SH01 - An Easeful Death Page 10

  Stevie was astonished. Shaved and covered in paint, the woman’s own mother could be excused for not recognising her.

  Stevie frowned. ‘Who?’

  Monty’s voice was barely audible. ‘Michelle.’

  11

  Increased activity is a sign of the unsub’s steadily deteriorating mental state.

  De Vakey, The Pursuit of Evil

  Monty headed through the incident room to his office. On the last count, twenty suburban detectives had been seconded to help the SCS with their enquiries. A woman he didn’t know was writing extra notes on a whiteboard with a squeaking marker pen. On the pin-up board next to her a new set of grisly crime scene photographs had been added. Unable to face them he turned away and met the eyes of another stranger. This was going to be one helluva day.

  Monty had hoped to slip into his office unnoticed, but Barry Snow raised his head from some notes he’d been examining with two of the new detectives. ‘Kettle’s just boiled, Mont. Do you want a cuppa?’

  The offer of a cup of tea: the same futile attempt at comfort he’d employed himself only a short time ago at the house of Michelle’s parents.

  ‘No thanks, Barry.’ He could make coffee and tea in his office, but he appreciated the gesture all the same. ‘I’ve got some things to sort out. I’m not to be disturbed unless it’s an emergency.’

  Monty closed his door against the din, took his phone off the hook and went into his small bathroom. After splashing his face with water he helped himself to a couple of Panadol from the bathroom cupboard. It seemed that the freight train running through the middle of his head had derailed, landing in a mangled heap of screaming metal and hissing steam. The pills hit his stomach with a sickening burn and he prayed they would stay put long enough to work their magic.

  Sitting at his desk with his head resting in his hands he tried to reassemble the events of last night. He remembered dinner with Stevie then coming home, excited to finally have the KP notes in his possession. He remembered going through the files, noting the similarities and incongruities of the investigation, the missing pages of Harper’s alibi, the nameless prostitute. And then there was the phone call from Wayne. He saw himself looking at the beer in the glass. Next was the incessant ring of Angus’s early morning call.

  He’d awoken to papers and beer cans strewn all over the floor, the crystal pilsner glass lying empty on its side. The place smelled like a brewery, yet he could not even recall the guilty satisfaction of that first sip. Dammit all—why did it have to be now that his willpower failed him? But it could have been worse, he supposed, he’d only counted six tins on the floor. Hell, six tins and he felt like this? In his day he could have drunk a carton and only been mildly affected the next morning.

  Then a sickening thought hit. In his haste to leave he hadn’t had time to clear up the mess. Not only had he left the beer cans all over the place, but the KP murder notes too—and his cleaning lady was due in today—shit!

  He grabbed his keys and phone and made a mad dash through the incident room.

  Barry held up his hand to stop his progress. ‘Hang on, Monty. I’ve just got a call from upstairs. Super wants to see you.’

  The super was the last thing Monty felt he could deal with right now. ‘Tell him you just missed me. I won’t be long. I’ve just got to go home for a sec.’

  The ten-minute drive to his flat seemed to last a lifetime; if his cleaner caught a glimpse of those autopsy photos she’d have a coronary, to say nothing of her reaction to his fall from grace.

  He was fumbling for his key at the top of his steps when a man’s voice called out from the parking area, ‘Inspector McGuire?’

  Monty looked down from the threshold of his flat. Two men were heading for the concrete steps. He waved down to them.

  ‘Wait where you are please, Sir,’ one of the men called up.

  They had cop stamped all over them. The older man was in a cheap suit, probably off the same rack as most of Monty’s; the younger man wore jeans and a leather jacket.

  ‘We tried to catch you at Central. They said you’d gone home.’ Older cop was puffing up the stairs. He had an unhealthy pallor and small eyes, the kind of face you’d expect to see on the wrong side of the bars. There wasn’t much room for the three of them on the front porch, less when both men stepped forward. Monty got the distinct impression they were trying to edge him away from his front door.

  He didn’t budge. ‘And you are?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m DS Keyes and this is DC Thrummel, Sir,’ the older cop said, unsmiling.

