Cossins Neil

Williams Lloyd

The Stalk Club

The Stalk Club

By Neil Cossins and Lloyd Williams

Text copyright © 2012 Lloyd Williams and Neil Cossins

All rights reserved

Chapter 1

10 June 1997

The mist gathered on the quiet Clyde River, curling and twisting in gentle eddies on the breeze.  It moved up the bank at a low point and billowed across the land, an invasion of fog that would remain until conquered by the sun later in the day.  A battered old Bedford tow truck gently backed down the slope toward the river’s edge, its burbling V8 engine the only man-made sound interrupting the dawn cacophony of lonely frog and bird calls.

The tow truck driver was old and tired but had dragged himself away from his warm bed and come down to the river nonetheless.  He had always found it hard to say no to a job.  With engine still running he tugged a lever at the rear of the truck, reversing its winch and playing out the twenty millimetre diameter cable that was tipped by two large battered steel hooks.  When he gauged that he had enough length coiled around his still thick arm he passed it over to a diver in full wetsuit with a single tank strapped to his back.

The diver, a local tourist instructor who occasionally moonlighted as a recovery diver for the police, positioned his face mask and took the coil beneath the steamy water, its weight dragging him down.  His ripples quickly faded, his bubbles the only telltale sign of his sub-surface movements to those who watched from the bank.  A couple of minutes later he returned to the surface and gave a wave to the tow truck driver who stood plain-faced by his truck with arms crossed.  He threw the lever forward and the winch whined into life and started to take up the slack.  When the cable stiffened, the tow truck, despite weighing nearly four tonnes, lurched backwards from the strain and would have been dragged into the river but for the large wooden wedges that had been placed under the twin rear wheels and spiked into the ground with steel pegs to hold them fast.  The tow truck driver had done this sort of work before.

Very slowly the winch and the truck started to win the battle of inertia and began to wind in its heavy weight.  A car eventually broke the surface of the smooth water and mist and sent a small bow wave towards the bank before it.  As it came up onto the bank, water poured from the door sills and an open rear window.  Two occupants with white skin, bulging eyes and contorted faces could be seen still occupying the front seats.

A young girl wrapped in a blanket watched on silently, her face an impassive mask.  Her forehead had been bandaged, but a small spot of blood seeped through undeterred.  The ambulance paramedics tried to shield her from the sight with their bodies but she pushed them aside with hidden strength, her gaze fixed on the car.

Holiday makers from the nearby campground came out of their tents and Winnebagos to see what had awakened them at such an ungodly hour and stayed to watch, morbidly transfixed by the gruesome scene playing out before them.  It would be something newsworthy to share with their relatives and friends upon returning to their mundane lives.

Constable Fred Carey had been the first to arrive at the scene at the beckoning of the campground manager.  Initially Carey hadn’t believed that there was a car in the river because apart from the quiet word of a traumatised young girl there were no obvious signs of an accident having taken place.  It wasn’t until he noticed the set of tyre marks leaving the road and heading towards the river that he began to piece together what had happened.

Batemans Bay Police Station senior officer, Senior Sergeant John Soward arrived at the scene at about six-thirty a.m., looking and feeling every bit of his fifty-seven years.  Constable Carey quickly briefed him.  He explained that he had been working on an alcohol breath testing operation five kilometres down the highway for most of the night when he’d received the call for assistance at approximately two-thirty a.m..

“Did you get many on the breathalyser last night?” asked Soward.  He was a large country copper with a proud silver mane of hair swept back from his forehead and a lined brown face which contrasted with his keen blue eyes.

“Yeah we got a few.  Big night for a Thursday.”

“Not surprising, seeing it’s a long weekend.  Plenty of people knocking off early and hitting the sauce.  Let’s have a look at the car then.”

Soward made a quick inspection of the inside of the car and its two occupants.  He noted the deep cuts and abrasions on the heads that seemed consistent with a car accident.  Their faces had been leached white by the cold water and the river creatures had already begun their recycling assault on the bodies.  Some continued unabashedly with their feast despite their new found audience.

As he chatted with Constable Carey about the accident, Senior Sergeant Soward noticed the rear passenger side window was wound down and glanced at the slender teenage girl still receiving treatment in the back of the ambulance.

“Why is she still here?” asked Soward.

“Paramedics only got here about thirty minutes ago.  They’ve had a busy night apparently.”

Soward made his way towards the girl in the ambulance, silently cursing the ogling campers who stood transfixed, men with arms crossed, women with their hands over their mouths as they whispered to each other.  They weren’t locals and they didn’t have the sense to mind their own business.  He waited beside the paramedics with his notebook in hand until they gave him a nod and stepped back.  They knew him well enough to know he was a family man with his own kids.  It would be a gentle inquisition.  Soward looked down at the girl.  He seemed to dwarf her.  He correctly guessed she was about fifteen years old, but small and petite for her age.  Her face, which was probably attractive under normal circumstances, was marked by shock and sadness and involuntary shivers racked her body beneath her bandages and a silver thermal blanket.

“Hi honey.  My name is John.  What’s your name?”

“Kylie.  Kylie Faulkner.” she said in a barely audible croaky whisper.

“Kylie, I know you’ve been through a lot but I just want to ask you a few questions if it’s alright.”  She looked toward him and tried to focus on his face but the image refused to sharpen.  She blinked repeatedly until she could see him more clearly.

“Kylie, can you tell me what happened?”

She opened her mouth but it took a few seconds before the words arrived.

“We...we were coming down to the coast for a break, school holidays.  It was late.  Dad wanted to avoid the Friday traffic before the long weekend.”  She stopped and Soward waited a little before prompting her.

“What happened?”

She tried to focus but the memories wouldn’t come.  She grimaced as if trying to force out the pictures in her mind but they only came in pieces, shattered glimpses.

“We were driving.  Then there were lights, really bright lights.  We couldn’t see.  They were right in front of us.  We thought we were going to crash.  Dad had to swerve to miss them and…”

Kylie grimaced as if in pain.  “That’s all I remember.”  Tears flooded her eyes and she buried her head in her hands and quietly cried, her body shaking.  Soward put an arm around her as if she was his own daughter.

