Headland, page 4
Standing back down on the roadway, attempting to rub the grime off their hands, Ellie motioned at Watson with her head and eyes at a unit diagonally opposite on the other side of the narrow road. A man was watching, standing behind a screen door inside his cabin, just barely discernible. Ellie led the way over and stood in the doorway. Watson watched over her shoulder as she unfolded a colour photocopy of Tayla’s last school photograph, which they had quickly formatted onto a missing persons poster.
‘Gloster Police—have you seen this girl?’ Ellie held the poster up to the screen door.
The man moved closer into the light. He was thin, drawn, late forties—or more likely a very hard-lived thirties. Goatee, hate oozing from his pores. Jail.
‘Never seen her before,’ the man spat and shut the door in their faces.
Back at the station, they split the lists into three. There were thirty permanents and six overnighters over the last week: twelve names each on which to do background and records checks.
Watson scored an old obtain funds by deception count for the sixty-six-year-old female occupant of the first cabin he checked. Two drink driving and an assault police for her de facto partner.
Fuck me, it’s going to be a long haul.
He put the list aside, went to the toilets and split an Oxy capsule in half. He poured half the fine powder onto the side of his fist and snorted it.
Ellie and Larissa watched him closely as he cruised back to his workstation.
There was a large sealed envelope sitting next to his keyboard. He had been avoiding it since he got into the office that morning, shuffling it out of the way as he focused on the tasks in front of him. But when he sat down with his warm Oxy buzz, he felt capable of dealing with some additional work.
The envelope was originally addressed to Alan Bishop, but had been redirected with his name handwritten on it. He tore it open and let the four or five stapled pages fall directly onto his desk. It was an accident report from the Crash Investigations Unit. He went straight to the Actions/Conclusion section on the last page and, sure he must have misread it the first time, read it through again.
In the opinion of the professionals at the CIU, the accident involving Tayla’s best friend, Laura, and her father was no accident at all.
6
Paint scrapings, a small dent, skid marks, and the calculated speed of entry. Each an individual bullet point, but together, a powerful and well-reasoned argument that the double fatality rollover that ended with a family car upside down and underwater in the Gloster River had been caused by a deliberate collision rather than a random accident.
The CIU had found a deformation of the left rear panel of Laura Sweeney’s father’s green Jaguar. The area in and around the deformation of the panel was smeared with a coating of red auto paint for a length of thirty centimetres. Testing of the red paint, standing out obviously against the green panel on attached photographs, showed it to be of a specific type used only on late model Toyotas.
Watson’s eyes were burning, his scalp beginning to crawl.
The wreck occurred on a long sweeping left-hand curve that followed a bend of the river, fifty metres away behind a safety rail on the right-hand side of the road. There were no obvious skid marks on the road, which usually was taken as a sign that a driver had fallen asleep at the wheel. But the CIU had revisited the scene after the dent and the fresh paint smears were identified. A more focused investigation located two short rubber burns on the road, twenty centimetres long and ten centimetres apart, signs generally indicating a collision; that a car had been hit from the side, causing it to lift slightly and then hit the road again a short distance away. Enough to send a fast-moving vehicle careering out of control.
Disturbed gravel, deep ruts and skid marks gouged through the long grass at the side of the road showed that the driver had attempted to brake and regain control after the vehicle had left the road, as it speared towards the guard rail. But it was too late. The sideways force of the collision and the momentum of the sweeping left-hand curve had caused the car to flip over and clip the top of the guard rail. Hitting the guard rail had only added to the momentum of the flipping motion of the vehicle. There were signs the car had rebounded off a tree twenty metres further down the embankment, but by then nothing was going to stop the car entering the water. Which it did. On its roof. And it sank almost immediately.
Fuck.
Watson covered his face with his hands. Larissa must have sensed a situation because she made her way over to his workstation, Ellie close behind. He handed the report back over his shoulder without turning around or removing his elbows from the desk. The two women began to read.
He heard one of them gasp as they reached the conclusion.
Watson swivelled around in his chair when he heard the pages being flipped back over. Three sets of eyes met.
‘What next?’ he said.
Ten to four. Watson actually welcomed the chance to get out and check the fucking river gauge. He parked as close to the bridge as he possibly could, in a space reserved for access to a municipal park that ran down to the river. He could tell just by looking that the muddy brown water had risen since he and Larissa had checked the gauge that morning.
He checked the meter and saw the level had hit 15.9 metres. Shit! What had Larissa said? Twenty metres and they had to leave, or was it twenty-two? Come on down!
The rain was spattering off his umbrella as he jumped puddles on his way back to the car.
He had just slid behind the wheel when his phone buzzed. He pulled it out of his pocket and read the incoming message.
You will pay maggot.
He had been scoring off Jeremy Landers for eighteen months before the shit hit the fan. Jeremy had offered to sell him coke in a city nightclub not long after he had graduated from the academy. They went into the toilets, Watson slipped Jeremy two hundred dollars, and Jeremy slipped him the bag. Watson took his phone number for future reference.
