A Certain Malice (18 page)

“I didn’t forget,” Cliff spoke through gritted teeth, not taking his eyes off Angelo.

“I see, this was just a test, eh? Putting the apprentice through his paces. Good thinking,” Cam said.

Cliff switched his glare to Cam for a moment, then back to Angelo. Cam could see the big man struggling to save face.“Where are the fucking mains then, smart arse?” Cliff bawled.

“I don’t know, Cliff. You know the school better than I do,” Angelo said.

“Try the front porch,” Cam tilted his head to the formal entrance, flashing Cliff a smile straight from the Toby Bell School Of Charm.

Cliff scowled and headed toward the school building.

The smile immediately left Cam’s face. “Shit,” he said out of the side of his mouth. “Is he always like this?”

Angelo gave a cautious smile.“No, not always. He’s been losing it a bit lately, but. Pressures of work, you know?”

“What was that about you getting into trouble before?”

Angelo watched Cliff stomp up the school’s front steps and shrugged.

“Did he get angry at you at Sunday’s bushfire too?”

“Yeah. Off his chops at me.”

“Why?”

Cliff yelled at Angelo to turn on the pump. Cam followed Angelo back to the fire unit and Angelo flicked the switch, lurching the pump to life. When he aimed the spray at the ruins they were enveloped in foul-smelling steam.

Cam gagged down another coughing fit.

Angelo shouted above the noise. “That fire in the bush wasn’t too fierce.” The water from the hose hissed like a nest of snakes as it hit the hot metal.“And it only covered a small area, so we thought we could handle it. Cliff said not to use the hose on one part, he said it would be more efficient to make a firebreak and let the flames burn out on their own. We ’d also save water that way. The fire truck only carries six hundred litres. We cleared a good size break, then Cliff went down the line to check something. The wind came up and the flames grew higher, so I grabbed the hose and put them out. He went off his rocker at me.”

“And he hit you then?”

Angelo said nothing; his expression said it all.

“It sounds like you did the right thing. You used your initiative.” Cam lowered his voice when the hulking figure of Cliff reappeared. There was no doubt in his mind that he was looking at a man quite capable of murder. “Tomorrow at lunchtime come to the station. We’ll drive out to the school grounds and you can show me where that patch of flames was.”

The young man made no sign of acknowledgment. Cliff yanked the hose from his hands and continued the spraying. Cam wondered if he’d show up.

His mind switched from the Bell murder back to the bombed photo lab. It was easy enough to guess what had happened: a Molotov cocktail through the window, then the exploding chemicals. But why? Who?

Firemen were often the arson squad’s worst nightmare. A crime involving fire was hard enough to investigate. A diligent fireman put the icing on the cake, destroying what little evidence there was left with water, foam, heavy boots and damaging equipment. By the time the Volunteer Bush Fire Brigade had finished, there’d be little evidence left here to tell him anything. Cam let out a breath and scrubbed at his face.

Then his mobile rang. It was Leanne.

22

Pete and Leanne were waiting for him on the front steps of Vince’s house. The young man stood up as Cam walked towards him, and flicked a cigarette butt into the bushes by the side of the house. He realised his mistake when he saw the set of the Senior Sergeant’s jaw and the cold hard gleam of his eyes.

Cam pointed to the bush. “Pick it up.”

Pete retrieved the butt and stuffed it in his pocket. “Sorry, Sarge, I wasn’t thinking. It’s shocking in there.”

The neighbour’s reticulation fizzed to life; there was a cool draught and the air became heavy with minerals.

Cam heard a sniff and saw Leanne standing on the steps. Under the porch light he could see the glistening redness of her eyes.

“You all right, Leanne?”

She nodded and turned away, pulling something grey and crumbling from her pocket and dabbing at her nose with it.

Vince’s old Falcon was parked alongside the curb. Cam attempted to look through the grimy passenger window.

“The bonnet was cold when we got here,” Pete said.

“Torch,” Cam said, putting out his hand.

Pete unclipped the torch from his belt and Cam shone it around the vehicle’s interior. It was unlocked, the keys still dangling from the ignition. An Elvis Presley marionette hung from the rear vision mirror, empty choc milk cartons and hamburger wraps littered the floor.

