The Sunbaker, page 12
She climbed off the bed, accidentally striking her head on the wall as she did so. There was no room to pace, so she edged her way around the bed to the small wardrobe, put on a light cotton dress, and left the room.
It was a few degrees cooler outside. She stretched out on a sun lounge next to the motel pool in the dark. All was quiet apart from the mating calls of distant cane toads. Bats flitted silently overhead. She closed her eyes and forced herself to think of something other than the stupid Harriers with their stupid-looking sunglasses and their unconstrained testosterone. How dare they accuse her of murder? She’d spent her life assisting the murdered to achieve justice, and to be accused of murdering someone herself was preposterous and insulting to everything she’d done over the years as a doctor.
Maybe Jack was right and the police were looking to find a fall guy, or fall girl, to cover their ill deeds. It was common enough in the past, but surely it would be so much harder these days, in the era of modern forensics. Still, she’d have to ensure she made herself as small a target as possible, and yelling abuse at them at the police station hadn’t helped after she’d lost her composure. Maybe she should take lessons from Jack, who seemed an expert at keeping calm while forcing the cops to lose their cool. She smiled at the thought of him teaching her how to aggravate police, then drifted off to sleep.
When she woke, it was early morning and she wasn’t alone. On the other side of the pool, the skinniest adolescent she’d ever seen was attempting to fish leaves from the water with a net. He wasn’t being very effective, as he was staring at Nicola. He looked away when she sat up. Shooting him the evil eye, she pulled down the hem of her dress, then patted her pockets to see if she’d remembered to bring the phone Jack had given her. She found it and checked the time: nearly 7 a.m. There was a message just in from Bernard – maybe that’s what had woken her. He was always an early riser.
Morning Nicola. Just checking in to see how you’re going.
That was typical of Bernard, always so thoughtful of others, even when he was going through a rough time himself. She started typing a response, but decided to call instead.
He answered straight away. ‘Hello.’
‘Hi, Bernard, it’s Nicola.’
‘How are you holding up? I know we’re probably not supposed to be talking, about the case anyway, but I’m worried about you.’
‘It’s all very surreal having someone place a body in my backyard. The police have been giving me a hard time.’
‘They can’t seriously think it was you?’
‘In a normal world, no. But these particular cops aren’t normal. I haven’t dealt with the Harriers before. They’re scary.’
‘Are you still trying to deal with it on your own? I’d come up, but then there’d be nobody here at work. And, besides, I’m still not allowed to drive in case I have another fit.’
‘It’s okay, Bernard. A seat has finally appeared on today’s flight out of Delhi, so I’m going up to Brisbane to meet the plane. And then I’ll have another shoulder to cry on if need be.’
‘Oh, I’m really relieved, Nicola. Hopefully it will all be sorted soon and you can get back here.’
‘Speaking of which, how are you feeling? And how’s work? You must be run off your feet.’
There was a long silence. ‘Work is pretty shit, to be honest. But I’m fine.’
Things must be really bad, thought Nicola. Always the gentleman, she’d never heard Bernard say ‘shit’ before.
He continued, ‘But you needn’t worry about me – I’ll just do what I can. Anyway, you’ll be here soon and we can tackle the backlog together.’
‘Thanks, Bernard. Look after yourself.’ She ended the call.
A family with a gaggle of small children had arrived. A young girl with an inflatable flamingo around her waist leaped into the pool squealing, a large gush of water splashing perilously close to Nicola.
Her phone beeped. Jack.
I enjoyed dinner, thanks, dead-people-person. I’ll drop the car up @ 4. Let me know if u need anything else. Deep breaths. It’s all going to be fine.
She’d also enjoyed the evening with Jack – it had been a long time since she’d been out for a meal, or anywhere, especially with a man. And Jack scored well above average. She wondered whether he had a partner; he hadn’t mentioned anything at dinner. Next time they met she might ask, then she might be forced to confess to her little secret.
Chapter Twenty-five
At 7 a.m. Jack was weary but stubbornly awake, even though he’d only been in bed for a few hours. He lay restlessly with his eyes closed for another half an hour, then abandoned hope of sleep and got up.
Loud snoring was coming from Ricky’s bedroom. He’d also had a late night; Jack had received a text from him in the early hours saying he’d checked the rest of the neighbour’s video footage and nobody else had come or gone from Michael Brown’s house between the time when the white van departed on the Friday and when Caitlin arrived for work on Tuesday morning.
Jack went downstairs and invited Moira up for a shower, then prepared breakfast for them both.
His phone pinged. It was Nicola responding to his earlier message.
Thanks for your company last night. And for offering to lend me your car.
He sent back a smiley emoji.
When Moira finished breakfast, he gathered his things and set off on foot for The Beacon. To his relief, there had been no black SUVs outside the apartment, no stormtroopers waiting to drag him away for waterboarding.
The Beacon’s office was busier than Jack had ever seen it. The new employees were in, including Libby with baby George asleep in his pram and Clancy, a large golden ball of fur, dozing at her feet.
‘How are we looking for the next edition, Libby?’
