Daughters of Eve, page 3
‘Work cooperatively, make it work,’ I grumbled as I pushed the chair back under the table.
I glanced at the lift doors before I walked back to my desk. How long would it take Robbo to calm down and come back? And when he did, how long would I have to tiptoe around that bruised ego before we could get down to some solid police work?
I checked the time on my mobile. Robbo had been gone for more than two hours and it was well past knocking-off time. The DCI had peered out of his office door a couple of times during the afternoon, but he hadn’t asked after anyone in particular. Probably didn’t want to draw attention to Robbo’s emotional exit.
‘Hart!’ Willoughby yelled from behind his desk as I stood to gather my things to go home.
I looked at the scattered pile of pages I’d been working on. Printouts of the witness statements that had come in, Griffith-Jones’s court lists for the last six months and the paperwork for a warrant for his chambers, seeking access to his client list. I hadn’t even bothered to ring the chambers. No way they’d release it without the relevant documentation to compel them.
So far, nothing stood out, but it was early days. I swept the pages into a pile and tucked them into a folder before dropping them in a drawer and locking it. I caught Peterson’s eye and smiled as I dropped the key into my bag.
‘HART!’
I leaned into the DCI’s office, my fingers curled around the doorframe. ‘Sir?’
Willoughby’s eyes flicked from me to the quicksand chair and back again.
‘Close the door,’ he said as I crossed the threshold.
I rested my bag on the back of the chair and waited while Willoughby continued typing. I’d promised the girls pizza tonight and I’d ordered it online before I switched off my computer.
‘Will this take long? It’s just …’
Willoughby stopped typing and looked at me, his fingers poised above the keyboard. ‘I’m sorry. Am I keeping you from something important?’
I bit back on a thousand curses and took a deep breath before shaking my head. ‘No, sir. I can wait.’
He returned to typing, only this time the staccato click of the keys was punctuated by long, ponderous pauses.
When he’d finished, finally, he pushed himself back from the desk with a dramatic flourish and rose.
‘I’ve put my neck on the line here, Hart. You’d better deliver.’ His voice was deeper than usual. He was probably going for gravitas but sounded pompous and pretentious.
‘Sir.’ What else could I say?
The silence stretched out between us.
‘Do you know where Roberts is?’
I held his gaze. ‘No, sir.’
‘Do you know when he’ll be back?’
‘No, sir.’ What, was I suddenly Robbo’s mother?
Willoughby’s lips tightened. ‘How the hell are you two going to work together if you can’t keep track of each other?’
I controlled my breathing.
‘I can’t speak to what Detective Sergeant Roberts has been doing this afternoon, sir. But I have spent the afternoon writing up my notes, reading witness statements and preparing briefing notes for the Commissioner and the media team, who will doubtless be fielding questions.’
Willoughby’s forehead creased. ‘I didn’t ask what you’d been doing, Hart. I asked how you and Roberts were going to work together.’ Willoughby walked slowly and deliberately around his desk. My heart pounded as I surrendered the security of the chair back and turned to follow his progress. When he stopped, he towered over me, his back to the door, so close I could smell his whisky breath.
‘You were the one who wanted lead on this case, Hart. And it was you who manoeuvred me into a position where I could not refuse. So, you will make this work. Do you understand what I’m saying?’
I wondered if he was aware of what he was doing. Positioned between me and the door, he was like a leopard cornering its prey. Sweat prickled my skin but I held my ground, shoulders back, my eyes meeting his. No way would I give him the satisfaction of seeing the primal response he had triggered in my body.
When I was sure my voice wouldn’t betray me, I spoke. ‘Yes, sir.’ The muscles in my legs twitched as I fought the instinct to push him aside and run. ‘Will there be anything else, sir?’
He waited another long beat before answering me. ‘You think you’ve won something, Hart, but you haven’t. If this shit goes sideways, the only shoes it sticks to are yours. You’re just a get-out-of-jail-free card for Robbo.’
