Liars, page 6
‘Hi, I’m Sebastian—’
‘Right. The keen bean.’
‘Just trying to help.’
‘Sure. Great. Looks like we got ourselves a confession, signed in needlepoint. Leave a note?’
‘No.’
‘Check his phone for one?’
‘Um, not yet.’
‘Like I said, impossible to tell if he OD’d accidentally or on purpose, but he was the last person to see Karen alive, he was our main suspect, and he’s gone back to drugs and taken enough to kill him. After all his years using, he must be a fucking dosage expert, so I reckon he probably deliberately took enough to check out.’ He paused, looking meaningfully at Seb. ‘He made a big mistake: lost his temper, killed the girl he was screwing, and knew we were closing in on him. Feels guilty, scared of going back to clink, this time for a decent stretch. Easy way out.’
Seb tried not to sound tentative. ‘I just can’t see Joe killing Karen.’
Simmonds nodded. ‘Cos he’s your mate. Might have been an accident, but. They argue, one pushes the other, the other pushes back, she trips on something – coffee table, carpet, those stairs I just came down – she lands the wrong way, unlucky, breaks her neck. We’ll never know. Anyway, she ends up dead, he panics and hides her body. If he’d pleaded guilty, said it was an accident, probably would’ve got manslaughter. Out in six.’
‘That’s one theory, but—’
‘It’s the theory. Her body’s found one hundred and seventy metres from his house. Those in a sexual relationship with the victim are the statistically most likely category of killer, and the boyfriend, Tom, is alibied tighter than a jar of fucking pickles. No one else has any sort of motive. He knows we’re closing in on him. Last night Joe panics and …’ Simmonds mimed injecting a needle into his arm.
‘I just wonder if—’
‘You’re going to hit your quota of speeding fines this month. If it’s any consolation, we have KPIs in Homicide, too. Just one, actually. Murders solved. And we just solved one in the best possible way. No year-long wait for a trial, no preparing all the evidence, no getting cross-examined by some shiny-shoed smartarse shitfuck defence barrister, no possibility of a miscarriage of justice cos the jury are morons. Good fucking result. And, to be honest, not bad for him, when you consider the alternative. That’s how he figured it too, I’m guessing.’
‘But …’
Simmonds took a couple of steps toward Seb in a way that was less ‘taking the relationship to a more intimate level’ and more ‘menace’. ‘You know, when I see a vehicle driving fast, I clock their speed, then I pursue the vehicle until I’m about fifty metres behind it. I then activate my lights and siren. After the vehicle pulls over … Oh, wait, am I telling you how to do your job? Sorry. No one likes that, right? Take my meaning? We do this every fucking day.’ He took a step back, and his face softened. ‘Look. There’s no doubt Joe killed Karen. We spoke to the head of his rehab. He said Joe was difficult, rebellious, ill-disciplined and, get this, quick to anger. They nearly kicked him out a couple of times for getting aggro. Maybe he was nice when you were growing up, but years on dope and crime changes people. I’ve seen it plenty. Their impulse control goes. They get angry quicker, violent quicker.’
‘What about Karen’s missing clothes and bag? Doesn’t it suggest she had left Tom? That was the main reason why I didn’t open a missing person file on her.’
‘We thought about that. Tom says he doesn’t lock his back door. We think Joe snuck in there that night or next morning when Tom was out and took her stuff, so it looked like she’d left him and delayed any search. Alternatively, Karen did decide to leave Tom, packed a bag earlier in the day, hid it outside the house, then took it when she went to Joe’s. That might have even led to the argument between them. Perhaps he didn’t want her to leave town, or perhaps she thought she was going to move in with him, and he wasn’t keen. Then after her death he disposes of the bag.’
Simmonds turned and headed toward Joe’s room. ‘I’m gunna have a quick look at his phone, download the contents – got this nifty new gizmo that does it in about eight seconds – and piss off.’
‘But I just think—’ began Seb.
Simmonds stopped, his back to Seb. ‘Mate,’ he said forcefully. ‘It’s case. Fucking. Closed.’
