The Sunbaker, page 14
‘Any idea why bodies keep turning up at Nicola’s?’
‘Now that I don’t know.’
‘Well, if you hear anything, can you call me?’
Brenda gave him a pen and a slip of paper and he wrote out his phone number.
She winked at him. ‘I’ll be in touch, especially if I need a booty call.’
Ten minutes later, Jack set off on foot towards Brunswick Heads Police Station. Halfway there a bush stone-curlew blocked his way, standing imperious on the footpath and staring him down with huge dark eyes. As Jack skirted around the bird, a gruff voice bellowed his name.
‘Harris!’
Jack looked around.
‘Christ on a bloody bike, are you blind or what? Over here.’
Begley was seated at a table outside a coffee shop on the other side of the road. He was in uniform. Jack sat in the chair opposite the big policeman. Begley stared at him for a few seconds before speaking.
‘Big night?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’ve got red lipstick on your collar.’
Jack checked to make sure he wasn’t being wound up, but there was a bright-red smear on the white linen – Marilyn’s from when they were dancing at the pub.
Begley drained his cup. ‘Coffee?’
Jack nodded.
‘I’ll have another one too. Double espresso.’
Jack couldn’t help but like the grumpy bastard.
When he returned with the coffee, Begley was wearing a smug smile.
‘I’ve got news. Big fucking news.’ He leaned forward and whispered, ‘It’s Christian Moreau.’
Jack glanced in all directions. There were a quite a few people seated in the café, others strolling past. ‘Where?’
‘Not here, you dopey dickhead. The second body left at Nicola’s.’
‘What, the actual Christian Moreau? The celebrity chef?’
‘Shhh. Keep your voice down. And, yes. The one and only.’
‘Fuck me.’
Begley threw back his double espresso. ‘Exactly.’
‘And he’s dead?’
‘Definitely dead. He’s on the slab waiting for Professor Henderson to open him up this afternoon.’
‘Fuck me.’
‘So you said.’
‘And you’re certain it’s him, he’s been identified?’
‘Not formally, but he was recognised, of course, even after God knows how long he’d been lying out in the elements covered in maggots. His wife is being taken to Newcastle to do the ID today.’
Jack pushed away his coffee; it was suddenly unappetising. ‘So what’s the link between Michael Brown and Christian Moreau? Did they know each other?’
Begley shrugged. ‘No idea. Those Harrier buffoons are keeping a chokehold on the investigation. I only found out it was him by overhearing mumbles in the corridor.’
‘Is Nicola still a suspect?’
‘They’re still holding her at the station.’
Jack checked his watch. ‘Still? They should have released her by now unless they’ve charged her.’
‘The Harriers have a way of making people stay voluntarily if they ever want to see their dogs again, or walk without pain.’
‘Now you’re having a lend of me.’
‘Yes, but you know what I mean. They’re so intimidating people tend to just do what they ask.’
‘Did Nicola know Moreau?’
He shrugged. ‘Consider it bloody lucky I found out this much. The Harriers are doing their best to sideline all us local police, especially me. So, short of bugging the incident room, I’ll be the last to hear anything.’
Now that’s an idea, thought Jack. He raised a questioning eyebrow at Begley.
‘No way. Don’t even think about it.’ Begley lifted his coffee cup and realised it was empty. ‘Another?’
Jack shook his head.
‘Probably just as well. It plays up something fierce with my anger fucking management.’ He placed his cup back down. ‘You know this is going to be one major shitstorm as soon as Moreau’s name gets out, don’t you?’
Jack nodded.
‘I’d say the Harriers will try to suppress it for as long as they can, to keep some clear air while they work out what the hell is going on.’
As tempted as Jack was to break the story in The Beacon, he would have to wait until Moreau’s wife had formally identified the body. Unlike some of his colleagues in Harris Media, Jack wasn’t driven by scoops at the cost of morality.
‘One more thing,’ said Begley. ‘The book found with Moreau – I was right, it was Russian. By some guy I’ve never heard of.’ He took out his phone and checked his notes. ‘Ivan Kataev.’ He spelled the last name for Jack.
Jack shook his head. ‘I run out after Dostoevsky and Tolstoy. What was the book called?’
‘The Wife.’
Jack’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Crime and Punishment, and now The Wife. It has to mean something, doesn’t it?’
Begley smiled. ‘Don’t ask me, you’re the detective.’
‘Yeah, right, I forgot. Have I told you the pay is pretty shit?’
The policeman laughed.
‘I presume the Harriers are talking to “The Wife” then?’ asked Jack.
Begley shrugged. ‘Like I said, this isn’t my investigation, who knows what the Harriers are doing?’ He stood up. ‘Better get back, there’s a whole lot of fuck-all for me to do at the station.’
‘Before you go,’ said Jack. ‘We’ve been trying to track down a name. Nobody seems to know him, or her. Someone by the name of Mitzevich.’
The policeman frowned, then slowly lowered himself back onto his chair. He stared intently at Jack. ‘And why would you be looking for him?’
‘We think he was paying Michael Brown money. A lot of money.’
Begley blanched. ‘Well, faaark me.’
‘Who is he?’