Pete’s hand moved to the handle.

“Don’t touch it yet. I want it dusted first,” Cam said.

“Er, yes of course.” Pete glanced over to Leanne. Their eyes met, she shrugged, then buried her nose in the crumbling tissue again.

Cam handed her his clean handkerchief, pushed past Pete and walked into the house. He came to an abrupt halt outside the main bedroom. Not expecting the sudden stop, Pete lurched into him from behind. The younger man sprang back, pushing the hair from his eyes with a nervous flick of his hand.

“Calm down, Pete, you’re as jumpy as a louse on dipping day.”

Cam turned on the light and scanned the bedroom. It all looked pretty much the same as when he’d dragged Vince home from the pub. The mattress was still on the floor almost hidden under a tangle of sheets. A Hawaiian shirt had been added to the pile of festering clothes. But there was something different, and it took a few moments of chin rubbing to see what it was.

The cupboard door was hanging at a tilt.

“Did you touch anything in here?” Cam said, pointing to the room in general.

“We searched the whole house before we found the body, so yes, I suppose we did touch some things. We had no idea, we–”

“The cupboard door. That damage is new. What do you think?” He jabbed his hand at the broken. “Signs of a violent struggle perhaps?”

Pete hesitated before answering, “No, I did it when I was looking for him.”

Cam’s stare could have frozen water. “You thought he was hiding in the cupboard?”

“We were fooling around. Before we knew there was anything wrong.” Pete’s voice was so soft Cam could hardly hear him.

“We?” Cam looked over to Leanne. He had never known her so quiet.

Pete straightened up and looked Cam in the eye. “It was me, Sarge. Leanne didn’t do anything.”

“First the smoke and then this. The next blue’s going in your report – have you got that, Constable?”

Pete clenched his jaw.

Cam’s footsteps pounded from the bedroom to the lounge and stopped outside the closed door leading to the garage. He glanced at the young officers behind him, breathing deeply, preparing himself for the first blast of the odour he could already detect creeping through the cracks in the door.

They’d left on the faulty fluorescent light, which flickered and clicked like the spooling film of a silent movie. A woman’s bicycle, maybe Vince’s ex-wife’s, leaned against the back wall. Several old suitcases were stacked next to it, the kind you could imagine Bogart and Bacall clutching at a desolate railway station. The cement floor was stained with patches of oil, the walls lined with stacks of plastic flower pots, piles of brittle women’s magazines, a wheelbarrow, crates of empties, an old tyre. The detritus of a life.

Parallel steel beams supported the pitched garage roof. A rope tied between the fishing rods and prawn nets dangled as limp as the Elvis in Vince’s car.

A forty-four gallon drum lay on its side underneath the rope, and near it the body, covered by a stained white tarp. Cam squatted and drew back the tarp. He shivered and his stomach lurched as he looked upon the distorted purple face of his Senior Constable.

He turned his face away and forced himself to breathe through his mouth, beckoning to Pete and Leanne. They approached reluctantly.

“Have you ever come across a hanging before?”

Leanne shook her head and looked at Pete. His gaze was locked on the roller door at the end of the garage.

“I have, only one. It wasn’t like this though. It’s different when you know the person,” he said in a small voice, his anger at Cam now as distant as his stare.

“Did you cut him down?”

Pete stammered, “I thought he was still alive. He was still warm.”

“That’s OK,” Cam said. “Though you shouldn’t have covered him with the tarp.” He kept the accusing tone away from his voice; the kids had been through enough for one night. Pete’s shoulders sagged with relief.“Did you try CPR?” Cam added.

“No. As soon as we got him down we realised it was too late,” Leanne said.

Cam pulled the tarp completely off the body. Vince had put on his dress uniform; the silver buttons and polished shoes twinkled like party lights under the flickering fluorescent. Cam turned his face away, click; then back, click. He had to close his eyes for a moment.

“Go into the lounge room, grab the standard lamp and plug it in here,” he said to Leanne, pointing to a power point in the garage wall. “I can’t see a damned thing. And Pete, open up the roller door and let some fresh air in.”