  Monty squinted at their ID. He recognised their names but not their faces and his brain refused to clarify the association. ‘Claremont?’ he read from their IDs.

  ‘That’s right, Sir,’ Keyes said. ‘We were hoping you’d accompany us back to Central. Superintendent Baggly asked us to escort you personally. There are some things he’d like to talk to you about.’

  ‘I’m not working the Birkby case. I suggest you call up DS Wong.’ Monty pushed his way to his door and reached for his key. Thrummel grabbed his arm.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing? Get your hands off me, Constable.’

  Thrummel must have caught the pre-explosive set to Monty’s jaw. He dropped his arm and glanced at Keyes who gave him an imperceptible nod. Both detectives took a step forward and pinned him against the door. Monty was still feeling queasy, muddle-headed. This isn’t happening, he thought, he was being paranoid; it must be the aftermath of last night’s drinking binge. Then Thrummel, with a disturbing look in his eyes, put his heel on the bridge of Monty’s foot and began to lean. Sensitive nerve endings shot sparks of pain up his leg, which even the most rabid of paranoiacs could not have imagined. The pressure increased when he tried to extract himself.

  Movement from the door of the next flat caught his eye. He saw his neighbour peering out of her door on their shared front porch.

  ‘Is everything all right, Montgomery?’ Mrs Nash asked. She was a perceptive old bird, always knew what everyone in the complex was up to.

  The weight on Monty’s foot eased and the cessation of pain brought with it the ugly reality of his situation.

  Keyes gave her a smile. ‘We’re old friends of Monty’s, Ma’am, just fooling around. I hope we haven’t disturbed you.’

  Mrs Nash raised her eyebrows and shook her head. ‘Then I suggest you go and expend some of your energy at the oval. Some of the people in these flats work nights. I’m sure they don’t appreciate the disturbance.’

  Mrs Nash was a retired schoolteacher. If Monty hadn’t already known he would have picked it from the inflection in her voice. There was no point getting her involved in his troubles.

  He gave Keyes a cheesy smile. ‘I’ve got a footy in my car. C’mon me old pal, me old mate, me old codger. Let’s go have a kick.’ He placed his arm around the older detective’s shoulder and squeezed the bull neck with mock affection. The sergeant gave a small but satisfying gasp.

  ***

  In the interview room, Monty felt the uneasy stares of several pairs of eyes. Seated on plastic chairs around the table were Superintendent Baggly, Angus Wong and a thin man with receding hair whom Monty had never met before. Baggly introduced him as Ian Stern from the Police Union. They weren’t mucking around. Whatever this was about it was serious.

  Angus indicated the seat opposite him. He sat down, and Keyes and Thrummel took the seats on either side of him. Angus caught his eye and opened his palms as if to say that things were beyond his control.

  Baggly cleared his throat. ‘I’d like to point out, Monty, that this is an unofficial meeting, off the record, no tape or video.’ He nodded to the dormant machines on the shelf to illustrate his point.

  Monty found himself having trouble focusing on what Baggly was saying.

  ‘We merely need to get the ball rolling for the pending enquiry,’ Baggly said. ‘You will have ample time to organise representation. Mr Stern is here as a matter of protocol. We feel his
presence from the very start of the investigation will be in your best interest.’

  ‘The union is willing to contribute a sizeable sum should a lawyer be required,’ Stern said.

  Baggly gave Monty a benevolent smile.

  Monty opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by Baggly’s raised hand. ‘You are going to be asked some questions Monty, which, for the sake of your career, you are urged to answer truthfully. Your answers at this stage will not be admissible in a court of law. If and when these proceedings are advanced, you need only answer under legal advice.’

  Baggly turned to Stern, seeking verification. Stern’s nod implied that he felt everything so far was above board.

  Monty’s mouth felt dry and gritty. ‘Can someone tell me what this is all about?’ He tried to keep his tone devoid of any hostility, but it was hard given that the methods and means of his summons were still sitting on either side of him.

  Baggly, bless him, sensed his discomfort. ‘You two know what you have to do. Off you go now,’ he said.

  The detectives rose. Keyes said to Monty. ‘We’d like to search your flat, Sir. Is it necessary for us to get a warrant?’