‘Do you have proof?’
Jack said nothing.
‘Don’t tell me,’ said Begley, ‘the bloody clairvoyant told you. Cassie wasn’t it?’
‘Cassandra.’
Begley leaned in towards Jack. ‘And when this Cassandra was gazing mystically into her crystal bloody ball, what exactly did she see?’
Jack looked around to make sure they couldn’t be overheard. Nobody was paying them any attention, but he spoke quietly anyway. ‘She may have seen a handwritten ledger in Michael Brown’s safe, with the name Mitzevich and listing regular monthly payments.’
‘Jesus fuck. And would the said clairvoyant know how to get her hands on that particular document? In the real world that is, not in Fruitloop Land.’
‘She might possibly be a little concerned about ending up in prison herself.’
Begley nodded. ‘Well, tell Cassandra from me, she’d want to make very sure that the cops in whichever reality she occupies don’t find her with any such document. If they did there would be a whole lot more for her to worry about than being thrown in the slammer for break and enter.’
‘Why? Who’s Mitzevich?’
‘It’s Frank Mitzevich, Chief Inspector Frank Mitzevich. He’s second-in-charge of the Harriers.’
Chapter Twenty-nine
Bernard Henderson again stood staring through the one-way glass into the viewing room, anticipating the moment. Today it was Christian Moreau lying peacefully under the drape, awaiting formal identification by a loved one. No matter how many times Bernard had witnessed this, he was still deeply moved by the emotion, perhaps more so now than ever before. He was glad it affected him. It’s what drove him to be meticulous, to strive for justice.
It was Christian’s wife, Vivienne, who would be doing the identification. Mr Moreau, in spite of being a very public figure on TV, had been very protective of his private life. From all accounts, Vivienne and Christian had only recently married, so Vivienne’s reaction might be more highly charged than usual. Unless she was only after his millions of course. Bernard realised he was being disrespectful and pushed that thought away.
He contemplated the post-mortem he was about to do on Christian. He’d never had to undertake one on such a famous person before. He’d have to be very careful, there’d be lots of eyes. Then he chided himself; he was always careful.
The door opened and a uniformed policewoman ushered Vivienne into the room. Her make-up could not mask her puffy eyes. Her black clothes looked new; dark colours for mourning. This was going to be a hard one. Bernard could feel the lump of anticipation in his throat.
Vivienne moved slowly to the side of the table. The mortuary assistant asked her something and she nodded faintly. The embroidered drape was rolled slowly back to reveal Christian’s face. He looked to be sleeping restfully, if a little colder and bluer than Mrs Moreau was accustomed to.
At first there was no reaction, then she wiped an eye.
The policewoman asked Vivienne a question, inaudible through the glass. Vivienne spoke in return and nodded. It was Christian.
The assistant began moving the drape up to cover Christian’s face, but Vivienne reached out a hand and stopped him. She then felt under the drape and found Christian’s hand and took it in hers. She bent down and placed her lips on his forehead and then the shuddering started. Tears poured down her face and ran down Christian’s. Bernard heard the howling cries through the glass. Surprisingly, he felt some moisture welling up in his eyes.
So it was real love, not the money. Bernard shook his head to clear the unworthy thought, and felt pain in his temples. The headache that had come and gone since his seizure was worse today. He reached into his pocket and found comfort waiting for him there in the shape of two codeine tablets.
A few minutes later, an assistant knocked on the door.
‘Excuse me, Professor. Mr Moreau’s wife is asking to speak with you. She’s quite insistent.’
The thought filled Bernard with anxiety. He sometimes spoke to dead people as he worked on them; it helped him remember they were human, and warranted justice and respect. But he’d never been asked to speak with a relative. He was sure it wouldn’t end well. He was about to slice up Christian’s body and remove his organs for examination. She’d have questions. And she’d want him to let her know the results. It wasn’t his role to do that. No, better leave it to the police.
‘Would you like me to tell her you are unavailable?’ asked the assistant.
‘Yes,’ said Bernard. ‘I think that would be best.’
Chapter Thirty
Jack watched Begley go. The Harriers really must have been using Michael Brown as an illegal informer if Mitzevich was paying him. Jack had his very own ‘Lawyer Y’ story to break, and it would be massive. The only problem was that his evidence was illegally obtained. The death of Christian Moreau would also be a huge story, likely to garner more newspaper real estate than the Lawyer Y coverage, given the public’s obsession with the famous.
He wondered how the New South Wales Police could have ignored the lessons of the disaster that was Lawyer X. Were they so arrogant as to think they were above the law, or did they think they were smarter than the Victorian Police and would get away with it? Either that or they were just plain stupid.
Jack waited ten minutes before leaving the café. His destination was also the police station, but he had decided it would be better if he and Begley weren’t seen entering together.
At the front desk, Constable Anderson abruptly cut off a yawn when he recognised Jack.
‘I’m looking for Nicola Fox. She was brought in here last night.’
Anderson had no time to answer before Petra Novak barged through the door behind reception with such violence it crashed into a garbage bin, scattering its contents across the floor. Her make-up was again immaculate and she wore her trademark black power suit. Her impeccable appearance was marred by the scowl on her face.
