The Stalk Club (23 page)

He worked his way down through the streets to the Steyne which
girdled the crescent shaped Manly foreshore.  Although it was only ten in the
morning there were already hundreds of long-socked tourists looking for
their next photo opportunity, thousands of squawking seagulls crapping on the
pavement and looking for their next chip and a handful of young people spending
their sickie on the famous beach.  Petersham had told his case officer that he worked
several shifts a week at his uncle’s takeaway shop.  Robards thought it would
be a convenient location for Pethersham to ply his trade to the profusion of
backpackers, tourists and anyone else in the area that was in need of a little chemical
pick-me-up.   

He scanned the shopfronts and picked out the takeaway
shop amongst all the others.  He had noticed the prices on their outdoor
billboards and wondered why anyone would pay near on twenty bucks for the privilege
of eating few greasy chips and a piece of fish likely to be imported from some
muddy Vietnamese creek.  As Robards approached the shop from the south, his
presence was noted by a man sitting at an outside table studying a form guide
for Randwick races later in the day.  Their eyes met and both instantly recognised
each other as a natural enemy.  Petersham took a brief moment to look around,
searching the street in the other direction for more enemies.  When he saw none,
he leapt up out of his chair like a startled rabbit, knocking chairs and a
table over and tripping himself up in the process.  He got up and took off at a
run in the opposite direction from which Robards was approaching.  Robards took
after him, moving with surprising speed and grace for a heavily built man.  Petersham
kicked off his thongs as he ran, in a frantic search for more speed, his skinny
brown legs flailing in all directions.  It was of little use however, as two
strong hands latched onto the back of his shirt and propelled him forcefully to
the ground.  Petersham did an unplanned forward roll and came to rest on his
back, staring up at the clear blue sky above.  Robards stood over him
enormously, a man-made eclipse of the sun.

“Harvey Petersham?” he growled through his teeth.

Petersham tried to think of something smart or tough to
say but his alcohol and drug abused mind refused to cooperate to any great
degree. 

“Yeah.  What do you want?  I ain’t done nothing.”

“Then why’d you run?”

Petersham picked himself up off the ground, surprised and
thankful that all the parts of his body were as they should be and still seemed
to work reasonably well. 

“I just don’t like cops ok?  Especially when they want to
talk to me.  I’d rather just sail under their radar you know.  Nuthin’
personal.  What’s all this about anyway?”

“It’s about your good friend Craig Thoms.”  Robards
noticed that Petersham’s eyes narrowed perceptibly at the mention of the name.

“What about him?”

“Well for starters, did you threaten him when he said he
wouldn’t be supplying you anymore?”

Harvey thought for a moment and smiled through a mouth
with a couple of missing teeth and a couple well on the way out.  He was a
walking talking advertisement for a national dental health program.

“What are you talking about?  I wouldn’t do nothing like
that.  He’s pulling your leg if that’s what he said.”

Robards rolled his eyes and thought of a drink he’d once had
at a party, a Harvey Wallbanger.  Although he didn’t like it much at the time,
the thought of banging Harvey into a wall greatly appealed to him, however when
he looked around he saw a host of potential camera bearing witnesses looking in
their direction.

“Craig Thoms said he’s been selling you drugs that he’s
been stealing from the hospital he works at.”

“Drugs?  I ain’t into no drugs.  That would be a
violation of my probation you know.”  Petersham was beginning to feel more
confident.  He started to wonder why he bothered to run at all seeing that he’d
never been particularly fast.

“Yeah I’m sure it would be.  How about last Friday
night.  Where were you then?”

“Dunno.  I can barely remember what I did this morning
let alone last week.” 

Robards had just about had enough and he closed in on Petersham
menacingly. 

“Just answer the fucking question or so help me I’m going
to mess you up and I don’t care who is watching,” he growled through clenched
teeth.