“You’re doin’ real good honey.  You’re being real brave.  Can you remember anything about the other car?”

“All I could see were lights,” she replied in between sobs.  “Lots of lights.  It was big, maybe it was a dark colour.  I don’t know.”

“Did you see the driver?”

She continued crying and shook her head.  Soward decided to give up for the time being.  She’d had enough, more than enough.  He hoped she would remember more when he visited her later at the hospital.

Her description of events made sense to Soward.  Constable Carey had pointed out the two sets of tyre marks to him upon his arrival.  He walked up to the road for another look, noticing the arrival of another squad car.  The skid marks from girl’s car started in the left hand lane, travelling east toward the coast, and then veered onto the gravel shoulder of the road.  Soward surmised that once the tyres hit the shoulder the car would have lost traction, speared off the road and become briefly airborne before crashing through bushes and reeds and into the cold, dark river.  The bushes and reeds had disguised the accident almost completely to the casual observer as they had flexibly bounced back into place with little damage after the car passed through them.

Carey explained to Soward that the girl had somehow managed to escape from her parents’ tomb, swim to shore and crawl up the riverbank.  He had found a pool of blood where she had apparently rested or blacked out for a while after which she then managed to drag herself another two hundred metres to the campground to raise the alarm.

The diver, who was a personal friend of Constable Carey’s, had said the car came to rest on the bottom of the river, almost fifteen metres out from the bank in water that was over five metres deep.  Soward shook his head in amazement that the girl had managed to escape at all.

Soward noted the other set of tracks on the road which were headed inland, in the opposite direction to the girl’s car.  The skid marks straddled the double centre line and then veered left, coming to rest in soft mud on the side of the road.  When Soward first arrived at the scene, Carey had been taking measurements of their length and width.  He told Soward they measured around fifty-seventy metres in length which indicated that the mystery car had probably been travelling at a speed in excess of one hundred kilometres per hour, depending on the type of car and what condition its brakes were in.  Either way, it was a lot of speed to be taking into a fairly tight corner which was speed rated at seventy kilometres per hour by a road sign a short way up the road.

Soward listened in silence and then turned to watch as the ambulance, with lights flashing but siren quiet, slowly headed into Batemans Bay to take the girl to hospital.  In a career which had already spanned nearly thirty-three years, he had attended hundreds of traffic accidents and although the circumstances differed a little each time, the results were inevitably the same.  In a few careless seconds a girl named Kylie Faulkner had her life turned upside down.

Chapter 2

Present day

Sarah Rayner looked at her watch as she skipped along the sidewalk as fast as her heels would carry her.  “Shit.  I’m late. Eight-fifteen already!  If Ivan catches me coming in late again he’s going to kill me.  I’d be able to walk faster if I hadn’t worn these damn shoes.”

Sarah looked down at her feet that were wedged neatly into her four inch heel, red Manolos. They’d cost her three hundred dollars, on sale, about half a nights work at the club, depending on the generosity of the patrons, but she considered them a bargain and all her friends told her they looked fabulous on her.  They were right of course.

As she made her way down Goulburn Street she stopped momentarily in front of Cypress Lane and peered into its interior.  Despite being poorly lit and with an unpleasant smell wafting out of it, she reasoned that it might shave a couple of minutes off her journey and at that moment that was a bargain she was prepared to strike.

She turned in.  It was dark, with the only illumination provided by the occasional shafts of light from the windows of the buildings that backed onto either side of the narrow one way road.  Even during the day it was a dim and cool place as the sun struggled to penetrate.  By the time she was twenty metres within its grasp, the sounds of the city were reduced to a distant hum.

Cinching her coat about her waist to ward off the rapidly cooling evening she forged ahead and looked toward the small square of light in the distance.  The lane appeared to be deserted and she quietly wished for a crowd to accompany her.  She had always been a people person.  The only sound was her shoes and she listened to them for company.  Before long however, in between the tapping sounds her heels made, she heard a small noise behind her.  She’d just come from a bar where she had downed three daiquiris with friends and her mind was feeling their effect, but the noise behind her focused her attention and sobered her up instantaneously.  She listened intently without stopping or looking behind her and again the noise came to her.  It sounded like a shoe scraping against the pieces of gravel on the bitumen.

She looked behind her and despite the dim lighting thought she saw a shape move behind a large dumpster forty metres back down the lane.  She stared intently at it and listened for sounds but heard and saw nothing.  The movement she had seen, or thought she had seen, had only been for the briefest of moments and she began to wonder if she’d imagined it, but at the back of her mind a cold and certain fear began to grow.

She assessed her options in a matter of seconds while her heart beat heavily in her chest.  She considered walking back down the road to confront whatever lay hiding behind the dumpster.  Normally she liked to confront her fears, but here, alone in the deserted laneway, her feet remained rooted to the spot.

She continued walking down the lane, more briskly now, counting down the metres until she would escape into the light.  She could see people there, and traffic whizzing by.  She would be safe when she was amongst them and yet, she kept hearing the sounds behind her.  They became less furtive as her follower kept pace.

She shouted over her shoulder, “Look, I know you’re back there, so stop fucking around ok?”  She had hoped to sound bold and fearless, but her voice betrayed her and sounded like a nervous schoolgirl.

As she got to within fifty metres of the end of the lane her confidence started to return, however she heard more noises behind her, closer now.  The sound scraped over her nerves like fingers down a blackboard.  She couldn’t bring herself to turn around again and her hand went inside her bag and gripped the can of capsicum spray within.

“No, please God no,” she whispered frantically.

Within metres of safety, her eyes firmly fixed on the end of the street, she stepped in a small pot-hole.  The left heel of her beloved Manolos snapped off with a crack and she fell heavily to the ground.  She tried to get up quickly, but pain lanced through her ankle and she crumpled to the ground again.  She looked around frantically for her bag.  It had been flung from her grasp as she had desperately tried to cushion her fall with her palms, which were now bleeding and jarred from taking the brunt of her impact with the grimy road.

