I WAS as furious as all hell, but
controlled. Barely.
“Let me repeat in words
of one syllable so even you can understand,” I hissed. “I don’t know who she sent the tape
to. I didn’t ask and she didn’t tell
me. OK?”
“Why was that” McDowell
asked. “She trusted you.”
The bastard was getting
desperate – he was asking questions he knew the answers to. I was pitiless. “Perhaps she was afraid I would end up with
my brains bashed in, too.”
As usual, he didn’t have
the decency to be discomfited, so I turned to Rob Collinson with my best
can’t-you-get-this-bloke-off-my-back? look.
The three of us were in
Connie’s kitchen while the crime scene boys did their thing. Collinson and McDowell were drinking
coffee. Not me. Just the thought of stealing a dead
colleague’s coffee made me want to throw up, like expurgating guilt. Outside, a Homicide team was doorknocking
the street, helped by Wayne Elliott.
God help anyone who tried
to be evasive with Elliott. He’d
arrived with Collinson, white-faced and disbelieving. Until he saw Connie’s body. This time, unlike with Jodie Aston, the
mask of emotional disinterest slipped.
He’d knelt by her for several minutes, his eyes closed and his lips moving
soundlessly. You’d be forgiven for
thinking he was praying, but I knew better.
As I had, he was apologising for not being there when she needed him
most, and promising he would find the bastard responsible and kill him
slowly. He would’ve stayed there longer
except Doc Morgan had gently reminded him he had a job to do. Before he stood, he wiped his eyes. Surreptitiously, he thought. Now, he was consumed with the anger of
vengeance. Collinson would have to
think carefully about letting him stay on the case.
Not that Collinson was
unaffected. One of the smartest blokes
I’ve ever met, he had linked his reputation with the success rate of the
squad. Both had skyrocketed, not the least
because he chose his staff with care.
He’d cared for Connie more than most.
“You going to take this
case over, too?” he asked McDowell.
“It’ll look a bit dodgy to the media – two policewomen murdered within a
day of each other and the Homicide Squad more or less sitting on its hands.”
It was a good point. Jodie Aston’s death hadn’t made the papers
yet, but it would. So would
Connie’s. Any halfway competent crime
reporter would postulate a link and begin asking questions. McDowell frowned. I thought he was trying to recall Evans’s
phone number so he could check, but he surprised me.
“No,” he told
Collinson. “This one’s yours. When the press gets on to it, you can
mention that Connie was working on the Aston murder, but no mention of the
tape. As far as you know, there’s no
connection.” He saw my mouth open and
raised a restraining hand. “Only when
and if it becomes necessary, then we mention it. Until then, it doesn’t exist.”
The tape wasn’t why my
mouth had opened.
“And what,” I queried,
“if they discover that Homicide is asking certain members of the Command
Support Unit where they were around ten last night?”
His eyes narrowed. “Why should Homicide do that?”
Was this bloke
kidding? I had already determined from
Telstra that Connie’s phone had been off the hook but not in use at ten fifteen
last night. To me, that meant that
whoever had beaten the shit out of her and cracked her skull had been in the
house just before then. It was now
time, I reckoned, to sweat the blokes who’d been going to such singular lengths
to relieve her of the unmentionable tape.
McDowell’s eyes narrowed
further. All I could see were
pinpoints.
“Meaning Jamieson and
Tonetti?”
“If that’s their
names. And their boss.”
McDowell stared at me,
and I could say without fear of contradiction that I didn’t have the faintest
idea what he was thinking.
Eventually he nodded. “We’ll be happy to respond to whatever
questions Chief Inspector Collinson cares to put to us.”
I didn’t miss the slight
curl of the side of his mouth, leaving me the easy deduction that I wasn’t
going to get a look-in. In short, ‘Fuck you, Mason!’
Which was what I
expected. And wanted. I didn’t want to be part of any
investigation that had McDowell pulling the strings. Even Collinson, straight shooter that he
was, would find his efforts circumscribed by all sorts of ‘political
imperatives’ and there would be nothing he could do about it. But a freelancer? That was something else. I stood.