Petersham’s eyes went wide with genuine fear and he took
an involuntary step backwards.  “Ok, ok, let me think.  Last Friday night? 
Last Friday night?  Ah, that’s it, no wonder I can’t remember it.  I spent most
of last week visiting some friends in Newcastle.  Unfortunately I had a bit too
much to drink on the Friday and made a bit of a spectacle of myself.  The local
boys in blue picked me up and dragged me off to the lockup to sober up.  They
didn’t let me out until the next mornin.”

“You’d better not be bullshitting me because I won’t be
happy if I have to drive all the way out here to talk to you again.”

“I’m telling the truth.  Go check with them.  I been picked
up there a few times before.  Talk to Sergeant Garland.  He’ll vouch for me. 
He can probably tell you I was there most of the week.”

Robards decided he’d had enough for the time being and
left Harvey to his own devices.  On the walk back to his car he called the
Newcastle city centre police station and Sergeant Garland confirmed Petersham’s
story.  He had been picked up at eight p.m. in a local park, drunk as a skunk
and raising hell with a couple of friends and hadn’t been released until the next
morning.  There had also been sightings of him during the week. They hadn’t
charged Petersham with anything and didn’t bother to inform his probation case
officer.  Robards thought it a reasonable decision.  He had wasted enough of
his own time and energy on Petersham himself.  But as he made his way back toward
the city, on his way to Parramatta, a tight smile formed on his face.  The trip
hadn’t been a complete waste of time as he had learned that Petersham was most
probably a dead end.  He was most probably too stupid and small time to have
been involved with any mythical setting up of Craig Thoms.  Robards mentally
penciled in another small stroke of guilt on the hangman picture he was drawing
for Craig Thoms.

Nelson pushed the accelerator to the floor and heard the
engine respond in a barking growl.  The wind whipped over the windscreen and
battered his ear drums.  He grabbed fourth gear but eased up as he reached the
highway limit of one hundred and ten kilometres per hour - plus a little bit
extra for good luck - all too soon for his liking.  He was glad
to leave the city behind him and felt his spirits and energy lift as he wound
his way down the coast, occasionally glimpsing the grey white-capped Pacific Ocean to his left.  The day had dawned dark and ominous, but the clouds were
beginning to be pushed to the north by a south-easterly breeze that was gaining
in strength. 

Nelson hadn’t told Robards where he was going when he spoke
briefly to him earlier in the morning.  He felt slightly guilty about that, but
felt justified in keeping his cards close to his chest after he had read the article
in the mornings Telegraph on the Emilio Fogliani case.  The page three story
devoted half a page to the ongoing investigation and contained far too much
detail about the case for Nelson’s liking.  He pondered where the information might
have come from but soon gave up on the thought, conceding that it could have
come from one hundred different sources.  He decided to switch off his mobile
phone for a while because he didn’t want to be the first person Superintendent Crighton
spoke to after he read the story.  Let him take it out on someone else, Nelson mused.

He was pleased he had bet against the chance of rain and chosen
to take his Cobra convertible for the drive down the coast.  It was his pride
and joy.  He had built the car himself from a kit, and had originally expected
to have it finished within a year of getting it.  Seven years later he finally managed
to get it roadworthy and registered, although it still required some body work
on a few rust spots that had developed over time thanks to the salt sea air and
a paint job to cover the grey undercoat and its many blemishes.  The three
hundred and two cubic inch V8 engine rumbled beneath him.  The sound and
vibration of it hypnotised his senses and helped him put the case far from his
mind for a while.

After three hours of steady driving he crested the final
hill and saw the coastal town of Batemans Bay ahead of him.  He knew the area
well.  At the age of nineteen he had graduated as a cadet from Goulburn Police Academy
and had been posted to Narooma, some thirty minutes drive south of Batemans Bay. 
Back then, Batemans Bay and Narooma had been little more than sleepy hamlets
with just a few shops, fishing boats and beach houses.  But during the holiday
seasons, as with most coastal towns, they would witness an invasion of people
from Canberra, Sydney and the surrounding areas and became noisier, or livelier,
depending on your point of view.  Nelson was stationed at Narooma for just six
months before being posted back to Sydney at the first available opportunity. 
He hadn’t been back since.