‘We’re pretty much on track, except Cassandra is struggling with the horoscope – something about Mercury being in retrograde making it hard for her to get her shit together. And Justine wants a bit more time to file a court report about someone who dobbed in his neighbour for stealing his marijuana plants, which resulted in them both being charged with possession. And …’ She pulled a mock cranky face. ‘… we could do with a front page.’
She was right, Jack had been slow; he’d had a few distractions. He sat at his desk and opened his laptop, then felt his usual inertia. He loved everything about journalism, except the actual writing part. He enjoyed the investigation, the story itself, the people, the smell of fresh newsprint, the snappy headlines. If only the stories wrote themselves. He’d never been trained as a journalist, and his typing skills were almost non-existent – two fingers and endless corrections. And his mild dyslexia didn’t help.
It went without saying that Michael Brown’s murder was to be the front-page story, but Jack was struggling for compelling content beyond describing the facts of his body being found. What he really needed was some progress on the investigation, and ultimately a motive and an arrest.
From what Jack could tell, there hadn’t been any real progress made by the police, even with the extensive resources at their disposal to find a killer: thousands of personnel, crime databases, CSOs, interagency links, consultants and informers. And, in contrast to Jack, the cops had legitimacy. But that all counted for nothing if the Harriers really didn’t want to solve a case or, worse, had chosen to stitch someone up to cover over their own misdeeds.
Jack considered his meagre crime-fighting resources: a geriatric labrador, a baby too young to talk, a beaten-up car that was lucky to start, Caitlin and Ricky. He consoled himself with the knowledge he had his own informer of sorts inside the police station, Inspector Begley, and that Ricky was probably worth at least five police constables.
He began typing, both index fingers dancing inaccurately around the keyboard.
BODY IN BRUNS
The body of prominent barrister Michael Brown was found on Monday after he had been murdered several days earlier. It is believed the murder occurred elsewhere and the body was later moved to a residential property in Brunswick Heads. The police organised crime unit, the Harrier Squad, have been leading the murder investigation, rather than homicide detectives. This is a highly unusual situation and raises a question about whether Michael Brown was more than he seemed. The barrister had acted for the defence in several high-profile court cases involving outlaw motorcycle gang, the Grim Reapers, but it is not clear whether he had other links to organised crime.
His phone rang. Caitlin.
‘This isn’t the one telephone call you’re allowed at the police station, is it?’ he said.
‘Ha-ha. I’m pretty confident you’ll be arrested before me. How was last night?’
‘We ended up at the pub.’
There was a brief silence from the other end. ‘And?’
‘And what?’
Another pause. ‘How did it go?’
Was that jealousy? thought Jack. Even though Caitlin had told him there was no way she was going to have a relationship with him, here she was seemingly upset he’d kept Nicola company for an evening.
Caitlin prodded him. ‘Did you end up anywhere else?’
Definitely jealousy.
‘I walked her to her motel and left her there. I slept alone, if that’s what you’re asking. And as you know, she already has a partner.’
There was a brief pause before she answered. ‘I’m sorry, Jack. It’s none of my business.’
‘Are you changing your mind about us? Because if you are, you should let me know before I sign up to Tinder.’
‘You’d never sign up for that.’
‘True, but you know what I mean.’
‘No, I haven’t changed my mind.’
‘Well, let me know if you do.’
Caitlin changed the subject. ‘Are we any closer to knowing what happened to Michael?’
‘We found some security footage of a white van going in and out of his house around when he disappeared. But it had no identifying features and we couldn’t see the number plate. Apart from that, we don’t have much. And there’s nothing new from Begley.’
‘I’d like to help if I can.’
‘It will be a bit of a drudge, but you could trawl through some of his court case judgements. See if there’s an old client who might have a particular grudge, especially if they might be violent.’
‘He defended outlaw bikies. They’re all violent.’
‘True. But it might be worth a look, just to see if anything pops up. Nicola was involved in one of his cases, in the Coroner’s Court.’
‘Really? That seems quite a coincidence.’
‘Maybe, maybe not. Both their jobs involve spending time in court.’
‘I’ll see what I can find. But only the case judgements are available online, and they’re just a summary. The details are only found in the transcripts, which aren’t publicly available. But it will be a start. Do you want to catch up this afternoon?’
‘Sure, although it’ll have to be later this evening. I’m driving to Bruns to lend Nicola my car so she can collect her husband from Brisbane airport.’
‘Oh, that’s good news.’ There was a pause. ‘For Nicola, I mean.’
‘I won’t get back to Byron until after nine. I’ll message you.’
He ended the call and returned his attention to his front-page story, and was soon tapping clumsily at the keyboard once more. It was a couple of hours until he had something passable – he’d never win a Walkley for the quality of his writing.
He checked with Libby and then with Harris Media head office if there was a suppression order in place yet, and when it was clear none had been received, he emailed the story to Libby for the print edition of The Beacon, before uploading it to the online version. He was pretty sure it would arouse some more finger pointing from Petra Novak.
Chapter Twenty-six
Jack’s drive to Brunswick Heads was uneventful, as he safely negotiated his way around the potholes rapidly re-emerging after their recent repairs. He parked in front of Nicola’s motel, went to her room and knocked. Some of the liveliness was back in her eyes when she opened the door.
