The Wrong Man, page 12
The door clicked open and Bailey could hear O’Brien’s voice barking instructions.
‘In you go.’
Joel Griggs shuffled through the door, his eyes landing on Bailey, a smirk cutting into his cheeks.
With chains around his wrists and ankles, Griggs was moving slowly as he rattled towards the vacant chair opposite Bailey. He was shorter than he appeared on television and in the news articles Bailey had read. Neat haircut. Cleanly shaven. His green prison tracksuit almost creaseless. The man who had raped and killed five women, and probably more, was still confident and proud.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ Griggs said, sliding into his chair and winking at O’Brien. ‘Thank you, Damien.’
O’Brien scowled, retreating to the corner and leaning his back against the wall. ‘Fifteen minutes.’
Griggs was wearing the same smile he’d walked in with and Bailey couldn’t help wondering whether it was permanently plastered on his face.
‘So, you’re John Bailey.’
Bailey nodded, not quite knowing where to begin.
‘I’ve read about you,’ Griggs added. ‘What an interesting life you’ve led.’
‘I’ve been reading about you too.’
Griggs’s smile widened to a grin. ‘There’s a lot out there, I know. Not all of it true. I’m not the monster they say I am.’
‘You raped, tortured and murdered five women.’
‘Did I?’
The smile was starting to grate on Bailey and so was the way the words formed in Griggs’s mouth. Polite. Articulate. Bailey had learned enough about this man to know his disarming civility was an act. A weapon used to lure women and disguise the evil inside his head.
‘You did.’
‘Five, you say?’
‘That’s what the court found.’
Griggs had bright blue eyes and Bailey couldn’t recall seeing him blink.
‘They say there were others, you know?’
‘Who says?’
‘Police. Reporters like you. Much has been written over the years.’
‘Not by me.’
‘No. Not by you. But that’s about to change, isn’t it?’
‘Why?’
‘Because you’re sitting here. And you know I didn’t kill Sally King.’
Palmer must have tipped him off about their doubts about King, knowing it would get him to agree to the interview. Although Bailey couldn’t help thinking Griggs would speak to journalists whenever he had the chance.
‘Then who did?’
‘You tell me.’
‘One thing you should know about me is that I’m not the kind of reporter who chases clicks and shares. If there’s a story to write, I’ll do it. But right now, I’m wondering why we’re sitting here if you’ve got nothing interesting to say.’
‘Well, that’s the thing, Mr Bailey. I do have a story to tell.’
‘Which is?’
‘The police set me up. They planted Sally King’s locket in my keepsakes box.’
‘That was dismissed in court. What’s changed?’
‘They lied.’
‘Who?’
‘The police. That simpleton taxi driver. Probably others. But let’s start with them.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because my dear old friend Carl Norris told me,’ Griggs said, wide-eyed and beaming, no doubt from the violent memory that resulted in Norris’s confession.
‘You almost beat Norris to death in here. Whatever he said wouldn’t have stood up in court. You know that.’
‘Yes. Yes.’ Griggs raised his arms, his cuffs jangling as he opened his palms. ‘Apparently, the police were none too impressed with my interviewing technique. But I found it effective.’
‘And it matters even less now.’
‘Not if you interview him. You’re the famous journalist. I’m sure he’ll tell you the truth.’
‘Carl Norris is dead.’
The smile dropped from Griggs’s face. ‘What?’
‘He was murdered this morning.’
‘That weak drug-addled little fuck.’ A spray of spittle landed on the table just short of Bailey’s hands. ‘Did he owe somebody money? Rip-off his dealer?’
‘The police aren’t saying,’ Bailey said. ‘Like I said, it only happened this morning.’
‘Then you coming here is not a coincidence.’ The smile was back.
‘No. It’s not.’
‘Something else has happened.’ Griggs leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. ‘What?’
Bailey had rehearsed his next lines on the phone with Palmer while driving from Paddington to the prison. He needed to find out exactly what Norris had told Griggs and why Griggs had never passed the alleged confession on to police.