  ‘No, go ahead,’ Monty said. He’d speculated that these disciplinary measures had something to do with his tardiness at the morning’s crime scene. Now he realised it was much worse. He threw Thrummel his keys and tried to sound nonchalant. ‘There are some files there, I was reading them last night. I don’t want them left around for my cleaner to see. You may as well bring them back with you.’

  Thrummel nodded.

  ‘Get the ball rolling, Sergeant Wong,’ Baggly said.

  Angus waited for Keyes and Thrummel to leave the room before reaching into his jacket pocket. His tone was as gentle as ever when he asked, ‘Do you recognise this?’ He slid a plastic evidence bag across the table.

  Monty’s tongue seemed to have stitched itself to the roof of his mouth. Cold pricks of perspiration started to bead on his forehead and he swiped at them with the back of his sleeve. Picking up the plastic bag he turned it around in his fingers and met Angus’s concerned gaze.

  ‘It’s my watch. Where did you find it? I left it on my desk at Central.’

  ‘It was clasped in Michelle Birkby’s hand,’ said Angus. ‘Your name’s engraved on the back.’

  ‘My watch,’ Monty said again to no one in particular. Different scenarios swirled through his head in ragged spirals. ‘It’s a plant,’ he said at last, ‘like the commissioner’s hair on Linda Royce.’

  Baggly said, ‘Of course it is, but...’

  Monty’s confusion turned to anger. He thumped the table with his fists and leapt to his feet. ‘What do you mean, “but”?’

  Baggly said, ‘Sit down please, Inspector.’

  ‘Fuck you!’

  ‘Inspector McGuire!’

  ‘Monty,’ Angus spoke with the soft voice of reason. ‘This isn’t helping you at all. Sit down. You know as well as I do that these questions have to be asked. You’re upset about Michelle, we all are. Now let’s get down to the questioning so we can all get out of here as soon as possible.’

  Baggly sniffed, ‘I’m putting that outburst down to grief. I won’t be so understanding next time.’

  Monty sat down and folded his arms like a petulant child.

  ‘When did you last see Michelle?’ Angus asked.

  ‘Thursday, after the press conference. We met in the lobby of the Excalibur.’

  ‘You were seen having a heated argument.’

  Arms still folded, Monty leant back in his chair and looked at Angus. ‘Jeez, you haven’t wasted any time.’

  ‘Sarcasm is not necessary, Inspector,’ Baggly said.

  ‘Okay, we had an argument. She wanted more information about the Royce case and I wouldn’t give it to her.’

  ‘Good. That’s commendable. We all know how much pressure she’s had you under.’ Baggly was trying to be kind, but didn’t quite carry it off. It was the placating tones of a politician with a particularly obnoxious constituent.

  Monty said, ‘I haven’t seen her since then.’

  ‘You mean since this morning, when you saw her dead,’ Baggly said.

  Monty swallowed down the lump in his throat and nodded. He turned to Angus. ‘I suppose you want to know where I was last night?’

  Angus seemed relieved that the question hadn’t had to come from him.

  ‘I was passed out in my flat. I haven’t got an alibi.’

  Ian Stern cleared his throat and put a finger to his lips. Monty ignored the warning. This wasn’t an official investigation, damn it. He would say what he damn well pleased. How ironic that it just happened to be the truth.

  ‘You’d been drinking?’ Angus asked.

  ‘I guess so, I can’t remember any of it.’

  Angus sighed. Baggly shook his head and said, ‘You have to understand my—our—position, Inspector. Given that the commissioner’s hair was found on the previous body and proved to be a plant, it follows that your watch is most probably a plant also.’

  Monty found himself holding his breath.

  ‘However,’ Baggly continued, ‘unlike the case of the commissioner, you have the method, means and motive for this murder. And you have no alibi. For the sake of the reputation of the Police Service, should further investigations prove your guilt, I have no choice but to suspend you with pay until your innocence is proven absolutely. You will have no further contact with the investigating officers of the Poser case unless it is an instigated interview with Thrummel or Keyes present, to ensure impartiality from your team. Contact with any investigating officer outside the official channels stipulated by myself will result in severe disciplinary action.’

