Death Delights (22 page)

‘It’s like the other three murders in certain respects,’ I heard Dr Strachan saying as I approached one of the rooms off the entrance.

‘There you are,’ Bob said, beckoning me over. Through the half-opened door I could see hundreds of books on shelves from floor to ceiling behind him, and the sombre, rich colours of a traditional gentleman’s study. As I came in, Bradley Strachan straightened up from where he’d been stooping and for the first time I was able to see the dead man lying in his blood on the marble floor, the bloodied, crumpled Persian rug under him. His clothes were disarrayed, trousers around his ankles, and bloody wounds at the groin and lower belly gaped in the brilliant lights of the police video unit. It all looked sickeningly familiar until I looked closer. Maybe this time the killer had been interrupted. The murdered man’s balding head was turned to the left, looking away and I saw a severe laceration on the side of his head. He had been a solid, even portly man, but I’ve noticed that some corpses look as if they’ve been deflated after death and this was one such. I was aware of Bob leaving the room and as I studied the details of the victim, ideas began forming in my mind. And some questions.

‘Let’s get him back,’ said Dr Strachan, ‘when you fellows have got all you need.’ He left the room, peeling off his gloves, loosening his Tyvek spacesuit, looking back at me. ‘Jack, see you back at the morgue. Bob will fill you in.’

I followed him out into the entrance area and looked around for my colleague, but couldn’t see him anywhere in the large open plan expanse.

‘We found this pulled out of the shelves.’ Dr Strachan indicated a CD cover, already labelled and safely housed in plastic by the Crime Scene people. It sported a black and red rose design across it, and written in decorated script the title:
The Last Castrato
. The killer was sending us a message, even if it was hardly subtle.

‘He’s out the back on the phone,’ said a tall young Physical Evidence detective, answering my question of a moment ago. ‘Couldn’t get a signal in here.’

I walked across the wide marble stretch, pondering the CD cover. Was our killer now turning to irony?

I walked through a flagstoned cloister that gave onto a magnificent swimming pool outside, surrounded by classic pillars and urns of flowers tumbling from a high wall. Bob was coming towards me, hooking his mobile on his hip.

‘Who was he?’ I asked, referring to the bloodied corpse inside. We walked back into the house together and I paused to admire the magnificent terracotta tubs of gardenias that lined the flagstoned area between the house and pool.

‘Dr Jeremy Guildthorpe,’ said Bob, ‘and Bradley reckons he was killed sometime after midnight. Knife wounds. A head injury. There’s no sign of forced entry and his wife said she didn’t hear anything. She found him when she went to see why he wasn’t coming to bed.’ I realised the staccato screaming from upstairs had stopped.

‘That,’ he said, tapping the mobile riding his hip, ‘was one of the brass from the Commissioner’s office demanding to know when we’re going to pull our fingers out and get a result on these killings.’

‘These killings?’ I said, indicating the room behind us, ‘or this killing? The bloke in there still has his equipment.’

Bob didn’t answer for a long moment. ‘The thing is,’ he said, ‘that this guy is well connected. He’s a distant mate of the Premier’s. Not exactly A-list, but top of the Bs.’

I looked around at the dark paintings in heavy gilt frames, the graceful silver epergne standing on a carved cedar table. Opposite me, a huge pre-Raphaelite oil painting of the destruction of Pompeii took up the length of the wall under the curved staircase. Men, women and children in classical attire looked back at fire in a dark sky. Behind them, Corinthian columns crumbled and the earth was split near their sandalled feet, reminding me of the words of Jeramiah I’d read under the obscene drawings.

‘“A whirlwind of the Lord is gone forth in fury”,’ I misquoted, enjoying the expression on my colleague’s face.

‘I didn’t know you were of a religious bent,’ said Bob in his mild way.

‘I read it in Nesbitt’s Bible,’ I told him. ‘It’s stayed with me.’ We walked back into the study and I turned my attention to the dead man.

‘Recently released from prison?’ I asked, already knowing the answer.

Bob shook his head. ‘Cleanskin.’

I pondered this. ‘What sort of doctor was he?’ I asked.

‘Doctor of theology,’ said Bob. ‘The study of God.’

Behind me, Dr Jeremy Guildthorpe, now secured in a body bag, was on his way to his final thorough medical examination. Several people went out at the same time and the house felt less crowded.

