The Sunbaker, page 13
Begley stared at him for a long time before asking, ‘And how do you know that?’
Shit, thought Jack, he’d have to be more careful. ‘A clairvoyant told me.’
‘Did she now?’
‘Her name’s Cassandra. She does the horoscopes at The Beacon.’
Begley stared unblinkingly at him for some time before saying, ‘Well, next time you see this Cassandra, don’t dick around with visions of passports, ask her straight out who killed Michael Brown. Jesus, the things I have to put up with.’ Begley drained his glass and stood up. ‘Now pull your finger out. I want to know who killed Mr Brown before the Harriers arrest someone innocent.’ And with that, he was gone.
Jack put his earbuds back in, re-opened the laptop and spent the next few hours zeroing in on Michael Brown. When he searched by combining ‘Michael Brown’ and ‘The Grim Reapers’ the relevant court cases appeared but, as Caitlin had said, only the judgements were available and they didn’t really contribute anything he didn’t already know – the cases had been so high-profile most of the details had already appeared in the newspapers. They needed the full transcripts of Brown’s court cases, but they could only be ordered if you were involved in the case.
He dialled Ricky, who didn’t answer.
A few seconds later, Ricky returned the call on Signal.
‘Jacko, I keep telling you. Use an encrypted line when you call, unless you’re on a burner. What’s happening?’
‘I need to download some court transcripts.’
‘And you’re obviously too bloody cheap to pay. You know you’ll never pull Caitlin if you’re a tight bastard.’
‘I’m not trying to pull Caitlin, and it’s not the money that’s the problem.’
‘Yeah, right.’
‘You need to be involved in a case to access the transcript.’
‘Are you talking New South Wales?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you’re in luck. That’s one of mine. I’m always in there correcting the Martinelli records – I wouldn’t want the wrong version of history to be recorded. I’ll send you a batch file with the script.’
‘The what?’
‘Jesus, Jack, I don’t know how you make it through the day. Just double click the icon and it will do its thing.’
‘Thanks, mate. What have you been up to?’
‘I’ve been prodding the Martinelli grapevine. Remember the person you found in Michael Brown’s ledger that was paying him shitloads of cash?’
‘Mitzevich?’
‘That’s the one.’
Jack allowed himself to get excited.
‘Nobody’s ever heard of him. Or her.’
‘Ah, you had me going then, I thought we had a lead. I’m surprised nobody remembers, it’s not a common name.’
‘That’s what I was thinking. So maybe it’s a cover.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Nope.’
Jack was relieved Ricky wasn’t up to something illegal, like breaking into a house to pinch vinyl.
‘Apart from trying to hack into the Harriers’ IT systems.’
‘Shit, Ricky, seriously. I’m not sure that’s a good idea.’
‘It’s definitely not a good idea, but don’t worry yet, I haven’t even got close. They’ve upped their security, the bastards. And without telling me. I almost feel like writing a letter of complaint to the Minister of Police.’ Ricky hung up – as usual, with no goodbyes.
A few seconds later Ricky’s message came via Signal to Jack’s laptop. He changed seats so his back was to the wall and his screen was out of view of any nosy patrons – and the security cameras. He launched Ricky’s file and a window popped up. Streams of text scrolled past for a few minutes before a search box appeared. Jack typed in ‘Michael Brown’ and the transcripts for every court case the lawyer was involved in were soon downloading.
He checked his watch. Nearly nine. No other messages had come in. He texted Caitlin to tell her he was still waiting for Nicola to return.
Jack was hungry, so he went to the bar and ordered a burger. A band was setting up – a different one to the previous night, and so hopefully there would be no repeat of ‘The Sound of Silence’. Marilyn Monroe had materialised and winked at Jack as he walked past her.
By the time he’d finished his food it was nearly ten and there was still complete radio silence from Nicola. She hadn’t responded to his texts, but was probably driving. He tried calling her, but she didn’t pick up.
He checked the Brisbane Airport website – all flights were on time. Jack thought about the mystery passport. Maybe she was doing a runner. No, he was reading too much into it. Maybe the motorway was gridlocked. He checked the map for traffic, but it was green all the way. It was too early to try calling emergency departments. Perhaps she and her husband had stopped somewhere for an overdue shag, or just dinner.
The band began their second set. Piano intro. Shit, there was definitely a conspiracy going on. He packed up as quickly as he could and headed towards the exit – he’d wait for Nicola at her motel. As he walked past the band, the first plaintive lyrics began and Jack let out an involuntary shudder. It was ‘Bridge Over Troubled Water’.
Outside, it was cooler and he could smell the salt in the air as he hurried towards the motel. He hummed loudly to block out the music from the pub, but it was futile, he could still hear the song lyrics that would be stuck in his head for hours.
And then he heard sirens. A lot of sirens.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Jack hurried towards the sirens. He headed left along the main street and, in the distance, saw blue flashing lights turning into a side street. He began to run. As he got closer, a sense of dread enveloped him when he realised the emergency vehicles had turned towards Nicola’s house.
When he arrived, breathless, the scene before him might well have been a replay of the events from a few days earlier: red and blue lights strobed from marked and unmarked police cars and an ambulance was parked in front of Nicola’s house. First responders scurried back and forth.
