An Easeful Death Page 12

  ‘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 ear
ly 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

  The MO is the dynamic feature of the crime and can change from case to case. The signature on the other hand is static and driven by uncontrollable compulsions.

  De Vakey, The Pursuit of Evil

  Stevie and De Vakey found Monty in his flat, trying without success to put the back on his elderly TV, spitting out a different swearword with each ineffectual turn of the screwdriver. But the TV was the least of his problems, Stevie thought as she and De Vakey gazed around the trashed flat, speechless. It would take more than a few screws to fix this mess up.

  Every kitchen door hung open, the contents of the cupboards scattered by clumsy searching hands. Food from the fridge had been spread over the kitchen bench. The eggs had smashed on the floor to join a pool of milk and a creeping tide of water from the open freezer. Still unable to speak, Stevie moved to shut the freezer door before pushing some of the packaged food away from the flood. Picking up an empty cereal box she reached for the bin to discover it missing from its alcove. She found it in the bathroom, the stinking contents tipped into the bath.

  ‘Who the hell did this?’ She said as she returned to the men in the lounge room, stepping across Monty’s slashed mattress that was lying on the floor where it had been dumped.

  Among the jumbled books from the shelves, a patch of carpet glistened with shattered glass and waterweed. She stooped to examine the inert goldfish.

  ‘DOA,’ Monty said without looking up, apparently still intent on fixing the TV. ‘Keyes and Thrummel said the flat was like this when they arrived. They accused me of doing it to destroy evidence. That Thrummel’s bloody crazy—wired as a bloody time bomb. Keyes was practically holding him back by a chain.’

  Stevie rose with the fish cradled in her hand. Her eyes met De Vakey’s in silent communication. She felt hollow and empty. When she did speak, her words rattled in the heavy silence.

  ‘Those thugs can’t be allowed to get away with this. Did you report them?’

  Monty put down the screwdriver and rocked back on his heels. ‘I’ve had a gutful of red tape, the correct fucking procedure—what’s the point of reporting them? I can’t prove they trashed the flat and even if I did Baggly would probably just sweep it under the carpet to avoid an enquiry. I’ll handle this my own way. I broke Keyes’ nose, that’s a start.’ He shook his head before saying, almost to himself, ‘I suppose I should be grateful he didn’t plant anything to link me to Michelle’s death.’ Then in a louder voice he said, ‘I asked them to collect the KP files for me, but they said they couldn’t find them.’

  Stevie drew a sharp breath, coming to a standstill on her way to the bathroom with the fish.

  Monty continued, ‘I arrived when they were finishing up. When I ever so politely asked about them, they said they’d never seen them. Apparently I am now being accused of negligent loss.’

  ‘What about your cleaning lady? Could she have tidied them away?’

  Monty waved his arms around the room. ‘Yeah, sure looks like she’s been, doesn’t it?’ He dropped the sarcasm. ‘There was a message from her on my answering machine, calling to cancel because she’s got the flu.’

  Stevie turned to gauge De Vakey’s reaction. He shrugged. ‘Monty’s read the files, he can give us the relevant information.’ He put a hand to each temple as if he was in pain. ‘But let’s just clear this mess up first. I can’t think straight in chaos.’

  Stevie flushed the fish down the toilet and De Vakey picked up Monty’s Italian apron and tied it on. After righting the sofa he began to gather up the scattered cushions, apparently unaware of the life-size ‘David’ clinging to his middle. Too despondent to comment, Stevie grabbed a mop and bucket and hit the bathroom.

  Monty’s kitchen phone rang after they’d been cleaning for about ten minutes and Wayne filled Stevie in on the latest developments: Michelle’s car in the gym’s car park and her sighting in the cafe. The promising lead from the receptionist at the gym had turned into a dead end, though interesting in another way. Wayne and Barry had traced the address on Frank Dixon’s membership card to a video store in a street just off the highway. After that it came as no surprise to hear there was no record of a Frank Dixon on police personnel files. On another tack, a couple of officers had called at Martin Sparrow’s house and been told by his mother that he was out for the day. One of the cops had parked in the street outside and was now waiting for him to return.

  Stevie relayed the information to Monty in his bedroom. He’d flipped the mattress cut side down and was remaking his bed.

  ‘Frank Dixon,’ Monty repeated the name. ‘Another of his games.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You remember, Dixon of Dock Green —that TV show about the London bobby?’

  ‘Oh yes, “Evenin’ all”.’

