(2005) A Certain Malice Page 16

  Ruby.

  “Hey, I was going to make you McDaddy’s,” Cam said as he stumbled into the kitchen, rubbing his sore eyes and stifling a yawn

  She’d already filled a mixing bowl with cereal and was putting on the finishing touches of strawberries and cream. He marvelled, not for the first time, at how slim she managed to stay.

  “That’s OK, Dad. I’m not really hungry.”

  She moved into the lounge room, put the telly on and plonked herself down in front of it. His eyes wandered around the room. Well, they no longer lived in a warehouse, but homey was not an accurate description either. Ruby’s possessions were spread almost over every square inch of the house. A trail of discarded clothes and shoes led to the bathroom where lotions, potions, powders and gels covered the vanity unit. CDs and videos were stacked in precarious piles along the hearth in the lounge. Cords of electrical gadgets Cam couldn’t identify criss-crossed the carpet like the tangled net of an animal trap. He grimaced, knowing only too well who the first hapless victim would be.

  “So what plans have you got for today: the stock feeder’s?” He leaned across the breakfast bar and poured the remaining handful of cornflakes into a bowl for himself.

  Ruby did not look up. Between shovel loads of cereal, she was untangling the wires of her Sony Playstation.

  “Cecelia, I mean Ms Bowman, said I could go over to her place and she’d show me more of her photos. I thought I’d give her a ring, maybe go over this morning.” She caught his worried frown. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll ring you if I go out,” she said, her voice flat.

  Cam started to cough and splutter.

  “Are you OK, Dad? You look like shit.”

  He nodded and wiped his mouth with a tea towel. Should he tell her about the fire? She’d find out soon enough. He had to say something.

  “Ms Bowman’s photo lab burned down last night. That’s why I was late home. We think vandals did it. Luckily no one was in it at the time. I think Ms Bowman will be pretty busy going over things today. There’ll be all sorts of insurance stuff to organise.”

  He bunched up the tea towel and threw it in the direction of the laundry, scanning her face as he did so, looking for a crack, a grimace or a tear. In the past, even the word fire had set her off.

  But she responded like any normal, self-absorbed teenager. “Bummer. I hope I can still do photography at school.” She let out melodramatic sigh. “I guess I’ll just have to go to the stock feeder’s, then.”

  “You can also put your name on your new uniforms and cover your books.”

  No response; perhaps he was asking too much.

  He’d showered at the station earlier, so his preparations to leave only involved changing into his uniform, grabbing his keys and giving Ruby the usual goodbye speech that resulted in the usual eye roll. Mrs Wilmot would be starting at their house next week. Maybe then he’d be able to leave the house without the usual feeling of dread.

  He parked the ute in his reserved space behind the station, immediately sensing that something was different. The cars: there were too many of them. Shit, there was a Channel Nine news van, a couple of unfamiliar newer models and a small crowd of people on the front steps.

  Someone hoisted a camera.

  “There he is!”

  Microphones were brandished in the air like cudgels. The crowd moved towards him with the enthusiasm of a Highland horde. He made a dash for the back entrance, only to find it locked.

  Damn Derek to hell. He turned to face the mob. A flash exploded in his face. He saw white ghosts on a dark void.

  “…the third police suicide in three months…”

  “…Royal Commission…”

  “…stresses of the job…”

  “…police corruption…”

  “Can you give us the cop’s name?”

  “No comment.” Cam pushed his way through the mass of bodies. Just as he reached the front entrance a man said, “Are you the same Sergeant Fraser whose family were killed by a bikie bomb in Sydney?”

  He whirled around and faced the crowd. They fell silent, a pack of dogs waiting apprehensively to see who would get the first morsel.

  He drew a deep breath. “The name of the constable involved will be withheld pending notification of next of kin. Details of the tragedy cannot be revealed at this stage of the investigation.”

  “But it was a suicide, right?”

  “Please contact police media in Toorrup if you have any other questions. Thank you.”

