Текст книги "An Easeful Death"
Автор книги: Felicity Young
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20
The term ‘going postal’ came about in reference to a series of incidents involving the US Postal Service in which employees opened fire and killed colleagues after a build-up of frustrations. The last of these frustrations, or the last straw, if you will, is commonly referred to as the ‘trigger’.
De Vakey, The Pursuit of Evil
Stevie and De Vakey met up with the cleaning foreman in Central’s fourth-floor janitor’s room. Bob Carmody leaned on the doorframe and watched with a smirk on his face as Stevie conducted a methodical search of Martin Sparrow’s domain. She wasn’t quite sure what she was looking for and wasn’t surprised when she found nothing other than what might be expected in a janitor’s room. No disturbing photographs, clumps of hair or other grisly trophies to connect Sparrow to the Birkby and Royce murders. Just rows of cleaning products and equipment, a kettle, some chipped cups and an unpleasant ammonia smell from somewhere under the sink.
Her head spun when she crouched to reach a lidless bottle of brown liquid, forcing her to make a grab for the counter to retain her balance. De Vakey reached for her arm to steady her. She shook him off, annoyed that he should draw the attention of the cleaning foreman with his lecherous sneer, his grey prickled face and eyes she was sure had been focused on her arse for the entire length of the search.
The contents of the bottle made her gag. She handed it to De Vakey and turned away for some deep breaths. After a cautious sniff he raised an eyebrow and addressed the foreman.
‘Can you explain why there would be a container of urine under the sink?’
Carmody chuckled. ‘Oh, that, yes, I think I know what that’s all about. Martin’s been having some trouble with Stan, the afternoon guy. Our Martin doesn’t have much of a sense of humour and I’m afraid Stan’s been yanking his chain a bit lately.’
‘Sparrow complained to you about it, did he?’ Stevie asked.
‘Oh yeah, all the time.’
De Vakey frowned. ‘And what did you do about this bullying?’
Carmody shrugged. ‘Well, I would never have actually called it bullying, more like just fooling around. What could I do? I told Stan to leave off and he obviously didn’t. Milky was getting on my nerves anyway, always writing me formal letters, always complaining about something or other. Reckoned he was going to report us all to the board for workplace discrimination. I was hoping he’d save everyone some grief by resigning. That’s why I didn’t do all that much about the little gifts Stan had been leaving him.’
‘I’d like to see a sample of one of Mr Sparrow’s letters, if I may,’ De Vakey said to Carmody.
‘No worries, mate, I’ve got the latest in my pocket. They’re always good for a laugh.’
He reached into his shirt pocket. In profile his round, stubbled cheek looked like the magnified abdomen of an insect.
‘Writes fluently, reasonably educated.’ De Vakey said after a quick glance at the handwritten letter. He cleared his throat and read aloud.
Dear Mr Carmody,
Seeing as you have done nothing about my last letter, I am presuming that you lost it. I would like to state again how unhappy I am at the work conditions I have been experiencing at Central since you took over as foreman. I have made a list of complaints that I hope you will act upon:
1) Intimidation and stirring, especially by Stan Donaldson on afternoons. Examples of such stirring are urine in the cleaning dispenser, laxative in the coffee and itching powder in the vacuum bag.
De Vakey was interrupted at this point by a guffaw from Carmody. ‘That’s a new one, in the vacuum bag.’
Stevie pressed her lips into a tight line, refusing the obnoxious man the benefit of a response.
As De Vakey continued to read, his face betrayed little expression, though Stevie knew him well enough now to detect the anger building in his cool tone.
2) I am always last to get re-stocked and am sometimes missing vital products when I do my rounds.
3) I have had to work the last six Wednesdays despite my requests to sometimes have that night off for church youth service.
4) The under-supply of toilet paper in the staff toilets near the canteen.
5) The frequent lack of parking space for cleaning staff—
‘As if I can do anything about that,’ Carmody interrupted.
I hope this time you will take note of my complaints, otherwise I will have to go to the union and then you will be very inconvenienced.