She looked back down the laneway and almost gasped as a figure appeared from the dark, moving quickly towards her.  By some trick of the dim light, its shadow billowed up enormously behind it giving the appearance of some super-sized spectre.

Sarah scrambled the couple of metres that separated her from her bag, tearing holes in her stockings and scuffing her knees in the process.  A full panic consumed her and her hands tore at her bag as she reached it, frantically searching its cluttered contents for the can of spray which eluded her grasp for a mad moment.  After what seemed an eternity but in reality was only seconds, she grabbed the can and ripped the lid off it.  She turned to face her assailant and was just in time to see a figure loom large over her.

“It’s a girl?”

Chapter 3

At eight p.m. on a Friday night Nero’s Lounge and Bar was vibrant, buzzing, bordering on noisy.  Its modern cosmopolitan décor, location on Market Street in the city centre and remotely reasonable drink prices ensured its popularity as a Sydney night spot.  Its clientele was mostly comprised of well paid Generation X and Y office workers who paid by card as they drank the pressures of their working week away.  The main feature of Nero’s was a long marble clad bar running half the length of one of the side walls.  There was row upon row of wine and spirit bottles stacked against the rear wall of the bar and fifteen premium local and imported beers on tap for good measure.  The rest of the precious inner city floor space was filled with bar stools, lounges, coffee tables and a small stage in the rear corner for live gigs.

In the front left corner of the bar a group of five sat around a table.  Through trial and error they had worked out that this was the quietest and most private spot in the place.  Four of the group had just spent the last two hours stalking a stranger.

They meet at Nero’s every Friday evening to play their game.  They choose their stalking victims, or marks, as they refer to them, at random from the people who walk past the bar in the early evening.  They look for someone interesting, someone who stands out from the crowd, someone who looks like they have a secret.  They stalk their victims for two hours and the winner of the evenings hunt is the one who finds out the most information about the person they have followed.  Their keenly contested prize is merely free drinks for the remainder of the night courtesy of the losing stalkers.

Grant McKinlay was thirty, solid and short, however his mundane appearance, coupled with his sharp mind made him a natural at stalking.  Tonight had been his turn to choose the people in the street that the group would stalk, while he stayed behind and waited for their return.  He had filled in his time by becoming lubricated with several beers and trying a few well rehearsed pickup lines on some of the ladies in the bar who passed him by and then passed him up.

“You first Nat.  Let’s see what you’ve got.”

The group of five looked to Natalie Bassett.  She was small and petite, with wavey brown hair - for today at least - small upturned nose and easy on the eye.  She was dressed in a dark blue tailored suit that hugged the curves of her body like a dirty uncle.  As he did every time he saw her, Grant mentally shook his head, wondering how on earth his brother, Bryce, who sat attentively beside her, had managed to snag such a girl.  Not that his brother didn’t have his good points, but at one hundred and seventy-two centimetres tall, a body shaped like a pudgy beer can, receding hairline and a relatively low paying job, he had never been mistaken for Matt Damon.

Natalie sat on her hands, grimacing.  “Well it’s a bit embarrassing really.  I lost my guy after only a few minutes and then spent the next two hours trying to find him again.”

“You’re kidding?  How?” responded Bryce.

“I followed him for a few blocks towards Darling Harbour, but then he ducked into an office block and jumped into an elevator.  There was security in the foyer and I couldn’t get past them.  So, to cut a short story even shorter, I got zip tonight.”

“You must be losing your touch princess,” laughed Craig, pleased that he had one person less to compete with for the opportunity to again abuse his liver free of charge.  Craig Thoms was six feet tall and possessed a wide and strong set of shoulders that tapered down to slim legs.  His blue eyes were set in an open and expressive face which was normally decorated by a smirk of some kind.  His hair was straight brown and overdue for a cut.

“Kiss my arse Craig“, replied Natalie

Craig was about to add ‘whatever turns you on honey’ but Grant got in first and saved him from his usual mistake of going one step too far.

“Alright kids, that’s enough.  How’d you go little bro?”

“Not much better than Nats I’m afraid.  You didn’t do me any favours tonight.”

“Really?  Your guy looked like a serial killer to me.  So what happened?”

“Ok, my guy got on a bus so I jumped on too, but made the mistake of sitting next to a small but incredibly pungent old woman.  I didn’t ask, but I got the strong impression that she wasn’t overly keen on regular showering,” he said with a straight face.

Craig let out a raucous laugh.  It was one of the reasons he liked Bryce.  Bryce was a self-admitted pain in the arse sometimes, but in small doses he was one of the funniest guys Craig had ever known.

“Finally, after a thirty minute ride out into the burbs, he got off the bus and went into his house.  By this stage I was very excited, not.  I could see him through his window and although he might have looked like a serial killer, all he did tonight was switch on the TV, grab a beer, put his feet up and scratch his crotch.  He wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry so I decided to cut my losses and try and find a bus back here.  I didn’t even find out what his name was.”

“That’s too bad Bryce.  How about I go next,” said Craig magnanimously.  “That way you guys can concede defeat and not bore me with more of your pathetic efforts.”

“Here we go,” sighed Natalie, rolling her eyes theatrically.

Craig plugged his handicam into the USB port of Bryce’s laptop, which was sitting on the table in front of them.  Grant turned it to the wall and the group crowded in behind it so no-one else could see what was on the screen, not that anyone nearby seemed to notice or care.  There were several other groups in the bar crowded around their tablets, checking out their Facebook accounts.  Craig focused his attention on the viewfinder of his handicam as he commenced playback of his footage on the laptop.  The image of a man walking down the street came on the screen.

“Meet Mr. Jeffrey Quinn.” narrated Craig.  “He’s a little strange looking, which is no doubt why you chose him Grant.”

Grant nodded.  The man in the footage was paper thin, wearing olive coloured outdated pants which fitted him snuggly and a bright orange shirt which screamed in silent outrage at his lime green tie.  The footage showed him walking, with briefcase in hand, thirty metres ahead of the camera.

A new image of a small apartment complex surrounded by a large security fence came up on the screen.

