Daughters of Eve, page 2
‘Can you send officers out to check all those?’ I gestured to the buildings that lined Oxford and Flinders streets, overlooking the courthouse car park, then to the taller buildings behind.
‘It’s likely the shot was taken from a distance, so check any building with line of sight to the courthouse entrance. I want doors knocked on, names taken, and if they can get onto the roofs without a warrant, I want searches done.’
‘I’m on it.’ Thommo’s chubby cheeks stretched into a grin and he winked before heading back towards the crime scene. He stopped a few paces away and turned back. ‘Good to be working with you again, Hart.’
I smiled and nodded, but the anger-fuelled clarity I had felt a few moments before faltered. There would be a reckoning for overreach waiting for me unless I could come up with something before I got back to the squad room.
CHAPTER TWO
I was almost back to the bunker when the idea hit me. It was a long shot, but probably my best hope of getting lead on the case. Robbo and Peterson would be going five rounds with the DCI right now. If I turned up empty-handed, I’d be unlucky last on that list.
So instead of riding the lift up to the squad room, I took it down to the garage and signed out a general duties car.
Fifteen minutes later, having woven through some of Sydney’s most expensive streets, I pulled up beside an ornate iron gate and leaned out the car window to press an intercom button embedded in a seven-foot stone wall. The air was crisp and clean this close to the harbour.
‘Yes.’ The voice was brisk but probably not family. It lacked the entitled edge of authority that came with the prestigious Point Piper address.
‘Detective Sergeant Hart for Mrs Griffith-Jones.’
The intercom clattered and went silent. I glanced at my phone to see two missed calls from command.
The intercom crackled. ‘What do you want, Detective Sergeant?’ This voice dripped with privilege.
It was a gamble, but this was the best hand I had to play. ‘Mrs Griffith-Jones? I need to speak with you urgently.’
‘My husband isn’t home right now. I don’t speak to the police without him.’
I took a breath. ‘It’s your husband I need to talk to you about.’
‘Well, I definitely won’t be speaking to you.’
I’d overplayed my hand. A lawyer’s family could be more paranoid than a cop’s.
The intercom went silent. I waited. Nothing.
Shit.
I was peering through the gate to the grand house beyond when the mobile phone beside me started to sing, muffled by the evidence bag it was wrapped in. ‘Claire de lune’. Nice.
I leaned out and pressed the intercom button again, holding the plastic bag to the speaker, and waited for her to make the connection.
When the phone stopped ringing the silence that followed seemed louder than the ringtone.
‘Is my husband with you?’ Mrs Griffith-Jones’s voice had a hesitance now.
‘Can I come in, please?’
The gate slid slowly aside.
I felt like a funeral hearse as I crawled up the drive, gravel crunching under my tyres, and pulled up under the portico. Miranda Griffith-Jones stood slim, stately and immaculately presented, framed by huge double doors. Her thin blouse made me shiver, even before I opened the car door and stepped into the frigid chill of winter. My coat and jacket were both in the boot, one soaked in her husband’s blood and the other filthy from being trampled on the tarmac.
‘May I have my husband’s phone?’ She held out her hand like a teacher demanding contraband as I stepped into the entry hall.
‘I’m sorry. It’s evidence.’
‘Evidence?’ Her voice rose almost a full octave. ‘What is it that you think he’s done?’
Done? He’s died, that’s what he’s done.
I set my face to empathy and used my best bad-news voice. ‘Mrs Griffith-Jones, I’m sorry to inform you that your husband was shot and killed today on the forecourt of the Darlinghurst Courthouse.’
Confusion came first and it clouded her eyes. I’m sure it would have creased her forehead and crinkled the corners of her eyes but for the botox.
‘His body is with the coroner’s office.’
Her hand reached for a side table, long fingers curling around the ornately carved wood as her knees softened almost imperceptibly.