Yours sincerely,
Martin Sparrow.
De Vakey folded the letter and put it in his pocket, let out his breath and fixed Carmody with a cold stare.
Uncomfortable now, Carmody looked to Stevie for support. When he saw none was forthcoming he looked from one to the other and rolled his eyes. ‘Well, what was I supposed to have done? You’re looking at me as if this is all my fault.’
‘How long have you been the cleaning foreman?’ Stevie asked.
‘About a year.’
De Vakey asked, ‘Was Sparrow writing angry letters like this to your predecessor?’
Carmody scratched his chin. ‘I don’t know.’
‘How long has he worked at Central?’ De Vakey asked
‘Since Noah was a boy. It’s all here. I brought his employment record with me like you asked.’
Carmody removed a computer printout from his pocket and smoothed it out on the benchtop. Stevie and De Vakey moved to stand alongside him. She jotted down the name and address of Sparrow’s next of kin, his mother, in her notebook. As she looked up she noticed a work roster taped to the wall above the benchtop. She traced the dates and matched the names, noticing that Sparrow had worked on Thursday night—the night Michelle’s body had been left in the department store.
She tapped at it with her finger. ‘I see he was at work Thursday night.’
‘Actually, no. Not long after he arrived he got a personal phone call. His mother had had a bad turn and he went home. Took the rest of the night off.’
Interesting.
‘Tell me what you know about this man Sparrow,’ De Vakey asked the foreman.
‘It might be easier if you tell me what he’s supposed to have done.’
‘He was caught breaking and entering an apartment block,’ Stevie said. ‘Right now he’s in a coma and can’t be interviewed. We’re hoping you can help us find out what he’s been up to.’
The man puffed with self-importance. ‘Of course, I’d be happy to help,’ he said, tucking the printout back in his pocket. ‘He was quiet, except when he was complaining about something. Kept to himself, didn’t mix with the others.’
‘Was he a good honest worker?’ De Vakey asked.
‘Yes, I suppose so. Never heard any complaints about his work. He was never caught stealing or anything.’
‘Did you try talking to him when he first started sending his angry letters?’ De Vakey asked.
‘Well, I kinda told him, very polite an’ all, that he was making mountains out of molehills.’
‘So you never asked him how he was or if there was anything going on at home or about his health that might have been upsetting him? He’s an albino, people like that can have all kinds of health problems. The man has suddenly become very angry, he might have snapped and we need to find out what triggered that snap.’
‘For frigg’s sake, I’m not a shrink. He comes to work, does his job and then goes home. That’s what’s important to me.’
De Vakey said nothing and fixed the foreman with a penetrating gaze. Carmody began to transfer his weight from one foot to another.
Stevie said, ‘Thanks for your help, Mr Carmody. If we need to ask you any more questions, we’ll give you a buzz.’
‘So I take it Sparrow won’t be coming back to work,’ Carmody said.
‘No. Even if he makes a full recovery he won’t be working as a cleaner again.’
‘Bugger me. I suppose I’m going to have to find a replacement then, aren’t I?’
***
As they walked down the corridor towards the lifts, De Vakey said to Stevie, ‘Sparrow certainly fits the profile: someone who’s been bullied, probably all of his life, wanting to get back at society.’
‘Yes, and we all agree it’s someone with some kind of police involvement. He works closely with us and he’s unhappy with his working conditions. Maybe Stan’s bullying was the trigger.’
De Vakey shook his head and sighed. ‘It’s too easy.’
Stevie shrugged. ‘It’s been confirmed he was seen having coffee with Michelle. They were arguing just before she disappeared. He could have nabbed her then, kept her prisoner somewhere, then returned when he left work early that night to kill and pose her in the shop. The next night I catch him in her flat. Surely this evidence, plus his profile adds up to something.’
‘It’s all circumstantial, and still doesn’t explain the attack on you and the theft of Michelle’s papers.’
