An Easeful Death (8 page)

De Vakey acknowledged Stevie with a heavy wave and approached the car with the bottle still on the end of his pen. He was pale and seemed sapped of energy. Despite the cold, a light sheen of sweat glimmered on his forehead.

‘What day’s rubbish collection here?’ he asked as she buzzed the car window down.

‘Tuesday.’

‘Street sweeping?’

‘Tuesday evening.’

‘Did SOCO search the scene?’

‘Of course.’

De Vakey nodded to the bottle. ‘This was in the wall alcove, tucked to the side. It could easily have been missed by SOCO, and the garbos.’

‘You’re a detective too?’

Undeterred, he continued to hold the bottle out to her.

It was her turn to play devil’s advocate. ‘Then again it could have been missed by the garbos for weeks in a row, or it could have been left there yesterday.’

‘True, but the light coating of dust and the absence of any insect life suggest it’s only been here a few days. Humour me?’ he said, raising an eyebrow.

She shrugged. ‘I guess there’s no harm examining it for prints.’

‘My feelings exactly.’

Stevie extracted an evidence bag from the glovebox and De Vakey dropped the bottle into it. She twisted around to place it in the back while he got into the passenger seat. He stretched the seatbelt across him then leaned forward and rested his head in his hands.

‘Are you okay, would you like some water?’ she asked him.

He sighed. ‘I’m fine, drive on.’

This sudden show of vulnerability surprised her and she paused before putting the key in the ignition.
Bugger me
, she thought.
Perhaps he is human, after all.

***

Again Stevie was left in the car to observe as De Vakey walked the pristine courtyard fronting the bank where Linda’s body had been discovered. The stone tables and benches with their trendy conical umbrellas made this a lunchtime magnet for office staff in summertime, but now it was almost deserted. An old woman pushed a shopping trolley past De Vakey, head bent against the wind, her limbs struggling as if walking through mud. Behind the woman a silent curtain of water shimmered down from a ledge in the decorative wall without even making a splash. A group of straw-haired surfer youths entered the bank through the revolving doors, laughing. Monday’s horror was already forgotten.

Stevie watched as De Vakey craned his neck to look up the length of the tall building. Then he took the crime scene photos from the file he’d been clasping. They flapped in his hand as the wind threatened to tear them away. She resisted her instinct to rush out and help; again he’d made it quite clear that she wasn’t wanted.

He squatted and rested the photos on his knee, tapping at the top one with a finger. After identifying the bench on which the body had been posed, he straightened and walked towards it, stopped and stared at it for a moment, his lips moving in silent monologue as he stood where the killer had stood.

She shivered, not only from the cold that cut at her through the open window. As he made his way back from the bank and into the street where she was parked, he surveyed the parking bays and clearways.

‘What now?’ Stevie asked, noticing his returning pallor.

He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hands as if he trying to erase unpleasant images. ‘Now, we go and get some lunch,’ he said.

She waited for more. When he remained silent, she shrugged and turned the key in the ignition.

***

They sat in a faux English pub, at a table close to a roaring wood fire. He’d slid off his coat and hung it on the back of his chair. He was dressed less formally than yesterday, but his grey cord trousers and fine-knit turtleneck still spoke of understated elegance. Stevie regretted removing her bomber jacket, even though she was wearing her favourite blouse. She liked the casual look, but this was so casual it could qualify as comatose. Izzy had a habit of sitting on her knee and picking away at the bright appliqué designs and one was now peeling like old wallpaper.

She saw De Vakey looking at it and folded her arms, diverting his attention with a barrage of questions about the case, all of which he skilfully circumnavigated. It soon became evident that he would impart his information when, and only when, he was ready.

‘You’ve got a pretty small team working on such a high-profile case,’ he said. It seemed as if he was keener to discuss the team sent to catch the killer than the killer himself.

‘The people whose notes you read are just the primaries. We have access to other detectives and uniforms when the need arises.’

‘An elite team, no one under the rank of detective sergeant.’

She nodded, not sure where he was going with this.

