Tropic of Death (27 page)

‘Okay.’

‘I know I’m seen as something of a volatile character,’ Billy added. ‘Name a boxing champ who isn’t. But I can’t be blamed for unfounded rumours and gossip that circulate. Every celebrity cops that. I may be colourful but I’m straight.’

Rita knew he was as straight as the flashy gold jewellery looped around his neck.

‘Who’s the man in the mud?’ she asked aggressively.

Billy scowled at her. ‘How the fuck should I know?’

‘We’ve got evidence that links him to you.’

‘What evidence?’

‘It’s confidential to the investigation.’

‘More crap. You’re full of it, Van Hassel.’

His reaction seemed genuine and so was his annoyance, but she had no intention of backing off.

‘What’s your connection with Whitley Sands?’

‘The research base?’ He seemed puzzled, though hesitant. ‘My only connection is social. Civic receptions and the like. What the hell has that got to do with anything?’

Was there a hint of uncertainty in his response? Rita sensed something of the sort so she blurted out, ‘What’s your relationship with Captain Roy Maddox?’

It was a rash question but so was Billy’s reaction. He just stared at her, as if he didn’t know how to answer. For a moment he said nothing, apparently trying to second guess the basis of Rita’s query and nervous about which way to commit himself.

‘That’s it!’ insisted the solicitor, pushing back his chair and standing up. ‘This is nothing but a fishing expedition.

Billy, I’m instructing you to say nothing more. We’re leaving immediately.’

This time Billy didn’t argue with his lawyer. He complied instantly, rising to his feet, still looking unsure of himself. He left the room with nothing more than a farewell grunt to Jarrett, who looked at Rita, amazed.

‘Bugger me,’ he said. ‘What the hell is going on between Bowers and Maddox? What’s their common interest?’

‘Something Billy can’t risk talking about. One thing’s for sure

- it’s not his boxing prowess.’

‘And I thought he was handling himself well,’ conceded Jarrett.

‘I had him ahead on points till you landed that sucker punch.

What made you ask the question?’

‘Maddox was seen at the Diamond and it occurred to me Rachel’s death was mutually convenient to both of them.’

‘If they’re acting in tandem, what does it mean?’

‘Nothing good.’ Rita frowned. ‘Looks like the war on terror’s produced an unholy alliance.’

Rita was thinking hard but no matter which way she looked at it she couldn’t decipher the meaning of a relationship between Billy Bowers and Captain Roy Maddox. Nor did she know how to factor it into the series of murders, other than through an unlikely set of coincidences, something she quickly ruled out. Although Billy hadn’t confirmed any dealings with the base security director, his stunned reaction was indicative of something he couldn’t deny and his silence spoke of something he couldn’t reveal.

After pasting the latest crime-scene photos to her whiteboard she paced up and down the exhibit room, going through a mental list of possibilities without gaining a glimmer of clarity. The decapitations appeared to be symbolic and the continued use of the nail gun remained a highly significant element, unless it was a deliberate misdirection. And the severed hands - what did the killer want with them? Were they trophies for a psychotic personality, or were they being souvenired for a practical purpose?

If so, the reason escaped her. She stopped and stood, hands on hips, contemplating the nineteenth-century oil painting with the sinister history,
The Hunting Party
, and admitted to herself that she was baffled.

Her mobile rang. It was Jarrett.

‘Thought I should warn you,’ he said. ‘Bryce has sent me to the airport to welcome back the Homicide Squad. This time they’re coming mob-handed. They’re setting up a taskforce.’

‘Who’s heading it?’ Rita asked.

‘Same guy who was up here before, Bob Sutcliffe. Detective senior sergeant.’

‘What’s he like?’

‘Not as friendly as he looks. And he’s got ambitions. I reckon he’s got his eye on promotion by cracking this case.’

‘You don’t sound happy, Jarrett.’

‘Bryce took a break from the review to haul me into his office for a lecture. That’s after Sutcliffe phoned me from Brisbane. Gave my lughole a bashing.’

‘Over what?’

‘Billy Bowers: why isn’t he under arrest? Why haven’t I applied for search warrants? Why aren’t we tearing apart his home and office? I’m being told I’ve fumbled the first decent lead in the investigation. What do you think?’

Rita wasn’t sure what to say, though she’d thought herself that Jarrett had been a bit too cosy with Billy.