‘Police are considering reopening the case. I’ve been working on some leads that were brought to my attention –’
‘By whom?’
‘That’s not important.’
‘It can’t have been the two detectives who put me in here. They’re both dead. The world is better off without one of them. But the other… she was special to you, wasn’t she?’
Griggs stared hungrily at Bailey, eager to feed off the hurt in his eyes.
‘Sharon Dexter,’ Griggs added. ‘What a waste to lose a beautiful specimen like that. I can see this is still painful for you. But I’m glad you got to experience her. I’m a little jealous, actually.’
Bailey could feel the rage rising through his chest. He wanted to reach across and ram Griggs’s smiling face into the table.
‘You have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Don’t I?’ Griggs laughed. ‘We read and watch the news in here. And there’s also my people on the outside.’
‘Your people?’
‘Supporters. Fans. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, but not everyone sees me as a monster.’
Bailey needed to move on. ‘What did Carl Norris tell you?’
‘Let’s talk about Sharon Dexter.’
Bailey glared at him. ‘What did Norris tell you?’
‘That’s disappointing. But we can come back to her,’ Griggs said. ‘Carl said he was paid to testify that he saw me leaving the alley outside the Sydney Club the night Sally King was murdered.’
‘Paid by who?’
‘Whom. Paid by whom. As a journalist, I’d expect better.’
‘What’d he say, Joel? Who paid Norris to lie?’
‘Detective Anthony Jordan.’
Bailey didn’t need to scribble the name on his notepad because he remembered it from Dexter’s file. Jordan had been the detective she’d worked with on the case.
‘Why didn’t you tell anyone at the time?’
Griggs laughed loudly, nodding his chin at O’Brien, who was standing close enough to hear every word.
‘Because Detective Jordan would’ve gotten to me. Finding that kind of help is not hard in here.’
‘Careful, Joel,’ O’Brien said. ‘Let’s not go making wild allegations now.’
‘My apologies.’ Griggs smiled at the prison guard, turning back to Bailey. ‘After Detective Jordan died, I contacted my lawyer and tried to get the police to listen to what I had to say. But nobody was interested.’
‘Who’s your lawyer?’
‘Bruce McSweeney.’
Bailey knew McSweeney. The go-to guy for the worst of the worst. Good at cutting deals and reducing sentences and occasionally helping the guilty walk free. He’d been at it for decades. Loved the cameras. The crème de la crim of defence lawyers. Bailey was almost certain McSweeney had coined that phrase himself, and he scrunched his nose at the memory of the time they’d crossed paths. Bailey in the witness box being cross-examined about a corrupt cop on trial for murder, McSweeney calling Bailey a liar and an opportunist who only cared about newspaper headlines. Bailey hated his guts.
‘You know him?’
‘Yeah, I know McSweeney. Stand-up citizen. Like you.’
‘Give him a call, he’ll tell you.’ Griggs’s face was beaming again. ‘Has anyone spoken to Loni Christensen?’
The name almost made Bailey shiver. Christensen was the poor woman found chained in Griggs’s house the day he was arrested. The only one of his victims to have survived.
‘Why?’
‘She would have vivid memories of our time together. She never testified in court against me, which I always thought was a shame.’
‘She didn’t need to.’
‘I couldn’t have killed Sally King that night because I was having so much fun with her. If you do speak to her, please pass on my regards.’
‘Time’s up!’ O’Brien quickly covered the short distance to the table and he grabbed Griggs roughly under the armpit. ‘On your feet.’
Bailey felt like he needed a shower to wash the stink of evil from his body as he watched Griggs get dragged from the table towards the door.
‘John?’ Griggs jammed his foot against the open door. ‘There were others, you know.’
O’Brien shoved him in the back. ‘Move.’
Griggs smiled again, even brighter than before. ‘Maybe we can talk again?’
The door closed before Bailey had a chance to respond.
CHAPTER 22
SUTTON
‘What was all that about?’