  Monty had still not drawn a breath. His ear lobes and fingertips were beginning to tingle, he felt dizzy. Angus noticed his pallor, poured some water into a glass and slid it across the table to him. Monty finally let out his breath to take a sip, conscious of the wary glances from the other men in the room. When he’d emptied the glass, Angus leaned across the table and eased it from his hand as if concerned he might throw it at Baggly.

  But Monty didn’t have it in him any more. The alcohol reaction, the shock of Michelle’s death, her parents’ grief and now this—he shook his head. He reached into his pocket for his ID wallet and put it on the table as he climbed to his feet.

  ‘Will that be all, Sir?’

  ‘We’ll be in touch, Inspector,’ Baggly said.

  Angus’s sigh of relief was the last thing he heard as he left the room.

  12

  The killer appears to be normal because he is able to separate himself from his actions.

  De Vakey, The Pursuit of Evil

  Stevie couldn’t keep still. Waiting in the corridor with the others she bounced from one bubble-soled foot to the other. With his head bowed, Monty finally emerged from the interview room, with no acknowledgement to her or any of the other members of the team. Angus followed him out, caught Stevie’s eye and gave her the thumbs down.

  Wayne broke away from the group and caught up with Monty further down the corridor. He clamped a hairy hand on Monty’s sleeve and Stevie caught the urgency of his whisper.

  She made a move to join them, but found herself held back. ‘Leave him, Stevie, now’s not the time.’ In a lower voice De Vakey added, ‘We’ll go and see him later,’

  She searched his face, his eyes, surprised at the empathy she saw there. When his hand lingered on her arm, the thrill set an alarm bell ringing in her brain.

  She stepped away from him.

  Satisfied that their boss had left the building, Angus turned to the congregated members of the SCS, his glum expression mirroring their mood. ‘Well I suppose now’s as good a time as any to talk this over,’ he said.

  Justin Baggly chose that moment to hurry round the corner, skidding to a startled halt in front of them. Breathless and grim faced he twisted a crumpled ball of paper in his hands. ‘Have you seen Dad?’

  Pr
obably a speeding ticket for Daddy to wangle him out of, Stevie thought. There had to be some perks to compensate for having John Baggly for a father.

  ‘I think he went back upstairs,’ Angus said.

  The boy muttered his thanks. Despite her own worries, Stevie seized the chance to lighten him up. ‘Justin, have you met James De Vakey?’

  She made the introductions, explaining to De Vakey how Justin was doing a criminal profiling unit at uni, then planning to join the police service.

  Justin took De Vakey’s outstretched hand. ‘Good to meet you Sir, I’ve read all your books.’ His eyes darted to Stevie who gave him a nod of encouragement. He gave her a tight smile before returning to De Vakey.

  ‘Umm, I know you must be busy, but do you have the time to sign this?’ He produced a dog-eared copy of The Pursuit of Evil from his backpack. Although originally published as a police training manual, this edition had been tailored to the general public and had recently shot onto the bestseller list.

  ‘Certainly, I’d be glad to,’ De Vakey said. He reached into his jacket pocket for his gold pen and signed his name with a flourish on the inside cover.

  Justin twitched him a smile. ‘Umm, I have some more at home. Would it be okay if I brought them over sometime for you to sign too?’

  De Vakey said he’d be delighted.

  ‘Great.’ Justin gave him a nervous smile. ‘I’d better go now. I need to see Dad,’ he stammered, obviously overwhelmed at having met his hero in the flesh.

  Stevie stepped away from the others and caught up with Justin as he headed towards the lifts. ‘Justin, are you free for any babysitting this week?’

  Justin looked to the ceiling as if there was a calendar stuck to it. ‘Yeah, I think I’m okay.’ He shrugged his shoulders and smiled. ‘I guess it’ll be a good opportunity to get some study done.’

  ‘Thanks, I’ll call you later.’ Stevie patted his shoulder, wondering yet again if she was right to encourage him—she didn’t think he had a snowball’s chance of getting into the academy, he just wasn’t cop material. When the inevitable rejection letter came she knew she would feel his disappointment acutely.