  Cam stormed through the front entrance, locked the door on the clicking camera shutters and strode over to Derek at communications. The constable looked up from his crossword puzzle, regarding Cam for a moment through dishwater eyes.

  From his lifeless eyes to the ever-present cup of tepid weak tea by his side, there was nothing distinguishing about the man. His personality was grey. Vince had been a veritable Bob Hope compared to this man.

  “I heard you had a rough night. Too bad about Vince.” Derek rubbed his beaky nose, his gaze falling back down to the paper in front of him. Cam felt like screwing the paper up into a ball and shoving it down the constable’s throat.

  “Thanks for your help out there,” he said.

  Derek nodded without looking up. Cam wondered how Derek would react if the station were burning down. Probably finish the crossword first. He was either the coolest customer that Cam had ever met or the dimmest. Cam hadn’t worked him out yet.

  “As much charisma as a cup of warm piss,” he muttered to himself like an old man. Then in a louder voice he said, “You relieve Leanne on traffic this arvo, OK?”

  “Right-oh, Sarge.”

  Cam fixed himself a coffee, then went into his office and closed the door. Prising open the Venetian blinds, he noticed with relief that the press had packed up and gone. He settled down to tackle last night’s incident reports, make some phone calls and organise the interviews. He was halfway through his second report when the phone rang.

  “Hey, Sarge.” It was Pete.“I’ve just finished having a chat with Toby Bell. He was not impressed at being dragged out of bed at 7 am, I’m telling you.”

  “So, did you confront him with the account drawings?”

  “Yeah, I did. He just about shat himself. I think he was more scared of his wife hearing about what he’s been up to than anything I had to say.”

  The office door opened and Derek appeared. “Mr Smithson’s here. He wants to see you.”

  Shit; a confrontation with that man was the last thing Cam needed right now.

  “Tell him he’ll have to wait.” Cam swivelled around on his chair so his back was to Derek, and continued his telephone conversation with Pete.

  “So what was his explanation?” he asked.

  “He withdrew the money in a lump sum and gave it to a Ms Tiffany Davis,” Pete said.

  Cam smiled for the first time that day.“Ah, the niece. Of course.”

  “That’s one name for it, I guess. Anyway, Sarge, I followed it through and traced it to a deposit on an apartment. It’s all bona fide, he’s just putting her up in style.”

  “You’ve done well, Pete. Good work. That makes up for last night.”

  “We even then?” Cam could hear the cocky smile breaking through the young constable’s voice, picture the deepening dimples of his cheeks.

  “Almost. Get back here ASAP.”

  Cam replaced the receiver and turned back to Derek.

  “Sarge, he insists on seeing you now.”

  Cam sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Show him in, then.”

  Derek showed Mr Smithson in, closing the door behind him. Cam gestured to the spare office chair but didn’t get up. Mr Smithson continued to stand. His face was pale; there were beads of sweat on his forehead. He opened his hands to speak, but thought better of it and reached into his pocket for a handkerchief instead.

  “Mr Smithson, are you feeling all right?” Cam asked, taking in his visitor’s pasty complexion and the slump of his thin shoulders.


  “I... I want to know what you’re doing about the fire.”

  Cam searched the man’s face, trying to fathom the true reason for his visit.“I’m waiting to hear back from forensics, though I’m not pinning much on the physical evidence. I still have some other leads to follow up.” Cam put his elbows on his desk and steepled his hands. He stared at Smithson for a good ten seconds before continuing: “Is that all you wanted to speak to me about, Jeffrey?”

  Smithson unfurled his handkerchief as if it were a flag of truce and began to dab at his face. Cam got up from his desk and poked his head out of his office door, calling to Derek to bring in a pot of tea. He pulled out the spare chair and indicated for Smithson to sit down.

  Smithson stared blankly at Cam for a moment then took off his jacket, sinking into the chair with his head bowed as if all the energy had been sucked from his system.

  “When you’re ready, mate. I’m not going anywhere.” Cam sat back down behind his desk.

  Smithson took a breath. “When we got back home last night, my wife and I had a talk. She persuaded me to come and see you to…” He waved a limp hand in the air.

