Текст книги "An Easeful Death"

A personality disorder is not to be confused with a mental illness. Someone with a mental illness will not take long to catch. The unsub who is technically sane will pose the greatest challenge to the investigators.

De Vakey, The Pursuit of Evil

Wayne and Barry crawled through the constipated Beaufort Street traffic on their way to Michelle’s gym. They’d learned from her parents that she worked out every morning except Sunday. Finding out if she was there yesterday morning would help start to trace her last movements.

‘At least we haven’t had to muck around with victim identification, but jeez...’ Barry thumped the steering wheel. ‘I’ve never seen Monty so shook up. I mean, it’s not like they were even still married!’

‘C’mon, I’m shocked and I only met her once. You wouldn’t wish this on your worst enemy,’ Wayne said.

Barry’s eyes slid from the road to his passenger. ‘Quite the sensitive-old-age-dickhead, aren’t you, Wayne?’

Wayne smirked. Sensitivity was something he’d never been accused of.

‘And the way old man Birkby spoke about him,’ Barry continued, ‘you’d have thought he was holding Monty personally responsible. He could barely say his name without rupturing a blood vessel.’

‘Well, you know what grieving families are like, they always need someone to blame. Maybe he thinks this would never have happened if they’d still been happily married.’

‘I just hope no one lets on that Monty’s watch was found in her hand. When the shock wears off Birkby’s going to start asking questions.’

‘We’ll have Mont in the clear by then.’

After several beats of agitated tapping on the steering wheel, Barry said, ‘But it’s gotta be someone in Central who took the watch, hasn’t it?’

‘Or someone else with a legitimate excuse for being there, but a cop most likely.’

Wayne had investigated where Tye Davis was at the time of Linda Royce’s murder. It seemed he had a solid alibi: the shift supervisor at Paraburdoo to whom Wayne had spoken on the phone said Tye had definitely been working that day, he’d seen him himself. With one gone, but about fifteen other suspect cops to go, this was going to be a slow process of elimination. He sighed, staring vacantly at a passing group of schoolgirls wearing soup-bowl hats. He would have preferred a face-to-face interview with the supervisor and wondered if it was worth contacting a cop mate in the Pilbara to do it for him.

The chirp of his mobile interrupted his musings. Devoid of expression, he listened to Angus for a few minutes before punching off. ‘It seems the man who hired the window-cleaning hoist paid for it with a stolen credit card,’ he said to Barry.

‘Description?’

‘The bloke who organised the hire has just gone on two weeks leave. He flew to Bali this morning.’

Barry pulled a frog face. ‘That’d be right.’

They parked outside the gym. As Barry climbed out of the car he gave a yawn and a stretch, eyeing off some lycra-clad nubiles descending the front steps as he did so.

Wayne took a cursory glance around the car park for Michelle’s Alfa. They should be so lucky.

Barry said, ‘You ever belong to a gym, Wayne?’

‘What do you think?’

Wayne locked the unmarked and followed Barry up the steps to the front entrance. The air was fusty with the smell of mould and old trainers, and provoked an irritating tickle deep in his chest. In front of them, a young girl with pillow lips sat behind a reception desk, stabbing at a computer with red-taloned fingers. Above her head a noticeboard enticed potential members with discount packages. To Wayne, gym membership was about as alluring as a round with Mike Tyson.

Barry sidled up to the desk and produced his ID.

‘Hello, Miss...’ his eyes lingered on her name tag longer than necessary. ‘Sophie Preston.’ He pronounced the name slowly as if savouring every syllable. She appraised Barry under sickle-thin eyebrows and smiled back.

Wayne began to cough.

‘I’m DS Snow and this is DS Pickering. We’d like to ask you some questions,’ Barry said, doing his best to ignore Wayne’s hacking.

Sophie Preston regarded Wayne with a look of distaste. ‘Is your friend okay?’ she asked Barry.

‘He’s allergic to exercise. Even the thought of it sends him off.’

‘It’s never too late to start,’ she said with a slight curl to her lip.

Wayne managed to control himself, sucked in his stomach and approached the desk, conscious of how out of time his steps were with the thumps and music coming from the floor above.

‘Do you recognise this woman, Miss Preston?’ he said, producing a computer printout of Michelle’s photo. She examined the picture. ‘Yes, that’s Michelle Birkby, one of our regular clients.’ She frowned. ‘Is she all right?’