He drove across the old steel truss Clyde River bridge
that once marked the northern entrance to the town and noticed that although
the town appeared to have changed considerably since he was last there, the
Clyde River remained unchanged and still looked clean, dark, cold and deep.  Despite
its size, the ebbing current moved swiftly towards the sea and was more than a
match for all but the strongest swimmer or the most determined soul.  Nelson marvelled
at the beauty of the river and vaguely promised himself he would take some
leave soon and come down for a week, maybe hire a boat and do some fishing for
flathead and bream.  However, deep down he knew he’d never get around to doing
it. 

Nelson had phoned ahead and spoken to Sergeant John Soward’s
wife, who told him the now-retired Sergeant Soward would be spending most
of the day at the local bowls club where he was a member and also worked a few
shifts a week behind the bar.  Casting his memory back he recalled his memories
of the man from all those years ago.  Although they had been stationed in towns
close in proximity to each other, their paths had only crossed a few times. 
Nelson, being straight out of the Academy had been sentenced to work almost
exclusively night shifts, whereas Soward’s seniority ensured he worked almost
exclusively days unless an emergency dragged him out.  Occasionally the Narooma
and Batemans Bay police joined forces when their limited numbers were insufficient
to deal with a particular problem and it was from these occasions that Nelson remembered
him. 

A few minutes later Nelson entered the bowls club. 
Despite being only ten a.m. it was already filling with senior citizens, playing
bowls and pokies, chatting with friends, drinking two dollar pots of beer and
reminiscing about how good things were back in their day. 

Nelson surveyed the club, scanning the male patrons for
Soward, idly thinking they all looked alike with their white clothes, grey hair
and wrinkled brown faces.  Nelson’s wondered if he was losing his touch as he
struggled to find a face that even vaguely matched his memory.  He then remembered
what Soward’s wife had told him in that he sometimes worked behind the bar and
spotted him serving with a cheery smile.  Nelson studied the man and had to
concede that the years had been good to him as he still had a full head of
hair, albeit completely grey now, had dropped a good fifteen kilograms off
Nelson’s memory of him and looked fit and strong for his age.

He had considered speaking with Soward over the phone about
the vehicular manslaughter case that Craig Thoms had been a suspect in some
years previously, but decided to take the time to drive down to see him and show
him a few photographs to help jog his memory.  He hoped he wasn’t wasting half
a day of his precious time and a full tank of LPG, but either way, he felt a
desire to lay it to rest before moving in any other direction with the case. 
It was a thin and possibly meaningless lead, yet it still nagged at him
sufficiently for him to want to chase it to ground. Leave no stone unturned, he
reminded himself.  It was one of Detective Mark Neale’s commandments that he
had adopted as his own and he considered it to be one of the reasons for his
high clearance rate of cases.    

Nelson made his way to the bar and waited for a bunch of
octogenarians to shuffle back to the bowling green with their cheap beer. 
Soward noted his presence immediately as being out of place and stared at him. 
He recognised a fellow police officer when he saw one but was unable to forge
any connections with his past on this occasion.  Nelson smiled in amusement. 
In contrast to Nelson’s excellent memory for faces was the fact that few people
seemed to remember him.  His soft, plain features and generally quiet demeanour
– except when he was riled - seemed to give him a natural anonymity from people
he didn’t regularly deal with.  He often wondered if he’d missed his calling in
life and should be working for ASIO as a spy of some sort.  To be fair, Nelson
hadn’t expected Soward to remember him.  To Soward he was probably just one of many
probationary constables who had done their brief stint at a country station
before heading back to the city, never to be seen or heard of again.