Felicity Young - An Easeful Death

He finally identified the source of the clanking; it was a piece of loose tin clinging to the edge of the roof by an invisible wire. If the wind tore it loose and tossed it his way, it would cut his throat with one swift swipe.

His hand flew to his neck to wrestle with his strangling bow tie just as his body decided to relieve his stomach of its contents. Still holding onto the railing, he sank to his knees and added a generous layer of Christmas dinner to the wet mulch of the front garden bed. Feeling a little better, he hauled himself to his feet, spat the remaining particles from his teeth and wiped his mouth on the front of his dress shirt.

With cautious winding steps he made his way to the front door. Justin’s van was in the carport, thank God. Now he wouldn’t have to spend the rest of the night worrying about what his son was up to. With a sense of relief he entered the front hall and kicked off his shoes. He shuffled in his socks across the beige ceramic tiles, along the featureless narrow passageway towards his son’s bedroom. A light was shining under the door. He knocked and waited for a response before entering.

Once inside, Baggly scanned the room. It was more like an office than a bedroom he thought, not for the first time. Extending across the length of one wall there was a long table with a fax machine, photocopier, printer and computer. The neatly made single bed was tucked into the corner, hardly noticeable. Justin’s clothes were all folded in his bedside drawers or put away in the cupboard on hangars all facing the same way. His books were arranged on the shelf above his desk in alphabetical order, all non-fiction. No posters, no sporting trophies, CDs or video collections. No dirty socks or testosterone smells, just new books and paper. It was ironic that the only object in the room to suggest the humanity of its occupant was a framed picture of Justin’s mother on the bedside locker, a picture that John Baggly himself could hardly bear to look at.

Justin was stooped over his desk, as usual. Without looking up from his books he said, ‘You’re back.’

‘Yes. Can I get you anything?’

‘No thanks.’

A pause. ‘How’s the study going?’

Justin tossed his pen onto the desk and leaned back in his chair, rubbing at his eyes with his fists like a small boy and promoting in Baggly a surge of paternal warmth.

‘I can’t make head or tail of this shit question: “The abuse of process in pre-trial.” Know anything about it?’

Without turning in his chair to face him, Justin handed the assignment sheet over his shoulder, keeping his father at a safe distance.

Baggly tried to focus on the question, but even with his glasses on, the words seemed to swim in swirling currents of confusion.

He hummed and hawed for a moment.

Justin said, ‘Never mind. I’ll ask Inspector McGuire about it, he’ll know.’

Baggly leaned over to put the paper back on the desk, forgetting the boundaries for a moment. Justin immediately elbowed him out of the way. But no sooner had Baggly stepped back to a respectful distance than Justin spun around in his desk chair, his hand flying up to cover his mouth and nose. He fixed his father with accusing eyes. ‘Jesus, what’s that disgusting smell?’

Baggly froze. ‘Smell? I can’t smell anything.’ His gaze fell to the vomit stains on his dress shirt.

The boy sprang to his feet. ‘You’re a pig! A big fat filthy slop-eating pig!’ He pushed past his father with an expression of revulsion and dashed down the passage towards the front door.

Baggly only found the words once the front door had been slammed in his face. ‘You’ve no right to speak to me like that, you ungrateful spoilt brat!’

thursday

4

How? Why? Where? And to whom did it happen? By seeking the answers to these questions, the lead detectives will come closer to finding the offender.

De Vakey, The Pursuit of Evil

The rain had continued all night and everyone seated around the T-shaped arrangement of desks in the incident room showed evidence of a mad dash from the car park. Damp tousled hair, rain-specked shoulders and miserable expressions came with the first sneezes of winter colds.

Monty’s mood did not seem to have been dampened by the weather or the uncomfortable meeting with the profiler the previous night. He nodded and smiled good morning to his detectives and took his seat, fanning a sheaf of papers on the table before him. Stevie was still not convinced by De Vakey’s methods, but she could see that he had his uses; there was a lot to be said for a burden shared. The loneliness of her own dilemma seemed all the more apparent. She bit hard on the lid of her pen, determined not to let her preoccupations interfere with the case in hand.

‘You first, Angus,’ Monty pointed a finger at the senior detective.

Angus scanned his notes as his hand raked through his wet hair. ‘Everything seems straight down the line with this photographer feller, Mont.’ The incongruity between Angus’s appearance and his ocker accent never ceased to amaze Stevie. ‘His story checked out. After the photo shoot, he walked Linda Royce down the stairs of his warehouse studio and unlocked the door for her. He saw her step into the street, then went inside and called his wife.’

‘They’re a one-car family,’ Stevie added. ‘She always picks him up after work. I checked his phone records, spoke to the wife, everything rings true.’

Angus nodded. ‘He said she was a nice girl, was pretty shaken up by her murder.’

‘Media, Stevie?’ Monty queried.

‘I spoke to the head of ABC productions. They said they’d organise a re-enactment whenever we’re ready.’

‘We should go for Sunday night then. Hopefully the same people will be in the area carrying out their Sunday-night routines,’ Barry said.

‘It won’t do us any good if it’s pissing down with rain, though.’ Wayne looked over his shoulder to the rain still beating against the incident room window, his facial expression sour as stomach acid.

‘Long-term forecast is for a fine day with rain developing,’ Angus answered.

‘That’s settled then, Sunday it is.’ Monty turned to Stevie. ‘Can you organise that?’

Stevie wrote herself a reminder.

‘Who’s going to play Linda Royce?’ Wayne asked.

All eyes turned to the only female on the team.

Stevie looked at Monty, smoothed her fingers down the length of her ponytail. ‘I don’t mind. I’m tall, blonde, I meet the physical description more or less.’

‘Sure,’ Barry flashed her a teasing grin. ‘A dead ringer. Fifteen years older and about ten kilos heavier—but who’s counting? And they really want to take your photo in this.’ He pulled at the sleeve of her bomber jacket.

Dickhead. She jerked her arm away and stopped the retort before it left her mouth. It was a struggle to keep her voice level. ‘Just leave my wardrobe to me, okay?’

Monty coughed, regarded his detectives. ‘Sounds fine by me. What does everyone else think?’

Murmurs of agreement filled the room.

‘That’s settled then.’ Monty took a swallow of cold coffee and pulled a face. ‘To recap, we know she was somehow abducted from the street, taken somewhere else to be murdered, then somehow transported to the bank and posed.’

‘What about a taxi?’ Barry asked. ‘She could have decided not to catch the bus and gone for a taxi instead.’

Wayne nodded, pulling thoughtfully at a long feathery sideburn. ‘That could have happened. That or someone she knew stopped and gave her a lift.’

‘Would she have got into the car of a stranger?’ Barry asked.

‘By all accounts she was a sensible girl,’ Angus said. ‘Her uncle and grandfather were cops, there’s no way she would have been unaware of the dangers.’