I didn’t wait any longer. I tucked my bag under my arm, walked around him and left.
Streetlights flickered overhead as I drove down the tiny Marrickville laneway, past roller doors and around the cars that should have been parked behind them. I smiled as I drove through the rusty corrugated-iron gates that marked the back boundary of our little Victorian house. Rose would have opened them to save me climbing out of the car. With my coat and jacket in the boot and an icy wind whipping the branches of the old elm tree that passed for a carport, I was particularly thankful tonight.
I let the car idle for a few minutes to soak up a little more warmth before making a dash for the back door. The pizza beside me was already cold, so a couple more minutes wouldn’t make much difference. After the day I’d had, I didn’t want to take any unwanted emotion into the house.
Warm yellow light spilled from the kitchen window and I could see the top of Rose’s head bent over something, probably an assignment. Her long black hair was wound into an untidy bun and secured with a pencil. There would be another pencil in her hand, either tapping out a rhythm on the table or skipping over the page, leaving perfectly formed letters in its wake.
She would make an amazing lawyer if I could talk her into it. Either a police prosecutor or an advocate for those who the law too often failed to protect.
I turned off the engine and reached for the pizza and soft drink. Rose wouldn’t get to be either if I didn’t get some food into her. She ate like a bird at the best of times, probably in an undeclared battle to control her weight. I thought her curves were lovely, but what would I know?
The frigid air outside the car felt like an assault as I climbed out and stumbled up the back stairs, balancing the box and bottle while I jiggled the key in the dodgy lock.
It wasn’t much warmer in the lean-to-laundry, as I flicked through my keys. The door opened and Grace’s beatific smile beamed at me, framed by a halo of golden curls.
‘Pizza’s here.’ Her melodic voice echoed down the hall as she reached for the pizza box and twirled it around like a partner in a period-drama waltz. She was barely sixteen, but Grace, I was pretty sure, would be a dancer. Or possibly an actor. She had a flair for the dramatic and her long, lithe body moved with a fluidity that was captivating. I followed her as she danced into the kitchen, where Rose was closing books around pages of neatly scribed notes.
‘Careful,’ Rose said as Grace spun the pizza box onto the table with a flourish, causing one of the books to fall to the floor. ‘These are from the library. I don’t want to take them back damaged.’
Flicking open the box, Grace grabbed a piece of pizza and she’d taken a bite before I could stop her.
‘It’s cold.’ Her voice dripped with disappointment and her face fell as she dropped the slice back into the box and made a show of chewing what was in her mouth with distaste.
‘Don’t be a baby. We’ve had cold pizza for breakfast.’ Rose reached for a slice but I closed the lid before she could take it.
‘Ten minutes in the oven and it’ll be hot again.’ I got the oven going and turned back in time to see Grace roll her eyes and slump onto a chair, flopping her forearms onto the table.
‘But I’m starving.’
‘Get over yourself, Grace,’ Rose reached for the soft drink bottle and poured three glasses.
I transferred the pizza onto a tray and slipped it into the oven before turning back to the table. Rose had put the soft drink in the fridge and was closing the door. My eyes were drawn to the list of names I’d scribbled on it with a permanent marker over the years.
Thomas Griffith-Jones wouldn’t be joining them. Born into wealth and privilege, I knew the squad would spare no expense in tracking down his killer. No-one would question the hours and resources assigned to his case. He’d receive a gold standard of justice compared to Casey Hamilton, despite the fact that a couple of the names from Casey’s suspect list had appeared on Griffith-Jones’s court lists. It seemed that they moved in surprisingly similar circles, although Griffith-Jones was probably paid a better hourly rate.
It left a bitter taste in my mouth, thinking about this man who represented the worst kind of criminals without the stain of their misdeeds soiling his reputation. He had lived in luxury, his death would be portrayed as a tragedy, and his killer would be found, whatever the cost, and prosecuted to the full extent of the law. I wondered if his killer’s barrister would feel any remorse, defending a man who had killed one of their own. But before I could follow that thought down another rabbit hole, the smell of burning pizza brought me back to the table, to my family and our dinner.