“Permission to return to
HQ?” I asked Collinson.
He nodded. “I’ll expect your statement on all
this…” He waved vaguely towards the
sitting room…” by four o’clock.”
“Done.” I hurried out. There were things to be done, people to
see.
The first thing was find
out who Connie had been talking to on her mobile, which I’d had the foresight
to swipe. I drove around the corner,
got the device out and examined it. As
I expected, it had memorised the numbers of Connie’s last ten calls. The last one rang no bells. All I could tell from the prefix was that it
was a Hawthorn number. The penultimate
number was mine, which would be me ringing her at home the previous evening. The number before that was also mine – me
warning her that Heckle was on her tail.
All of which made it a pretty fair bet that the Hawthorn number belonged
to whomever Connie had posted the tape.
I looked at my watch and
got a surprise to learn that it was already past midday. Oz Post would have already delivered the
tape, or be close to so doing, which meant that Connie should soon be getting a
return call. I could see no harm in
getting in first.
I dialled and immediately
got a recorded message. “You have
called Sandra Pastor,” it told me. “I’m
not far away, so please leave a message after the beep so I can return your
call. Thank you.”
Sandra Pastor…that
rang bells. She was a TV journo,
experienced and respected. Currently
working for Channel Nine. The question
was – would she take one look at the tape and rush into the studio and put it
to air, or would she listen to whatever Connie had left on her answering
machine? Whichever, there was nothing I
could do about it, not without more information. I got my own mobile and called Special
Projects, a euphemism for our phone-tapping snoops. I got on to Andy Snell, who owed me a favour
or two, and asked him to put an address to the Pastor phone number. On the qt, of course. I also asked him to put his computer across
her phone and crack the access code to
her message bank. You don’t spend
eighteen months in Communications without learning a few handy wrinkles like
that. Then I headed for the office. I’d no sooner arrived than my phone
rang. It was Andy.
“Got it,” he announced,
and gave me a three-digit number, the open-sesame to Sandra Pastor’s message
bank. “What’s it all about?”
“You don’t want to know,
mate.”
Andy caught on quicker
than most. “Who are you?” he
mock-queried. “What are you doing on my
phone? Get off.”
I got off and went to
work.
There were twenty
messages in the bank, only two of interest to me. One, two weeks old, was from some accountant
type at Channel Nine apologising for failing to add leave loading to her
holiday pay and would she please come and see him when she got back. The other was from Connie.
“Sandy,” she began, her
voice slow and calm, “this is Connie.
I’m sending you a videotape.
Through the mail. Look at it,
but please, please don’t do anything until you hear from me, OK?” Her pitch rose. “When you see it, you’ll know what I
mean. Please be careful. ‘Bye for now.”
So. Connie and this Sandy Pastor were - had
been - friends, and the journalist was due back from leave…when? Where did that leave me? It left me with the conviction that the first
person she should talk to should be me.
I broke connection, redialled and waited for the invitation to leave a
message.
“Ms Pastor, I am Sergeant
Mark Mason and a colleague of Connie O’Brien.
I’m sorry to tell you that Connie is dead - murdered - and the reason
for it is the tape she sent you yesterday.
It is now Wednesday, May the second, by the way. For your own protection, do not show the
tape to anyone you don’t trust. If
you’d like to talk to me about it, call me on Connie’s mobile or on my mobile.”
I gave her my number,
exhorted her not to use a standard phone, then hung up. All I could do now, as they say in the
classics, was wait.
I didn’t have to wait
long. At six that evening, as I was
devouring three lamb chump chops plus assorted vegetables and watching the
news, Connie’s phone rang.
“Sergeant Mason?” a
mellifluous female voice asked.
“Speaking. Ms Pastor?”
“I agree we should
talk. Immediately.”
“Where?”
“My place.” And she hung up.
Straight to the point and
no mucking about. Good stuff. But, ever mindful of the all the starving
kids in India, I finished the chops and devoured a generous serving of my
favourite vanilla/chocolate ice cream.