I waited for a sign that words of comfort were needed, but instead she released the table and drew herself up, sucking in a deep breath. I understood then that it would not be a kindness to bridge the gap between us. She was a criminal barrister’s wife and I was a cop. She knew what I was doing as well as I did as I tracked her emotional journey. It’s common knowledge, mostly thanks to Netflix, that the person most likely to kill you is your partner. After that comes other family members, work and business connections, and somewhere way down the list we find total strangers and serial killers. Those figures are probably skewed by the high rate of violence against women, but still, it means that advising family members of a bereavement is more than a courtesy: it’s a vital first step in our investigation.
The muscles of Miranda’s neck tightened and she blinked rapidly.
‘I’m so sorry for your loss.’ It sounded plastic but it was the best I could come up with as we stood in the cavernous entry hall, surrounded by the trappings of a wealth that had failed to protect her from the most primal human experience: loss.
‘I think you should leave.’ Her voice was more fragile than I expected. I’d been struggling to get a read from her face and body. There had been shock, I was pretty sure. It had looked genuine, but behind that there had been something slippery and elusive.
Damn. I hate it when I can’t get a fix on someone.
‘Is there anyone who might have wanted to hurt your husband?’
And there it was again, just for an instant: a slight tightening at the corner of her eyes, lips drawn into a sneer. That was hate. Subtle but definite. And then, like a paintbrush over canvas, calm contempt covered it. She was back in control.
‘I would put you and your colleagues at the top of that list. He was very good at his job.’
She stepped back and reached for the door.
I grabbed a card from my pocket and held it out. ‘If you think of anyone or anything that might be relevant, please call me. Any time of the day or night.’
Miranda took the card between her thumb and forefinger and placed it on a table by the door as if it were tainted.
‘Thank you, Detective …’ She looked down at the card as if trying to make out the name.
‘Hart. Detective Sergeant Hart.’ On impulse, I extended my hand.
She looked at it, then at me, as if I was offering her dead husband’s head on a plate.
Then the door swung closed between us.
I was about to get into my car when the front gate slid open. A limo inched through and crept up the drive, coming to a stop behind me. The driver and I eyed each other for a moment, a standoff of sorts, until a shadowy shape leaned forward from the back. The driver climbed out, never taking his eyes from me, and opened the back door.
A teenager emerged—fifteen, maybe sixteen, fresh-faced with two ridiculously neat plaits and a uniform that was too tidy for the end of a school day.
I know my girls aren’t typical. Some might say they aren’t really my girls, but our bond is deeper than blood. They were my foundlings. Two unofficial foster kids who’d drifted into my life when I was a beat cop in Kings Cross. Over time each of them found their way into my heart and eventually my home, with the support and help of the Wayside Chapel, and the grudging acceptance of child services. And there was very little resemblance between them and this neat, tidy teenager.
It was a good day if I could talk sixteen-year-old Grace into going to school—but when I did, the question of a school uniform never came up. Through the chapel, I’d found a progressive school where uniforms weren’t an issue. Then there was Rose, nearly twenty now and at uni. She’d taken to school like most kids take to sweets. Most days I came home to find Grace glued to the telly or YouTube, but Rose was always in the kitchen with her books spread across the table. I would cook while she studied. Still, at the end of every day, whatever they wore, they looked like they’d dressed straight from the spin cycle, creased and rumpled. Like they’d never left the streets.
‘Are you a cop? Are you here to arrest my dad?’ The tidy teen walked towards me, her piercing blue eyes fixed on mine.
Now she was closer, I saw a smudge of mascara and smelled handwash. She’d probably used it to scrub her make-up off.
‘I’m not here to arrest anyone.’ I tried for soft and sympathetic, but Christ on a hot cross bun, what do you say to a kid who’s lost her dad but doesn’t know it yet? Miranda Griffith-Jones would have me on charges if I broke the news to her daughter.
‘Why not?’
I hid my surprise, but it took me a moment to collect myself.
She was like a tiger crouched in the back of a cage, something guarded and furtive in her expression as she watched me.