Ambrose was leaning back in his chair, resting a bowl of Chinese noodles on his chest, gesturing at the closed door of Palmer’s office with a pair of chopsticks.
‘Boss’s got me looking at another case. It’s got a weird connection to Blacksmith,’ Sutton said.
‘Missed lunch, sorry.’ Ambrose shovelled more noodles into his mouth, but it didn’t seem to thwart his ability to speak. ‘What case?’
‘A Sydney murder from a decade ago.’
‘Who’s the vic?’
There was no sign of Connelly but his computer screen was on so Sutton knew Ambrose’s partner wasn’t far away.
‘Woman called Sally King. One of the victims of Joel Griggs.’
‘What’s it got to do with Blacksmith?’ Ambrose said, still chewing.
‘King was at a party he hosted the night she was killed.’
‘And?’
There was no reason why Sutton couldn’t discuss the case with Ambrose. Still, all the questions were making her uncomfortable.
‘Do you remember what happened to King?’
‘Raped and strangled. The fifth and final victim of that evil motherfucker.’
‘That’s right.’
‘But what’s it got to do with Tottie Evans?’
Sutton told him about the file that Dexter had put together. About Carl Norris’s unfortunate death, and the break-ins at Leichhardt and at the home of the reporter, John Bailey, in Paddington. How Palmer thought the intruders may have been looking for Dexter’s file.
‘Where is it, then?’
‘What?’
‘The file?’
Sutton was about to tell him that Palmer was reading through the file in his office right now when she was interrupted by Connelly, who bumped the back of her chair, rubbing his hands together, racing towards the bowl of noodles that awaited him on his desk.
‘How are you, Sutton?’ Connelly said, flipping the lid off his noodles.
‘Good.’
‘Our young detective friend here was just updating me about a link between Tottie Evans’s murder and another murder from ten years ago,’ Ambrose said.
Sutton resisted the impulse to inform Ambrose she was thirty-five years old, which didn’t feel so young.
‘What?’ Connelly scrunched his nose. ‘A cold case?’
‘No.’ Ambrose was wiping his hands with a tissue that clearly wasn’t up for the greasy job. ‘One of Joel Griggs’s girls. Somebody round here thinks he may not have done it.’
Connelly almost coughed up his noodles. ‘Palmer’s got you looking at a potential miscarriage of justice connected to one of Australia’s worst serial killers?’
‘Yep.’
‘That’s right.’ Nobody had noticed Palmer arrive, the carpeted office concealing the sounds of his leather soles. ‘He has.’
Connelly put down his chopsticks and Ambrose stopped swinging in his chair.
‘Just trying to get up to speed, boss,’ Ambrose said. ‘Seems like a bizarre angle.’
‘Not from where I sit.’ Palmer turned to Sutton. ‘Dexter might have been on to something else.’ Palmer gestured with his thumb towards his office. ‘In there. And, you two.’ He pointed his index fingers at Ambrose and Connelly. ‘How are we going with the boat clubs and jetties?’
Ambrose glanced sideways at his partner. ‘Getting there.’
Palmer’s silence suggested that ‘getting there’ wasn’t the answer he was after.
‘There are dozens of public boat clubs and jetties in Sydney Harbour alone, boss,’ Ambrose added. ‘Throw in the private ones and we’re looking at hundreds.’
‘Then find a way to whittle it down. I’ve got cops on the beaches looking through all the street cams. If you need more help – ask. We can always get more uniforms. But we’ve got to move fast, fellas. There can’t have been that many boats being tied up within cooee of Double Bay in the middle of the night. These guys aren’t ghosts.’
‘We’re on it,’ Connelly said. ‘And, boss, what’s this about Dexter? Are you talking about Sharon Dexter?’
Palmer nodded. ‘As you guys might remember, Dexter and Knuckles cracked the Griggs case. But something happened that made her wonder if one of his victims may have been killed by somebody else. It seems as though she’d started working on it in her own time.’