Patience, however, is not my long suit.
A couple of gulps of coffee, a quick brush of the molars and I was on my
way. Five minutes later, I was knocking
on Sandra Pastor’s front door.
It opened almost
immediately, and I found myself looking into a smiling pair of huge midnight
blue eyes.
“Hello,” said their
owner. “Are you going to be my new
daddy?”
It takes a fair bit to
bring me up short, but this did the trick.
My inquisitor was blonde, petite and beautiful, and five years old if
she was a day. I was still standing
there, mouth slack and brain struggling when Sandra Pastor, in dressing gown
and damp hair, appeared.
My heart turned
over. She was even more lovely than she
looked on TV. She stood about five
seven, had a slim waist, was well endowed above and below and, based on the
neatly turned ankles on show beneath the dressing gown, had long, lithe
legs. She had a beautiful face, not the
least because of her deep blue eyes, the prototypes for her daughter’s. They were set in a tanned oval face with
high cheekbones and a delicate nose standing guard over the most delightfully
curved lips I had ever seen. She was a
stunner.
Not that she was all
glamour. This Day Tonight had record
ratings because of her, but it wasn’t just the perve factor. With the looks came intelligence,
perseverance and the ability to ask incisive questions and not take bullshit
answers. The steel magnolia took no
prisoners. Politicians were afraid to
appear with her. They were also afraid not to.
“Angela!” she
remonstrated. “You know better than to
say that.” She took her by the arm and
turned her around. “You go and get
ready for bed. Right now.”
The mite pouted.“ All right.”
She took a couple of steps into the house, then turned back to me and
smiled. “Are you?”
“Angela!” It
was almost a shriek.
I crouched. Experience had taught me that kids
responded best when you didn’t talk downhill to them.
“That’s a terrific
offer,” I replied. “Give me some time
to think about it. OK?”
She nodded. “OK.”
Then she padded off, leaving her mortified mother to thrust out a
tentative hand.
“Sergeant Mason. I’m so sorry.” She allowed me a cursory touch before
adding, with just a touch of annoyance, “I didn’t expect you so soon, but
please come in.”
I explained that I lived
more or less just around the corner and yes, I should’ve told her so before I
came hotfooting it around. I even
managed to look a trifle shamefaced.
She hesitated, probably
recalling that she hadn’t given me time to explain and therefore it was partly
her own fault. She looked a trifle
shamefaced herself, then smiled, and I knew we had co-signed a memo of
understanding. She nodded after Angela.
“I’m afraid she does that
quite often. Only child in the kinder
without a dad, and as you know, kids can be unspeakably cruel if one of their
peers is...deficient in any way.”
She led me into her
sitting room, a domain that was simultaneously conservative, expensive and
tasteful, all combining to create an understated elegance. It gave you the sudden nasty thought that
perhaps you hadn’t wiped your feet.
“She doesn’t remember her father, poor thing, but she’s learning what
the lack of him means.” Sandra smiled,
but it didn’t mask the pain in her eyes.
“Do you have children, sergeant?”
I shook the head. “Not married. And please call me Mark. But I know what you mean. Kids can be little monsters. Pity of it is, some of ‘em grow up without
changing.” I shook the head again. “In my line of business…”
I got a nod of
accord. In her business, she
would see much of the same.
“If you’ll excuse me for
a minute,” she said, “I’ll just throw on
something. If you care for a
drink…” She nodded to the bar that took
up one corner of the room.
I helped myself to a
Black Label. I also helped myself to a
look at the half dozen paintings adorning the walls, particularly the one about
the size of an old-fashion cigar box.
I’m no art expert but I know a
McCubbin when I see one. At a rough
guess, it was worth my annual salary multiplied six-fold.
It figured.