‘Jack Harris,’ she said, trying her best to look intimidating as she stared up at a man more than a foot taller than her. ‘How many times do I have to tell you? I am your only point of contact regarding this investigation. You are not to talk to anybody else, including …’ She glanced at Anderson’s name tag. ‘Constable Anderson here. If you have questions, I’ll do my best to answer them for you. I will not have you interrupting the detectives – they’re busy investigating two murders.’
‘Is Nicola Fox still being held here for questioning?’
She stared at Jack, giving nothing away. ‘I’m unable to answer that for operational reasons.’
‘Is her husband also being held?’
‘I’m unable to answer that for operational reasons.’
‘Have you identified the victim?’
There was a long pause as Petra stared at him, her face impassive.
‘Ditto,’ she finally said.
‘So it wouldn’t be a certain celebrity chef with a seriously overfed dog called Monty?’
Her jaw fell.
After a few seconds Jack wondered whether he should poke her to check if she’d been turned to stone. Instead, he asked, ‘As in Christian Moreau?’
Something clattered to the floor. A stapler. Anderson’s jaw had also dropped.
Novak came back to life and her pointer finger began hammering Jack’s chest. ‘Nobody is supposed to know that. And you are definitely not to publish anything. Or mention that name to anyone.’ She turned to Anderson. ‘And that includes you, Constable.’
‘In that case, let me ask my questions again. Is Nicola Fox still being held here for questioning?’
Novak avoided Jack’s gaze, shuffling from foot to foot until she made up her mind.
‘She is currently helping us with our enquiries. She will be released very soon.’
‘And her husband?’
‘Her husband is not here.’
‘Has Dr Fox been charged?’
‘No comment.’
‘If she hasn’t been charged, you’ve detained her longer than the statutory limit. Is she aware of that?’
Novak didn’t answer.
‘Would you mind telling Dr Fox I’ll be waiting at her motel?’
Novak’s belligerence returned. ‘You seem to be under the misapprehension that I take orders from you, Mr Harris.’
Jack smiled. ‘Can I just check the spelling of Moreau?’
Novak hesitated, her jaw muscles clenched hard, then she turned and shoved her way through the door behind reception, waggling a warning finger at Anderson as she went.
Jack enjoyed the sunshine as he strolled back to Nicola’s motel. He sat on a sun lounge by the pool. Only one of the other lounges was occupied, by a woman whose large straw hat covered her face. Her tiny bikini made Jack feel seriously overdressed in his jeans and long-sleeved shirt. A single long plait of blonde hair lay beside her, reaching almost to her waist. He could smell coconut oil.
Jack unlocked his phone and updated the online article in The Beacon about the second murder. A whole string of potential cheap, chef-based puns came to mind – such as, ‘the body had been baking in the sun for some time’ and ‘the investigation appears to be on a slow simmer while police cook up a motive’ – but he resisted the temptation. Mostly.
Police are yet to release the name of the body found at Brunswick Heads yesterday, but unconfirmed reports suggest the victim was a very high-profile celebrity figure. Police have not indicated whether the two victims mixed in the same circles. An autopsy will be performed on the second victim this afternoon. As of the time of this update, few suspects have been grilled by the police.
Jack re-read the piece and, overcoming the temptation to leave the last pun in place, replaced the sentence with the far more professional, if pedestrian:
As yet, police have no firm leads. More to follow.
When Jack looked up from his phone, Nicola was walking along the footpath towards the motel, head down, her hair unkempt. He climbed off the sun lounge and met her as she arrived at the motel entrance.
‘Oh, Jack,’ said Nicola. ‘I’m wrecked.’ She gave him a hug. ‘The police questioned me most of the night. I need to sit down.’
They entered the motel reception and Nicola dropped heavily onto a chair. She looked exhausted – there were wrinkles around her eyes and across her forehead he hadn’t seen before.
‘They’ve impounded your car, Jack. I’m sorry. They wouldn’t tell me when you can have it back.’
‘I can borrow Ricky’s. How were the cops?’
‘Like second-rate actors from a seventies TV show. Misogynist bullies.’
‘Was it the Harriers?’
‘That’s them – the ones with the sunnies on all the time, even inside. They don’t believe the bodies were placed at my house by random chance. They’re convinced I must be involved.’
‘Did you know the second victim?’
‘They wouldn’t tell me who it was. Just showed me photos.’
‘And you didn’t recognise him?’
She shook her head.
‘But everyone knows him. It’s Christian Moreau. From the TV. He’s the chef with that really fat border collie called Monty that follows him everywhere. Moreau doesn’t yell and scream like other celebrity chefs – his schtick is worse. He scrapes the loser’s food onto the floor for the dog to eat.’
Nicola shook her head. ‘I don’t watch TV. It’s mostly CSI and Silent Witness and I have my fill of that at work. And I hate cooking.’
Jack remembered the barren shelves in Nicola’s fridge and pantry. She definitely wasn’t a cook, but he doubted her hatred for the culinary arts extended to murdering chefs. He asked, ‘How was the trip to the airport? Was your husband’s flight on time?’
