The Carnival is Over, page 17
Mick and Ross looked at each other. Ross glared at Schofield. ‘So you shot him.’
Glenn looked shocked. ‘No! I told him Tony was a friend of mine, and whatever else I might be, I’m not a standover man.’
‘You refused?’ Mick said.
‘Course I did. I told him to leave Tony alone. He went all quiet for a while. I was about to ask if he was still there when he said, “Fair enough. Oh, and give your two lovely kids a big hug from me.” I said what the hell? And he hung up.’ Glenn’s arm shot out for his glass of beer, but Mick snatched it back out of reach.
‘And?’
Schofield steadied himself. ‘Two days later I wake up and I find the cabinet unlocked and the .22 Marlin gone. Someone’s broken in while we were asleep. They took something from Shelley’s room too: Monkey.’
‘Monkey?’
‘This old stuffed monkey her grandma gave her—she slept with it on her pillow. She blamed Troy. Then I knew they were serious.’
‘They? Not he?’ said Ross.
Glenn looked around nervously. ‘He said he was acting on someone’s behalf. I believed him.’
‘Why didn’t you call the police then?’ Mick asked.
‘I should’ve.’ Schofield rubbed his face. ‘But I didn’t want him coming back in the middle of the night with the kids there. Then when I heard Tony had been shot, I knew it wasn’t suicide. Friendly warning, sure…they just shot him in the head.’
‘With your rifle.’ Goodenough eyed him. ‘Doesn’t look good, does it, Glenn?’
A moan escaped Glenn’s lips, filling the room with his beery, meaty breath. ‘When you brought the spent round over, I hoped like hell it wasn’t—but I—I could tell it came from my Marlin 39A.’
‘You should’ve spoken up then,’ Mick snapped, ‘instead of telling me lies.’
‘It was too late.’ Schofield made a helpless grimace. ‘They’d set it up to look like Tony had done it with his Remington—I thought I’d be blamed for it. Then he called me back and told me to go along with it. Said give my love to Shelley and Troy. And I…couldn’t say a word.’
Mick studied Glenn’s welling eyes, not without sympathy. ‘Who do you think he was, Glenn? Did he sound familiar?’
‘He was a stranger, I couldn’t place him.’
‘Anything distinctive about his voice?’ Ross said. ‘Young or old? Smart or dumb?’
Schofield gazed up, remembering. ‘Youngish. Under thirty, maybe. And serious. Not educated, but smart. And mean. And he meant every word. Not a local. Most locals liked Tony Poulos or knew him too well to be trusted with a job like that. Pretty sure the bloke was from out of town.’
‘Why d’you say that?’ Mick asked.
‘He sounded like he came from out west. Spoke with a drawl. Reminded me a bit of…those rodeo blokes.’
Mick’s heart gave a sudden lurch. He said, ‘Which rodeo blokes?’
‘Bull riders and that.’
‘Why? Was it something he said?’
‘Yeah. The last thing he said was, “You watch yourself. I’ll be tramplin’ all over you like a brahman with bleach up his arse.” I wondered what the hell he meant, Brahman, like, you know, an Indian. Then after he hung up I realised—’
‘Brahman bull. Like they ride in rodeos,’ Ross explained to Mick. ‘If they’re too quiet they squirt bleach up their backside. For a wilder ride.’
Mick winced and turned to Schofield. ‘We’re going to find this man. Are you prepared to testify in court about the threats he made to you?’
That looked like the very last thing Glenn ever wanted to do. He licked his lips and said, ‘I’ll think about it.’
‘You do that, Glenn,’ Mick said. ‘In any case I’ll persuade the court that Shelley shooting her brother wasn’t intentional, and we’ll get her out of there. And send her back to her mother if you can’t look after her.’
‘I can look after her. A lot better than Janelle can, ask Shelley. Ask her!’ he shouted, as if his life depended on it. Or his daughter’s life.
Mick studied his face and sniffed the man’s fear, and shabbiness. ‘Then you better clean up your act, Mr Schofield. Look at you. Not exactly an advertisement for fatherhood, are you?’
Glenn darted a longing look at his half-full beer glass, and made himself look away. ‘I will. I promise I will.’