CHAPTER 4
TRANSCRIPT – EP. 4 WHICH DUCK? OUTRO, 21 OCTOBER 2024
GARY TURNER, HOST: Before we go tonight, friends, please indulge me. This episode of Which Duck? is dedicated to my dear friend Joe Griffith, who sadly lost his brave battle with addiction this week. You are at peace now, sweet prince.
Please tell those special people in your life that you love them. Or if that’s too confronting, that you like them a lot. Goodnight.
EMAIL FROM BARB YOUNG TO VIV GRIFFITH, 21 OCTOBER 2024
Dear Viv,
Hope you are doing okay. What a terrible tragedy. I was wondering if you’d like me to clean up 28 Bayview? I could tidy Joe’s belongings into bags if you like?
All the best,
Barb
EMAIL FROM VIV GRIFFITH TO BARB YOUNG, 21 OCTOBER 2024
Thanks, that would be good. Can pay your normal hourly rate. Key should be in usual place.
Viv
EMAIL FROM BARB YOUNG TO VIV GRIFFITH, 21 OCTOBER 2024
Viv, Don’t be silly. No fee.
EMAIL FROM DEV KERALA TO VIV GRIFFITH, 21 OCTOBER 2024
Hi Viv,
I am so sorry to hear of the passing of Joe. He was such a great guy. High-spirited, fun, full of mischief. I guess that mischief led him into trouble, but from my dealings with him recently it seemed he was getting his life sorted out. Addiction is a beast and it is such a shame.
It would be lovely to see you and catch up in this difficult time. This is when old friends really need each other.
Obviously, this is not the time to talk about the future of 28 Bayview, which, without meaning to pry, I’m assuming you now own? When you do feel ready to discuss it, I’m here.
No pressure at all, but we do have some time issues at our end.
Best,
Dev XXX
EMAIL FROM VIV GRIFFITH TO DEV KERALA, 21 OCTOBER 2024
Hi Dev,
Coffee tomorrow? I can come to you. 11 a.m. at Ringo’s?
Viv
CHAPTER 5
Barb lifted the third stone along the low rock wall that separated Joe’s front porch – Viv’s now, she reminded herself – from the tangled front garden. No key. Odd. The spare key to 28 Bayview had been kept under that rock since she was a girl.
She looked closer, as if that might reveal it. It had been there a week ago. She and Joe had had lunch at the jetty between jobs, and whilst Joe ordered the burgers, she’d asked him if she could pop into his house and get a couple of glasses for the lemonade.
She picked up the second stone along. No key. The fourth. There it was.
Inside, she gazed into the living room. When Emily and Pete lived there, the old-style sofas, carpet and drapes, lino kitchen floor, shelves and mantelpieces crammed with photo frames, even a teaspoon collection mounted in an ornamental frame, seemed to fit. Now, three days after Joe’s death, the house seemed plain, even shabby. And so empty.
She moved through the living area and kitchen and slid open the back doors to disperse the musty smell. Had the house not been lighter and warmer before? Less gloomy, more welcoming? No it hadn’t. The house was the same. It was her perception that was different. It wasn’t the house that was grieving. People died in houses all the time.
She could hardly believe Joe’s fatal relapse had come just hours after they had tidied the Simpsons’ garden in Kincumber. Yes, he had been nervous about the police investigation, but he had seemed confident he would soon be cleared, not desolate or desperate. Not suicidal.
‘They always hassle anyone who’s been, you know, seeing someone who gets killed. They’ll move on soon and find the prick – sorry, but prick’s the word – who did it.’
A few hours later, he had accidentally or deliberately overdosed. Had he bought the drugs that day, after work? Or earlier, as a ‘just in case’? As they pruned, was he deciding to take them?
Soon after they had started working together, Joe had said, ‘If you catch me doing anything that looks like I’m getting close to a relapse, stop me.’
‘Like what? I don’t have much experience in that area, I’m afraid.’
‘If I’m agitated, twitchy, pissed off, late, ask to borrow money, disappear with a suss excuse, wear long-sleeved shirts when it’s hot, rob you … I won’t do that.’
‘What if I do notice something? Would I really be able to talk you out of it?’
‘Dunno,’ he said cheerfully. ‘No pressure, but I really hope so.’