In my pocket, in a heavy envelope, was the little black book I’d found in the garage where Bevan Treweeke had suicided. ‘Can you get someone reliable in Child Protection to run a check on any names and phone numbers in this?’ I half pulled the notebook out before slipping it back inside the envelope again. ‘In connection with the abduction of Rosie McCain? And let me know the results?’ I briefly told him about Colin Swartz and the Blackheath hanging. Bob nodded and took the envelope.

Behind me I could hear a conversation and I looked around to see a plump woman in floral slacks and a pale blue coat that reminded me of something a dentist might wear, talking between two Crime Scene detectives.

‘It’s not my job,’ said the woman. ‘I’m not touching it. I was hardly ever allowed in there anyway.’ She looked from one man to the other. ‘Vacuum and damp mop. No hands and knees. Dust and wipe all surfaces. Windows, venetian blinds and ovens by arrangement. That’s what it says in my contract. Not this sort of thing.’

‘We’ll need to ask you a few questions,’ the shorter detective said. ‘Just routine.’

I moved over to join them. The woman hadn’t been here when I arrived.

‘How did you get in here?’ I asked.

‘I live here, sonny boy,’ she said smartly. ‘I could very well ask the same thing of you.’ After a bit of sparring, she settled down and I noticed that her blue eyes were filled with tears. ‘He was such a nice man, you know. Always thinking of others.’

I remained silent, a technique I had always used to good effect during interrogations. ‘He helped lots of people, you know,’ she said. ‘Young ones. Very generous with his time. Now look what’s happened. It’s a disgrace. What’s happening in this world?’

She hadn’t heard anything or anyone last night either, she told me, in answer to my questions, but, as she pointed out, the house was spacious and the bedrooms tucked away from the entertaining areas, especially hers, right at the other end of the upper floor. I took Mrs O’Neil’s name and phone number for future reference.

‘That’s two out of four you’ve attended now,’ said Bob, when we were alone again.

‘Anything spring to your mind?’ I said.

‘You go first.’ I’d worked with Bob long enough to know what this meant. He wanted more time to digest what he’d seen. Possibly he’d wait for the PM results before he’d say anything. We were making our way back towards the entrance and behind us I could hear the video unit dismantling lights and joking.

‘Did you see that piece in yesterday’s paper? You looked like a startled rabbit.’

‘Me?’

‘That woman journalist,’ Bob was saying, ‘did a big spread on the castration killings and the use of science in analysing physical evidence.’ I remembered how I’d turned straight into Merrilyn’s flashlight that night in the park. He noticed my face. ‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘The photograph?’

‘Shit,’ I said. No one in our game likes to be photographed. You never know who might see a photograph. Might remember your face next time. I reminded myself I was no longer in the job, but was now just a hidden technician.

‘It wasn’t a bad piece as they go,’ Bob said. ‘At least she put the record straight about the canine DNA. I won’t have to put up with people like the fellow who rang today to tell me that the killings were UFO abductions that had gone wrong. Reckoned his group had found abnormally high levels of phosphorous at each crime scene.’ He leaned in closer as we stepped outside, past the uniform at the door and around the blue and white tape.

‘Anything more on those anonymous letters of yours?’ Bob asked. I shook my head. ‘Should hear something in a day or so,’ I said. ‘But you know how it is. Refined results aren’t worth a damn without something to match against.’

‘How’s your daughter?’

‘Still unconscious.’

‘But you’ve got her back.’

‘Yes. And I want to talk to you sometime,’ I added, ‘about something I found in her possession.’ I lowered my voice and looked around. It’d been a long time since we’d been partners in the old days but that’s what it felt like now. I had to tell my partner something this big. ‘Jacinta had an accounts book and a lot of money with her in a bag.’

‘Jesus,’ said Bob. ‘Whose is it?

‘At this stage I’ve no idea,’ I said. ‘She’d been living with a dealer. Don’t know the name. Pigrooter’s looking into it for me.’

‘How much is a lot? And you be careful of Pigrooter.’

‘Well over two hundred. He’s not my cup of tea, Bob,’ I said.

‘Who else knows you’ve got it?’

‘Only you,’ I said.

‘Let’s leave it like that,’ said Bob. ‘I’ll talk to Stan Lovell in the Drug Squad. He might’ve heard something. He’s usually on the money.’

‘I’m going home,’ I said. ‘I’m buggered.’

‘Call me in the morning,’ said Bob.

‘Where can I get some decent take-away food round here?’ I asked as I climbed into my car and slammed the door. I said I would call him and drove home.