  Monty almost smiled. He went on to say that the notion of Martin Sparrow as a serial killer was ridiculous, but conceded that the cleaner’s meeting with Michelle did need investigating. When Stevie pointed out he could have been the one who stole Monty’s watch, he reluctantly agreed it was a possibility.

  As for his gym membership, he told Stevie he’d stopped going to the gym several months previously after literally bumping into Michelle on the stairs. As his visits had to be on record somewhere, there was no way that Monty’s gym membership could be used as evidence against him.

  Stevie breathed out a sigh of relief and dropped the subject.

  ***

  After a couple of hours’ work, the flat was, once again, fit for habitation. The three of them sat at Monty’s kitchen table eating a take-away pizza. Monty pushed the box away, his share barely touched.

  ‘Still feeling sorry for yourself?’ Stevie asked, hoping for a rise; anything to jolt him out of his current apathy.

  ‘Yes, as a matter of fact I am. It’s not every day I fall off the wagon, turn up at work to stare in the face of my dead ex, get accused of her murder, suspended and then have my flat ransacked. Sorry if I’m not ideal company.’

  With a nerve-jangling scrape he pushed his chair away from the table.

  ‘I’m going for a shower.’

  Stevie let out her breath when the bathroom door closed and looked at De Vakey.

  ‘His attitude is quite understandable, Stevie,’ De Vakey moved towards the kettle. ‘How about a coffee?’

  She nodded, appreciating the stabilising influence De Vakey had brought to this harrowing situation. She watched as he made the coffee, as at home in a kitchen as he would be in a boardroom. He was probably an excellent cook too, although he did look absurd in that apron. The time was finally right to give him a serve, but he spoke before the words could leave her mouth.

  ‘Do you really believe he was drinking last night?’

  She looked into his unreadable grey eyes. ‘Why, don’t you?’

  ‘He has no memory of it.’

  ‘Is that so strange?’ She left the table and settled herself on the nearby sofa.

  De Vakey handed her the coffee, then sat down in the armchair opposite. ‘How long has he been on the wagon?’ he asked.

  ‘Monty was never an alcoholic, if that’s what you’re thinking. He was a social drinker, that’s all.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll rephrase the question. When did he stop drinking?’

  ‘About four years ago.’

  ‘No hesitation, you seem very sure.’

  Stevie looked at the back of her hands and noticed a sticky smudge on the face of her diver’s watch. ‘He’d been in England on a course and came back temporarily fo
r the Christmas break to see Michelle. They’d been separated for a while and he was hoping for some kind of reconciliation. I saw him at the work Christmas party, the reconciliation didn’t seem to be working and he’d been drowning his sorrows.’

  The smudge looked like honey. Izzy must have been playing with her watch again; small fingerprints covered the face. After breathing on the glass she rubbed it in circular motions on the leg of her jeans. ‘I don’t know for sure, but I think he did something he felt ashamed of. He hasn’t drunk alcohol since.’

  ‘He must have a very strong image of whatever it was that made him so ashamed. For it to trigger instant abstinence, the image must have been very painful.’

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw De Vakey studying her. Leave your watch alone, she told herself, folding her hands in her lap and tucking her legs underneath her on the sofa.

  But she couldn’t stop her mind from flying back to the event she and Monty never discussed. It was as if by never mentioning that night, they could pretend it had never happened. His shame could fade with time and she could stop yearning for something she could never have. Now, here was this stranger dredging it all back up again. She threw him a sharp look.

  ‘So you think that he really can remember what happened last night and is just conveniently blaming the alcohol? You’re way out of line, mate.’ She flung her hand in his direction. ‘And for God’s sake take that fucking apron off!’

  De Vakey looked down at his torso and chuckled, making the down-turned corners of Stevie’s mouth lift slightly. After removing the apron he sat back down and returned to business. ‘I appreciate your loyalty to Monty,’ he said, ‘but it’s time to think outside the square. Maybe he hadn’t been drinking last night, but maybe someone wanted it to seem as if he had.’

  Stevie stared at him for a moment. She didn’t need to hear another word. She sprang from the sofa and rushed to the bathroom, pounding on the door.

  ‘Monty! Get your arse out of there!’

  Monty appeared dressed in nothing but a sulphur-yellow towel and a thick blanket of steam. He stood and gaped as Stevie hauled the bag of rubbish from the bathroom, wet hair sticking up on his head like exclamation marks.