“Mr. Quinn lives in a swanky apartment complex in Darlinghurst, apartment seven.”

Craig again fast-forwarded the footage.  When he stopped he was indoors, in an entryway of a brightly lit and expensively outfitted apartment.”

“You didn’t!” cried Natalie aghast.

“I did,” said Craig, grinning in return.  “I followed him to his door and waited outside.  I thought I could hear the shower running so I tested the doorknob.  It was unlocked so I invited myself in.  I think he was probably expecting someone.”

The others were silent, with mouths agape and eyes glued to the footage.

“Craig, why do you do this stuff?” asked Bryce.  “It’s against the rules, you know, that rule about not breaking any laws?”

“Hey, we’re all law-breakers here, stalking is against the law.”  Craig looked back to the laptop screen, fascinated by his own footage.  “Here is his wallet with all his credit cards and licence.  Geoffrey Quinn, aged fifty-two, organ donor.  And here you can see where I go into his bedroom,” he added excitedly as he relived the moment.  The sound of running water could be heard as Craig entered the bedroom.  He had pointed the video camera through the open door of the ensuite bathroom where the blurry apparition of someone showering could be seen through the fogged glass.  “I could have gone through his sock drawer if I’d wanted to.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t,” said Natalie with a mild look of distaste on her face, although she too was riveted to the screen.

“You took some crazy risks here.  I mean, what if you’d got caught?” asked Grant.

“No-one can catch me.  I’m too fast and too smart.  Anyway, it was all worth it if you guys have to buy me drinks for the rest of the night,” he replied, rubbing his hands together in anticipation.”

“Not so fast buddy,” countered Grant.  “We haven’t heard from Jen yet.”

The group turned to Jen who smiled.  Jennifer Nolan had clear blue eyes, small straight nose and curvaceous lips that turned down appealingly at their corners.  She was the newest and normally the quietest member of the group and had only joined a couple of months previously as a friend and room-mate of Natalie’s.

“Ok.  Well my stalk was bad, but for different reasons than Natalie’s.  For the first hour I sat and watched the woman Grant chose down several Daiquiris with her friends.”  Jen went on to tell the group how she had followed the woman to a quiet laneway where she had been spotted and had to dive behind a dumpster to hide.  “I was so scared, I wasn’t sure if I should give up and just get the hell out of there, but I decided to keep going.”

“So what happened then,” asked Natalie becoming increasingly intrigued.

“Well I followed her up the laneway at a discrete distance, but then I think she got a little freaked out.  She started running in her high heels, but then tripped over and fell flat on her face.  I didn’t know what the hell to do, but I felt so sorry for her that I went up to her to try and help her up.”

“You didn’t?” asked an incredulous Craig with mouth agape.

“Yeah I did.  I tried to help her get to her feet but she started screaming and then tried to spray me with mace or something.  Some people from the street ahead heard her and came towards us, so I took off back down the laneway and barely stopped running until I got back here.  My heart still hasn’t recovered!”

By this stage Craig was laughing so hard that he had to wipe away tears from his eyes.  “That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in ages.  You are the shittest stalker ever,” he said between gasps for air.

Chapter 4

Manuel Torres was late, which was unusual for him because for the past seven years he had lived his life like clockwork.  What made his being late even worse was that he was meeting with someone who he would always make time for, whatever the circumstance.  It was someone who he owed his life to, someone who for no apparent reason other than friendship, had reached out and saved him when his need was greatest.

He walked past Nero’s Lounge bar on Market Street and briefly noted the reflection in the window.  He saw a man of medium height, lean and well muscled.  His head was shaven and despite being mid-winter the skin was brown, courtesy of his father’s Brazilian heritage, or at least that was what his mother had told him.  His father hadn’t stayed around long enough for him to personally verify this.  Manuel wore jeans and a black jumper which was a little tight around his broad chest.  By most standards he cut quite a handsome figure and as a result, received admiring glances from some of the young women he passed on the street, which he either missed or ignored.  If any of the interested women had a chance to get to know him they might not have liked what they found.  What had once been a tough yet easy going youth had turned into an uncompromising and hard piece of stone courtesy of the seven years he had spent at the Goulburn Correctional Centre mixing with the cream of New South Wales worst prisoners.  They had taught him some tough lessons but ultimately he had survived.

Manuel had knocked off at five from the panel beater shop where he’d been working since his release eight weeks previously.  Turning down the usual after work offer to share a couple of cartons of beer with the other guys in the shop, he had travelled home to his dingy Redfern apartment, swapped his dirty overalls for his current attire and taken the train into the city.  He checked the time on his mobile phone and quickened his pace.

Five minutes later Manuel arrived at Pellegrinos Italian restaurant, where he had been eating free of charge every Friday night since his release, courtesy of his friend Bruno Trulli who managed the restaurant.  They had first met almost nine years ago when at the age of sixteen Manuel had started working there.  Initially Manuel had planned to stay just long enough to earn enough cash to buy a battered Subaru WRX that his friend was selling, but he soon began to enjoy the energetic machinations of working in a busy and successful inner-city restaurant.  He worked hard, and progressed from dishwasher to kitchen hand, in the process, discovering a natural flair and ability for food preparation.  Through his efforts he earned the respect and friendship of Bruno who encouraged him and arranged for him to commence a chef apprenticeship.

Unfortunately things didn’t quite work out as planned.  Manuel had been involved in street gangs since he was ten.  Although he played his part well enough in their territorial disputes, petty crimes and other delinquent acts, it wasn’t by choice or desire that he was involved.  It was just a way of surviving adolescence in the deep western suburbs neighbourhood where he lived.  If you weren’t in a gang you were an easy target for those who were.