Stevie jabbed at the lift button. ‘You’ve told us how manipulative these kinds of killers are. Maybe a couple of guys he’d been messing with suddenly realised what he was up to and tried to knock him off.’ They entered the lift and began their descent. ‘You didn’t see the look on his face just before the attack,’ Stevie added. ‘I did. I’m sure he knew them.’
She stepped out before the doors had fully opened, almost crashing into Angus, who was waiting to go up.
‘Just who I wanted to catch up with,’ Angus said. He pulled Stevie away from the lift doors towards the front reception desk, beckoning De Vakey to follow.
The lobby was as chaotic as usual, an assorted bunch of people milling around the front desk representative of every walk of life, the full gamut of human emotion. Stevie would never forget her time at the front desk and could only feel sorry for the uniforms manning it now. The atmosphere here always made her think of a jar of volatile chemicals. Mixed the wrong way or clumsily handled, the place was a bomb waiting to go off.
Angus frowned when a drunk began his rendition of ‘C’mon Aussie C’mon’. It was evident they would not be able to talk here. A cats’ chorus of wails broke out from the cell area, where a young constable hurried with a mop and bucket. Angus rolled his eyes and indicated a nearby interview room with a tilt of his head.
‘Peace at last.’ He closed the door on the noise and gave Stevie a hurried smile. ‘First of all, Stevie, how’s the head? I wasn’t expecting you to be out of hospital so soon.’
‘It’s fine, thanks.’ She was already sick of people asking her how her head was.
‘Good, a couple of things, then. You’ll be interested to know the bottle you and De Vakey picked up in Wellington Street had a beauty of a print on the neck.’
‘Yesssss.’ She drove a fist into her hand and beamed at De Vakey.
‘It belongs to that old dero, Joshua Cuthbert.’
Stevie looked at Angus, puzzled. ‘Wasn’t he questioned already? He’s there every night, rain, hail or shine. Everyone knows that part of Wellington Street is his patch.’
‘Yes, of course he was questioned. Initially he said he wasn’t there, probably just didn’t want to get involved. He changed his tune when we told him about the prints. So far we haven’t got much else out of him, but for a free feed he’s agreed to come and watch the re-enactment tomorrow night to see if anything jogs his memory.’ Angus looked at Stevie and frowned. ‘Come to think of it, you shouldn’t be out and about with stitches in your head. Perhaps I should see if I can get someone else?’
‘Angus, there isn’t another female officer in Central who’s as well acquainted with the Poser case as I am. And jeez, it’s not like I’m an invalid. I’ll be okay.’
Angus didn’t need much persuading. ‘Good. James, I handed your article over to the newspaper, it’ll be in tomorrow’s edition. That should get our Poser good and riled.’ He looked back at Stevie. ‘All the more reason for you to be fit and healthy, it’s hard to predict the outcome of this.’
‘It could also be one big anticlimax.’ She looked at De Vakey with a humorous glint. ‘If nothing happens, I’d say it’s because our poser is still laid up in a hospital bed.’
De Vakey shook his head, smiling at her tenacity.
Angus asked, ‘How did the meeting with the foreman go?’
Stevie filled him in.
‘Right, you may as well continue with the Sparrow angle, go and have a word with the mother. I’ve already had people at the house. They didn’t find much except some books that might be of interest to you, James. I told them to leave them where they found them on the dining room table.’
De Vakey said, ‘I’ll be happy to go along. I’m also very interested in speaking to the mother.’
‘Fine by me, we need all the help we can get.’ They were about to leave the waiting room when Angus added, ‘One more thing. The uniforms door knocking in Michelle’s apartment block learned something useful from the woman next door. It seems this neighbour spent most of yesterday moving her things out. She identified Sparrow from the photo the uniform showed her. Apparently he was hanging around the bins during the afternoon, cleaning up rubbish and sweeping the paths. At one stage when she was laden down with stuff, he helped her get out of the gate. Later she noticed her security wand was gone. She reported it missing, but didn’t think of him at the time. She’s not one hundred percent certain he took it but thinks, in retrospect, it’s possible. She was surprised, said he seemed like a really nice man.’