‘We’re trying to trace her movements yesterday. We believe she came here yesterday morning.’

Sophie’s eyes shot to Barry. She shrugged. ‘Yeah, she came in about six. I’m not sure about today though. I wasn’t on this morning, I’ll have to look it up.’ She reached for the register and slid it across the counter towards her, running a finger down the names on the page.

Barry put his hand out to stop her. ‘This morning isn’t necessary, but I’d like to see yesterday’s list of clients, please.’

She leafed the page back and Wayne examined the scrawled signatures. ‘They sign in each time they come, do they?’

Barry gave Wayne a look that said of course it was obvious they had to sign in. If he’d ever been to a gym he’d have known.

Only ten signatures were listed between six and seven, the first hour after the gym opened. Apart from Michelle’s, none of the other names was familiar. Barry jotted them down in his notebook for checking later.

Wayne said, ‘Was there anything different about her yesterday? Did she leave with someone? Did she seem anxious, worried?’

Sophie examined her nails while she considered the questions. ‘I think she was in a bit of a hurry, actually. She rushed towards the door looking at her watch without even saying goodbye to me. And she usually weighs herself before she leaves,’ she tilted her chin towards a set of digital scales in the corner of the foyer, ‘but yesterday she didn’t. Look, what’s all this about?’

‘So what time was this?’ Barry asked.

‘About seven.’

Wayne said, ‘Did anyone leave with her?’

‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘Do you have any idea why she was in such a hurry?’

Sophie shrugged. ‘She’s a journalist, isn’t she? She’s always going to meetings and stuff. She sometimes has breakfast appointments. Quite a few of the members go to Cinder’s Pumpkin after a workout. It’s just across the road, so they can leave their cars in our car park and walk. It’s about the only place around here that’s open early. She could’ve gone there.’

Barry gave her a smile and added the name of the cafe to the list in his notebook. ‘Is there anywhere else for members to park other than the spaces outside the front of the gym?’ he asked.

‘There are a few spots behind the building. They’re supposed to be for staff but some of the regulars park there.’

‘One last thing, Miss Preston...’ Wayne was interrupted as a man elbowed him out of the way and signed in, muscles bulging under his smooth tanned skin.

Wayne scowled at the man’s back before turning back to Sophie. ‘I’d like a list of current gym members, please.’

She hesitated. ‘I’m not sure I’m allowed to do that.’

The interview had been going well and Wayne didn’t have the patience to cope with such petty pitfalls this close to the finish. Unable to hide his impatience, he said, ‘We’re cops. We’re not going to sell the list to internet spammers or charitable organisations.’

Barry leaned towards the receptionist on his elbows and lifted two fingers in the ‘Scouts honour’ sign.

‘We could easily get a search warrant,’ Wayne added.

She looked from one to the other of them, raised her eyebrows and shrugged. ‘Whatever,’ she said, and stabbed the print button of the keyboard.

***

Wayne and Barry identified Michelle’s red Alfa Romeo in the gym’s rear car park. After contacting a forensic team to photograph it and tow it back to the station, they made their way across the road to the cafe. There they spoke to the moustached man at the front counter, ordered coffee and cake and were shown to a table on the verandah, sheltered from the winter wind by quivering plastic walls.

They sat for a while in silence until Barry said, ‘You okay? Thinking about the dead girls?’

Wayne paused before answering. ‘Yeah.’

Barry nodded. ‘Me too.’

A few minutes later a young man with floppy blond hair and unnaturally blue eyes weaved his way through the tables towards them with their coffees. Wayne introduced himself. One glance at the detective’s IDs and the waiter’s eyes darted to the man at the counter.

Wayne said, ‘It’s okay, son. We’ve had a word with your boss, he said for you to take five and sit with us. We have some questions we’d like to ask you.’

‘Look, if it’s about the joint he caught me with the other day, I hardly ever use the stuff. I—’

Wayne put his hand on the young man’s arm. ‘Relax mate, we’re not the drug squad. Sit down. We want to ask you some questions about one of your customers.’

The waiter licked his lips and nodded. His expression, no longer one of fear, was now a mixture of relief and curiosity.

Barry produced the photo of Michelle. ‘Seen her before?’

‘Um ... yes, don’t know her name, but,’ the waiter said.

‘The bloke at the counter said she was here yesterday morning, that you served her.’