‘Thanks so much, Jack.’ She gave him a hug. ‘Do you want to come?’
Jack didn’t fancy a five-hour road trip, especially as he’d be perched in the back seat as the two love-birds caught up after what was presumably a long absence. He wondered whether there might be fondling of knees, or thighs, or worse. ‘Thanks, but I’m good.’
‘I should be back by nine.’ She checked her watch. ‘I’d better go.’
He handed her the keys. ‘It’s the white Toyota out the front.’
‘Can we have a chat when I get back? There are some things I need to tell you.’
‘Sure.’
She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek, then hurried past, leaving him wondering what was on her mind.
He walked to the centre of the little village, wandering the streets to fill in time. Several antique and second-hand shops beckoned him in, their eclectic mixes ranging from old traffic lights and radios to home furnishings with attitude, such as ‘Fuck off’ doormats. He spent an enjoyable half-hour in a shop flicking through vinyl records, whiled away more time in a café drinking too much coffee, then wandered over to the beach where the water looked so inviting he wished he’d brought swimmers.
With many hours still to wait, he found himself in the Hotel Brunswick for the third time in three days. Management would be naming a bar in his honour if this kept up. The pub was busy enough for a Thursday afternoon, but Marilyn Monroe was nowhere to be seen – even movie stars need a day off.
Hoping for some peace and quiet, he sat in the corner of the back bar, facing the wall. He inserted his ear buds, pressed play on a Gizzards mix, opened his laptop and googled Michael Brown. He should have known better with such a common name – the search returned over a billon results. He tried, ‘Michael Brown lawyer’ which returned eighty thousand. If he added ‘Byron Bay’ he narrowed it down to twenty-five thousand. Hopeless. The first of the search results was Brown’s Funerals, which had Jack wondering whether Google was mashing together different snippets it had overhead from his life.
Frustrated, he closed the laptop and reached for his beer. A hand dropped onto his shoulder and he jumped in surprise. When he looked around, his first thought was that some homeless man had wandered into the pub. But it was Begley, back in incognito mode, wearing more beige than Jack had ever worn in his life. And corduroy, even though it was summer. And a scowl.
‘I thought I’d find you here, slacking. Aren’t you supposed to be finding out who killed Michael Brown, not downing pints?’ He sat opposite Jack. ‘I’ll have a pale ale.’
On returning from the bar, Jack placed the beer in front of Begley and said, ‘Remember you said the Harriers might try to stitch someone up for the murder?’
The policeman nodded.
‘According to Ricky Martinelli—’
‘That trustworthy, law-abiding citizen.’ Begley picked up his beer and drank.
Jack ignored him. ‘According to Ricky, word is that Michael Brown was an illegal informant for the stormtroopers.’
Begley spilled his bear. ‘Shit.’ He put down his glass and shook his wet hand. ‘You’re not serious.’
‘Yep.’
‘Jesus Christ on a bike. Seriously? Another Lawyer X clusterfuck?’
Jack nodded.
‘If that’s true, and I’m not sure you can trust anything that comes from a Martinelli, then no wonder the Harriers are trying to bury this, along with anybody who gets in their way. You’d better be very careful. There’s going to be some serious fucking finger pointing.’
‘So, you’re advising me to resign my position as honorary detective and hand in my imaginary badge and gun?’
‘Shit no. It makes me even more determined to find out what the hell happened. And this makes your story payoff at the end even bigger. Besides, I’ve got some intel for you. I managed a sneak peek at a copy of Professor Henderson’s autopsy report on Michael Brown. As we suspected, he died before he was moved to the sun lounge. And he put up a fight. There was skin under his fingernails where he’d scratched his assailant. Hopefully they’ll get a match for the DNA.’
‘Unless it was the Harriers themselves that knocked him off. Or would they get someone to do their dirty work?’
‘You’re asking me? You’re supposed to be the detective.’ Begley downed half his pint in one go. ‘Brown’s drug screen showed traces of Rohypnol.’
‘Isn’t that the date-rape drug?’
‘Yes, but also a handy way of overpowering someone. According to the pathologist, that type of drug can be used for what he called conscious sedation – the person who takes it obeys directions, but has no memory of what happened. Although Brown is hardly in a position to remember anything now.’
‘Was he sexually assaulted?’
‘No. He died from strangulation, but he was also struck on the back of the head with a hard instrument, possibly a meat tenderiser.’
Jack was quiet for a moment as he considered this new information. Why strangle someone to death and then smash in their skull? And with a meat tenderiser?
‘Was there an estimate of the time of death?’ asked Jack.
Begley was already most of the way through his pint.
‘The pathologist was vague about that. The weather has been hot and the body had been lying in the sun for some time. And it’s hard to tell from the maggots because it had been so warm, so it’s unclear when the eggs would have been laid. He said Brown probably died at the latest on the Sunday, around thirty-six hours before he was found, but it could have been a day or two earlier.’
‘I’ve got something interesting for you,’ said Jack. ‘Nicola Fox has a second passport hidden in her house. It’s in the name of Maria Sokolova. I wondered if you could check it out.’
