. One minute he seemed eager to make a connection with her, the next minute he would cut himself off and withdraw, his sparkling eyes becoming nothing but empty grey holes.

Stevie was a detective; she was paid to be curious. She spent most of her days and many of her nights seeking answers and solving puzzles. With a strange sense of unease she realised she was being drawn into the mystery of the profiler as much as the mystery of the case itself.

She watched as he pulled at his billowing overcoat, doing up the buttons as he walked from the photographer’s studio towards the bus stop. He came to a sudden stop and pivoted to his right, peering at something that looked like a bottle lying in a wall alcove. He produced a miniature cassette recorder from his coat pocket and started to speak into it. What was he saying? He put the recorder away and stooped. With his pen inserted into the neck he picked up the bottle, still clad in the brown paper bag in which it was sold. What was its significance? Could the killer have been standing in the alcove drinking, then grabbed Linda as she passed by?