Stevie reflected on Sparrow’s treatment by his work colleagues. ‘Being nice never got him very far, did it? Any news from the lab about the drug in Monty’s tomato juice?’
‘Possible drug,’ Angus corrected. ‘No, I’m afraid not. The lab’s up to its eyeballs with these murders, they haven’t got to it yet.’
‘Damn,’ Stevie said under her breath. ‘Have you heard from him at all?’
‘No. Have you?’
She shook her head, not wishing to speculate with Angus. Whatever Monty was up to, she didn’t want to draw unnecessary attention to it.
21
Violent film, TV and literature will no doubt influence a person who has already established tendencies towards violence, with non-fiction media proving especially interesting to such a person.
De Vakey, The Pursuit of Evil
A middle-aged woman opened the door of the Sparrow house before Stevie had a chance to knock. ‘I’ve been expecting you,’ the woman said. ‘I’m Jane Cunningham, the social worker. Come in.’
Stevie and De Vakey followed her into the hall. The severe effect of the twin-set and French twist was diminished by Jane Cunningham’s lack of footwear. Her stockinged toes curled when she saw Stevie checking them out with a grin.
‘I don’t see what’s so funny,’ Jane Cunningham said, ‘Mrs Sparrow likes people to take their shoes off before they come inside.’
Stevie thought back to the trainers she’d seen standing to attention in Michelle’s front entrance. Martin Sparrow was obviously a creature of habit.
Stifling her smile, Stevie made the introductions and toed off her own trainers. De Vakey bent down and undid his shoelaces, placing his polished brogues side by side. She noticed his eyes drop to the hole in her sock and acknowledged his humorous glint with a wriggle of her exposed toe.
But the well-dressed middle-aged woman wasn’t interested in Stevie’s toe. She locked her eyes on De Vakey and held them there for several seconds. Stevie almost expected to see her clutch her breast and say, ‘Be still my beating heart.’
Still grinning, she padded in the wake of the social worker’s cloying perfume, through the small black-and-white tiled entrance and into the compact two-storey town house.
Jane Cunningham said over her shoulder, ‘Mrs Sparrow is upstairs resting. I’m waiting for an ambulance to transport her to the extended care hospital. She suffers from severe rheumatoid arthritis and chest problems. I don’t want her left unattended, especially with your colleagues hanging around and upsetting her.’ She gestured to the innocuous constable at the front door with a flick of her head.
De Vakey ignored the hostility and rested his soft grey gaze on her. ‘Were you with her when the police told her the news about her son?’
Jane Cunningham turned to him and patted at the fold of her ash-blond hair. The prickly tone she’d levelled at Stevie turned at once into one of breathy concern. ‘Yes, she was very upset.’
‘I’m sure she was—is she upstairs?’ Stevie said, losing patience. Without waiting for the others she headed for the narrow stairway, until she was stopped in her tracks by De Vakey’s hand on her arm. He gestured to a glass dining table, stacked with books on the lounge room side of the breakfast bar. She raised her eyebrows when she noticed his latest on the top of the pile. ‘Okay,’ she said, drawing out the second syllable with satisfaction.
After snapping on some latex gloves, Stevie handed De Vakey a spare pair from her bag. Another of De Vakey’s books was underneath the first, then another.
‘Looks like another fan of yours.’
De Vakey frowned.
Stevie turned the pages until she came to a double-page photo of a blood-splattered murder scene. The social worker saw it and paled, making no objection when Stevie asked her to put the kettle on.
De Vakey flicked through one of the books. Stevie looked over his shoulder, noticing how some of the pages had been marked with yellow post-it notes, some with underlined paragraphs. He tapped at the first of these.
‘For some reason he’s marked the introduction. This is where I explain some common characteristics in the backgrounds of serial killers.’
Stevie pointed to an underlined phrase. ‘Unhappy childhood.’ There was a question mark pencilled into the margin next to it and some spidery handwriting. ‘ All serial killers were abused children, but not all abused children become abusers or serial killers,’ she read aloud.