As I settled the oven tray on a trivet between us, I looked at my two beautiful girls as they jostled for the biggest slice of pizza. Their youthful exuberance reminded me of another teenager, one who would be sitting down to dinner without her father tonight and every night from now into the future.
No, Thomas Griffith-Jones’s name didn’t belong on my fridge, but he and his family deserved justice as much as any and every victim and family did. And it was my job to give it to them.
CHAPTER FOUR
I cursed as the lift doors swished open revealing Robbo, his fingers dancing over the keyboard of his computer. I’d left home early this morning, hoping to be the first on the floor.
‘Robbo.’ I kept my voice vanilla, no hint of the emotion churning in my belly. I dropped my bag in the bottom drawer of my desk and settled in my chair before reaching to turn on the computer.
‘Hart.’
It felt like the first moves of a chess game, each of us pushing our pawns forward, hoping the other would declare their hand with a strong tactical move. At least we didn’t have to sit facing each other. The squad room was laid out like a classroom, with all the desks facing the glass wall of the DCI’s office, DSs in a row along the back, with the DCs and admin staff in the bullpen between us.
I had always hated the way it made me feel, like an errant schoolgirl under the scathing gaze of a teacher, but today it served me well.
I pulled out the papers I’d been working on yesterday and shuffled them into piles. Once my computer screen flickered to life, I opened a new email from Forensics.
The preliminary forensic report included crime scene photos and a list of items found on the body. I hit print and kept working down the list, printing anything that was relevant.
There was an email from Thommo including the buildings that had been searched and those that would require a warrant, CCTV locations plotted on a rough map which showed we had fair coverage for the area and transcribed interviews from two residential buildings that were in scope for the shooting. His team was working fast. We’d likely have the CCTV footage by midday.
The warrants I’d requested yesterday had come through too, and I forwarded them straight to Thommo. No need to request additional Homicide bodies from the DCI this early in the case. Thommo would assign his best officers and they’d be professional, methodical and thorough, which was more than I could say for Peterson.
My phone buzzed, a message from the ME telling me the Griffith-Jones autopsy was scheduled for eleven that morning. I put it in my calendar and pushed back my chair, swinging around and standing to go to the printer.
Robbo looked up and caught my eye. ‘You got something?’ He sounded cagey.
‘Just the usual. Routine stuff. You?’
Robbo turned back to his computer, effectively dismissing me. ‘Nothing worth mentioning.’
I leaned over and looked at his screen. It was an email to a mate, something about football. He wasn’t even working.
I clamped down on my anger and headed down the corridor to the copy room where the printer screen flashed. A bloody paper jam, of course. You would think the thin blue line could afford a halfway decent printer.
I tugged random plastic flaps open and flipped tabs until the machine finally hummed back to life and started spewing out sheets of paper.
I picked up the first page, but before I could read it Robbo appeared beside me and snatched it out of my hand.
‘Seriously?’ I grabbed it back. It was a client list for Thomas Griffith-Jones, complete with the firm’s letterhead.
‘How did you … ?’
Robbo pulled the page from my hand and reached around to pick up the pile that had accumulated in the paper tray.
I stood with my mouth gaping. How had Robbo managed to get a warrant for the client list and serve it so quickly? The warrants I’d sought for rooftop searches were only just starting to come through and I’d submitted the paperwork yesterday.
‘This isn’t what it looks like.’ His tongue swept nervously over his lips. It was clear he’d done something dodgy.
The cogs were turning slowly. I’d grabbed an instant coffee at home, but I was basically running uncaffeinated.
‘Tell me this is legit,’ I said.
Robbo took a deep breath and exhaled audibly. I could see him searching for an explanation, an out, it was written on his face as plain as day. I also saw it when he stopped. His posture relaxed and his head dropped slightly. ‘An old mate from school sent them through. He works in the same chambers.’