On a hot and muggy January night seven years ago he had gone out cruising and drinking beers with his friends.  They tried to gatecrash a Facebook advertised party in Blacktown, hoping to meet some new girls and score some food and booze, but were turned away.  Things got a little heated, a few punches were thrown and they were chased backed to their car by a group of twenty youths.  Manuel was fuming as he’d caught a lucky punch from some big private schoolboy hero and his nose was broken and bleeding.  As they drove away, Manuel impulsively grabbed his friend’s handgun from under the seat.  He had planned to fire into the air to scare them, but his rage got the better of him.  When he saw the guy who had smacked him, jeering with his friends at their car, he pointed the gun in his direction and pulled the trigger.  His shot went wide and killed a fifteen year old girl.  Manuel had just turned eighteen years of age, was convicted of manslaughter and sent to Goulburn Jail.

In prison he soon realised he was just a child, alone among men.  He was harassed and assaulted from day one, by members of the various cliques that existed there and anyone else who was in the mood for fun, or whose tastes ran to brown smooth-skinned teenage boys.

Before long Bruno Trulli came to visit him.  He was Manuel’s first visitor.  His mother, who was the only family he knew of, abandoned him after his arrest, saying that it was the straw that broke her back.  He didn’t blame her as it was the straw that almost broke his back too.  In the stark and bland visitors centre Manuel broke down in front of the old man.  He cried for the first time since he could remember and told Bruno he didn’t think he could survive for much longer.  It was then that the old man saved him.  Bruno somehow arranged for the right people inside the prison to keep an eye out for him.  It didn’t quite amount to protection and it didn’t mean that Manuel’s incarceration was the equivalent of a holiday in the Maldives, but it was enough to give him the breathing space he needed to find his feet in the prison system.  It was enough to help him survive.  Manuel asked how Bruno achieved this, but the old man just smiled and said that he had a lot of friends.  Manuel knew that he owed the old man his life, absolutely and completely.

Despite the watchful eye of Bruno’s connections and Manuel spending as much of his time as he could away from the general populace working or studying, his time in prison was pockmarked with its fair share of skirmishes.  He learned to fight and knew he could and would kill someone if he had to.  He learned to have no regrets, to act violently first and to survive.  Through endless repetitions of heavy weights he built up his slim young body and on the day he left prison he tipped the scales at just on ninety kilograms of hard, lean, muscle, seventeen kilograms heavier than when he went in.

Upon his release Bruno helped him find accommodation and work at the body shop.  Since then, Manuel had come to Pellegrinos every Friday night to eat and talk about old times and new plans with Bruno.  It was during these chats that Manuel discovered Bruno had some troubles of his own and Manuel had willingly offered to help in an attempt to repay his debt to him.

Manuel entered the restaurant which was located in the base of a large office block on Castlereagh Street.  Its double glazed façade afforded diners a clear view of the street beyond without the accompanying noise and fumes.  Upon entering he saw Bruno standing at his counter, checking the bookings for the night, just as he did six nights of the week and had done so for fifteen years before Manuel had ever set foot there.

“Good Evening Manuel.  You look well,” said the old man in greeting, warmly shaking his hand.  Manuel again noted how much Bruno had aged since he had first met him.  His hair was now completely white and there were deep, permanent lines around his eyes, mouth and forehead.  He had lost weight as he aged and now only budged the scales to sixty kilograms and the black dinner suit he wore hung a little loose in places.

“And you old friend,” replied Manuel quietly.

”Freedom seems to be agreeing with you.  Please, take a seat,” Bruno said, guiding his guest to a table in a quiet corner at the rear of the restaurant.

The restaurant had undergone a facelift since Manuel had worked there and some serious money had been spent.  An oval shaped island bar now occupied the centre of the restaurant and the kitchen had been completely refurbished and was now open plan, allowing the clientele to watch the kitchen staff dance around the flaming grills as their meals were prepared.

New customers entered the restaurant and Bruno left to greet them.  Manuel dined on a huge serve of Linguini con Pollo and two pints of beer before leaving and making his way to the Northern entrance of Hyde Park.  It was their usual routine.

After a ten minute wait Bruno approached and they walked a short distance together before taking a seat on a park bench beneath the night shade of the large fig trees.  At that hour, the park remained a busy thoroughfare for those with money, and a meeting place for those without, but their bench was far enough removed from all so they could talk in peace.

“You look well my friend.  That girl of yours, Kylie?  She must be satisfying your needs,” said Bruno with a wry smile.

“Yes she does, in every way,” replied Manuel, a rare smile briefly alighting on his lips.

“You must tell her nothing of this,” added Bruno in a more serious tone.

“I know,” replied Manuel, deciding to quickly change the subject.  “How are preparations coming along?”

“We are close now.”

Chapter 5

It was almost eight o’clock Wednesday evening and Craig Thoms was nearing the end of his shift.  He was tired from being run off his feet for the last ten hours, but he forced himself to concentrate on the task at hand because he couldn’t afford to make a mistake.  He lazily strolled down the quiet hospital corridor pushing a wheeled bucket with a mop, scanning the hallway ahead while also listening for footsteps behind him.  He casually turned around to double check that he was still alone and then ducked into the medical supply room on his left.

Working quickly, he pulled a key from his pocket, moved to the mesh walled drugs locker located in the corner of the room and unlocked it.  It was the size of a large walk-in pantry and its shelves were neatly stocked and organised with antibiotics, painkillers and other medications that were kept in the ward.  He cast a quick glance over his shoulder through the steel mesh that now encircled him and pressed forward with his task.

He quickly located and sized up the stocks of the drugs he was after on the shelves, knowing that he needed to strike a balance between taking as much as he could without taking too much and alerting the other staff members, particularly the hard-arsed Sister Patricia who ran the ward like a detention camp and possessed a sharp eye for detail.

“Though shalt not be greedy,” he reminded himself quietly.

He packed five small boxes into his underpants, dropped several ampoules into the murky water in his bucket and then quickly rearranged the remaining stock on the shelves in an effort to disguise what he had taken.  He re-locked the doors with a gentle and quiet snick and tested it just to be extra safe, thus ensuring he didn’t make the mistake he’d once previously made by leaving the door ajar.  Taking a deep breath, he put on his holier than thou face – which was a stretch of character for him - and ever so casually strolled back out into the hall, pushing his bucket ahead of him.

“Craig!”  Hearing his name called from behind him sent a knife of despair straight through his spine.