De Vakey shrugged.
‘All sorts of ideas here—you know, this could be considered a primer on how to do it.’
He responded to her flippancy with a stern look. ‘This is a textbook for law enforcement agencies.’
‘What about the new edition? It’s geared to the general public. It could give all sorts of ideas to the unstable.’
‘No more than many TV shows and films.’
‘These books need to be taken in as evidence.’
Stevie saw a muscle jumping in the profiler’s jaw. ‘Of course they should, but you should be cautious about jumping to conclusions so soon,’ he said.
‘But look at all this, James. So many of these underlined paragraphs are pertinent to our cases.’
As she flicked through the book, she read snippets aloud: ‘S exual motivations, domination and control.’ She thumped at the page now open in front of her. ‘And look, here’s Linda Royce’s name in the margin, next to this: A scene that is staged for the police and for any other unfortunate person who stumbles across the body is often the result of the killer’s perverse desire to entertain.’ Stevie turned to the next page. ‘And this: The ability to manipulate friends and associates. Something’s written in the margin, but I can’t read it, it’s too smudged.’
De Vakey took the book from her and squinted at the blur of pencil marks. ‘Names, maybe?’
‘Documents might be able to decipher. It looks like several names have been written then rubbed out.’
De Vakey looked thoughtful. ‘These annotations are certainly interesting but they don’t mean he’s our serial killer.’
Jane Cunningham reappeared with the tea. Stevie snapped the book shut and spoke to De Vakey out of the corner of her mouth. ‘Okay, so he’s not necessarily our killer, but I get the feeling that you know more than you’re letting on. Is there something about the case that you’re not telling me, James? If not Martin Sparrow, who else is it at Central that you and Monty are suspicious about?’
‘All in good time.’ De Vakey turned to the social worker. ‘We’re ready to talk to Mrs Sparrow now. Will you please introduce us?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Stevie muttered to herself. She clenched her fists in frustration and followed them up the stairs. The tea was left untouched on the glass table.
The curtains in Mrs Sparrow’s room were drawn, the only light a pink glow from a small bedside lamp. When the social worker switched on the main light, the old woman blinked at them from above a mound of pink crochet. With a powdery pink complexion her skin seemed as delicate as the smell of rosewater in the air.
‘What have you done with my son?’ she asked in a tremolo after the social worker had introduced them.
Stevie walked across the vacuum-streaked raspberry-coloured carpet, sat on the bed and took the small, soft hand. Useless fingers flopped against hers like creatures without spines.
Stevie said, ‘Your son’s in hospital, Mrs Sparrow, I thought they’d explained that to you.’
Mrs Sparrow made a sound like a collapsing accordion. ‘They said he’d done some bad things.’
De Vakey said, ‘We’re not sure yet. As you know, he’s unconscious and we haven’t been able to talk to him.’
‘My Martin’s a good boy.’
‘I’m sure he is,’ De Vakey said, gently.
‘But he was caught breaking into an apartment,’ Stevie said.
‘Then he must have had his reasons. My Martin’s a thinker. He never does nothing without good reason.’
De Vakey said, ‘Please tell us about your son, Mrs Sparrow.’
After some initial hesitation, Mrs Sparrow warmed to De Vakey’s persuasive tone. She told them about Martin’s albinism, the bullying he’d received at school, his father’s abuse.
‘He was always a clever boy; could’ve gone to university ’cept for his nerves. I failed him, couldn’t keep him safe.’ She looked down at her crippled hands as if realising for the first time that she was as ineffective now as she had ever been. ‘Things got better for a while, his dad died and we bought this house. But then, after all that trouble with Reece, Martin seemed to just go into himself again.’
‘Who was Reece, Mrs Sparrow?’ De Vakey asked.
She drew a breath, a stereophonic rattle of her chest. ‘His mate, Reece Harper.’
Stevie’s eyes shot to De Vakey. He too had recognised the name.