•

Greg wasn’t there and I remembered he was staying at Paddy’s place. He’d even left the phone number written for me on the dining table. My son was growing up into a responsible adult. He’d also made another note under this.
Iona Seymour rang. Wants to change the meeting place. Can you meet her at her place same time? 293 Reiby Street, Annandale.
Under this, my son had drawn a great big question mark followed by several exclamation marks. Who is this woman, he was asking. I had to admit to myself that it was a good question.

When I’d eaten my take-away satay chicken I searched through my bag of tools and found the pliers. In my bedroom, I took the torch out of the drawer and put it down next to me. It was easy to pull out the tacks that pinned the section of new floorboards into position. As I lifted them away, the scent of musty earth arose, reminding me of something I didn’t want to think about—the cubby house down the backyard of our old place in Springbrook and the smell of its earthen floor and rotting timber frames. I flashed the torch around the cavity under the floorboards. Beneath me was the dusty ground; nearby, I could see the sandstone pillars that supported the house. I went back to the living room and brought Jacinta’s bag into my bedroom. Kneeling on the floor, I counted and stacked the money. Two hundred and thirty three thousand dollars in large denomination used notes. I leaned back on my heels, surprised at how little space it took up as I stowed it in the floor cavity. I took the large maroon accounts book out to the living area and flicked through it in the better light. A criminal organisation runs just like any other big business and I was holding the records of a drug distribution enterprise. Orders, deliveries, bets, payoffs and payments all have to be recorded. Although I knew I was looking at a coded system, there were people down in Canberra with sophisticated software who were capable of busting any code. The names were obviously nicknames, but the mobile numbers were very real. And very traceable. Someone would be looking for this accounts book even more than the money. I put the book back with the money, replaced the floorboards and looked around. If I moved the bed from its current position and put it up against the wall, the whole area was further hidden. I washed my hands. I needed more information before I could make another move but whoever was missing their records and their money would soon be making a noise about it.

•

Next morning, I went down to the council art exhibition to see my
Morning Mist
in all its glory. There were only a few people wandering around and I took the single sheet printed catalogue from a table near the entrance with me as I joined them in the foyer of the library. I walked around, noting the wide variety of talents and subjects collected here. Most of it wasn’t very good, lots of hackneyed scenery, Harbour views with yachts, flowers in vases, and the occasional strong work jumping out at me.
Morning Mist
had a reasonably good position in a well-lit area of the hall and I felt pleased when I saw the second prize certificate pinned underneath it. I kept wandering around and was about to leave, barely looking at the catalogue when I was drawn to a monochrome triptych of three young girls, portraits in oval frames, set in a wide frame. Something about the middle girl seemed familiar. I scanned the catalogue and found it: number 15 was titled
Murdered Girls
. I studied the art work more closely. I swallowed hard. My vision seemed to waver and for a second I thought I might overbalance. Now I understood why the middle girl looked familiar. I stopped breathing. My heart raced and I could feel it thumping under my ribs. On her right was Amanda Smith, a girl whose murder had galvanised Sydney twenty years ago and on the left, Tiffany Jo Bentley, murdered by Warren Gumley less than a decade ago. Smiling at me from a quarter of a century away was the girl in the middle, my sister, Rosie. I realised my knees were weakening and I leaned back against the wall. There she was, with Amanda Smith, whose murder had been one of my first investigations, and Tiffany Jo Bentley. The rational part of my brain kept telling me it was surely just a coincidence, but another voice inside was becoming insistent. What’s going on, it was asking. Everywhere I went, Rosie seemed to be popping up. I’m doing the best I can, Rosie, I told her. I’m doing what you want. I’m getting the Holden examined, I’m going to chase up the names in Bevan Treweeke’s nasty black book. What more can I do?

I stayed there against the wall, pretending to be studying the painting opposite, a beach scene with loads of cobalt blue taking up most of the canvas. The girls in the triptych wore summer dresses, and the high contrast between light and shadow on their faces implied the Australian summer sun. Amanda Smith’s hair was tied back with little clips. Tiffany Jo smiled coyly, looking around to face the artist, and I remembered that photograph from the newspapers. Then I looked more closely at the figure of my sister. Around her neck was a tiny necklace. My breathing stopped again. Although the triptych was in black and white, I knew that necklace. It was the blue and yellow enamel flowers on silver that I’d given her for her thirteenth birthday, three days before she disappeared. Nobody in the whole world, except perhaps my father, if he were pressed, knew about that necklace. Yet someone had painted her wearing it. That someone had only three days to do it in. I put the personal shock away in a box in my mind and called on my professional self. I noted the name of the artist in the catalogue: Jeffrey Saunders. Within an hour, I had the man’s address from his application form and was on my way.