She prided herself on being good at reading people, but she hadn’t seen anything in Joe that made her concerned. There must have been a sign. What had she missed? He’d seemed fine that final day, telling her he was meeting Leanne, Gary, Seb, Dev and Viv in the evening at the club. He had done that, apparently, and then come home and overdosed. Meanwhile she had spent the evening telling herself what a good, worthy person she was for helping him get his life back on track. Seems she hadn’t been doing that good a job after all.
She sighed, and tried to focus on the task at hand. Joe had hardly left a mark on the lounge room. Once she had removed his hoodie from the sofa, straightened the cushions and given it a vacuum, he might never have been there.
The kitchen revealed more evidence of his presence. In the pantry were provisions for someone whose primary aim was to avoid starvation, rather than enjoy tasty, nutritious meals. Pasta, Weet-Bix, vegemite, peanuts, several bags of corn chips. Should you re-use the food of a dead man? It was still food. She ripped a garbage bag from a roll she had brought and placed the unopened food in it. She would offer it to Viv. If he didn’t want it, she would eat it herself.
From the fridge, the milk, bread and eggs went into another bag, to be thrown out. She wiped down the benches, then turned to several days’ worth of dishes. Tut tut.
As she washed, she mused. How well could she really claim to have known Joe? They had worked side by side for several weeks. She was his boss, which meant he had been putting on his best face, trying to make a good impression. If you only see someone at their best, how can you know what they are like at their worst? She couldn’t imagine him stealing, taking drugs, or lying or cheating money out of parents and friends, but he had done all that in the past.
Apparently, according to the police, he had also killed Karen Kemp. Word had it they had concluded their investigation and officially marked Joe as a murderer. Surely not.
Some of the work he had done with her had been difficult and frustrating: cleaning gutters you could hardly reach, unjamming swollen and rusted windows. Sometimes she had issued orders to him. She had never intended to be bossy, but she might have sounded so on occasion. She had never seen a flash of anger, or even frustration, from him.
Surely, if he was the type who could lose his temper and kill Karen, she would she have seen at least a sliver of it. Surely, if he had been contemplating a drug relapse or deliberate overdose, then when they had worked together just a few hours beforehand, she would have picked up something.
CHAPTER 6
As he drove into Gosford, Seb wondered if he was being naïve in thinking Joe couldn’t have killed Karen. He’d found it hard to imagine decent old Ken, the electrician, sneaking into his neighbour’s garden and poisoning the tree blocking his view, but he had. It had been hard to imagine Pamela Turner skimming the school’s charity fund to feed the pokies, but she had, or mild-mannered landscaper Bob Wilson hitting his wife, but he did. People did stuff. Then they tried to cover it up.
He came around a bend and saw Gosford Hospital. Immediately, anxious thoughts started scuttling around his head. He felt jittery, as if he had just sculled three short blacks. Inside the car park, he tried to slow his breathing and unclench his jaw, but navigating the tight turns wasn’t ideal conditions.
When you approach danger, look calm, even if you’re not. Look like you’re in control.
Police training.
Move slowly. Speak slowly and clearly.
He squeezed into a spot. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Repeat till bored, because bored is better than anxious.
He got out and tried to walk with an easy gait, dropping his shoulders.
Don’t have to be calm. Just have to look calm.
Inside, he bought overpriced flowers. Soon they would die and be in the bin. Happy thought. He wished he had brought something more imaginative and less disposable, but what do you get someone who lies in bed all day? Did she like books? What sort?
He waited a minute for the lift. Wished it was longer. The doors opened and an elderly man in spotty pyjamas with bed hair emerged. Was there a faint whiff of piss, or was he projecting?
On the fifth floor, he smiled as he passed the young nurse he had seen last time and, thanks to his uniform, got a respectful nod in reply. Nurses and cops were on the same side, sorting out the messes other people made, rescuing them from misfortune, evil and their own stupidity, while at the same time trying to avoid being strangled by their bureaucracy’s forms, procedures and ever changing, but rarely relevant, KPIs.
He slowed as he reached her room. He didn’t like the situation, but he did like her. He was glad to be seeing her, but wished it wasn’t here.
