Deadly Deeds (14 page)

The concluding paragraph of the autopsy report placed Walter’s death at the 16th or 17th of February, the date John had already indicated. Assuming an error rate of ±24 hours, this still meant Walter died two to three days before Jeremy Wilson got decapitated.

‘What are you going to do?’ John asked, a worried look crossing his face.

I gave him back the autopsy report and said, ‘Officially, I’m not even meant to be investigating this homicide. Morally, I’d probably have to tell Frank Moore. Legally, I’m bound to tell Teresa Wilson at some stage that Walter Dunn was not the man who killed her husband. But what I want to do right now is dig a little further before someone finds out what I’m up to and puts a stop to it.’

He shifted in his chair and smoothed his beard with his right hand. ‘But surely, the detective in charge of the investigation would look into the matter seriously. You can’t just withhold information because of your own curiosity.’

‘
I’m not withholding information. They’ve got access to this autopsy report as much as I do. It’s not my fault if they’re not doing their job properly.’

‘
What about pointing it out to them.’

‘
What am I? A school teacher? They told me to keep away from this case. Suddenly I’m supposed to turn up and say, “Excuse me, but I decided to nose around a bit longer, and guess what I found?’’’

‘
You’re dramatising everything.’

‘
I’m the one who’s got to deal with these people. Trust me, I’m doing the right thing. Until I find out more information, there’s no reason to raise the alarm.’

He shook his head as if I was being unreasonable. But he wasn’t the one sitting in my chair. If he knew the whole story, maybe he would have thought differently.

‘There’s more to it than that, John,’ I said, locking my eyes in his. Although I had no desire to explain my actions to John, I felt obligated to do so for personal reasons. I was sick and tired of people thinking I acted irrationally. ‘Frank is involved with Teresa Wilson. I shouldn’t be telling you this, but she’s currently staying at his place. How am I supposed to reveal what we’ve just discovered while she’s still living under his roof? For all I know, she could be the one who killed her husband.’

His brow creased. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, I’m sure she’s at his place. No, I’m not sure she killed her husband. In fact, I doubt it. But I believe she’s a contributing factor to his death.’

John stroked his beard and tilted his head. ‘I’m glad I’m not in your shoes. But if I was you, I would pass on the information ASAP either way. You really should get a second opinion. This is getting way above your head.’

I stood from my chair and said, ‘The last time I tried to get a second opinion, I was told to let it go. I think I’ll handle this one by myself.’

He stepped out from behind his desk. ‘I’ve got to hand it to you. You’ve got one hell of a nerve.’

‘I’ve got nothing to lose, John. The Deputy Commissioner of Police is determined to end my contract. The detective in charge of the investigation is not going to give me a bear hug when he finds out what I’m up to. I’ve got no choice. Sometimes you just have to go against the grain and hope you’re not going to rub someone the wrong way in the process.’

‘
It’s your call.’

‘
It’s my call, and I’m willing to take a chance.’

He nodded, but I was uncertain as to whether he really approved or was just tired of trying to make me change my mind. ‘I hope you know what you’re doing,’ he said, handing me a photocopy of the autopsy report.

I tucked the photocopy under my arm and glanced through the window of the study, and across to the backyard.

John’s kids were still playing, running and shouting, free from worries, as if tomorrow would never come. But they’ll grow up one day and have to deal with being responsible, with having to answer to some higher authority. As I stood there in silence for the next thirty seconds, I wished they would never have to.

I left John with his family and headed back home to St Kilda.

CHAPTER TWELVE

F
rom my balcony, I could hear the roaring Formula One engines of the Australian Grand Prix in Albert Park. The sound was faint from where I was sitting, but I could imagine the torture people living close to the circuit had to go through. Frankly, had I been living closer to Albert Park, I probably would have gone away for the long weekend. I did promise myself the previous week I would escape from the city during the car race. But life took a different turn, and now I was too obsessed with Walter Dunn’s alleged suicide to disappear even for a few days.

I was lying on a long chair, my Sue Grafton novel in one hand, wondering what it would be like to have a husband again. As much as I longed to have someone to call my own, I was uncertain if I’d cope with the change. It suddenly occurred to me that I’d been single for so long, I’d be incapable of living with another human being, apart from Michael. Even then, we were not really living together, just two strangers enduring each other. Surely, we would get on each other’s nerves after a while. I could hardly stand some of my habits at times, how in the world was I going to stand his?

I looked up to the sky. White clouds were hovering, but it didn’t look as if it would rain. All in all, it was a nice day, and a lucky one for the organisers of the Grand Prix.

My friend Jolly Roger was on my mind.

I’d contacted various Internet providers the previous day, but none were capable of helping with a list of people who might have tapped into the Jolly Roger website. To begin with, they felt that providing names and addresses of their customers was highly immoral and breached the basic fundamental trust between the company and its clients.

Secondly, what I was asking was impossible to track, unless the website provider had devised a tracking system which recorded the initiators of queries. In this case, the provider was Jolly Roger. Based on the type of information he provided his ‘customers’, I doubted he would be willing to participate in investigating a fraud which had probably originated from his advice.