I’d done my
homework. Sandra had just started to
make her name as a journalist when she married, so she kept it. Her husband had been Trent Morgan, a high-flying
whiz kid in finance who, between stock market killings, indulged himself in two
passions – trading classic MG cars and collecting even older Australian
art. Morgan had been killed three years
ago, ironically in an MG TC that had, inexplicably, failed to negotiate a bend
on the Great Ocean Road. In the windup
of his estate, it was discovered that he and the Taxation Department were at
odds. The Department prevailed, but
not to the extent that Sandra was left without a few desirable hand-me-downs.
“What’s your name?”
The mite had reappeared,
in white nightie and Minnie Mouse slippers.
She frowned up at me with a seriousness that, in an adult, would have
signified a money problem or a death in the family. I sat on the nearest Chipperfield.
“You can call me Mark.”
The frown remained. “Mummy says I shouldn’t call grownups by
their first names.”
“Quite right,” I
agreed. “What about Sergeant Mason?”
Her tiny nose screwed up
in distaste. Perhaps if I’d been an
officer..?
“Mr Mason…?
Same response.
“How about Mr Mark?”
That brought a smile and
a nod. “I like that.” She rolled it off her tongue a couple of
times, just to get the hang of it. Then
we got down to the nitty gritty – friends, kinder, toys, books, the bike she
was learning to ride and the fact that she and her mother had only just
returned from a fortnight in “the hills”.
Unprompted, she volunteered the information that she hadn’t liked any of
her mother’s man friends – “not one.”
She leaned forward, her voice becoming conspiratorial. “But I like you.”
My self-esteem
rocketed. “Thank you,” I said. I would have blushed but her mother’s
return saved me.
The ‘something’ Sandra
had just thrown on was a simple navy skirt topped by a short-sleeved white
blouse that highlighted her slim brown arms.
It also highlighted the auburn crown that cascaded almost to her waist,
shimmering. It was hair she was still
brushing - until she saw her daughter.
“Angela..!”
There was sufficient
frustration in that exclamation to warn Angela that anger was not far
behind. She scrambled down from the
sofa and headed for the door. And again
she stopped and smiled back at me.
“Mr Mark, would you like
to hear my prayers?”
What could I do? And anyway, I had to protect her from her
mother.
“I certainly would.” And before a startled Sandra could object, I
swept the moppet up. “Which way?”
Angela’s room was much
like a thousand other little girls’ rooms.
It had a gaily decorated bed which she shared with a menagerie of soft toys,
a pine desk and chair and a huge, grinning koala sitting in one corner. The dressing table adjacent to her pillow
supported myriad seashells, miniature dolls and other little girl collectibles,
plus a photograph of Angela, aged about three, with the man who had been her
father. There was no such photograph in
the sitting room, I recalled. Two
mobiles over the bed began turning as we entered. Beyond them, over the head of the bed, was a
brass crucifix.
As soon as I put Angela
down, she was on her knees by the bed.
She looked up at me expectantly, and muggins me took a few moments to
catch on. I got down beside her,
reflecting that it had been a long time since I’d been in this position. A bloody long time. Beside me, Sandra followed suit, the
fragrance of her shampoo making me disturbingly aware of her proximity. I mentally chastised myself. Not the right response, considering the
situation. I closed my eyes and willed
myself to the task at hand.
“Father,” the diminutive
one began, “thank you for all your Heavenly gifts. Thank you for keeping us safe. Please bless mummy, bless Auntie Joyce,
bless my teachers and bless all my friends.”
“And..?” her mother
prompted.
“And bless everybody who
comes into this house.” I felt a nudge
and looked down just in time to catch a surreptitious smile. “’Specially Mr Mark. Amen.”
With that, she stood, gave me a peck on the cheek and leapt into bed.
“Amen,” I chorused, and
meant it. “Good night, little
one.” I left, leaving them to the
mother-and-daughter goodnight thing.
She soon rejoined me in the sitting room.
“Well, you certainly made
a good first impression.” She waved me
back into the sofa and sat opposite. “Most
unusual.”
“Easy,” said I.
“It’s maintaining it that’s the hard part.”
Her smile, sparing but
dazzling on TV, was now warm as well.
