The Sunbaker, page 18
‘Don’t worry,’ said Jack. ‘I’m a detective, so the law doesn’t apply to me.’
She gave an exasperated shake of her head.
The siren fell silent.
Jack closed the locker door just before the swami burst into the room. She made a beeline for the door behind reception, leaving it to bang closed behind her as she disappeared.
Begley ambled in, beaming. ‘Sirens, you’ve got to fucking love them.’
A few minutes later, the swami returned with three middle-aged men in loose robes and bare feet. They looked relaxed. Very relaxed, thought Jack. Maybe there’s something in this.
There was nowhere to sit, so they all stood in a rough circle.
The swami had her arms crossed again, and a look of thunder on her face. Her whispering had turned into a barely suppressed shriek, ‘They won’t talk to you, I told you. They’ve invested thirteen days in this, they’re not going to undo it all now.’
‘Yeah, right,’ said Begley.
But Begley was wrong. His questioning started off politely enough, but it wasn’t long before there was yelling, then swearing, followed by straight-out threats of arrest. The three men were unmoved and, in a passable impersonation of Rodin sculptures cast in bronze, stared serenely at the wildly gesticulating, saliva-spraying Begley.
Caitlin put a calming hand on one of Begley’s flailing arms. She walked over to the swami and whispered in her ear, not quietly enough to prevent Jack and Begley from overhearing what she said.
‘Would you like me to make the bad man go away?’
The swami nodded vigorously.
Caitlin gave Begley a look and he turned around and stomped out the door. Jack followed him out. He found Begley kicking viciously at one of the police car’s tyres.
‘That went well,’ said Jack.
‘Fuck you,’ said Begley. He stopped kicking the car and took some deep, calming breaths, then lit a cigarette. ‘So, smart-arse, how do you propose we find out when he disappeared?’
‘He must have been here for a few days at least. Moreau stacked his locker with contraband for the duration. He’d gone through two packets of cigarettes and a bottle of whisky.’
Begley nodded, impressed. ‘Was there anything else in the locker that was useful?’
Jack shook his head, all the while conscious of Moreau’s phone in his pocket. There was no way he was going to let the stormtroopers impound that. No, the phone would be going to Ricky to crack into.
‘Nothing,’ he told Begley. ‘Just booze and fags. Let’s check out his car.’
The carpark was out of sight behind the reception building. They found the Mercedes. And a white van. Jack strode straight to the van and walked a curious lap around it. The windows were heavily tinted. There was signage on the back door: ‘Repentance Creek Spiritual Retreat’. The sides of the van were plain white.
Begley called out, ‘The Merc’s over here. Why are you interested in that?’
‘We visited Michael Brown’s neighbour and checked his security footage. A white van like this one came and went on the Friday Michael Brown disappeared.’
Begley looked nonplussed. ‘A white van. Like this one. Like a million others just like this one. Did you get the plates?’
Jack shook his head.
‘Jesus, and you call yourself a detective?’
‘Should we get forensics to check it out?’ Jack asked.
‘We should, but we’re not going to. We’re off the case, remember? And you really don’t want the Harriers going apeshit.’
They checked out Moreau’s Merc. It was an expensive one – an SL.
Begley whistled. ‘There must be big money in being a dickhead on TV.’
They circled the car slowly. Nothing appeared amiss.
‘Should we look inside?’ said Jack.
Begley nodded.
Jack tried the door but it was locked. ‘I’ll need wire, or a coat hanger.’
‘Don’t be so namby fucking pamby.’ Begley collected a boulder the size of his fist from the garden and hurled it through a side window. The glass shattered into thousands of pieces and the car’s alarm began an ear-piercing wail. Begley gave a half-smile, then reached into his pocket, pulled out disposable gloves and handed a pair to Jack.
Inside the car, the siren was deafening. There were no signs of a struggle: no blood, no damage to the interior. The car’s boot held a sleeve of cigarettes that was missing the four packets Jack had found in the locker. A duty-free bag held a couple more bottles of whisky, presumably emergency rations.