Another idea came to mind, but I would have to consult with the telephone company first to see if it was willing to finance my little plan.

The following day was labour day in Victoria, ironically a holiday dedicated to working. I knew I would have little chance of getting any co-operation from the VFSC or the VIFM as both institutions would be operating on skeleton staff.

I stood up from my long chair and felt a weakness in my legs, probably from lack of sleep and the worries associated with the Jeremy Wilson homicide.

I entered the lounge room, crossed to the kitchen and opened the fridge.

My eye caught a pile of dishes in the sink, which I had been putting off forever. The lounge room was in the same state of chaos, and so was my bedroom and study. I knew I would have to gather my strength eventually, and get the apartment back into an acceptable living standard. I never had guests, so it would be for no one but myself. And since Michael was never home and lived on McDonald’s food, he’d never notice.

Disorganisation depressed me, and I felt it was due time to stop feeling sorry for myself. The state of my home accurately reflected my state of mind. I knew that cleaning things up around me might help me to clear things up in my life.

As I poured myself Dr Pepper in a glass tumbler filled with ice, I puzzled over my deteriorating relationship with Frank Moore. I’d never thought I’d see the day when we couldn’t even talk to each other without losing our temper. I valued Frank’s friendship more than anyone else’s because I knew that in spite of our on-going tug-of-war, we both had a deep respect for each other.

I took a sip from my glass, letting the cherry-cola-like flavour treat my taste bugs.

My biggest concern was to see Frank fall on his face, and me not doing anything about it. But in a way, Frank was right. He was old enough to make his own decisions. Who was I to tell him how to live his life.

I took another sip from my drink as I crossed the kitchen and headed back to the balcony.

My life was a total mess right now. My relationship with Frank was going downhill, my son Michael felt like I spent too much time on the outside world and not enough with him, and my career with the VFSC was tarnished. But somehow I thought I could put some order in other people’s lives. I smiled at the irony. At least I still had a sense of humour.

As I lay back in my long chair with the cold drink in one hand, my mind was working out a plan of action. Now that I knew for a fact Walter Dunn never committed suicide and probably never killed Jeremy Wilson, the possibilities of who did what were limitless.

Although I had suspected Teresa to have killed her husband in the last few days, I didn’t truly believe she did. I found it hard to imagine a woman could be capable of committing such atrocity.

In a way, my belief seemed naive, especially when I had spent so many years working in criminal investigation, and, after my fourteen-month stint at the FBI Academy in Quantico, USA, I learned women were just as capable of carrying out acts of cruelty as men. In fact, some of my fellow students at the Academy believed women were capable of committing more horrid crimes than men. To date, I’d never seen evidence to support this belief. Even though I had studied hundreds of cases involving women killers, the cruelty they’d inflicted on their victims did not compare with the evil men were capable of.

I had little doubt the death of Jeremy Wilson had been inflicted by a man. How his wife fitted into all this, I was unsure. But Teresa lied to us and, therefore, had to be involved.

Maybe it was because this unusually violent homicide had taken place in Australia, and Australia wasn’t America, that I refused to accept Teresa Wilson as a murderer. The wort crimes always seemed to be happening on the other side of the Atlantic.

By 4.30 p.m., white clouds had turned to grey. A gentle breeze was blowing from the ocean and entering the apartment. I was in my study and had just finished printing out a monthly invoice for my services to the VFSC. I also updated my file for the telephone company, adding to a progress report what I had done so far. I had only put in a few hours work, but at $150 an hour, the balance had already exceeded $500. I made a note in my diary to send them a progress payment invoice once I’d reached $1000 worth of billable hours, just to make sure I kept up with my loan repayment for the apartment.

Half an hour later, I was getting bored, so I decided to drive down to the National Theatre to see if Louis was there. I could have started washing the dishes, but my mind wasn’t up to it.
Will it ever be?
I wondered as I slid into my car, turned on the engine and cracked the gears.

I parked at the Alliance Française car park, a well-hidden parking haven for those who knew its location and were members of the French association. The yearly membership to join the Alliance was worth its price in gold, just to be able to use its parking facilities, especially in St Kilda, where parking officers seemed more hungry and cunning than anywhere else in Melbourne.

Louis was glad to see me and had wondered if I would ever call on him again. He didn’t say, but I knew he was excited to be helping in an investigation.

Most people whom I approached for help felt as if they were taking part in a cop show, no thanks to the imagination of over-zealous scriptwriters. Frankly, I didn’t know what the big deal was. They were fools to think pursuing criminals was a neck-breaking, hormone-pumping adventure. My life was no Die Hard film. Like everyone else, the only time I saw Bruce Willis was at the cinema or on a poster at Planet Hollywood. Most of my time was spent worrying to death about my next move, or wondering how I was going to overcome the bureaucratic anarchy of the VFSC and the Deputy Commissioner of Police.