“You didn’t mind the
prayer thing? I noticed you crossed
yourself.”
I hadn’t realised I’d
done that, and I didn’t tell her it was just a meaningless reflex born of years
of conditioning. “An old Catholic boy
like me? I felt privileged, actually. She’s quite the little charmer.” I almost added “like her mother” but common
sense prevailed.
“She can be when
she wants,” Sandra confirmed. Abruptly,
her smile was usurped by a grim stare.
“What happened to Connie, sergeant?”
The sudden change of
subject and demeanour might disconcert her TV interviewees but not someone who
knows all the interrogation techniques.
“You’ve watched the tape?”
“Of course.”
As gently as I could, I
detailed the events of the previous two days.
I left out nothing, except for the more gruesome aspects of Connie’s
death. At the end of my account, Sandra
knew almost as much as I did.
Did I feel guilty at
spilling my guts to someone who could use the tape to destroy the reputations
of a good many people? Not a bit. Did I feel sympathy as I saw her beautiful
eyes well with tears? You bet. It was all I could do not to join her. She stood, excused herself and
disappeared. Five minutes later, her
makeup repaired and composure regained, she returned. She sat and eyeballed me.
“I suppose you’ve come for the tape.”
It was less a question
than a challenge.
“Nope.” I was rewarded with a cynical lift of one
eyebrow, but I was in no mood for playing games. “If I wanted the tape, I’d already have it.”
That backed her up a
bit. While she was thinking, I went
on. “The damned thing wasn’t recorded
as evidence, so, technically, it’s still the property of Jodie Aston. Certain people don’t want it recorded
as evidence and, if they find out you have it, won’t want it known how you came
by it.”
You must have a proprietary
interest in it, though?”
I did, and I’d given
thought to it. Enough thought to come to
a decision. “Given the circumstances, I would have done exactly what Connie
did.”
Sandra nodded at
that. “Connie said you were a
man of principle...” She smiled “…as well as a good sort.”
Man of principle? Me?
There’d be a few who’d take issue with that. But I was more interested in the ‘good
sort’ thing.
“She said that?
Sandra confirmed that yes
she had, often, and that she’d been disappointed at my rejection of her playful
advances. Her affections had been
deeper than I’d thought, which didn’t say much for my detective’s powers of
observation. It left me with guilt at
the hurt I must have caused. Sandra
must have seen it, because she reached over and touched my hand.
“Don’t feel bad about it,
Mark.” Her smile was soft. “May I call you that? She understood your attitude – that you and
her becoming an item would be...inappropriate.”
Connie had understood but
she kept trying, and muggins me was too dumb – or too easily flattered, if I
was honest about it – to do the right thing.
Time to change the subject.
“How long did you know
each other?”
“Oh, years. We were at Sacred Heart together. Well, not together exactly. Connie was two years ahead of me. Very, very popular. She was my idol. I wanted to be just like her. I must’ve driven her mad, the way I used to
hang around.”
She went on to explain
how their friendship blossomed during university. It endured, even when their careers took
diverging paths. I reflected that
their friendship must have been remarkably resilient, given that journos and
coppers often snarled at each other from opposite sides of the fence. Which soon could be happening again.
“What are you going to do
with the tape?”
“I don’t know yet. I’m tempted to put it to air and let it hit
the fan…see who gets splattered, but…”
She was reflective for a couple of moments. “Would that prejudice finding out who killed
Connie? And Jodie Aston?”
My turn to shrug. “I honestly don’t know. I can’t see Evans wanting a full
investigation, which is what we need.
He’ll push for an internal inquiry - one he can manipulate.
“Airing the tape will
certainly nail the Minister and the Romanos.”
“No argument there.”
“Are you telling me to
wait?”
Her compulsion to race
the tape into the studio must have been approaching the irresistible – strike
while the iron’s hot and all that – so I reminded her that, while dynamite is
destructive, it’s not particularly selective.
I’d wait until it became clearer who to toss it at.
And if it didn’t become
clearer?