‘That’s right. She comes in most mornings after gym and has the soy latte.’

Wayne raised his eyebrows and glanced at Barry.

‘It’s a healthy kind of coffee,’ Barry told him.

Wayne snorted, took a sip of his Vienna and reached for a napkin to wipe the tickling cream from his upper lip. ‘Was she alone?’ he asked.

‘No. There was a bloke with her.’

Barry put his elbows on the table and leaned closer. ‘Tell us about this bloke.’

‘What did he look like?’ Wayne added.

‘He was kind of creepy looking. He was wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses.’

He must have noticed the disappointed sag of the detective’s shoulders. His voice sped up. ‘But he took them off after a while.’

Wayne gave him an encouraging nod to go on.

‘Like I said, he was creepy looking. Quite tall and very pale in the face, as pale as a Goth only his hair was practically white. It was thin and kind of feathery, almost like duck down. You could hardly tell where his skin ended and his hair began.’

Wayne kicked Barry under the table. Barry nodded; there couldn’t be too many albinos about.

The boy was revving up now, revealing an eye for detail that was rare in most witnesses. ‘They seemed to be having some kind of an argument. At one stage Whitey slammed his fist onto the table like this.’ He demonstrated with his own fist, making the cups and saucers on the table rattle.

‘How did she take this angry outburst? Did she seem scared?’ Barry asked.

‘It didn’t seem to faze her. She put her hand over his, like this.’ The waiter reached out for Wayne’s hand, covering it with his own. Wayne snatched his hand away as if it had been burned.

Barry smirked.

‘After that, they settled down and just seemed to be having a normal conversation,’ the boy said.

Wayne said, ‘Did they leave together?’

‘No, Whitey left first.’

‘Did he still seem angry?’

‘No, I don’t think so. He smiled when he left. She stayed for another coffee then paid the bill.’

Barry said, ‘Thanks, you’ve been a big help. We may need to contact you again.’

When the boy stood to go, Wayne held up a finger. ‘Wait on. Was there any one else in the cafe at the time?’

The waiter searched his mind for a moment. ‘Two or three others maybe; we’re never busy that early.’

‘Can you remember anything about them?’ Wayne asked.

He scratched his head. ‘Not really. I think there was a couple on one table, a single man on the other.’

‘Where was the single man sitting?’

‘All three groups were at nearby tables. It’s easier for us wait staff to have them all grouped together.’

‘Can you remember anything about this single man?’

The waiter rubbed his chin and looked at the ceiling through narrowed eyes. Wayne hoped he wasn’t dreaming up embellishment to try to impress them. Hell, they were already impressed.

‘Look, the only reason I remember the gym woman and Whitey was because of his weird colour and the fight. Can I go now? We’re flat out and Mario’s getting his knickers in a knot.’

The cafe was filling up, there were customers waiting to be served, and the man at the counter was shooting them dark looks and pulling at his moustache as he bustled.

Wayne said, ‘Would you have any record of the time this man paid his bill?’

‘There might be a copy of the receipt.’

Barry said, ‘Good. See if you can find the woman’s too.’

‘Well?’ Barry raised his eyebrows and took a sip of his cappuccino as the waiter scurried toward the kitchen.

‘Seems like a reliable witness, the best yet. Did you get that description?’

Barry nodded at his notebook, then reached into his pocket for the list of gym members they’d got from the receptionist. Wayne switched chairs to sit next to him so they could peruse the list together.

After a while, Wayne grunted and said. ‘Jeez, there’s a lot of familiar names on this list, looks like half the cops from Central are on a health kick.’

His gaze continued to slide down the list until he came to an abrupt halt. ‘Shit.’ He tapped his finger against Monty’s name, whistling air through his teeth.

Barry was quick to react with a shake of his head. ‘It doesn’t mean anything.’

‘Yesterday it didn’t mean anything, but with the crap Monty’s in today, it could mean deep shit.’

Wayne sighed and drew his lips into a bloodless line as he continued to scan the list. It was Barry who nearly choked on the next name.

‘Linda Royce!’ he said, almost losing the mouthful of éclair he was swallowing. ‘Jesus, Wayne.’ He looked up from the list, ‘Linda, Michelle and Monty were all members of the same gym.’ His usual cocky tone had sunk into a worried whisper, ‘What are we going to do?’

Wayne said nothing for a moment, trying to sort out his own jumbled thoughts. ‘Give me your notebook.’