‘They met at church group.’ Mrs Sparrow continued, ‘Reece was a bit slow, had something wrong with his innards, needed one of them bag things. Not many people wanted anything to do with him, but my Martin knew what it was to be the odd man out, and looked after him, like. But then Reece was accused of murdering them girls in the park and the police hounded him day and night. When he’d finally had enough of it he drove head on into a power pole, on purpose Martin said. He’s never forgiven you lot for that. You see Martin tried to tell the police all along that Reece were with him on the night of that first murder, but no one paid him no mind.’
This must be the alibi that Monty had been unable to find, Stevie thought. Someone in Central had tampered with the files and De Vakey seemed to have a good idea who that was. But he was in no hurry to let her in on it. ‘Who?’ she mouthed, digging him in the arm with her elbow.
‘So you noticed a change in Martin’s behaviour after Reece’s death?’ De Vakey asked Mrs Sparrow.
Stevie swore under her breath.
‘Oh yes, he went secretive, was always off somewhere for his flippin’ meetings, least that’s what he called ’em. When I asked him what he was up to he said it was a surprise, he wanted it to be just right before he showed me.’
‘And this has been going on ever since Reece’s death?’
Mrs Sparrow nodded. ‘In fits and starts.’
‘Do you know where Martin was on Thursday night?’
The old woman seemed to be thinking.
‘That was the night before last,’ Stevie added.
‘I was having a bad night. I needed my pain pills but I’d knocked ’em onto the ground and couldn’t get ’em. I called Martin and he came home from work to help me. Because I was feeling so poorly he decided to take the rest of the night off and stay with me.’
‘And he was here all night?’
‘He was lying next to me on the bed. I sleep badly, would’ve known if he’d left.’
‘Highway to Hell’ chose that moment to blast its way into the conversation. Stevie got up from the bed and moved over to the window, mouthing ‘Angus’ to De Vakey. After a few words, she returned to the bed and took the old woman’s hand once more. ‘I’ve got some good news, Mrs Sparrow,’ Stevie smiled. ‘Your son’s woken up.’
***
Twenty minutes into the hospital bed interview, Martin Sparrow still had the demeanour of a glass of milk teetering on a table’s edge. He passed a hand across his sweat-beaded forehead before dropping it onto his lap where it twisted and twined with its partner.
‘I wish I’d never woken up,’ he said. ‘You think I killed those girls in the park and Michelle too.’
His writhing hands looked like mating cuttlefish. Stevie had to force herself to tear her eyes away from them. ‘Then it’s up to you to tell us otherwise. You were one of the last people to see Michelle alive. You were seen arguing with her in a coffee shop.’
Stevie tried not to flinch when Martin blew out a stream of sour breath. ‘She wanted more money for expenses. I agreed eventually, even though it would’ve been a stretch to get it.’
‘Expenses?’
‘Oh God, this is not right, it’s not supposed to be like this.’ He screwed his eyes shut, a movement that must have exacerbated the pain of his swollen face.
She winced in sympathy.
‘What was it supposed to be like?’ Angus said, his tone as patient as ever.
Sparrow swallowed with difficulty. ‘We were writing a book to clear Reece Harper of the park murders. Michelle was talking to people and doing the investigations and I was researching the theory behind the crimes, trying to show up the inconsistencies. I wanted to prove that the murders weren’t committed by the kind of man the police seemed to think they were looking for, and certainly not by anyone like Reece Harper.’
‘Is that why you had all those psychology books in your house?’ Stevie asked.
‘Yes, I was using them as part of my research. I wanted to prove how easy it would be for someone in the know to fool the police, to send mixed and confusing signals. We were going to be famous, make lots of money, that’s what Michelle said, anyway. We were getting so close and then ... and then Michelle was killed. God this is such a mess.’ Sparrow leaned back against the headboard. The glitter of a tear edged its way from beneath one puffy eyelid and spilled down his cheek.
‘I can understand why you were so interested in the park murders, but what about Linda Royce? You’d written her name in one of the books, too.’