He ran his fingers through his thick brown hair, draping it across his head to try to re-establish the part he combed in each morning and then ignored for the rest of the day. He was okay-looking, wasn’t he? In decent enough shape? He walked to and from work each day, didn’t drink too much beer, and had done that body mass index thing recently and come up as only a bit above ideal weight. Or had it been a bit above that? On the negative side, he never quite got around to running or going to the gym, ate too much red meat and not enough vegetables, and there were probably those who would disagree with his view that the amount of beer he drank wasn’t too much.
Fuck it. Whatever. He took another deep breath and walked in.
CHAPTER 7
Barb walked into Joe’s bedroom, dragging the vacuum cleaner behind her like a reluctant dog.
By the window stood a functional plastic desk. On it sat a laptop, lid open, surrounded by a notebook, bills, a microphone on a small tripod and a phone still plugged into the wall, a digital dog on the tuckerbox forlornly awaiting its master’s return. The bed was in the corner, a built-in wardrobe ran along a wall, and a pair of jeans and two T-shirts lay unconscious on the floor.
She ripped another two garbage bags from her roll. Cupboard first.
Joe didn’t have a lot of clothes, and they prioritised function over fashion. She felt confident Viv wouldn’t want them, so she shoved them all in the ‘out’ bag, checking the pockets as she went. At the back of his sock drawer she found a plain white envelope, without stamp or postmark. On it ‘Joe’ was written in anonymous blue pen. It was unsealed, almost inviting her to open it, so she did. Inside was a wad of fifty- and hundred-dollar bills. Three thousand dollars in all. Curious.
Underneath the envelope was a piece of lined paper, torn on one side as if ripped from a notebook. On it, in thick black block capitals, perhaps made by a felt-tipped pen, was:
YOU ARSEHOLE JUNKIE. WE DON’T WANT YOU HERE. YOU’VE DONE ENOUGH DAMAGE. GO SOMEWHERE ELSE.
She put both in her pocket, wondering who they had come from. The money was Viv’s now, she supposed.
Next, Joe’s desk. A water and electricity bill to go to Viv. Beside them was an A4 notebook. She opened it. What was the harm? On the first page, at the top, ‘SAL PODCAST’ was written, followed by a few pages of scrawly handwriting. She shut it and put it, the laptop, phone, charger, bills and microphone into the ‘keep’ bag.
On his bedside table, poignantly, was a book titled The End Of Addiction. Keep. Then again, Joe’s fate was hardly a ringing endorsement. Out.
Next to it an eye mask – out – and a brown, shabby, worn-down mouthguard. She and Joe had bonded over the fact they were both grinders and wore guards at night to protect their teeth. She picked up the mouthguard with forefinger and thumb, walked down the hall to the bathroom, where she found its blue plastic container, then dropped both in the ‘out’ bag. No one keeps their dead brother’s mouthguard for sentimental reasons. She stripped the sheets and was about to wash them before she reconsidered. Would Viv want to sleep on the sheets his brother had died on? Out.
Suddenly, she wanted to be away from the house. She looked back into Joe’s lonely room. No, she corrected herself, it was just a room. She had brought the loneliness herself.
CHAPTER 8
Claire was sitting up reading a book, Eleven by Mark Watson. Seb filed it away for next visit’s present. Like last visit, she was the sole occupant of a two-bedroom ward. What hospital bed crisis?
‘Hi,’ he said, smiling, and then wondered if that was appropriate. He didn’t want to trivialise the gravity of her injuries. Should he rearrange his face into something more solemn? Or was he overthinking it? Didn’t people hate being treated like victims? He let the smile stay.
‘Oh, hello,’ she said, also smiling – which, he supposed, meant she wasn’t pissed off that he was. Her brown hair was pulled back from her face, giving him a clear view of her wide, inquisitive eyes, button nose and full – and, in his opinion, perfectly shaped – lips.
‘More flowers,’ Seb said self-consciously, looking around her room at three full vases. ‘Not sure what they are.’ He approached her bed and held them out.
‘Thanks. Just put them there.’ She indicated a table. ‘I’ll get them to bring another vase.’