Barry handed it over and Wayne checked the list of the ten members who were at the gym at the same time as Michelle on Thursday morning.

Wayne read aloud, ‘Caroline Spencer, Frank Dixon, Colin Pierce, Guy Flannigan, Abbey Winchester, etcetera.’ He wiped his brow with the napkin. ‘No Monty McGuire.’

The detectives let out a collective sigh.

‘We’ve been pretty quick to assume that the single man at the cafe must have followed her from the gym,’ Barry said. ‘Alternatively he may have known she would come here and been waiting for her. Her morning routine was very predictable.’

Wayne nodded. ‘True.’

Barry swallowed and said, ‘So it could have been Monty, he just didn’t go to the gym that morning.’

‘It could have been anyone. A single man at a table in a cafe does not a stalker or a murderer make. Monty or no Monty, my money’s on the creepy white bloke who, we both agree, sounds very like the cleaner from Central.’

The waiter reappeared with the receipts. He pointed out the table numbers and the times marked by the cash register when each client paid. The single man had paid two minutes after Michelle.

After glancing at his partner, Wayne said, ‘This single man—was he tall with reddish hair, looked like he could’ve played fullback for the Wallabies?’ Sorry Mont, he said to himself.

‘I barely noticed him, mate.’

Barry reached into his pocket for the sketch the police artist had drawn from Thompson’s description of the man in the hobby shop.

‘What about this guy?’

The waiter shrugged. ‘That could be anyone.’

When the waiter had gone, Barry said, ‘Well that wasn’t much help. The single man left two minutes after her—that’s quick enough to have followed her.’

Wayne agreed, but his money was still on the albino. Even though he left earlier he could have waited for her. ‘And after that, Michelle wasn’t seen again. Ten hours later her parents rang the police when they were notified about her absence from work. Work said she missed some important deadlines she would never normally have missed. She was not seen again until the shop floor manager of Hartley-Mac’s found her body at seven this morning.’

‘Wait on. Monty was at work with us yesterday morning. He couldn’t have grabbed her.’

‘Of course he didn’t grab her,’ Wayne said, ashamed the idea had even crossed his mind. ‘But we can assume she was abducted soon after leaving this place, and probably from the gym car park.’

Barry’s phone rang. His face lit up as he listened for a moment. He closed his phone after a succinct reply and waggled his eyebrows. ‘That was Sophie Preston. She’s just remembered something and says she needs to speak with me.’

***

Wayne sat in the unmarked, waiting for Barry’s return. He busied himself reading his notes and making a summary of what they’d learned so far about Michelle Birkby’s last movements. Michelle was seen having breakfast with a creepy looking white-haired bloke who sounded like the albino cleaner from Central. On top of that, Wayne had seen him in Monty’s office the night before—who would be in a better position to steal the watch?

But Michelle didn’t leave the cafe with the albino—another man had followed her out. The murderer could have been either man or someone else entirely who’d been waiting by her car to abduct her.

SOCO had towed the car back to Central while he and Barry had been at the cafe. Wayne spoke briefly on the phone to the officer in charge and was told that the car was found locked. They were conducting tests on it now, but would probably not have any results until the morning.

He phoned Angus with their latest findings. Officers were dispatched to haul in the cleaner, Martin Sparrow, for questioning.

Barry announced his return with a blast of cold air. He was panting as if he’d just run a four-minute mile.

‘So? What took you?’ Wayne said, refusing to react to Barry’s obvious excitement.

Barry grinned and buffed his nails on his jacket sleeve. ‘She invited me clubbing.’

‘Christ, is that what all this was about?’

‘No, almost as good, though. She suddenly remembered seeing a guy leaving the gym at about the same time as Michelle, and it wasn’t our albino mate.’ He clapped his hands. ‘This is a hot one, yes sirree.’

‘Does this mystery man have a name?’

Barry put his hand into his pocket for his notebook and pointed to their list of yesterday’s early morning clients. He tapped at a name. ‘Frank Dixon.’

Wayne’s heart skipped a beat. ‘Do we have a photo ID?’

‘No. It’s a bummer, most gyms insist on photo IDs these days, but not this one. He’s youngish, tallish and has dark hair. That’s all she can remember about him. He doesn’t come in very often. We do have an address though: 35 Atwell Gardens.’

Wayne started the car. ‘Occupation?’

‘Police officer.’

14