Somehow he managed to resist the urge to run screaming down the hallway like someone who belonged in the psych ward, and slowly turned around as if nothing was wrong.  He was momentarily confused and yet also relieved to see Natalie Bassett standing behind him.  She was dressed in tight jeans and a black silk blouse that held Craig’s gaze for a moment too long before his eyes reached her face.

“Well hi princess, if I’d known you were coming to pay me a visit I would have got dressed up for the occasion,” he said, sweeping a hand across his dirty blue scrubs, hoping that the tone of his voice wasn’t as high and nervous as it sounded in his own ears.

“How are you Craig?” she asked unsmiling, sounding a little nervous herself.

“Fine, never better. I’ve just spent the last half hour cleaning up the shit of some eighty-seven year old bag, who is too old and weak to make it to the toilet on her own, but apart from that I’m great.”

Natalie regarded his scrubs with new found distaste and took an involuntary half step backwards.

“Good to hear, and too much information as usual.”

“Yep.  I tell you, I’ve never seen so much crap in my life.  I think she must have been saving it up for the last four years.  And of course it had to happen just before the end of my shift.  I hope someone knocks me on the head with a shovel if I get that bad.  But enough about me and my problems,” he said, realising that he was talking way too much, which he attributed to his nerve-wracking illicit cargo.  “What are you doing here?”

“Bryce is in the emergency ward.”

“What?  What for?”

“They think it’s a nasty bout of food poisoning.  I just thought I’d come and let you know.  Maybe you could pay him a visit or something to cheer him up.”

“Yeah, sure.  Anything for Bryce.  I’m about to finish my shift so I’ll just get cleaned up and come on down in five.”

“Ok, thanks.  He’d appreciate that I think.”

Craig turned and headed off down the corridor.  Bryce was one of his genuine friends, someone who for whatever reason liked him, warts and all and Craig was the first to admit that he had plenty of warts.  Bryce wasn’t someone who wanted Craig to be someone else, someone nicer, more diplomatic and less confronting.  They’d met four years previously when they worked together at Carmichael’s Security – still Bryce’s current employer - and had remained close friends ever since.

Craig made his way to the cleaner’s storeroom and was relieved to find it empty.  His heart was still beating fast, as if he had just taken three flights of stairs at a gallop.  He removed the boxes from his underpants and carefully dried and transferred the ampoules from his bucket to his backpack which he had stashed earlier behind a small mountain of toilet paper.  He stored the mop and bucket and threw his gloves in the medical waste bin.  He cracked the door to check that the hallway was clear and made a calm dash to the staff locker room which was two doors further down the hall and fortuitously empty apart from someone taking a shower.  He changed out of his work clothes and headed down to the Emergency ward on the ground floor.

The emergency ward was, as usual, jammed with sick and injured people who suffered patiently, and some not so patiently, waiting their turn to see a doctor based on their triage prioritisation.  Craig searched his way through the rabbit warren-like corridors, glancing into each treatment bay and room as he went past them.  He eventually located Bryce, who was sitting on a bed, sipping at a cup of ice and watching the emergency ward proceedings with dull and tired eyes.

“Hey mate.  You look like shit,” smiled Craig.

“Really?  Seems strange when I feel so awesome,” replied Bryce, smiling weakly.

“You haven’t been cooking up your chili-con-carne again have you?  I’ve told you before to go easy on the chillis.  You make it potent enough to kill a dead donkey.”

Bryce managed a small laugh even though it felt like his insides were turning outside.

”No, no chili con carne this time.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“They’re still not sure.  We’ve only seen the triage nurse.  We’re still waiting to see a goddam doctor.”

Natalie joined them, carrying sandwiches and coffee that she’d bought from the cafeteria.  She smiled sympathetically at Bryce, flashing dozens of straight, white teeth and stroked his cheek tenderly.

“Hey baby.  Feeling any better?”

“A little,” Bryce croaked, soaking up the attention.

Craig decided that he had had enough of the lovey-dovey display being performed in front of him and gently hefted his backpack to avoid any tell-tale clinking sounds from within.

“Ok.  I’ll leave you two love birds alone now.  I’ve got something I need to do.  I hope you feel better big fella.  I’ll give you a call tomorrow and see how you’re going.”

Craig Thoms headed out through the automatic double doors of the Emergency ward.  He felt tired, tired from work and tired of work.  He wanted to head home to bed and sleep for a week, or at least eight hours, but first he had a delivery to make.

Chapter 6

Nero’s bar was filling up fast with an early evening crowd meeting for drinks after work, keen to make the most of their Queen’s Birthday long weekend.

Natalie and Bryce, hand in hand, squeezed past a small cluster of people obliviously blocking the door and saw Jen, Craig and Grant at their regular table near the front window.  Bryce had known the owner of the bar since high school and had supplied him the hardware for the security system at the bar for cost price plus five percent.  As a payback, the owner reserved their table by the window every Friday evening.

Craig sat spread-eagled across one of the lounges with his feet up on the table and had Jen and Grant in fits of laughter as he recounted the highlights of his week.  He smiled at Bryce and Natalie as they sat down at the table.

“Hi kids, thought you might not be turning up tonight.  How’s your menstrual pain Bryce?  All fixed up now?”

“I’m getting there,” said Bryce smiling weakly, his face still pale and a little thinner from eating nothing but dry toast and water for the previous two days.  “And Nats has been taking good care of me.”

“Yeah she must be, I’ve barely seen her in the last two days.” added Jen.

“Maybe you should have stayed home tonight seeing as you’ll just end up buying my drinks all night anyway,” said Craig.  “Could’ve saved yourself a whole lot of money because I’ll need ten or fifteen beers after the week I’ve had, let me tell you.”

“Well we’ll see about that,” retorted Grant manfully.  “I’m loaded up a new camera which my little bro sold me at cost price.”

“Well bully for you,” Craig smirked.  “But fancy equipment is no substitute for skill, intelligence and a bit of heart.”

“Ok boys.  That’s enough of the pissing contests.” Natalie interceded gently, but firmly.  “It’s my turn to choose the marks tonight, so what I say goes.  No arguments.”