Had something bad happened to Nicola? Hopefully, the light show wasn’t here for her and, instead, she was changing a flat tyre somewhere or drinking something resembling coffee in a motorway service centre. Then he saw his car parked outside the house, cordoned off by police tape, and his heart began thrashing in his chest.
He pushed his way through the crowd. A uniformed police officer stopped him from passing the cordon.
Jack said, ‘Inspector Begley is expecting me.’
The policeman nodded, turned his back and spoke into his radio.
A large police van edged its way down the street through the throng of people and cars. After parking in the middle of the road, crime scene officers climbed out and began offloading gear from the back.
The policeman turned back to Jack. ‘Wait by the front gate. Someone’s on their way.’
Jack waited impatiently. None of the officers moving to and from the vehicles would speak with him. He brushed a fly from his eye.
A black SUV pulled up and four members of the Harrier Squad piled out and strode purposefully towards the house.
Jack tried calling Nicola, but there was no answer.
Begley approached along the driveway, ducked under the police tape and made straight for Jack. He’d changed back into his uniform.
Jack hurried towards him. ‘Is Nicola okay?’
‘She’s not the one on the sun lounge, if that’s what you mean.’
‘There’s another body?’
‘It’s fucking Groundhog Day here. The victim was lying on a sun lounge, wearing board shorts and sunglasses. No mojito this time, it looked like an Aperol spritz, whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean.’
‘Was there a book?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘What is it?’
‘Who the hell knows? I didn’t have enough time to learn Russian since the last one. At this rate, I might have to take it up.’
‘Who found the body?’
‘Dr Fox herself.’
‘What was she doing here?’
‘Good bloody question. She was on her way back from Brisbane and decided to collect some personal effects from the house, like clean underwear. She was hoping to sneak in and out unobserved. At least that’s what she’s saying.’
‘But it’s a crime scene.’ Jack realised the irony of what he was saying; he’d crossed the crime-scene tape himself less than twenty-four hours earlier.
Begley said, ‘Well, it’s two for one now as far as crime scenes go, so she’s in deep shit. Not to mention the Harrier boys are going to drag her off for more questioning – as far as suspects go, if she was any higher up their list she’d have snow on her. According to Dr Fox, she was driving to and from the airport in Brisbane and so couldn’t have left a body here. Thing is, we don’t really know when the body was put there. Could have been any time in the last twenty-four hours. The Harriers stuffed up big time on that one, there should have been a police presence here at the house.’
The body hadn’t been there when Jack had broken into Nicola’s in the early hours that morning, which meant the maximum time it could have been on the lounge was eighteen hours. But there was no way he could tell that to the police.
Begley pointed to Jack’s car. ‘They’re going to impound her other car and pull it to pieces.’
‘That’s my car, I lent it to her because hers is still impounded.’
Begley rarely showed emotion, especially positive ones, but a wry grin stretched across his face. ‘I hope you like walking, then. And you’d better hope they don’t find anything in there, or you’ll also be a suspect.’
The front door of the house opened and Nicola appeared, flanked by two stormtroopers. They steered her towards a black SUV. She caught Jack’s eye as they hustled her along. She looked frightened. Jack walked towards her, but his way was blocked by a police officer.
He called out, ‘It’s going to be okay, Nicola.’
Before she could respond, a stormtrooper pushed her head down and guided her into the car.
Jack returned to Begley. ‘Where’s her husband?’
‘Husband?’
‘She told me she was collecting her husband from Brisbane airport.’
‘I haven’t seen any husband; she was on her own when she turned up here.’
Had Nicola lied to him when she said she was collecting someone from the airport? Was that story just a cover while she disposed of a body in her own backyard, then continued her deception by calling it in to the cops? Jack didn’t want to believe it.
‘Who’s the victim this time?’ he asked.
‘Nothing confirmed yet. Like last time, it’s all pretty gross; a festival of maggots.’
No sooner had the black SUV driven away than a small white sedan drove up and parked where the SUV had been. Hub caps not mags. A rental. A woman climbed out and strode towards them. He’d seen the same black power suit before, the hair in a bun, the thick make-up. It was Petra Novak and she looked like she was on a mission.
‘Jack Harris, what are you doing here? I’ve told you, all press comms are to go through me.’
‘He’s with me,’ said Begley.
She turned icy eyes on the inspector. ‘And what are you doing here? You’re trespassing on our crime scene.’
‘Since when did the Harriers undertake homicide investigations? Aren’t they supposed to be organised crime?’
‘Well, murder is a crime, and whoever did this seems pretty organised, don’t you think?’
Begley nodded.
‘So, there you go, “organised crime”.’ She directed her fury back to Jack. ‘Get out of here, now.’ She started walking towards the CSOs, but turned back after a few paces. ‘And don’t even think about printing anything about this until I give you clearance.’
When she’d gone, Begley and Jack remained where they were.
Begley winked at Jack. ‘I thought her use of the word “printing” was unfortunate.’
Jack smiled and walked away. At the end of the street, he unlocked his phone, leaned against a light pole and quickly wrote a paragraph.