The old-boys network never failed. Robbo was a Sydney Grammar boy. The black sheep of his family, he’d been expected to follow his father into medicine, but his grades weren’t up to it.
‘That’s a good mate, sharing work files without a warrant.’
Robbo’s shoulders tightened. ‘You can’t tell anyone. He’d lose his job. I’ll get a warrant—I just wanted to get a look at them first.’
Of course he did. If anything stood out he could get a jump on the case. Get a jump on me.
‘When were you going to share them?’
Robbo shifted his stance; his back straight and his face tense.
‘When were you going to share those witness statements on your desk?’ My stomach lurched a little as I slipped from the high moral ground.
‘Probably when you stopped acting like an entitled arse.’
His eyes went wide and his mouth fell open. ‘Entitled? I’m not the one who stormed into the DCI’s office and stole the bloody case from a mate.’
‘A mate? You’re the one who skulked into the boss’s office before I got back and inserted yourself into an investigation that literally landed at my feet!’
‘Fuck you, Hart. You were only there because I asked you to be.’
A volcanic rush of rage flashed through me. ‘Exactly. I was doing you a bloody favour and you repaid me by cutting me out of the case.’
The air buzzed between us.
‘Fuck!’ He spat the word into the seething space and something in me snapped. I was the one with something to lose. Willoughby had made that clear.
I let the silence stretch out, holding his gaze as I brought my temper back under control. Finally, I felt safe to speak. ‘I guess we’ve both been screwed. Shame the boss isn’t a better shag, eh?’
Robbo’s lips twitched a little. I could see him fighting his trademark larrikin grin.
‘So, how do we do this?’ I asked, looking at the pages in his hand.
‘Conference room?’
He was trying. It was a start. A good start.
I followed him through the still-empty squad room, grabbed the statements from my desk and joined him in the conference room. We fanned out our respective pages on the long table and started sorting.
‘The autopsy’s at eleven,’ I said, just as the lift bell dinged. Looking up I caught the DCI’s eye as he walked towards his office. I couldn’t tell if he was pleased or pissed to see us working together, but something in the unwavering line of his lips told me it was probably the latter. I might not have won, but I hadn’t lost. Yet.
The new coroner’s complex in Lidcombe didn’t feel like a morgue. Walking through the light-filled lobby to the wide, white-walled forensics unit, you could have been in a corporate headquarters anywhere in the world.
But that changed once you left the public area. The corridors were still bright and white, but people wore blue hospital gowns, face shields and gumboots, and there really is no way to disguise an autopsy table.
Thomas Griffith-Jones looked like any other body as Robbo and I approached the window where we could observe the procedure without contaminating it. I tapped on the glass and Dr Johnson looked up and waved. His eyes creased in what I presumed was a smile beneath the paper mask. Helen McKenzie, the senior forensic pathologist, caught my eye and nodded before pushing backwards through the door.
‘Hart. Roberts.’ She tugged her latex gloves until they snapped off and pulled off the face shield and mask, resting them all on a shelf under the window.
‘Sorry we’re late.’ I looked pointedly at Robbo, who’d taken the Hume Highway to Rookwood Road even though Google had recommended the M4.
‘You didn’t miss much. Three bullets in a tight triangle configuration to the centre of the chest.’ Helen pointed through the window to a small tray with three bullets. ‘They missed his heart but collapsed the left lung and nicked his inferior vena cava.’
‘Vena what now?’ Robbo had his notebook out and was scribbling furiously.
‘It’s the vein that delivers blood from the lower part of the body to the heart.’
Robbo stopped writing and looked up. ‘So, he bled out?’
‘Death was as a result of a fatal haemorrhage caused by three gunshot wounds.’ She picked up the face shield and used gloves and headed back into the autopsy suite. ‘I’ll get the report to you as quickly as possible.’