“You’ll get no argument from me Nats,” said Grant with a cheesy grin.  “As long as you give me an easy one that is.  Maybe give me some fat guy so I won’t have to walk too far or too fast because I’ve been on my feet all day.”

“Ok, I’ll see what I can do.  You can go first since you volunteered.”

They all turned their gaze to the crowd walking past on the footpath outside the bar.  Natalie closely scanned their faces and attire, looking for someone interesting or someone who looked like they had a secret.  A young woman walked past the bar and instantly caught Natalie’s eye.  She stood out from the crowd who were mostly office workers dressed in dark colours and large coats as she was wearing a tie died cotton dress, a big green duffel coat and red cowboy boots.  She carried a large hessian-like bag on her shoulder and strode out with purposeful steps.  Natalie smiled.  “There you go Grant.  She looks like an interesting person.  Go and see what you can find out about her.  Maybe you’ll fall in love or something,” she said, giving him a playful smack on his rump as he got up to leave.

“Why can’t I follow her?” complained Craig.  “She looks right up my alley.  And I’d like to look right up her alley.”

“Charming as always Craig,” Natalie responded, still smiling.  “Wait your turn.”

In quick succession Natalie sent Jen and Bryce on their two hour time limited stalks.  Jen was sent after a teenage boy carrying a skateboard, wearing an Ipod and scruffy jeans.  He seemed like just another kid but Natalie’s sharp eye had been drawn to a small package he was carrying in his waistband and appeared to be trying to conceal.  Much to Bryce’s chagrin and Natalie’s amusement he was sent out to follow a gay male couple holding hands and chatting animatedly to each other as they walked past.  The older male was dripping with expensive looking jewelry which made Natalie think they might be worth following.

Craig patiently waited his turn while he finished off his third beer for the evening.  Normally he tried to wait hold off on his drinking until after the game was completed in case he won and received free drinks courtesy of the other members of the group, but tonight he hadn’t been able to hold out.

“Well it’s just me and you now princess.  How about we skip my stalk and just stay here and get to know each other a little better?  I’m feeling a bit tired tonight, I worked five shifts this week and two of them were doubles.”

“Oh no you don’t.  Just wait a moment longer and I’ll find someone for you.”  She continued to scan the crowd passing by the bar and checked her watch.  “It’s still early, plenty of time for you to head out.  There!” she exclaimed, indicating a man walking down the street.  “The one with the baseball cap who is about to cross the road.  He’s all yours.  Off you go!”

Craig drained the remainder of his beer in quick time, got up and quickly headed out in pursuit of his mark without further complaint.

“Good luck,” she called after him.

“Can’t get a look at his face because of that stupid baseball cap he’s wearing.  Who the hell wears a cap at night time?  He’s moving with purpose, in a straight line, looks like he’s definitely going somewhere.  He never looks back or to the side, preoccupied maybe?  Doesn’t suspect anyone is following him.  I’m too good for that.”

Craig followed at a safe distance, wondering where his mark would take him.  He tried to blend with the crowd, just another regular guy with a couple of beers in him looking for some entertainment on a Friday night.

“Nothing special.”

The mark headed west along Market Street as he took a call on his mobile, before turning left into George Street and heading south.  After five minutes he turned into the Town Hall train station.  Craig inwardly groaned, foreseeing an hour long ride to the western suburbs, but followed him anyway, trying to stay within reasonably proximity of him through the morass of people heading home for the long weekend.

As Craig took the escalator down to the platforms he saw a train on the Bankstown line quickly filling up.  He realised what was about to happen almost too late as his mark made a late dash for the train that was about to leave.  In near panic, Craig pushed his way forcefully through those below him on the escalator and ran madly for the train.  He squeezed through the door just as it closed, one carriage behind his mark.

After regaining his breath and composure he moved forward toward the carriage that he saw his mark enter.  Through the doors that separated the carriages he could see the familiar baseball cap sitting in a seat in the other carriage, just a few metres away, facing forward.  Craig exhaled in relief, grabbed the overhead hand rail and got as comfortable as he could while he waited.  He checked his watch and decided that he would follow his mark for a maximum of forty minutes before giving up and returning to the city.

Within twenty minutes Craig was relieved to see his mark alight at the St Peters station.  Craig disembarked at the latest possible moment and casually followed.  He watched the mark as he crossed King Street and headed into the park that was once a brickworks, a tip, and now presented itself as Sydney’s third largest park, Sydney Park.  The mark moved quickly and purposefully along the pathways, moving in an easterly direction.  The main trails were reasonably well lit and Craig passed a few energetic souls exercising their dogs and a pair of oblivious young lovers holding hands, gazing up at the stars.  Off the paths, the light gave way to increasing dimness until the darkness became absolute in the copses of trees that were dotted around the park and also fringed it.   Craig followed one hundred metres behind his mark, walking well off the path so that he would be near invisible to a casual backward glance.  He passed close to a group of trees and jumped out of his skin when he almost collided with an old homeless guy wearing a battered trench coat who appeared seemingly out of nowhere.

“Watch where ya goin will ya,” roared the homeless guy.

Craig ignored him and felt certain that his mark must have heard the noise but he showed no sign of it and continued to walk briskly through the park toward its eastern edge without so much as a look back.  He then veered off the main path and across the grass toward the trees.

“Now where the fuck are you going you shit crazy bastard?”

Several rows of gum trees marked the eastern boundary of the park.  The mark slowed down and Craig placed his body behind a trunk to observe, certain the inky blackness of the shadow concealed his position.  A worn track threaded itself through the trees.  Recent rains had muddied it and the mark carefully picked his way through, alongside the path, displaying admirable athleticism as he leapt from rock to tree root to patch of grass.

“Pansy doesn’t want to get his shoes dirty.  What are kids coming to these days?”

Craig cautiously followed, wanting to ensure the mark had actually passed through the fringe of trees and wasn’t just waiting for him on the other side.  When he reached the place in the trees where the mark had passed through, he could faintly see him about thirty-five metres ahead in the shadows, moving slowly into what appeared to be an industrial area.  He followed along the worn path, ignoring the mud that his hiking boots made short work of.