Then, I said, it would
still go off with just as big a bang.
She smiled. “Whichever way we go, I’ll still get the
Walkley.”
She said it modestly but
with no regard that I could detect for the possible consequences of handling
dynamite.
“Ms Pastor…” I began.
“Sandra,” she said.
“Sandra,” I began again,
and I tapped her knee for emphasis, “two people have had that tape in their
possession, and now they’re both dead.
You have it now and nobody is supposed to know. But I know, clever me, and other
people are trying to know.” I
tapped her knee again. “Am I
frightening you sufficiently?”
She nodded,
wide-eyed. “The tape is safe, Mark.”
“Bugger the tape. It’s you you have to keep safe.” I let that sink in, then… “And the sooner the tape becomes public, the
sooner you’ll stop being a potential victim.”
The beautiful blue eyes
narrowed. “Didn’t you just say I
shouldn’t rush?”
“I did. The proviso is – don’t muck about,
either. OK?”
She got my subtle drift,
and I fancy she paled just a tad.
“I’ll be careful.” She stood and gave me her hand. It was cool and steady. I was impressed. “Thank you, Mark. If I need to, can I call on you?”
I told her she certainly
could but on no account was she to use her house phone. “Use the mobile numbers,” I said.
A couple of closing
pleasantries later, I was in the Commodore, its beams lighting my way home as I
pondered the propriety of what I’d done.
It might have been a rationalisation, but I couldn’t see where I’d had
any other choice. Like Connie before
me, my hand had been forced. If there
was anything to worry about, it was the outcome of however Sandra Pastor played
the cards that had fallen into her lap.
If there was going to be an explosion, it would be smart of me to be out
of the line of the shrapnel. My
friends, too. Which reminded me - I
hadn’t checked for phone messages.
There was just one. From my eavesdropping mate Andy Snell. I didn’t like it.
“Cobber,” he began, “that
McDowell prick is trying to get something on you, right? He’s been in here wanting to know who you’ve
been chatting up on your mobile. Had to
tell him - the prick. Told me not to
tell you, but up him. Take care, OK?”
Shit!
The message was an hour old, which meant McDowell, the untrusting
bastard, learned about Sandra at about the time I was going through her front
door. That had given him time to do -
what? My gut froze.
I stood on the brakes and
wheeled the Commodore around. I got a
couple of angry horn blasts from startled drivers, but stuff them. I flicked the transmission into ‘power,’
floored the loud pedal and heard the Goodyears shriek as they propelled me back
the way I’d come.
I suppose I was more than
half way there before it occurred to me to ask why my urgency had such a
personal aspect. The tape? No way.
So it had to be Sandra and Angela, right? Like most coppers, I am wary of people, and
my emotional ties are mainly slipknots, but this was…different. Some people, even if you’ve just met them,
are just naturally important to you.
I tried to get Sandra on
my mobile but I got the same recorded message as before. I rang her mobile, to be rewarded
with the infuriating “the number you have called is either out of range or
turned off…” response. Ordinarily, that
wouldn’t have signified anything sinister, but working journos are not noted
for cutting their lines of communication.
I savaged the car.
I skidded to a stop
outside Sandra’s house. Her garage door
was open. There was no vehicle in
it.
Oh, shit!
I ran to the front
door. It was locked. I went to knock but my brain got into gear. I dashed to the garage, prepared to give the
door giving access to the house my full weight. I didn’t have to. It was unlocked.
As soon as my hand felt
the doorknob turn, the need for caution took equal billing with my concern for
Sandra. I reached for my .38, only to
remember that it was back in the office...I was off duty.
Shit again!
There was nothing for it
but to be brave, a trait I test as infrequently as possible. Heart pumping, I opened the door to find
myself in a laundry. To my immediate
right, another door led to a family room and kitchen. To my left, yet another door led to the
outside. The lights were on, which was
more than you could say for Heckle.
He lay on the floor, moaning, while a gash in his scalp leaked crimson over Sandra’s pricey Italian tiles.