‘I notice that you are often partnered with Angus Wong. What’s he like?’

‘Angus is a great guy and an excellent investigator. He told me once that his mother always wanted him to be a concert pianist—he’s very good, I’ve heard him play. She didn’t speak to him for years when he joined the force.’ She smiled; she liked Angus. There seemed no end to his patience, to his kindness, to his ability to accept people for what they were without prejudice. He never seemed to feel the need to prove himself to those who sought to find fault with him.

‘He’s a musician,’ De Vakey said. ‘That might explain his intuition. His character profile of the victim has been most helpful. The other two, Wayne Pickering and Barry Snow, also strike me as being very thorough. Pickering is obviously the dominant member of the partnership, not that Snow is a toady, he can clearly think for himself. I thought they were a bit heavy handed with their interview of the photographer, though.’

Funny, that came as no surprise. ‘You watched the video tape?’

‘Correct.’

‘What do you think? Could the photographer have done it? His wife backed him up, but in my experience you can never trust spouses.’

James De Vakey shook his head. ‘Too timid; we’re dealing with someone who is supremely confident, someone who is intelligent, who enjoys playing games and someone who, above, all needs to be in control.’

She felt herself flush, as if something in her subconscious had been pricked. She picked up her glass of water and took several gulps, seeing De Vakey’s wavy image through the water.

‘Is something bothering you, Stevie?’ he asked softly.

She put down her glass and bit at her bottom lip. Knowing her lies would be as transparent as the water she’d been looking through, she settled for the truth; some of it.

‘I find this case disturbing. I’ve never handled a murder like this before.’ There, she’d said it, and it had been surprisingly easy.

He looked back at her with an understanding that provoked in her a sudden urge to pour it all out. She clamped her jaw to stop herself.

‘Can that be because you see yourself as the victim?’ he asked.

Shit shit shit,
she’d gone too far. This meeting was supposed to be about the case, not her. She scanned the table looking for a distraction, but the waiter hadn’t even left a menu for her to peruse. She cleared her throat, wishing she could erase that moment of honesty. ‘I’m sure any woman would. Hell, I’ve seen male detectives double up at the sight of assault victims with their balls kicked into their throats.’

He winced, but not without humour. Touché.

‘You were talking about the photographer,’ she reminded him.

Serious again, he hesitated before he answered, his intense grey eyes fixed on her face as if still dwelling upon what she’d said earlier. He’d let it drop this time, but she knew he’d stored it away for future use.

He said, ‘The fact that the photographer has to rely on his wife to pick him up from work is enough to eliminate him as a suspect, not to mention his nervous disposition.’

Stevie forced herself to think back to the small, grey photographer and his nervous twitch. ‘That makes sense.’ And then, ‘Did you watch the interviews with the bank security guards? What do you think of them?’

De Vakey thought for a moment. ‘I take it the surveillance footage has been analysed?’

‘The AV guys say that the cameras in the bank’s front lobby didn’t show anything unusual. Cameras are positioned at all the exits. If the guards had left the bank that night it would have been on tape. The camera on the outside is a different story. It doesn’t cover the bench where the body was found, but someone approaching it would have been caught on screen. It appears to have been covered up with something. There’s about five minutes of blank footage, where they think a cloth was thrown over the camera. Then there’s another glitch a couple of hours later. We think that must be when he came back to remove the props from her stiffened body.’

‘Have you considered polygraphing the guards?’

‘Should we still be regarding them as suspects?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Explain, please.’

‘Before you leave, I’ll give you a rough list of what I have so far, but I want to point out that nothing is canon, my profiling is still only at its most preliminary stage. I’d like you to discuss my list with Monty and maybe it will give you something to get started with.’ He paused and turned towards the fire, looking pensive.

Stevie braced herself, hoping this wasn’t leading back to her again. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘I’m not usually called in this early in an investigation. My specialty is serial killers. The police tend to call me in after a series of similar crimes.’ He looked back at her. ‘Is there something about this case I haven’t been told?’