‘By Knuckles, you’re talking about Anthony Jordan?’ Sutton said.
‘Yes,’ Palmer said. ‘Unfortunately, Detective Dexter is no longer with us to explain why she was taking another look at the case.’
‘And neither is Knuckles.’
Palmer shot Ambrose a look that suggested he wasn’t among those who mourned the passing of Anthony ‘Knuckles’ Jordan.
‘I highly doubt Dexter had received any help from Knuckles on this.’
Sutton had heard the rumours about Knuckles being a dirty cop. The stories had stalked him all the way to his retirement, but nothing was ever proven. Maybe karma got him in the end, because Knuckles died from liver cancer less than a year after he’d retired.
‘Why’s this coming up now?’
Connelly hadn’t been there when Sutton gave Ambrose the rundown, so he was understandably confused.
‘I don’t want you two getting distracted,’ Palmer said. ‘It might be nothing anyway. Just find the boat.’
The boss headed for his office and Sutton followed him. He closed the door behind them.
‘This is your life now, Sutton.’ Palmer tapped his fingers on the open file as he sat down behind his desk. He picked up a photograph, holding it out so Sutton could see the circled head he was interested in.
‘This man is an American named James T. Randall. He’s the majority owner in a private security contracting business worth a billion dollars. He was also at the Sydney Club the night of the party. Randall is the only person that Detectives Dexter and Jordan failed to interview.’
‘Why?’
‘He left the country. And then they lost interest in him when Griggs was arrested. But Randall’s in Sydney right now. I want you to check him out.’
‘You want me to interview him?’
‘Nothing formal. Don’t spook the fella.’
Sutton nodded, wondering how the hell she was going to do that.
‘What else do we know about him?’
‘Ex-military guy. Navy SEAL, or something. That chest-beating special ops shit,’ Palmer said. ‘The bio on his company website talks up his experience working as a private contractor, so he’s no desk jockey CEO.’
‘You think Blacksmith worked for Randall?’
‘Probably. That appears to be why he was at the Sydney Club that night. But I need you to confirm it. See what he’s got to say.’ Palmer’s eyes drifted to the closed door. ‘He’s staying at the Four Seasons down at the quay.’
‘I’ll head there now.’
‘And, Sutton, you only speak to me about this angle now. No more sharing with dumb and dumber out there.’
‘Got it.’
CHAPTER 23
Bailey didn’t trust many people.
Gerald. Annie. Neena. His daughter, Miranda, and her husband, Dr Peter Andrews. The doc made the list because he loved Miranda almost as much as Bailey did. He was also the father of Bailey’s granddaughter, Molly, and the doctor who had fixed Bailey’s broken bones after he had been tortured by a Chinese spy.
But that was probably about it.
It was a short list.
Bailey had an unfortunate habit of imagining the worst in people before offering them the chance to show him their best. That’s because Bailey understood how even positive virtues like love, loyalty and duty could lead good people to do bad things. He’d seen it happen too many times before.
Take his old friend, Ronnie Johnson, for instance.
The CIA officer and Bailey had known each other for more than three decades. There had been times when they’d worked together against a common enemy. Shared information to stop bad people from doing bad things. Ronnie had even saved Bailey’s life on more than one occasion.
But Bailey could never absolutely trust a guy like Ronnie because of the things the man had done. The lines he’d crossed.
And because the guy was an ideologue.
Ronnie Johnson believed the United States of America was the greatest democratic invention bestowed upon the world. An idea that should be defended at all costs. He had devoted his life to that mission. It was the reason he got out of bed each day. His purpose.
So when a message from Ronnie landed in Bailey’s phone just as he was sliding behind the wheel of his four-wheel drive outside Long Bay Correctional Complex, Bailey knew something was in play. That his interest in Randall was justified.
Do me a favour and lay off Randall
Give me a couple of days, I’ll explain
No bullshit
Those were the actual words that appeared on the screen. But by the time they made it through Bailey’s eyes and into his brain, he had interpreted them entirely differently.