Begley wanted to leave the car alarm howling, but Jack found the fuse box and pulled the fuse. The silence was blissful.
Caitlin approached them across the lawn. When she saw the smashed window, she said, ‘Someone broke into his car?’
Neither of them answered.
She said, ‘They talked.’
Begley looked disbelieving. ‘How the hell?’
‘I just asked them.’
‘And they told you, just like that?’
‘I did promise to give them my phone number. They’ve hardly seen a woman for nearly two weeks; they were like putty in my hands. The swami almost went thermonuclear.’
‘And?’ said Begley.
‘They thought he went missing sometime over the weekend, but couldn’t be sure. He’d disappear for hours, even at night, and smelled like an ash tray, so they figured he was bunking off to smoke. And they all said he looked fine, as much as they could tell when they’re not allowed eye contact or to communicate with each other.’
‘Well done,’ said Begley. He smiled. ‘Nice little good cop, bad cop routine.’
Caitlin nodded.
‘But, just confidentially,’ said Begley, ‘bad cops have a shitload more fun.’
They climbed into the police car and, as they drove away, the swami was standing on the front steps of reception, arms folded, giving them a death-stare send-off.
‘Now, Caitlin,’ said Jack, ‘the million-dollar question is, did you really give them your phone number?’
‘Oh, come on, Jack, I’m not that stupid. But tomorrow night you might get phone calls from three randy men looking for a hot date.’ She spun around to look at him in the back seat. ‘Remember, Jack, life’s short. Don’t be afraid to try new things.’
Chapter Thirty-six
When Jack and Caitlin arrived back at the apartment, Ricky was slouched on the lounge with his laptop. Two energy drinks and a family-size packet of cheese and onion chips lay on the floor nearby.
‘Hi,’ said Ricky. ‘Your parachutes obviously opened – you don’t look any shorter. Although with you, Caitlin, it’s hard to tell.’
Caitlin flipped him the bird.
Jack tossed a mobile phone to Ricky.
‘What’s this?’
‘Moreau’s phone. I borrowed it.’
‘What he means is he stole it,’ said Caitlin.
‘Can you steal from a dead person?’ asked Jack.
‘Hmmm,’ said Caitlin, ‘legally that might be a grey area.’
‘And that’s the kind of clarity that makes you such a good lawyer.’
Ricky cleared his throat. ‘When you two have finished your lovers’ tiff, you can tell me what you want me to do with this. It won’t get much on eBay.’
They both looked at him and simultaneously said, ‘Hack into it.’
Ricky placed the phone on the table. ‘You do know scamming people out of their passwords by social engineering is much harder when they’re dead?’
Jack’s phone pinged with an incoming message. He read it, then said, ‘It’s Begley. The Harriers are about to talk to the Reapers. He’s going to clear the tearoom.’ Jack sent back a thumbs-up emoji.
Ricky carried his laptop to the dining table and they gathered around.
‘I love this James Bond stuff,’ said Jack.
Caitlin rolled her eyes. ‘Seriously, James Bond?’
‘Exactly like James Bond. But without the tuxedos and cocktails.’
She shook her head in dismay.
Jack continued, ‘And without the beautiful women.’
She whacked Jack so hard pain radiated down his arm.
Ricky turned the laptop volume to maximum. They heard people chattering among the clatter of crockery and a boiling kettle. Then they heard Begley’s booming voice, ‘I want all you whingeing bastards to bugger off so I can have a cup of tea in peace.’
There was an abrupt silence, then a menacing voice said, ‘And since when did we start taking orders from you?’
‘This is my police station, so fuck off out of here, all of you.’
‘In your dreams, Begley.’
There was a brief silence, followed by a long sonorous fart that seemed as though it would never end. A stream of expletives accompanied the ensuing commotion of scraping chairs and fleeing footsteps. Then all fell quiet.
Ricky started a recording of the audio on the laptop.