Later in the car it occurred to Mick that he was hardly an advertisement for fatherhood himself. How long had it been since he’d even managed to have a phone call with his own daughter? Could he have defended himself with that amount of sincerity? More than likely Glenn Schofield had just been trying to protect his kids.
Ross voiced the same thought: ‘Do you believe him, Mick?’
‘I tend to. What d’you think?’
Ross frowned. ‘Hmm. What do you think about the rodeo angle?’
Mick remembered that hard fist to the back of his neck at the abattoir. The power of the punch. The speed and agility of his assailant as he leapt at the fence and threw himself over the barbed wire, landing on his feet like a trained athlete.
‘Could be,’ he said. ‘Anyway, we’re looking for someone fit and strong enough to ride bulls.’
‘A rider?’
‘Someone with those kind of skills. He knows his way around guns, too. And he’s a maverick. In more ways than one.’
‘Uh-huh.’ Ross reflected for a moment. ‘You think he’s a lone wolf?’
‘No, I don’t. Who stands to benefit from what he’s been doing? Covering up murders?’
The shadow of the abattoir sprawled across the highway ahead. It came to Ross as they drove into it. ‘The abattoir bosses,’ he said as they passed the Welcome to Moorabool, a Tidy Town sign.
‘Right.’ Mick decelerated to the thirty mile an hour limit. ‘I think someone at the abattoir told him to get that book in Christine’s locker. After they told him to get Christine.’
Ross still wasn’t entirely convinced about the latter claim. ‘You mean Bill McGuire told him? Or higher up the chain? J.T., or…Mayor Streeton?’
‘God only knows,’ Mick said. ‘But I’m thinking our bull rider probably works or did work at the abattoir.’ He drove on past the police station, the funeral parlour and the Methodist church, then he pulled in and parked outside the Court of Petty Sessions.
‘Come with me,’ he told Ross. ‘It’s time we asked Angus for a warrant.’
Ross shrugged sceptically. ‘Your funeral.’
‘You wanta put five bucks on that?’ Mick said.
35
They barged into the cramped, tall-ceilinged room at the back of the courthouse as a startled Angus Hawley looked up from an issue of Man magazine. He closed the centrefold slowly and lowered it to the desk with a sense of ruffled dignity.
‘One would normally make an appointment,’ he harrumphed, ‘to see the Clerk of Court, but since—’
Ross winked. ‘Lucky we didn’t arrive a minute or two later; he might’ve had his hands full.’
‘Could’ve been awkward,’ Goodenough agreed.
Angus maintained his sangfroid. ‘I was going to say that I’m guessing you must have a verrry good reason for disturbing my busy afternoon.’ One optimistic hand was still holding the magazine.
‘We do,’ Mick said. ‘We have verrry good reason to believe that a key suspect in the case of the killing of Tony Poulos—’
‘Whoa! What killing?’ Now he dropped the magazine. ‘What the heck are you talking about, Michael?’
Goodenough made his way between the stacks of file boxes to the desk, braced his knuckles on it and lowered his face down to the coroner’s. ‘The murder of Tony Poulos, with a Marlin 39A rifle stolen from the gun cabinet of Glenn Schofield.’
Angus went beetroot purple. ‘That—the case in question has been put to bed as a suicide,’ he blustered, ‘as I believe you’re aware—and since I’ve heard nothing to indicate otherwise, absolutely nothing, nada, scotch mist—’
‘You’re not a donkey, Angus. Please don’t bray.’
Angus stared up at him, the capillaries in his cheeks fading to scarlet, and ceased his bluster. ‘Then you better explain it to me. Slowly. So I comprehend it, Goodenough.’
Mick did, with Ross backing up his boss’s wilder claims, until Angus’s thick grey eyebrows lifted like two caterpillars and his eyes went as round as holey dollars.
He stared at Mick and Ross, drumming his fingers. When he spoke it was with a complete lack of bombast: ‘Will Glenn Schofield back this up in court?’
‘He’s agreed,’ Mick said.
Looking from Ross to Mick. ‘Tell me again why you want the warrant?’
‘I believe the man who stole that rifle was the same man who attacked me in the women’s change room two days ago. Oddly enough, it was just after I asked you for a warrant, which you asked me to get more evidence for. You remember, Angus?’