  “Put the record straight?”

  “Quite.” He nodded and looked into his lap for a few seconds. “I hit him. You know that? I hit him but I didn’t kill him.”

  Cam nodded.“Go on.”

  “Did Ms Bowman give you the details?”

  “Some, but I’d like to hear your side of the story.”

  “She caught Herbert Bell stealing Anne’s underthings from the washing line. I was consumed with rage when she told me. When we found him in the shed, I felt like I wanted to kill him. Cecelia had to hold me back, but not before I got a solid punch off into his face.” He looked down at the hand on his lap and rubbed at his swollen knuckles, as if still feeling the sting. The glazed look in his eye told Cam he was far away, back in the potting shed.

  Derek knocked then entered the office with a tea tray. Smithson started, took a deep breath and pulled himself back to the present.

  Cam poured tea. Smithson seemed mesmerised by the hot amber liquid, staring at it as if it might provide him with some kind of a release. Eventually one corner of his mouth curved into a slight smile. “I felt a lot better after that.”

  Cam pushed a cup of tea towards Smithson and took a sip of his own before saying, “I’d consider anger to be a normal reaction to the situation you’ve just described.” He took a breath. “But I consider hitting him to be an over-reaction.”

  Smithson opened his mouth to speak, but couldn’t find the words. Cam continued. “From our first meeting, I got the feeling you were trying to protect your wife from something. My best guess is she’s been the victim of some kind of violent crime. That might also explain your assault on Bell.” He took another sip of tea, not taking his eyes off Smithson. “Am I right?”

  The older man sighed, nodding.

  “I’m sorry you didn’t think of telling me about this earlier.” Cam tempered his stern tone with compassion. “Your lies and hostility to my inquiries have hindered the investigation and cast both yourself and your wife in a suspicious light.”

  Smithson passed a hand across his face, focusing on the teapot. He took a breath and spoke in a flat tone, as if the smallest of inflections might provide a weakness through which his barely contained emotions would escape.

  “We lived in Adelaide. I used to work long hours. We almost lived separate lives, both involved with our own careers. I came home late one night and immediately knew that something was wrong. She always left lights on for me, but this time the house was completely dark and the front door was unlocked. I went up to the bedroom and…”

  He made a small sound, almost like a hiccup. Cam was sure he would lose it now but Smithson took a breath and managed to keep himself together.“She was tied up on the bed. She’d been raped and left lying there. She’d been alone in the dark for hours. The physical scars healed, but…” he sighed, and shrugged, glancing at Cam before shifting his gaze back to the tea tray.

  “She took the long service leave she was owed and we began to re-evaluate our lives. I never wanted to be in a job that took me away from her again. I resigned from my company, did a Dip Ed, then we applied for the position at Glenroyd. It all seemed so perfect. Just the challenge she needed to help her to forget the trauma. We threw ourselves into turning the school around. You’ve seen how much we’ve achieved in such a short time.”

  Some of the old pomposity had returned to his voice, but Cam forgave him for it.

  “But then the underwear theft seemed to open up the old wounds. I suppose it was the sexual connotations…”

  “Was the rapist ever caught?”

  Smithson shook his head. “No. We’ve had no closure.”

  Cam cleared his throat. “You know, Jeffrey, it’s as much in your wife’s interest as it is in ours that we find the perpetrators of these violent crimes at the school.” Cam paused, studied Smithson for a moment then said, “Do you see where I’m going with this?”

  Jeffrey looked at him and licked his thin lips. “I’ve been stupid. I’ve not co-operated, I’ve lied to you.”

  Cam acknowledged this with a nod.“You may not have had closure for the rape case, but working with us now, helping us solve these violent crimes, will at least give you both peace of mind in this instance.”

  Smithson took a deep breath, closed his eyes as if trying to ward off physical pain. “What do you want to know, Sergeant?”

  The many unanswered questions: the murder of Herbert Bell, the fire, Vince’s death – maybe Smithson couldn’t provide answers to those, but there was something else. Cam tapped at his teeth with his pen.