‘Because they’re connected. It’s obvious.’
‘How so?’
Sparrow ignored Angus’s question.
‘I didn’t care about the fame anyway,’ he said. ‘All I wanted was to clear Reece’s name and get back at the filth that set him up.’
‘Who set him up, Martin?’ Stevie asked.
Sparrow’s eyes shot open and seared her with the same malevolence she’d seen in Michelle’s apartment.
‘You think I’d tell you, you of all people? I repulse you—I’ve seen how you look at me—but at least I don’t sleep with the devil!’
Stevie and Angus exchanged mystified glances
‘Would you like Sergeant Hooper to leave the room?’ Angus said.
‘I don’t trust you, either. I don’t trust any of you!’ Sparrow’s voice rose as he neared hysteria, one hand reached to his face and began to pick at the stitches near his eye.
Stevie moved to pull it away.
‘Don’t touch me, filth!’
Any moment Stevie expected a nurse to come bursting through the door and demand their immediate departure.
Angus made placating gestures with his hands. ‘All right, Martin, please calm down. Now, tell us who you want to talk to—a lawyer perhaps?’
‘I don’t trust lawyers.’
The detectives let out a collective sigh of exasperation.
‘You have to tell someone what you know, before another girl gets killed.’
Sparrow mulled over the logic of Stevie’s words. After what seemed to be a long battle with his conscience, he said, ‘Okay, I’ll tell Inspector McGuire. Bring him here and I’ll tell him what I know.’
***
‘Damn, damn, damn! Just where the hell is Monty?’ Stevie slammed her mobile phone onto the canteen table.
Angus shook his head and joined her next to De Vakey. He ran his hand over his shiny black hair and rubbed his eyes, the burden of command showing through the new lines on his gaunt face. He looked on with disgust as Barry speared an egg yolk with a chip, stuffing it into his mouth as if he hadn’t eaten for a week.
‘Funny that Sparrow won’t speak to anyone else,’ Barry mused as he ate. His neglected scalp was fuzzed with dark stubble, giving him the appearance of a battle-weary marine.
Stevie shrugged. ‘I guess he trusts him. I know Mont often went out of his way to talk to the guy, thanked him for cleaning his office and the like.’
‘Maybe we should all be brushing up on our manners,’ Barry said through another mouthful of chips.
Stevie was too preoccupied with her own frustrations to rise to the bait. After swallowing his mouthful Barry took a loud slurp of tea. ‘Did Sparrow say how he got into the apartment?’
Angus said, ‘It’s like the woman next door said earlier, he stole her security wand. He also mentioned that he used to work in a locksmith’s, that picking Michelle’s lock was a piece of cake.’
‘So he went there to retrieve the documents that he and Michelle had been working on.’ Barry turned to De Vakey. ‘Is there still a chance that Sparrow’s the man we’re after, that he’s bullshitting about the book?’
De Vakey shook his head, glancing at Stevie as he spoke. ‘He’s not our man. True, he has a disturbing history. His albinism and poor eyesight resulted in relentless bullying at school. His father was an abusive drunk, his mother an ineffective protector. Those are all problems that could lead to a maladjusted adult with a grudge against the world, but a man with those problems would commit a different kind of crime, not so hands on, if you will. Hit and runs, arson or industrial sabotage would be more common for Sparrow’s type. Our killer and this man are at opposite ends of the personality spectrum. Because of his appearance, Sparrow would stick out like...’ he searched for the words.
‘A snowflake down a coal mine?’ Barry supplied.
De Vakey gave him a tired smile. ‘I wouldn’t have said it quite like that, but yes, that’s the gist of it. Our serial killer will probably blend into the scenery as an average, seemingly respectable guy. And that’s what makes it all the more frightening.’
Barry said, ‘The hobby shop guy, Monty’s neighbour, the waiter. These people all saw him but weren’t able to give us one distinguishing feature to make him stand out from the crowd—our composite sketch has been next to useless.’