‘Do you think I should?’
What was that? A flicker of something. Fear? Hurt? Hate?
‘He’s the enemy, isn’t he? That’s how he talks about you. About cops.’
I tried to smile but it was brittle, a smile of self-defence. I’d been a cop so long I should have been used to it. No-one wants us around until they need us.
‘Phoebe!’ It was Miranda Griffith-Jones. ‘Inside. Now.’
So, the daughter’s name was Phoebe. That hadn’t been in his online bio.
I opened the car door, but before I could slip into the driver’s seat Miranda turned her fiery gaze on me.
‘If you’re not off my property by the time I find my phone, I’ll call your commissioner.’
CHAPTER THREE
‘Where the bloody hell have you been?’ The DCI's face was red and the little vein on his left temple was thumping.
I followed him into the office and closed the door behind me. The click had a strange finality to it. Like a cell door closing or the sun setting on my career.
Robbo glanced through the glass wall of the DCI’s office as he skulked past, heading towards the kitchen. Peterson sat, elbows resting on his desk, trying to look like he was reading. Unless it was the racing pages, I had my doubts.
I felt their eyes boring into my back as I leaned against the chair the DCI had indicated. I didn’t sit. I’d fallen for that one before. Nothing made me feel less like a grownup than having Detective Chief Inspector Willoughby towering over me as I sank into his too-soft visitor’s chair.
‘I went to advise the widow.’
The little vein at his temple went purple. It looked like it might explode.
‘Who told you to do that?’
I took a breath before answering. I had to slow this conversation down before we lost the DCI to a stroke.
‘There was media on the scene when I left. I didn’t want the widow to find out on the news.’
‘You should have phoned it in. Roberts could have gone.’
Damn. Robbo had won the toss. Made sense. Longest service. Best record. Still, I wasn’t giving up without a fight.
‘I wanted to get a read on the widow. See how she took the news.’
The DCI placed his hands on the desk and leaned towards me. This was the point where his bulky six-foot-four frame would have intimidated me if I’d been sinking into the chair instead of standing behind it. ‘I’ve given the case to Roberts. That was his call to make.’
Anger bubbled up but I bit down on it. Righteous indignation wouldn’t serve me today.
‘I wasn’t just first on scene, sir.’ I kept my voice even and professional. ‘I witnessed the shooting and I’ve established a relationship with the victim’s wife and child.’
It wasn’t a good relationship, but thankfully he didn’t ask me to elaborate.
‘Uniform are compiling the witness statements for me and the clerk of the courts will forward the scheduled cases for the day. Forensics and the ME both have my details.’
The muscles of Willoughby’s shoulders sagged. If he gave the case to Robbo now, he’d be airing our dirty laundry in public. Too many people had my details and at least some of them would wonder why I’d been taken off the case when I was so clearly best placed to run it. I had raised the stakes, but would it be enough for me to take the prize?
The chair squeaked in protest as I swivelled right and left, my fingers tapping softly on the edge of the conference table.
‘Do you mind, Hart?’ Robbo’s voice was thin and tight, his arms folded over his chest. He met my eyes then glanced down at my fingers and up again.
‘Sorry.’ I lifted my hands off the table in a gesture of surrender and dropped them into my lap, where they continued to tap silently.
‘Any idea why we’re in here?’
I shook my head.
It had been almost an hour since the DCI had dismissed me from his office. He’d spent most of that time pacing behind his desk, occasionally stopping to pound the back of his chair and glare at me across the squad room.
I’d spent that hour staring at my computer screen, trying to focus on a cold case from a few years back. Casey Jane Hamilton had been thirty-six years old, dressed in a tight skirt and low-cut top, when her skull met a hammer in the back seat of a stolen Mazda 6. The case had been splashed across screens and tabloids for days. Journos had dug up a string of sexy photos from the victim’s Facebook page and sourced quotes from friends and neighbours to stitch up a sordid story of a woman who took way too many risks, a woman who had courted her own death.