  “Tell me about the estate of the late Miss Jane Featherstone.”

  Smithson looked perplexed. He shrugged his bony shoulders. “She was an old girl of Glenroyd, passed away about eighteen months ago at St Luke’s retirement home in Toorrup. She had no family and left all her money to the school. That’s really all there is to it.”

  “How much?”

  “Just under a million dollars. It covered the science lab and some of the new classrooms.”

  “And who was the executor of the will? I’d like to see a copy.”

  “I haven’t seen a copy myself, Sergeant, it was a private will. The executor transferred the money to our account. It was all so easy, so uncomplicated, a gift. I signed for it, I declared it to the tax department, I did nothing wrong.”

  His voice rose. He was on the defensive again, almost back to his old self. Cam made placating hand gestures then took a sip of tea, giving the man the chance to calm down.

  “Who was the executor?” Cam asked.

  “A teacher at the school, an old girl herself and the granddaughter of Miss Featherstone’s best friend. You’ve met her: Ruth Tilly, the head of our science department.”

  26

  Cam continued with the paperwork and the phone calls, occasionally pausing to tap his pen against his teeth or squeeze the palm exerciser as if hoping to extract answers from it. The last violent crime committed in Glenroyd was an incident of road rage over six months ago. A year before that a pub brawl resulted in a serious head injury. Now, three violent acts since his arrival – a coincidence? Cam didn’t believe in coincidences. His instinct told him they were related, but how, why and by whom?

  At one stage Derek knocked and entered, leaving a fax on his desk. It was from Scotland Yard and contained information he’d requested earlier. He became so engrossed in his reading he forgot his meeting with Angelo and started with surprise when Derek showed the boy into the office.

  “Hey,” said Cam getting up from his desk. “Glad you showed up.”

  “Cliff doesn’t know I’m here. He’s gone out for lunch. I walked so he won’t see my car gone.”

  Angelo walked over to the Venetian blind and prised the shades. Cam almost suggested he wear a false nose and glasses next time, but managed to stop himself in time. Angelo didn’t seem such
a bad kid, but the kiss he’d witnessed irked him and what Angelo might get up to with his daughter in the future worried him even more. He had a feeling of animosity towards this kid he knew he would have to get over. At times like this he missed Elizabeth more than ever.

  “That’s fine,” Cam said. “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

  He locked the fax in his desk drawer then drove Angelo to the scene of Sunday’s bushfire.

  It came as no surprise to discover the body had been found in the same area Cliff had abused Angelo for spraying. Cam had yet to interview Bell’s de facto over his disappearance, but the more he thought about it the more the names Cliff Donovan and Ruth Tilly occupied his mind. But what was missing? What was the simple clue that tied them to these crimes? Their names continued to float around in his head with no anchors but wary circumspection and gut instinct.

  “How long have Cliff and Ruth been going out?” he asked Angelo during the drive back.

  “A few months, maybe.”

  “So what’s she like, then?”

  Angelo selected one of the shrugs from his wide vocabulary.“She’s OK.” He reached into his top pocket for a cigarette.

  Cam shook his head. “No smoking in here, son.” His sentence dangled in the silence as he appraised his passenger.“You’re acting nervous – you nervous, Angelo?”

  Angelo rubbed at his mouth, craving that smoke. “If Cliff knows I’ve been talking to you, I’m history.”

  Cam risked another glance. “Have you stopped to think that might be because he’s got something to hide?”

  Angelo said nothing. The white fence posts on the side of the road flashed passed in a blur.

  “If your boss was doing something illegal, would you tell me about it?”

  Angelo pointed to a truck stop ahead.“You can drop me off here. I’ll walk back.”

  Cam continued driving. “You know I’m conducting a murder investigation, don’t you?”

  “Cliff wouldn’t murder anyone.” Angelo’s eyes darted to the speedo then to the door of the ute. He seemed desperate enough to make a jump for it. Cam didn’t want to push him that far.