‘No,’ she answered at last. ‘I don’t think we miscalculated. Bowers is smart. He’s also lawyered up and came in of his own accord.

And he’s right about what we’ve got on him. It’s circumstantial at best. But if the squad detectives want to get tough with him that’s fine by me.’

‘Yeah. We can let them run with it. Looks like Billy’s in for a real grilling when he gets back from the island.’

‘I hope that’s not misplaced sympathy.’

‘Only for myself. I should’ve put more pressure on him. By the way, Sutcliffe wants to see a detailed profile from you when he arrives.’

‘No problem. I’ll update the one I’ve been working on. What’s on your agenda?’

‘Oh, that’s easy,’ grumbled Jarrett. ‘I get to play shit-kicker to the boys from Brisbane.’

Rita busied herself for the next couple of hours in refining the profile. It pointed to a serial killer on a mission of vengeance; an intelligent, organised sociopath; a tall, powerfully built man trained in the use of violence; a self-appointed executioner targeting specific individuals perceived as a threat to his way of life.

When she printed it, the full outline covered two A4 pages.

It was clear, well argued and consistent with four brutal murders while referring to the pertinent facts of the crimes. What it didn’t refer to was the broader context, and it didn’t need to. The job of a criminal profiler was to focus on the perpetrator and Rita had done just that. But she knew it wasn’t the complete picture.

That would have to include things she wasn’t supposed to know.

Things like a link to the research base and the role of national security. Things like the murder of Steinberg.

She was still puzzling over it all when a man pushed open the door and sauntered in, coffee cup in hand, his eyes casually scanning the room before looking steadily at Rita.

‘So this is where they’ve got you holed up,’ he said, a sly smile on his face.

Though she’d never encountered him before, she saw immediately that this man was relaxed and confident in his abilities. That was thanks in part to a mental toughness that showed in the line of his jaw and an unwavering gaze. Somewhere in his late thirties, he had a friendly face and a personable manner, along with a stocky build and ruffled sandy hair. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt and chinos, and it was only his bearing that gave him away as a fellow police officer.

‘Welcome to my lair,’ said Rita, returning the smile as he pulled up a chair and sat across the desk from her. ‘You’re DSS

Bob Sutcliffe, I take it.’

‘Yep, that’s me.’ He reached over and shook her hand. ‘Nice to meet you, Van Hassel. I’m looking forward to working with you.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘I’ve read your background and I’m impressed. I’m glad you’re here.’

‘Unlike some senior officers.’

‘Forget the local wallopers. This is my case for the duration now, and we’re gonna get on like a house on fire.’

‘Steve Jarrett’s done some good work,’ she put in.

‘Jarrett blew it,’ said Sutcliffe. ‘Instead of sweating a prime suspect, he got chummy and let him stroll off. I’ve just listened to the tape. I prefer your style - in the bastard’s face.’ He put down the cup and gestured at the printed sheets on her desk. ‘If that’s the profile, can I take a look?’

‘Of course.’

She handed him the two pages and watched him read them, a frown of concentration on his face. When he’d finished he replaced them on the desk, picked up the cup and drank from it without looking at her, his mind digesting the implications of her findings.

‘I didn’t need convincing,’ he said at last. ‘But that profile fits Bowers to a tee.’

‘It’s not deliberate,’ she said quickly. ‘I’m not pointing the finger at him. I’ve gone out of my way to be objective in compiling that outline. And remember, it’s just a
type
that’s indicated, not a particular individual. A profile isn’t evidence.’

‘I’m aware of that. But it narrows the field and, right now, I’m looking at a field of one. My team will find the evidence.’ He turned to her with a serious expression. ‘You’ve got this history with Bowers. So, tell me, is he capable of killing?’

‘No doubt at all,’ she answered. ‘And without compunction. At least one homicide in Melbourne was down to him, but I couldn’t prove it. These murders, though, they’re of a different scale and complexity. There are factors that elude me.’

‘Ah.’ He sighed. ‘The bee in your bonnet about the research base. Bryce filled me in. And what’s all this about trying to put Bowers and Captain Maddox together as buddies? Was the lawyer right? Were you just fishing?’

‘Maybe. But I got a bite!’

‘Well, it’s one you’re going to have to toss back.’

‘So you’ve been told too,’ suggested Rita. ‘No muddying the water and so on.’