I wanted to have a chat about Jeremy Wilson’s affair with his client’s secretary, but Louis seemed uncomfortable engaging in a long discussion while at work.

‘
Doing anything this evening?’ I asked, shifting from one foot to the other, feeling slightly embarrassed catching him off-guard.

‘
Love to.’

He seemed glad to oblige, so I relaxed.

We decided to meet at Sadies, a bar club in Coverlid Place, between Bourke and Little Bourke Street, just off Chinatown.

Parking in the City was hell because of the Grand Prix and Moomba, Melbourne’s own celebration of itself, taking place at the same time. I ended up parking in a Grollo construction site, just behind the Malina McCallum Institute.

I walked all the way up Bourke Street, not far from Hungry Jack’s. I hated the area around Parliament House at night time because of the dim lighting, and the nearly-deserted streets. The only people in the area were bums, and Melbourne was increasingly getting its share of them, like all the great cities of the world. The people blamed the State Government, who in turn blamed the Federal Government, who in turn blamed the unemployed, who in turn blamed industries, who in turn blamed the unions, who in turn blamed the State Government, who in turn blamed the people. The great circle of a civilised society.

At 8.00 p.m. exactly, I paced down Coverlid Place, a narrow, spooky lane, which I would have never walked alone had I not had a rendezvous. I believed in minimising my chances of getting knocked off. Being a woman walking a dark street at night was definitely a good way to end up as the main feature story on the evening news. Maybe it was because I had seen too much human cruelty that I felt anyone out there could be a loony on the loose.

The high heels of my brown, leather shoes clicked on the pavement as I glanced constantly over my shoulder to see if I was being hunted. At times like these, I wished I was allowed to carry a concealed handgun. I’d told myself for weeks my license to carry a weapon would be approved any day, but all I kept getting was the run-around. My application form was still in the system, I was told, whatever the hell that meant.  Unbelievable. I was a homicide investigator, and yet it took months to get my gun license approved. What were these people doing up on St Kilda Road, famous boulevard of the Police headquarters? Pissing me off on purpose? I had no doubt this was some little doing by Frank Goosh and his entourage.

The night was mild, but not enough to wear a shirt only, so I took a beige summer jacket with me. This was one of the few times I was wearing a dress, a white cotton/wool blend, cut just above the knees. I felt extremely vulnerable and a bit foolish to have invited Louis down this end of the city.

Stars hung above my head like decorations from a Christmas tree. I filled my lungs with the smells of exhaust fumes and multicultural cooking

Sadies was fifty metres away, to my right. The front door leading to the foyer was almost concealed. For a spilt second, I wondered if I was in the right street. But as I got closer, the illuminated sign with the name of the club confirmed this was Coverlid Place.

I was greeted by a funky gentleman dressed in a long black leather jacket and wearing a golden earing and a pony tail. He asked me if I’d been here before. I smiled, told him yes and walked straight past him.

I climbed a flight of narrow wooden stairs to the first floor, where I was suppose to meet Louis.

The club had different rooms, each self-contained with their own bar, making it an ideal place for private functions.

I pushed a door and walked into one of the rooms.

The main room had an usual Japanese-like architecture, with paper lights and chairless sitting arrangements, set on a split level below the floor line. A smaller room with a bar and stools was attached to the main room. I’d been there six months ago for a friend’s twenty-fifth birthday bash, who was completing a PhD in engineering at RMIT University

In spite of it being Saturday night, the club was virtually empty, making it pleasant for a
tête-à-tête
conversation.

Louis wasn’t here yet, so I climbed on a wooden stool, and made small talk with the Greek barman while sipping a bourbon and Coke.

The lights were low, bathing the room in a warm, friendly atmosphere. A jazzy tune, which could have tamed a hyperactive elephant, hypnotised me into a relaxing frame of mind.

No one was smoking, but I smelled cigarettes, probably from earlier on.

I was half through my bourbon and Coke, deeply engaged in a debate over Michael Schumaker’s right to express his less-than-complementary opinion of the Melbourne Grand Prix track, and in doing so attracting much negative publicity throughout the previous week in the
Herald-Sun
and most television stations, when Louis walked in the room, wearing a red Hawaiian shirt and green cord jeans, and showing off his belly button.

He smiled as he paced towards me. That’s when I noticed he was even more handsome in low lights than during the daytime.

Two men in seventies fashion, standing in one corner of the main room, stared at him as he walked in a dandy-like way. I could feel the lustful stares zooming through the air like the jazzy tune.

Louis looked so cut and neat and up with everything, I almost wished I was a homosexual male. I had a fetish for men who seemed sensitive and in touch with their inner feelings. The macho type put me off, although I never turned a blind eye to a well-toned body. The best looking men were always gay, probably because they bothered looking after themselves. Blackheads and greasy hair didn’t turn on many women. Men’s idea of looking good was to step in and out of a shower with a cake of soap. Never mind that us women spent a great deal of time in the bathroom, working hard on looking our best. In a give-and-take situation, most men still had a lot to learn about giving.