He looked hurt. ‘You’re not suggesting there’s anything more than coincidence at work here, I trust?’
Ignoring this, Mick said, ‘We think he is someone who works—or has recently worked—at the abattoir. We want to interview the admin staff, the foremen on the kill floor and probably the Works Manager. But first we want to look at the staff employment records.’
‘Tall order.’ The coroner glowered at him, but could not outstare Goodenough. He pulled a book of forms out of his drawer, and petulantly signed the warrant.
‘Actually there’s one more thing I have to ask you for,’ Mick said.
‘Ye-es?’
Mick asked him to redirect young Shelley Schofield to a facility that was safer for a small child than the juvenile centre where she was currently held. Angus looked up.
‘I’m presuming the father will be a cooperative witness?’
Mick guaranteed it, and Angus agreed to have the Schofield girl transferred in the morning to Quirke House, a safe—or at least safer—child detention while she awaited trial. ‘Nothing else?’ he said through gritted teeth.
‘We’ll leave you to your busy afternoon, Angus.’ Goodenough nodded to the magazine. Ignoring Ross’s smirk, Angus eyed the door, pointedly.
A couple of hours earlier Hal, making his way across the concrete car park to the works bus, spotted Pelican Shit and Ginger sitting at the back of the bus, observing him. Ginger put a finger gun to his forehead again and pulled the pretend trigger.
Yeah, I get it. Hal looked away. Walked on. One of these days, he was going to have to face his enemies alone. It wouldn’t be at the bus stop, in front of all those women workers—it would be somewhere out of sight and far from help. Some back road, while he was walking home from work. Or late at night outside his home. They knew where he lived.
Not good, he was thinking, as he trudged home the back way along the park near the Batsman’s Arms. Lloyd was right when he’d said he couldn’t be around to protect him all the time. Hal couldn’t fight his way out of a wet paper bag; and if push came to shove, which that psycho Pelican Shit had promised it would, it was only a matter of time before he got his head punched in.
Hal took the short cut through the park, just to be on the safe side in case the other thug, Spider, might be driving past, and he saw Allie sitting on one of the swings. She was dangling listlessly, trailing her sandshoes in the dirt and staring vaguely in his direction.
‘Hi,’ he waved.
‘Oh, hi.’ No wave back.
‘What d’ya know?’ he said, sidling over.
‘More than you, that’s for sure.’
‘Mind if I join you?’
‘Free country,’ she shrugged. ‘So they reckon.’
Lowering himself onto the swing next to hers he gave himself a push. ‘I tried to call you at work around arvo tea, and they said you’d left. For good?’
‘Yeah.’
‘McGuire sack you?’
‘Wouldn’t give ’im the satisfaction. I quit.’
Hal raised his eyes. ‘Not on my account, I hope?’
‘You got tickets on yourself,’ she snorted.
‘No I don’t.’
‘Yeah you do. Y’always did. Eh, Sherlock?’ She kicked his leg.
‘Rubbish.’ He nudged hers. ‘What are you gunna do for money?’
She seemed blasé. ‘I’ve got a job. Start next Monday.’
Hal stopped swinging. ‘Seriously?’ She nodded. ‘Doing what?’
‘Told ya. Working at the courthouse, for the Clerk of Court.’
‘That old perve Angus Hawley? You’re mad.’
‘Least I’m outta that shithole. And he’s all right. When you get to know him.’
Hal snorted. ‘He’ll be onto you in a flash. Watch out.’
‘Not jealous, are ya?’ she grinned and her foot tapped his shin. He winced. She kicked him harder.
‘Shit, Allie!’
‘Cos if you were jealous, it’s a very unattractive trait.’ She stopped swinging.
‘Jealous? Now who’s got tickets on themself,’ he muttered.
‘Well?’ she said, sizing him up. ‘How about you do something useful, and give me a push?’
‘Seriously?’ he said, sceptically. ‘Working at the courthouse and you can’t even swing yourself? You’re not eight.’
‘Clearly. But if you do it well I might respond kindly to an invitation to go somewhere nice. And so might my dad.’
‘What, he wants a swing too?’
‘Last chance,’ she said. ‘Come on. Push me, stupid.’
