Felicity Young: An Easeful Death

‘Hey Martin,’ Monty said. ‘Did you hear the one about the nun and the bus driver?’

‘Nope. Don’t think so.’

She stepped over the vacuum cleaner and closed the office door behind her.

***

Stevie slicked her way down the rain-washed highway where the lights flickered like coloured stars. Lost in her own thoughts, it was only when she had to slam the brakes to avoid the sudden erratic lane change of a mini-minor, that she found herself jolted back to the present. With alarm she realised she had no memory of leaving Central, of the dodgem dash across the roundabout, the Causeway, or even noticing Gustav the one-armed fisherman on the bridge. Until now she hadn’t even been aware of the press conference on the radio.

She reached for the volume button and turned up the sound. Monty began with the standard plea to the public for help. The sound of his voice was a welcome distraction from the unsettling thoughts that had been dogging her for the last few days. She pictured him standing at the podium in the conference room, reading from his official statement. In one of his better suits he would look dapper and imposing and maybe even intimidating to some.

Now it was question time and his voice boomed. She visualised him holding his hands up to silence the barrage. ‘I’ll answer what I can of your questions now, one at a time...’ The mike amplified the coughs, the whispers, the jostling. ‘Yes, you in the red coat.’

In her head Stevie saw a glowing beacon among the sea of bodies.

‘Can you tell us anything more about the victim, her family, where she lived?’ a woman’s voice asked.

‘Miss Royce lived with her family in Kensington. I’m hoping the press will have the courtesy to leave them alone for now. If they wish to give any statements, I’m sure they will in their own good time.’

‘Michelle Birkby, the West .’

A beat. ‘Yes Michelle?’

Stevie’s grip tightened on the steering wheel.

‘Inspector McGuire,’ the journalist said, ‘newspaper polls have shown a significant drop in the public’s confidence in the police service, particularly after the failure to catch the Kings Park killer who terrorised the West Perth area nearly four years ago. Have the police learned from past mistakes? Will they adopt a different approach to catching this killer?’

Neither Stevie nor Monty had been with the SCS during the KP murders. She had been stationed at a quiet outer suburban police station, busy swotting for her sergeant’s exams, and Monty had been taking a course in England. He had not returned to head the SCS until the case had been closed for some time, although he had experienced some of the aftershock and heard the rumours. One of the major problems, he’d explained to her later, was the ridiculous isolationist policy the top brass had chosen to pursue by refusing to accept the offer of interstate aid. This time, desperate to repair a damaged reputation, they’d reluctantly allowed him to call in De Vakey.

‘Because of the bizarre nature of this crime, we’re enlisting the aid of a nationally renowned criminal profiler,’ Monty said.

‘So, Inspector.’ Stevie could hear the smugness in Michelle’s voice, visualise her condescending smile. ‘You admit the Kings Park murder investigation was a bungle from start to finish?’

‘I admit no such thing, Ms Birkby. The case of the Kings Park killer is not, I believe, the subject of this press conference.’

A question from someone else: ‘Do you have the cause of Linda Royce’s death yet, Inspector McGuire?’

Monty’s sigh of relief was audible. ‘We’re still waiting for the last of the autopsy test results to come through.’

‘Do you have any suspects?’

‘Several people are helping us with our enquiries, but no charges have been laid yet.’

‘Had the victim been sexually assaulted?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t comment on that at the moment.’

‘Apparently, the Kings Park murder victims were sexually assaulted. Is there any chance that this latest death could be the work of the same killer?’ It was Michelle Birkby again.

‘The chief KP murder suspect was killed in a car accident.’

‘The suspect?’

‘Yes.’

‘So we can assume...?’

‘It would be naive to assume anything at this stage in the investigation, Ms Birkby.’

For a moment Stevie forgot her own troubles. She laughed aloud as she turned off the highway and onto the airport road.

***

Tottering through the car park in her skirt suit and high heels, Stevie used her umbrella for balance as well as shelter. After lecturing Monty on his appearance, she could hardly go dressed in jeans and a bomber jacket to pick up a dignitary such as De Vakey.

The press conference had been an amusing diversion, but the icy sting of rain on her calves quickly brought her back to the here and now. She should be at home now, tucking Izzy into bed. Then, once her daughter was asleep, she should be curling up in front of a favourite DVD. Most of her movies were oldies, but there was a special section of recent romantic comedies devoted to George Clooney. She kept them in a banana box on top of the wardrobe, away from prying eyes, like a teenage boy with his hidden collection of porn.

But there would be no movies tonight and it would be Nanna reading the bedtime story. They’d be sitting in the double bed cuddled together under the heirloom patchwork, the warm air tinged with baby powder and strawberry shampoo. After three nights in her grandmother’s bed, how was Izzy ever going to settle back into her own?

And this was the least of her problems. What if Tye called, or worse, went around? Would her mother be able to handle the scumbag? How would Izzy react? The unpredictable appearance of Izzy’s father always upset the child.

Stevie’s wet ankles chafed against her leather shoes as she walked, her high heels slamming into the concrete as if they might crack it. Muscles and tendons tightened, her heart raced, and she found herself glancing around to make sure she wasn’t being followed. She hated having to get tarted up, she hated the shoes; she couldn’t move fast enough in them.

She couldn’t run.

A car reversed from a parking bay and behind her a car boot slammed. She passed a line of people queuing at the ticket machine and no one gave her a second glance. She forced herself to take slow, deep breaths until the feeling of panic began to subside.

Inside the terminal doors she shook out her umbrella and tucked it under her arm, grateful to be out of the weather and the sickening smell of jet fuel. She looked at the overhead monitor. The plane hadn’t arrived yet. She had ten minutes to collect her thoughts, stop thinking about the mess she’d made of her personal life and concentrate on where she was and what she was doing now.

Looking past the crowds of travel-weary people jostling around the luggage carousels, she spotted a counter at the terminal’s far end. It would be a handy thing to lean on, she thought as she navigated her way towards it. After producing a strip of card she’d kept dry under her suit jacket, she began to search her bag for the marker pen she’d pinched from Wayne’s desk.

Her bag was a bottomless pit tonight, the pen buried beneath all the debris. She began to unpack her things to find it. Her purse went next to her ID wallet, latex gloves, handcuffs and pepper spray. Her keys, a mouse-nest of tissues and an old dummy for emergencies joined the pile, then a ragged article about George Clooney torn slyly from a hairdresser’s mag. At last she found the pen—things were looking up, it hadn’t leaked.

‘Yessss,’ she hissed under her breath and tossed the junk back into her bag. She began to write his name on the card.