The job was more tolerable with the new light and the fresher air. Cam’s eyes travelled from the tip of Vince’s highly polished shoes, up the sharp creases of his trousers to the top of his head. He loosened the noose. Though padded with a towel, the inverted V-shaped bruise on the side of the neck was clearly visible. He shone the torch on the neck and pointed out the telltale sign to the young constables. His latex-covered fingers moved across the uniform jacket and came to rest on a piece of paper protruding from the top pocket. He removed the paper and read the note out loud. It was Vince’s writing; he’d recognise those chicken scratches anywhere.

“
I’m sorry.
” Cam paused and looked at the shaken youngsters. “
Vince.
” He let his breath out with a sigh. “That’s all.” He shrugged and flipped the paper just to make sure.

He turned to Pete and rubbed his grainy eyes. “You two go on home. I’ll deal with SOCO and the pathologist,” he said.

“We don’t mind staying, Sarge. You’re done in, what with the fire and everything,” Leanne said.

He gave her a glance to indicate that he appreciated her concern. “No, I’ll stay here. Off you go. And on your way home, call in on Ruby and tell her I won’t be home till morning. She’s probably still up watching the late movie.”

Pete nodded. “No probs, Sarge.”

As they turned to leave, Cam called out, “And make sure she’s locked the house up properly.”

23

From the front porch Cam could hear the softened voices of the SOCO officers as they placed Vince’s bagged clothes in the back of their vehicle.

One of them commented that it was the third police suicide in three months, how the Police Royal Commission was causing a big drop in morale. The other man’s answer was low and muffled. Cam wondered if either man knew Vince; suicides were always grim but even worse when they involved a fellow officer. He sat down and leaned his head against the brick wall, allowing the cool mist from the neighbour’s sprinkler to waft against his skin.

After a few moments he stood up and rejoined the SOCO team. He pointed out Vince’s car, and they dusted it for prints inside and out with no luck; visually, all the prints looked the same. They would be run through the database, but Cam could predict that their owner would be Vince
.

The SOCO boys moved into the house and Cam held back, still looking at the car. The position of the driver’s seat was bothering him. He opened up the driver’s side door and sat in the seat, placing his hands upon the wheel, his eyes away from the dangling Elvis. He had to stretch his feet right out to reach the pedals, only then feeling them through the toe of his boots. Vince and he were about the same height. There was no way that he would have been comfortable with the seat this far back, even if it was only a matter of reversing the car out of the garage and parking it on the street.

Cam was pondering this as he walked back to the garage. He found Freddie McManus, the forensic pathologist, holding a thermometer under a standard lamp, squinting in the poor light, caterpillar eyebrows furrowed with concentration. McManus had not cracked a black joke since his arrival.

“Can you give me a time of death yet, Doc?” Cam asked.

“I’m still working on it.”

Cam nodded and wiped the back of his arm across his forehead. “It’s a hot night.”

“Quite,” the pathologist replied. “He’s a big boy, would take a while to cool down.”

“My officers found him at about nine. He was still warm then,” Cam said.

McManus wiped the thermometer and put it back in his bag, then squatted at the body again. Pushing Vince on to his side, he pulled up his jacket and shirt. Cam shone his torch on the area, noticing the purplish skin where the blood had collected.

The pathologist pressed his gloved finger into a patch on Vince’s back. The skin blanched and returned to the purple colour when the pressure was released. McManus allowed the body to roll back on to its original position and moved to Vince’s head. He cupped the jaw in one hand and gently manipulated the joint from side to side.

“Lividity’s not fixed yet, rigour’s only just starting,” he said. He placed the head back on to the concrete floor. “Your man’s been dead somewhere between three and five hours, Sergeant.”

Cam looked at his watch and scrabbled through his own set of mental calculations. So Vince had died at seven at the earliest, nine at the latest. If Vince hanged himself at seven, there was no way he could have bombed the photo lab.

Cam had arrived at the school at eight, just as the bomb was thrown. If Vince had thrown the bomb then, he may just have had time to rush home, change and hang himself minutes before the arrival of Pete and Leanne. The body was still warm when they found him at nine. Then again, Cam realised, on a night like this, it probably would still have been warm if he had hung himself at seven.

Death before eight and Vince was innocent, after eight and he might still be guilty.