He wasn’t sure how Jeremy found out he was a cop; probably through a friend of a friend. Word gets around. It wasn’t ever an issue until Jeremy got busted. Just small-time possession. Nothing to worry about, Watson told him. Pay a fine be on your way.
The second time he got arrested Jeremy wanted a helping hand. Demanded it. Started getting heavy. Said he might start dropping names. Do some sort of a deal. Watson couldn’t have that. He organised a meeting, brought along a taser.
He put 50,000 volts through Jeremy’s sternum while they sat in the front seat of Jeremy’s car. When the dealer regained consciousness, Watson shoved his service-issue Glock into Jeremy’s mouth and said, ‘If you ever threaten me again, I will fucking end you.’ Then he dropped just over a trafficable weight of coke under the seat before exiting the car and ringing a mate in the vice squad.
Jeremy got two years. Eighteen months with good behaviour.
He dialled Central Records, gave his badge number and his details.
‘Jeremy John Landers,’ he said. ‘Current status?’
‘Released from Bathurst Correctional Complex on the twenty second of June this year, six months’ probation continuing,’ came the answer.
The twenty-second of June. Eight days ago. The texts had started six days ago.
Doesn’t take a rocket scientist.
‘We’ve got a good one,’ Larissa said when he stalked back into the office. ‘Well, Ellie has,’ she corrected herself, as Watson approached her workstation.
Ellie came out and joined them in Larissa’s cubicle, holding a printout. ‘Aaron James Redman.’ She said it like she was describing a disease. ‘The usual childhood break and enters and car thefts, but then graduating to assaults, assault with a deadly weapon and then rape.’ She stopped, looked up at Watson. ‘Four counts.’
‘I’m guessing we know which one he is?’ Watson replied.
‘Without a doubt,’ Ellie confirmed.
‘Well, let’s go and pay him a visit.’
‘I’ll just grab my coat,’ she said.
Ellie drove. It seemed to be the way things were done around there.
‘I know a short cut,’ Ellie said, glancing over at Watson as she turned off onto a potholed dirt track through the trees, just short of the main entrance to the caravan park. It was obviously no short cut, but it took them down close to the far end of the park, down where the empty cabin was positioned across the way from Aaron Redman’s cabin. Where they could park the car and not be seen.
She wasn’t a tall woman, probably shorter than the average female. There wasn’t much to her wiry frame either, but she gave Watson a look before she opened her door that excited him, and very slightly terrified him.
Look out, Aaron.
It was just going on dusk as they negotiated the dripping bush between the track and the back of the caravan park. The wind was back, roaring through the tops of the trees. It was raining heavily. Ellie led the way quickly across to Redman’s front porch. She opened the screen door. The door behind it was locked.
Watson looked quickly left and right, up and down the road. There was no one around; the chill wind and the rain was keeping everyone indoors.
Ellie knocked, hard. After a few seconds the door scraped open and Redman stood there. He bristled at the uniform—at the woman in the uniform.
Watson held the screen door. Ellie came up and under with an upper cut into Redman’s solar plexus. He immediately doubled over, a loud whoosh of air leaving his throat. She straightened him up by grabbing the scabby mullet off the back of his collar. Gave him two short, hard jabs to the middle of his face. Then she threw him inside the cabin.
Watson dragged the screen door closed behind him. Entered and shut the door.
Ellie had Redman down on his stomach, her knee across the back of his neck while she applied the handcuffs. Tight. Then she rolled him over onto his back. Watson knew from experience how painful it was to be lying on top of your own cuffed hands.
They were in the main room of the cabin, a lounge area with a small kitchenette. There was a bedroom and a bathroom off to their left. Every flat surface was covered in dust and dirt, and the threadbare carpet that Redman was now squirming on was filthy and stained. The television was on, and a still-smoking bong sat on the floor in front of a reeking, stained lounge chair.
Ellie stood over Redman, one leg either side of his heaving chest and whipped out her extendable baton. It opened with a loud metallic clack in the confines of the small room.
Redman winced; there was no fight left in him.
With her free hand, Ellie pulled Tayla’s missing persons poster out of her pocket and shook it open.
Watson did a quick scan of the bedroom and the bathroom to ensure that they were alone. He met Ellie’s eyes and nodded.
‘This girl, you rapist piece of shit—where is she?’ She pointed the end of the baton at his face.
Redman stared at the poster, a look of utter terror on his face.
‘Yeah, I saw her,’ he gasped. ‘I saw her a couple of times.’
Watson went through the kitchenette. The bench space was crowded with unwashed plates, pots, pans, cups and cutlery. There were cockroaches and ants feeding on leftovers and dark, furry food in the bottom of opened containers.
‘When did you see her?’ Ellie demanded. ‘Where?’
‘Here in the park, the cabin across the road, the empty one.’
There was a plastic Tupperware container on top of a small fridge. The only clean container in the entire house by the look of it.
‘When?’
‘I dunno. A couple of days ago maybe.’
‘How many fucking days ago?’
‘I dunno—fucking look at me. I don’t know what day it is. I don’t even know day from night. It was a couple of days ago.’
Watson opened the Tupperware container. There were six deal bags with solid little rocks of crystal in each of them. He pocketed three.