Begley said, ‘Jack, I’m assuming you can hear me. There’s something dodgy going on. It’s just the Harriers’ Senior Sergeant Tim Pitman and the president of the Grim Reapers Motorcycle Club. Only one cop, and they’re going into the incident room, not an interview room.’
Begley fell silent. They heard faint noises as people entered the room.
‘Hello, Trouble, it’s been a while.’ The policeman was barely audible.
‘Just the way I like it. I’m pissed off to be here at all, although it gives me a chance to tell you what a two-faced bastard you really are.’
‘I know, I know. We’re all in the shit. That’s why it’s just you and me, off the record.’
‘By “we’re all in the shit”,’ said Trouble, ‘I think you mean, Timmo, that you’re in the shit.’
Jack looked up to see a wide smile on Ricky’s face. ‘What? Do you know him?’
Ricky nodded. ‘Only forever. Trouble’s my godfather.’
‘Your godfather’s called Trouble?’
‘He wasn’t always, but it suits him.’
‘Jesus,’ said Caitlin. ‘When will it end? My friends are breaking into houses all over the shire, and one of them is the godson of the president of an outlaw motorcycle gang.’
‘Trouble’s a great bloke. And he’s my godfather in the Christian sense, not the leave a horse head in your bed sense.’
‘Seriously?’ asked Jack. ‘Can an outlaw be a godfather? Doesn’t the church check character references?’
‘Well, he wasn’t an outlaw when I was a few months old. At least not that I knew of. He might even have been a choirboy.’
‘But you never go to church.’
‘Mate, I think that might be the least of his failings as a godfather.’
When they fell silent, the policeman was speaking. ‘Did your guys kill him?’
‘If I’d known he was your informant, of course we would have killed him. Fortunately for him, he was already dead when I found out. But you’re not so lucky – unless you killed him to redeem yourself for being such a treacherous prick.’
‘Don’t look at me, Trouble. I had no idea. Only a few people knew he was an informant, and they were all way above my pay grade. They would have been shitting bricks ever since Lawyer X ended up in the papers, so, who knows, maybe they knocked him off to bury the whole bloody catastrophe. But they’re hardly likely to tell me; I’m just the dogsbody sent in to cover it all up.’
‘You’ll never keep this quiet. If it didn’t make us look like such idiots, I’d leak it to the papers myself.’
‘Which puts us on the same side, right?’
‘No way. You were supposed to look busy picking off a few things around the edges, a few new guys we didn’t like. But no, you were trying to bring down the whole thing. And by using our own lawyer, for fuck’s sake.’
‘I told you, it had nothing to do with me.’
‘I don’t give a shit who it was, we had an agreement.’
‘But we both want to keep this quiet.’
There was a long silence at the other end before Trouble spoke. ‘And how are you planning to make it go away?’
‘Find a bunny to take the rap, of course. It’s not as though we don’t have expertise in the area.’
‘And how’s that working out?’
‘Badly. There’s the woman owns the place where the bodies were found, but we’re having some difficulty proving she had the opportunity. And there’s a lawyer who was working for Brown. She’ll be easier. I reckon we can stitch up a believable motive; sexual harassment or something.’
Jack saw fear suddenly appear in Caitlin’s eyes.
Trouble spoke again. ‘And what’s with the other guy? The one from the TV.’
‘No bloody idea. He might be a red herring to distract from the real reason Brown was killed.’
‘You’re such a bunch of useless pricks. Why don’t you just find out who actually did it?’
‘And what if it was one of us? Someone higher up the food chain?’
Trouble said, ‘I’ll give you three days. Or we’re going to war with you lot. And I’m going to start by telling the papers where you got your Harley.’
Ricky took out a burner and began typing furiously.
They heard a phone ping at the other end.
‘Wait,’ said Trouble.
There was a long pause before Ricky’s phone pinged and the bikie resumed his conversation with the policeman.
‘Three days. But you’re not to finger the lawyer. She’s untouchable.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I said so. And we want our money back from whichever one of you double-crossing fuckers stole it.’