BREAKING NEWS: ANOTHER BODY IN BRUNS.
A second body has been found in a quiet residential street in Brunswick Heads, three days after the body of local lawyer Michael Brown. The second victim is yet to be identified. Police, crime scene officers, and all the neighbours are again in attendance. This time the neighbours have brought camping stools and flasks of tea. More to follow.
After uploading it to the online edition of The Beacon, he phoned Caitlin.
She answered straight away. ‘Jack? Where are you?’
‘Still in Brunswick.’
‘Oh.’ He could hear the disappointment in her voice. ‘Are you with Nicola?’
‘There’s been another body left in her backyard.’
There was silence at the other end.
He continued, ‘They’ve taken Nicola away for questioning.’
‘That’s terrible. The poor woman.’
‘Poor Nicola is right. Unless she did it, of course.’
‘Jack! You can’t be serious?’
‘I don’t know what to think now.’
‘Let me know if I can help with anything. Will I see you tomorrow?’
‘I’ll call you.’ He hung up and phoned for a taxi to take him back to Byron, but was told there were none available. His ride-share app was equally unhelpful.
Jack made another call, this time with an encrypted app. When Ricky answered, there was loud music playing in the background. The song sounded familiar.
‘Jacko, what’s happening?’
Jack could hardly hear him over the music.
‘There’s been another murder in Bruns. And my car has been impounded. Any chance you could pick me up?’
‘Sorry, mate. There’s something I really have to do.’
‘Like what?’
There was a pause before Ricky said, ‘I think it’s best you don’t know. Was the murder related to the other body at Nicola’s? Or has Bruns become the murder capital of the Northern Rivers?’
‘Both. The body was left in the same pose as the previous one. On a sun lounge. At Nicola’s.’
‘Jesus. Who’s the victim this time?’
Jack shouted, ‘What?’
‘Who’s the victim?’
‘I don’t know. Can you turn the music down? That’s not what I think it is, is it?’
‘Yep. “Streets of Your Town” by The Go-Betweens. And I’ve got a new bottle of whisky. Can you believe it’s forty-two years old? I’ll save some for you.’ Ricky ended the call.
Jack shook his head in dismay. He pushed Ricky’s latest burglary out of his mind and looked around. He was stranded. He resisted the temptation to hot-wire one of the clapped-out cars parked on the street, and instead walked towards town.
Each of the motels in town, including Nicola’s, had ‘No Vacancy’ signs glowing red. Jack briefly considered breaking into Nicola’s motel room – she was hardly likely to need it given she was currently being interrogated at the police station, but she’d be pretty pissed off if the stormtroopers released her in the early hours and she found Jack in her bed.
If they released her, which Jack was beginning to doubt.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Friday, 6th March
Something was preventing Jack from straightening his legs. And from rolling over. And he was stiff from the firm, lumpy surface. He opened tired eyes. Sleep had been hard to come by. For a few moments he had no idea where he was. He sat upright and looked around. Marilyn Monroe stared at him from posters on every wall, from porcelain figurines and decorative plates. Also staring at him, in person, was Marilyn herself. She sat at the kitchen table, sipping a cup of tea. She still wore traces of her bright-red lipstick, but Marilyn’s wig lay like roadkill on the table.
‘Morning, Jack.’ She winked at him. ‘How was it for you?’
Jack panicked. More so when he realised he was only wearing jocks. Then the memory of the previous evening slowly came back to him. He’d gone back to the pub and stayed until the lights were turned off. He and Marilyn were the last to leave, and she’d offered him a bed.
‘What do you mean?’
She laughed. ‘I mean the couch, love. How did you sleep?’
‘Not the best to be honest, but thanks.’
‘It’s my pleasure. Tea?’
‘Thanks, Marilyn.’
She smiled at him and headed for the kettle. ‘Your clothes are on the chair. And my name’s Brenda in real life.’
Twenty minutes later, he was seated with Brenda at the table. She seemed to have fried the entire contents of her fridge and placed it on his plate and he was doing his best to eat his way through it so as not to appear ungrateful.
‘Impressive breakfast,’ said Jack. ‘Did you know I was coming?’
She rolled her head back and laughed. ‘You’re about forty years too young for me, Jack. But I like to take precautions. It’s easy to get lucky at the pub when I feel like it. There are lots of men of a certain age who want to go home with Marilyn Monroe.’
‘How long have you lived here?’
‘Forever. I grew up in this house, then inherited it.’
‘Do you know someone called Nicola Fox? She and her husband have a holiday house here.’
‘The pathologist?’
‘How did you know that?’
‘Jack, it’s a small town. Only a few thousand people and a couple of dozen bin chickens live here. The bodies were found at her place.’
‘You know about the second murder?’
‘Of course.’
‘Who else knows she’s a pathologist?’
‘I’d say everyone apart from the bin chickens. Word travels. And there’s no husband. Or, if there is, he’s never been here. So he’s either dead, divorced or allergic to sea air. She doesn’t have any friends in town yet, but a woman comes to stay with her for a week or two every now and then – the spies are still trying to work out who she is.’