We’d been unable to lift prints or DNA from the car, which had been skilfully wiped down. CCTV hadn’t given us anything more than a couple of snaps of the car passing through intersections or speeding past shopfronts. Robbo had interviewed anyone and everyone connected to Casey, but hadn’t been able to establish a credible suspect. Not because they were squeaky clean. Quite the opposite. The list of violent criminals and thugs Casey called friends read like the Rolodex of an organised crime boss.
In the end, the case fell off the front pages and the file was consigned to the cold case cabinet, waiting for new evidence or someone with more time than sense.
It wasn’t that I had a lot of time; I just couldn’t let the case go. The salacious pleasure the radio shock jocks had taken in turning Casey Hamilton’s life into a cautionary tale for young women had gotten under my skin. That’s why Casey’s name was on the list written on my fridge door at home. One of many. Women who hadn’t found justice in the system I’d dedicated my life to.
‘Hart!’ My head snapped up. The DCI was at the head of the conference table framed by a whiteboard that was smeared with the remnant smudges of coloured markers.
‘Sir.’ I cursed my lapsed concentration and the thinly veiled smirk on Robbo’s face.
Willoughby eyed me for a moment before sinking into the high-backed chair that was reserved for him.
Robbo looked from Willoughby to me and back again. I could see the cogs turning.
Willoughby stretched his arms out so that his hands formed the base of a triangle that drew your eyes more powerfully to his face and the brooding set of his jaw.
‘I’m sorry, Roberts. I know I promised you the Griffith-Jones case, but given the amount of work Hart has done already …’
Robbo’s face darkened as my hands formed victorious fists, hidden by the tabletop.
‘Sir, I …’
Willoughby’s hand lifted off the table and Robbo stopped speaking. He turned to face me, eyes narrowed. It took every ounce of restraint I had to keep from grinning.
‘Do not misunderstand me, Roberts,’ Willoughby continued. ‘I’m not giving the case to Hart.’
He couldn’t be giving it to Peterson, could he? I mean, we all knew how many hours Peterson had put into paving his career progression with the DCI. It wasn’t just the sycophantic pandering or the gushing enthusiasm. It wasn’t the extortionate price he’d paid for a golf membership at the DCI’s club or the fact that he’d moved house to attend the same church. Peterson actually babysat the boss’s kids. There were rumours he’d gone on holiday with the Willoughby family last year. Then there was the invitation to join the DCI’s prestigious club …
But Willoughby had said he was taking the case off Robbo because of the work I’d already done; giving the case to Peterson made no sense.
I looked back to the head of the table, where the DCI had returned to his power triangle pose.
‘It is unorthodox, I know, but in view of the profile of the victim and Hart’s proximity at the time of the crime, I am assigning the case to both of you. I expect you to work cooperatively.’
I turned to Robbo.
He shook his head and I felt myself mirror him until I realised what I was doing.
‘No,’ we said in unison as we turned back to the DCI.
‘My decision is final. You’re going to have to find a way to make it work.’ Willoughby rose and, without meeting our eyes, strode out of the conference room.
‘What the fuck?’ Robbo ground out the words like they were asphalt, great lumps of grey stone meant to pave the way to some sort of answer.
‘Don’t look at me.’ I pushed myself back from the table, the wheels on the chair catching on the carpet so it jerked and jolted.
‘I had this case. It was mine. What the fuck did you say to him?’
I thought about getting up and walking out. About stalking back to my desk and leaving him to the temper tantrum I could see brewing.
‘I was there, Robbo. First on scene. You know that counts for something.’
‘Like hell it does.’ Robbo stood slowly, deliberately, his eyes locked on mine. It felt primal. Menacing.
I held his gaze and matched his aggression as I rose to face him across the conference table. He had a good six inches on me but I wasn’t going to let him stare me down.
‘Fuck you, Hart.’ He turned and stormed out, heading for the lift.