‘What money?’
‘The lawyer had a hundred and fifty grand of ours in his safe. I want it back.’
‘There was no cash in the safe. Only an unregistered gun and some personal stuff.’
‘Not that safe, the other one.’
There was a hesitation before the answer. ‘Which other safe?’
‘Nice try, Timmo. I watched Michael put the cash in there a few days before he died. The one under the lounge. You’ve got three days to find the money. And arrest someone to shut this down. Or we’re going to get really fucking angry. And remember, leave the lawyer alone.’
Chairs scraped, a door closed, and the room fell silent.
Ricky typed another long message on his burner.
Caitlin stood up. ‘I presume it was you I have to thank.’
‘It’s Trouble you have to thank. For being a good godfather.’
Caitlin caught Jack’s eye. ‘Everybody needs a Ricky.’
Ricky looked confused. ‘What?’
‘Nothing.’ She reached for Ricky and hugged him long and hard while Jack watched on enviously.
When she finally let go, Ricky handed Moreau’s phone to Jack. ‘I got in. And changed the password to “wanker” so that you could remember. I’ve put it in flight mode and removed the SIM card because the cops are probably trying to track it.’
Ricky took a few steps towards the stairs, but Jack stopped him.
‘How much did you take from the safe again? Your godfather said there should have been a hundred and fifty thousand in there.’
‘Oh, no,’ said Caitlin. ‘I’m not hearing this.’
‘A hundred and twenty,’ said Ricky. ‘Those Harriers, you can’t trust them, the thieving bastards.’ He set off for the stairs. ‘Laters. I’m having lunch with Trouble.’
Jack tidied up Ricky’s chip packet and drink containers from the floor. Then he and Caitlin settled side by side on the lounge with Moreau’s phone. Caitlin snatched it from Jack’s hand, and he felt a tingle as their skin briefly touched. He moved closer so that her Betty Boop tattoo was snuggling up against him.
‘Don’t even think about it,’ said Caitlin.
‘What?’
‘Putting your arm around my shoulders.’
Jack smiled to himself – same old Caitlin. But she didn’t move away.
‘Wanker, huh?’ She raised a questioning eyebrow at Jack, who just shrugged. She typed in the password. ‘So I’m thinking we need to see if he knew Michael Brown. And find out what he was up to in the days before he disappeared.’
‘Is this legal?’
‘Shut up.’
‘It’s just there have been so many lectures.’ He was enjoying himself now. ‘Wouldn’t want you to be nicked for illegally accessing a stolen electronic device.’
‘I don’t think you’re going to dob me in.’
They searched the address book. Brown wasn’t listed. Caitlin looked up Brown’s office and mobile number in her phone and cross-checked Moreau’s call register and his messaging apps.
‘They don’t seem to have called each other. At least not with this phone.’
Moreau’s emails revealed nothing of interest, just the usual detritus of life: utility bills, car insurance, his house was due for a termite inspection, and on it went. No apparent motive to get himself killed. No hate mail. No illicit drug deals.
‘Where did Moreau live?’ asked Jack.
‘I’m not telling you.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you’ll break into his house and steal things.’
‘Tempting, but I don’t think he’s a local.’
Caitlin opened the photos app and started swiping. There were endless photos of food and of Monty, the seriously overweight border collie. In one of the photos, the dog was playing in a large yard and Caitlin slid up the photo to reveal it was taken at Mosman, on a property overlooking the harbour. She googled the address. A real estate website showed a ridiculously ostentatious mansion that would have been more appropriate in Dallas than on the Sydney waterfront.
Caitlin went back to swiping through photos, then stopped.
‘Uh-oh, a dick pic.’
The penis hung down limply, a long way down. The size was impressive even to Jack, who wasn’t accustomed to evaluating the anatomic sizes of male genitalia. The photo was a close up, presumably of Moreau, and he’d included one of his hands in the shot, striking a thumbs-up pose.