‘Who was she with?’
‘I dunno. Some other girls, some woman; I don’t know who they were.’
‘Describe the woman.’
‘Fuck knows. I see them through the window, coming and going. It’s in the dark usually.’ He was crying now.
Watson looked over at the front window. There was a view of the empty cabin, but the window was filthy and there was a thin lace curtain covering it.
‘How do you know it’s a woman?’
He hesitated. ‘Just … I dunno; the way she walks, the hair. Maybe it’s a man.’
Ellie looked over at Watson, teeth gritted. ‘Anything?’
‘Last time you saw her, a couple of days ago, who was she with?’
Redman paused, had to think about it. ‘She was on her own.’
‘Night or day?’
‘Night-time, late.’
‘Was she coming or going?’
‘She was coming.’
‘Was there anyone else there, in the cabin?’
Another pause, more thinking.
‘No, the lights were off.’
Watson looked back at Ellie. She kicked Redman over onto his stomach and removed the cuffs. Watson walked to the door and held it open for her. She turned in the doorway, pointed the baton.
‘You ever see me on the street, you cross the fucking road.’
Watson jumped straight back into the car, shivering, and stuffed his hands together down between his legs. Ellie did not get in immediately. He watched her through the spattered windscreen, standing out in the dark, in the rain, staring back towards the caravan park with the wind blowing the hood of her yellow police-issue rain jacket up around the back of her head.
When she moved, she moved quickly, sliding back behind the wheel of the car. She started the motor to get the heater going but didn’t put the car into gear. She pulled two or three moist paper towelettes from a dispenser down by her door and dabbed at her face and neck until she had soaked up most of the rain. Then she turned her head and stared hard at the side of Watson’s face.
‘Larissa doesn’t need to know,’ she said flatly.
His hand was in his pocket now, feeling the sharp-edged rocks on the tips of his fingers. He watched the rain splattering against the windscreen and he nodded. Then he turned and met her gaze until she looked away into the darkness.
7
Philby’s door was shut when they got back to the station. Reception was dark and empty.
‘I’ve just got to make a quick call,’ Watson said, reaching inside his coat pocket for his phone.
He let Ellie go on alone. Back to the squad room to update Larissa however she wanted.
‘Yeah, it’s me, Robbo,’ he said when the phone was answered. ‘Remember that dickhead Jeremy Landers who I put you on to a couple of years ago?’
Robbo confirmed that he did.
‘Yeah, well I need an address.’
Robbo asked the obvious question. ‘Why, mate?’
‘Because I need to have a serious word with the fucker.’
Robbo sighed. ‘I was just about to leave for the day. Can it wait till tomorrow?’
‘Yeah, tomorrow’s fine, just text me.’
‘Righto. How’re things up bush?’
Watson lowered his voice. ‘A complete shithole—can’t get out of here quick enough. Listen, mate, I’ve got to go—thanks.’
He pulled the remaining half of the Oxy capsule out of his pocket, split it, loaded the contents onto the back of his hand and polished it off before heading upstairs.
When he entered the squad room, Larissa was seated in her cubicle and Ellie was standing, leaning on the corner of the divider between their two workstations. They both smiled at him as he sauntered across to his desk.
‘Everything okay?’ Larissa asked brightly.
What the fuck has Ellie told her?
‘Yeah, fine,’ he said.
‘Look, we were just wondering …’ Larissa glanced up at Ellie. ‘Would you like to come around to our place for dinner tonight? Maybe a few drinks?’
If he hadn’t just dropped the Oxy the answer would have been a definite, absolute no.
But he’d had the Oxy, so he wavered. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said.
‘Oh, come on,’ Ellie said. ‘Have you got something else on?’
‘No, I haven’t, it’s just …’ The Oxy had already slowed him down so much he couldn’t come up with anything. ‘Yeah, okay—why not?’
‘Okay then,’ Larissa said, ‘we’ll finish up here and see you at ours at about seven. I’ll text you the address; we’re just around the corner from you.’
The empty cabin where Redman had seen Tayla was listed on the record provided by the park manager as owned by a couple, John and Eunice McCann, with an address at a farm property not far out of town. Watson made a note to call in first thing the following morning. Checking the map for directions, he could see the property wasn’t far from the scene of the fatal car crash.
May as well kill two birds with one stone, he decided. He was curious to see the crash site for himself.
He stopped off at the Surfside bottle shop and grabbed a six pack of beers and a mid-range bottle of red before heading back to the barracks.
There he had a quick shower, and changed into jeans and his warmest shirt before retrieving the rocks from his damp suit pants.
He had dropped down onto the lounge with one of the little bags in his hand when he heard a crash from the kitchen. Something had fallen. He sat absolutely still, facing the door. There was another noise, fainter this time, indistinguishable. He rose slowly to his feet.
My gun—where did I leave it?
He crept silently back through the lounge to the bedroom. There was another loud rustling noise from the kitchen. There was a small gun safe built into the bedroom wall for storage of service weapons. Watson could see his pistol lying on the bedside table where he had tossed it. He took two long steps into the room and picked up the cold, hard piece of black metal.