‘Who’re you calling stupid?’ he said, with mock hurt.
‘Anyone who’d bang those thugs’ heads together must be bone stupid,’ she said, but the look in her cinnamon eyes gave him a warm feeling. ‘Or they got a death wish.’
‘Death wish,’ he said, and pushed her high and then higher as she laughed and shrieked, and he laughed along, unaware that a rusty brown FB Holden sat idling off the road beside the park. And the beady eyes of a certain spiderweb-tattooed thug were watching him and Allie having their bit of fun.
36
The Ceylonese security guard at the gate was not as friendly as last time; nor was Goodenough, as he thrust the warrant through the window. The man looked it over and eyed the two policemen, moustache twitching as he picked up his phone. He muttered a few words, handed the warrant back and said, ‘That way to E Block, administration, gentlemen. Mr McGuire will meet you there.’ He raised the barrier and they drove through, and along into the empty parking area.
McGuire waited for them to stroll across the area, which smelled to Mick as sour as an old dishrag. The works manager stood like a squat troll blocking the doorway, his square head tilted with derision. ‘Officers,’ he boomed. ‘What’s all this about?’
Mick said, ‘We’d like to see the employee records for the last two years. Then we want to have a look over Christine Makepeace’s locker. All right with you, Mr McGuire?’
It didn’t seem to be. ‘You know we’ve been through this palaver already, with the meat police back in May? And our accusers all came out of it with egg on their faces. We could have sent people bankrupt, but we don’t believe in shitting in our own nest.’ McGuire eyed them with studied contempt. ‘We have a special board meeting in half an hour. Show me your warrant and let’s get this over.’
Mick passed it to McGuire. When he saw Angus’s signature, his piggy little eyes sank deeper into his fleshy face. He handed it back. ‘Follow me.’
They walked along the concrete corridor, past many doors that fed off it, right to the end, and up the concrete stairs to a door marked Admin. McGuire held the door open for them and they entered the admin office foyer.
‘Take a seat.’
Ross sat, Mick strolled over to peer at some official-looking photographs on the wall. One was of the eight board members from 1970. Grinning from the near end of a long table he recognised Chairman J.T. Aldritch, Adam Streeton in full mayoral regalia, McGuire at the other end, all heads turned to the camera. Between J.T. and Streeton, beaming like their cheeky baby brother, was Tony Poulos. Framed by J.T. and Streeton, their smiles restrained and self-conscious compared to Tony’s ear-to-ear grin. The camera had caught a sideways glance, with a hint of something like wariness in it—envy?—towards the new up-and-comer.
Mick heard male voices from inside the admin office, one raised: Streeton. ‘Absolutely not—who does he think he is? No warning, no by your leave. He’s not having them. I don’t want to see him—no!’
There was more kerfuffle, and a deeper, calmer voice cut him off. ‘Don’t get your knickers in a knot, Adam. Give them to me.’
Seconds later the door swung open and a big man burst into the foyer, two heavy binders under his thick arm like they were paperbacks. Tall, wide, a former rugby front rower and one-time player for New South Wales, Justin Tristram Aldritch strode up to them, voice booming.
‘There you go, sergeant, senior constable, staff registers for the last two years. You can go over these in here, or we can give you a meeting room for the whole evening if you prefer.’
‘This will do fine, Mr Aldritch,’ Mick said. ‘We appreciate your cooperation.’ Mick took the two tomes, felt their weight, a sombre reminder this could be a long night.
‘Any questions,’ the commanding presence warned, as if there’d better not be, ‘Mr McGuire or Joy…ah, Miss Pilkington here’—he pointed back through the part-open door—‘will be only too happy to help you.’
The door swung open again and McGuire stared out, looking anything but happy to help. Seated at the desk next to him was a bespectacled lady with a vivid purple rinse in her hair who glanced not at the policemen but at J.T. himself, with distaste, and hissed, ‘Joyce.’ Hovering back a couple of desks behind her was Adam Streeton, in suit and tie for the ‘special board meeting’. Mick caught the familiar glare and nodded; the mayor ignored him. Goodenough checked the faces, looking for signs of esprit de corps in this happy bunch of pilgrims. All of it seemed to be concentrated in the big, beaming presence of J.T.