She felt flustered, more for Monty than herself this time. ‘Well, it’s really not my place...’

‘Monty feels that this killer has struck before, doesn’t he? At the press conference I heard mention of the Kings Park murders. I followed them closely at the time, was surprised not to be called in. I’d like to know what’s going on.’

Stevie let out a breath. ‘Politics, I’m afraid.’

‘I see,’ he nodded thoughtfully. ‘I’ll arrange a meeting with Monty tomorrow. It’s important I’m told everything.’

She agreed, glad to pass the buck. ‘It’s something you really need to hear from him.’ She climbed to her feet. ‘What’ll you have to drink?’

‘Very convenient, I was just getting on to you and Monty.’ The tease that had been absent for most of the morning was back in his voice.

‘You have to get your drinks from the bar here. I’m getting an orange juice. What can I get for you?’

De Vakey smiled. ‘I’ll have champagne, but allow me.’ He moved for his wallet. Stevie stopped him with a raised hand. ‘I like to buy my share of the drinks, thanks all the same.’

She returned to find the lunch they’d ordered had arrived. De Vakey said he didn’t wish to discuss the case when he was eating, it interfered with his digestion.

Shit, they were going to be here all day.

She watched him prepare his meal for eating. First he put the napkin on his knee, then helped himself to salt and pepper after offering it to her first. Then he turned his plate until the meal was balanced to its aesthetic, symmetrical best. Each bite was slowly savoured and alternated with sips of iced champagne.

She shovelled down a mouthful of local snapper and salad, risking a glance at her watch as she chewed.

‘I’m sorry, am I keeping you?’ he said.

‘Oh no, I still have plenty of time. I promised my daughter I’d be home early today, that’s all.’

‘And what time does her father get home?’ he said, carving off a piece of bleu steak.

Now she was trapped. The rare meat quivered on his fork as if its synapses were still firing. Deciding that the truth would give him less to work with than a hedge, she said, ‘Actually, her father and I split up not long after I discovered I was pregnant.’

‘I’m sorry. It must be hard for you.’

She shrugged off the unwanted sympathy. ‘My mother lives down the road. She’s a big help and has a lot of time on her hands since my dad died.’

‘And, of course, you have Monty.’

The warmth spread from her neck and heated up her words. ‘If you’re trying to imply that Monty and I are anything other than old friends, you obviously aren’t as good at reading people as you like to think.’

De Vakey raised his hands in surrender, but the butterflies in her stomach told her it was she who’d lost the battle.

It is of vital importance that the investigating officers have some form of emotional release. Those without supportive families must have a life outside their work through which they can relax. An officer with no outside interests is well on the way to burn out.

De Vakey,
The Pursuit of Evil

Stevie and De Vakey headed back to his hotel in the unmarked Commodore. They were passing through the Polly Pipe when he said, ‘Continue on the freeway past the old power station, it’ll probably be quickest.’

She shot him an irritated glance. The orange tunnel lights flicked across his face, striping it with light and shadow. ‘Know Perth well, do you?’

‘I grew up here. Still come over whenever I can for private consults. I’d live here if I had the choice, but unfortunately most of my work’s in the eastern states.’

Stevie masked her surprise; it was hard to imagine such a smooth, urbane man as this being at home anywhere but in a large cosmopolitan city. ‘Would you rather drive?’

‘No.’ And then, ‘Sorry, I’ve been back-seat driving haven’t I?’

She pulled a face. ‘I wouldn’t have let you drive even if you’d said yes.’

‘Ah, but you would have liked me to say yes. It would have given you the opportunity to put me in my place.’

‘Got it in one,’ she said, smiling at last. ‘So, what kind of private work do you do when you’re over here?’

He turned away from her to look through the side window. ‘Seminars mainly.’

Out of the tunnel, they saw the river, its surface under the gloomy sky grey as wrinkled as elephant’s skin. The dilapidated power station loomed amidst a tangle of wires. ‘I see they still haven’t made up their minds about what to do with that old place,’ he said.