‘That’s the gist of it,’ Sutcliffe admitted. ‘Whitley Sands is off-limits to this case. And that comes from a much higher level than me. Anyway, I don’t see that as a problem. In my opinion, Rachel’s head being stuck on a pole facing the gates was a ploy to make us think someone inside the base was the killer. If you look at it that way, it’s a deliberate distraction.’

‘You’re right, I suppose, from the point of view of the investigation,’ agreed Rita. ‘You’ve got an obvious candidate in your sights. Billy the Beast incarnate.’

‘Yeah, and I don’t want to screw up.’ He nodded. ‘You know, I was never a fan of his. Not even when he was basking in glory as a world champion. To me, there was something wrong about him. An arrogance. His celebrity status in Melbourne’s gangland doesn’t surprise me at all.’ Sutcliffe gave a grunt of frustration.

‘Talking of which, Jarrett’s given him the all-clear to lord it among his underworld pals on Hamilton Island.’

‘The wedding he’s going to,’ asked Rita, ‘is it Vic Barrano’s?’

‘That’s right. I’d haul Bowers’ arse straight back for more questioning if I could, but I’d need another warrant just to get through the gate of Barrano’s villa. And that ain’t going to happen.’

‘I don’t know if it helps,’ she said. ‘But I can get through the gate.’

‘How?’

‘My best friend, Lola. She works for the magazine covering the wedding. Exclusive rights. She’s offered me a pass.’

‘Is that so?’ Sutcliffe hunched forward in thought, idly tapping his knuckle against his lips. ‘That’s an opportunity we shouldn’t waste.’

‘What have you got in mind?’

‘A pincer movement,’ he answered. ‘My boys are in the process of executing warrants on Billy’s properties in Whitley. We’ll turn over everything. But it’d be handy to keep tabs on him at the same time.’

‘Are you saying you want me to go? Become a wedding crasher?’

‘Why not?’ He eased back in the chair, hands behind his head.

‘But stay in the background as long as you can. Mingle - keep your ear to the ground. Billy and his chums will be in their comfort zone, getting drunk, shooting their mouths off. They could let something slip. If you can get anything on him - any line on where his funds come from, how he bankrolls his schemes - we can dig deeper. It’d also give me another pressure point when I drag him back in for a proper grilling.’

‘And when he spots me there?’ asked Rita. ‘Should I rattle his cage?’

‘Yeah, go for it,’ nodded Sutcliffe. ‘And let’s face it - you’re perfect for that job.’

As the twin-engine aircraft touched down on Hamilton Island a strange sense of detachment washed over Rita. It was as if she could set aside the claustrophobic intensity she’d been working under in Whitley and take something of a break in what was, after all, simply a holiday resort surrounded by the Coral Sea.

She’d forewarned Lola that her visit would include some work.

Clocking the crooks
, was how she’d described it.

‘I don’t give a flying fuck,’ was Lola’s response. ‘As long as we do plenty of drinking.’

Rita collected the keys to her cabin, dumped her laptop and flight bags, and strolled under palm trees to the Beach House Restaurant, where Lola was waiting on the deck above the sand with chilled white wine and oysters. Shrieking with delight, Lola jumped up and hugged Rita before pushing her into a chair and pouring a glass of wine.

‘I got an outside table so we can watch the tourists going arse over tit on their jet skis,’ she explained, raising her glass. ‘Cheers!’

‘Cheers!’ echoed Rita. ‘I need to decompress.’

‘Okay. Before anything else, get it off your chest,’ insisted Lola.

‘What’s stressing you out?’

Rita thought before answering. ‘Simulation.’

‘Oh my God!’ Lola groaned. ‘I should never expect a simple answer from you!’

‘Ever read
Through the Looking-Glass
?’

‘The
Alice
story? I was brought up on it. My English nanny tormented me with the book when I was a kid in Ecuador. It gave me the creeps. Still does.’

‘Why?’

‘Nothing is what it seems. It’s full of perverse logic. And every little fucker in it is some kind of freak or wacko. As a story to help kids make sense of the world, it sucks!’

‘I seem to have touched a raw nerve,’ observed Rita.

‘Lewis Carroll must’ve been an uptight geek with a warped view of life.’

‘He was a mathematician.’

‘Huh! Speaks for itself.’ Lola took a big gulp of wine. ‘Anyway, what’s your point?’

‘I’m dealing with the same sort of distorted reality,’ Rita replied.