Despite the coolness of the evening Craig noted that he was now sweating and a damp patch was beginning to form at the base of his spine.  He felt his heart pounding and his nerve ends tingled with anticipatory excitement.  Instead of trying to calm himself he savoured the feeling and took in deep breaths of the cool night air that touched him deep inside his lungs.  He was enjoying the hunt, perhaps more so than any other stalk he had undertaken even though he still knew nothing about his mark.  Initially he and Bryce had started surveilling and stalking people to field test the equipment they were selling at their employer Carmichael’s Security.  They would plant GPS trackers on cars and follow them, testing the range of the signal.  They put listening devices in locations where they could overhear people’s conversations, in cafes, phone booths and under park benches.  Over time however, the surveillance took a back seat to the heady rush of adrenalin they experienced when they stalked someone, seeing how close they could get to them and how much they could learn about them without them knowing.  It was exciting and exhilarating to tiptoe along the line that separates right from wrong and occasionally cross it.  It made Craig feel alive for just a moment when the rest of his life often seemed dead and without meaning.

Craig remained in the shadows in the trees as he observed the vague outline of his mark ahead who had stopped at the rear corner of a small warehouse.  There was a loading dock at the rear of the building and parking for cars, but due to the lateness of the hour it appeared devoid of workers and activity.  To Craig’s fascination the mark got down on his hands and knees and slowly crawled along the ground to the other rear corner of the warehouse, further away from where Craig was observing him.

“What the hell are you up to now?”

He wondered if his mark was about to try and break into the warehouse and gave a momentary thought to giving up the chase, but quickly cast it aside like the impure thought of a Mormon.  This was what the stalk was all about.  This was living.  The mark ducked around the corner of the warehouse, out of Craig’s sight.  Craig moved quickly to the rear of the warehouse and thought about his next move.  He feared his mark could be waiting for him just around the next corner, but he was confident of his own abilities in a fight or flight situation.

“In for a penny, in for a pound.”

Craig silently walked around the corner of the building.

Chapter 7

The streets were full of eyes and Craig felt all of them were looking in his direction.  He tried to calm his thoughts and movements but it was to no avail, he was way beyond that.  When he saw people heading in his direction he avoided them by going back the way he’d came or turning off into a side street before they reached him.

He found a darkened alley that offered solitude and sat on his haunches and tried to calm himself.  In time, his breathing grew less ragged although his mind still raced with unwanted thoughts.  He decided to head back to Nero’s because he wanted to sit and drink in a familiar and safe place and think calmly about what had just happened.  Instead of going back to the St Peters station he made his way circuitously back up the line toward Erskineville.  On several occasions he double backed the way he had come to ensure he wasn’t being followed and although he didn’t see anyone following it brought little relief to his conscience.

He arrived back at Nero’s just on nine-twenty p.m..  Natalie should have been at their table, waiting for the group to return, but she wasn’t and instead a group of leather jacketed, pimple faced Generation Y-ers were sitting there talking about their latest i-phone app.  Craig glared at them briefly.  Standing on tiptoes he scanned the crowd searching for Natalie but didn’t spot her.  It was still happy hour so he decided to save time and energy, muscled his way to the bar and ordered three scotch and cokes to help calm his nerves.  He found one of the few spare tables toward the rear of the bar and sat down.

Natalie appeared behind him a few minutes later.  “Boo,” she said in his ear, playfully poking him in the ribs and sitting down beside him.  Craig had been lost in his thoughts and was momentarily surprised by her sudden appearance.

“Where were you?” he growled, casting a quick glance at her before returning his eyes to his drink.

“I was just in the toilet.  Did someone steal our table?” she said, frowning towards the group occupying their table.  “Why are you back so soon?  Did you lose your mark?”

Craig stared at his second drink, swirling the ice around.  “I wish I did.”

Before he could elaborate Bryce joined them.

“Honey, you’re back.  How’d you go?” Natalie asked, jumping up and kissing him.

“Not too well.  I followed my guys for a while but they were just on a shopping trip.  I gave up after one of them tried on his fourth pair of tight leather pants and modeled them for his partner.”

“How’d you go Craig?” asked Bryce.

“I ran into a bit of trouble.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, I think I just witnessed a murder,” Craig said with a deadpan expression on his face.  Natalie and Bryce looked at each other.  Craig finished off his second drink and appreciated the way the alcohol seeped its way into every part in his body and gently massaged and soothed his taut nerves.

“What did you say?  You witnessed a murder?” Natalie said with a confused expression on her face, not knowing if he was joking or serious.

“Could you speak a little louder next time?  I don’t think the people across the road quite heard you.”

“What happened?” asked Bryce in a barely audible whisper, overcompensating for Natalie’s loudness.

Craig looked around and waited for a couple of young women to move past them on their way to the bar.  He took a deep breath and gathered himself.

“Well I was last out.  My guy was acting kinda strange, kinda nervous.  I knew he was up to something.  He kept stopping and checking himself.  His collar was pulled up high and he was wearing a baseball cap.  Anyway, he took the train to St Peters, walked through Sydney Park and then out the other side into a factory area.  I kept following him.  And then he went up to a car that was parked there and pulled out a gun.  Bang, bang, bang, he shot some guy, as simple as that.”

Natalie and Bryce stared blankly at each other lost for words.  Craig just stared into his third drink.

Jen and Grant returned to the bar together and pulled chairs to the table.  Jen noticed the blank faces around the table.

“What’s going on?” she said.

Craig was in no mood to repeat his story so Natalie quickly filled them in on what had happened.  Jen was near to hysterics by the end of Natalie’s retelling and looked around nervously as if the police would burst through the door and arrest them all at any moment.  Grant smiled and stared blankly at Craig, wondering where the punch line was, but it never came.

“You have to go to the police to report it,” said Jen anxiously.

“No way!” Craig retorted sharply.  “Do you know what happens when guys with records report murders?  I’m not that stupid.  I didn’t do anything and I’m not going to report anything.  It’s got nothing to do with me and I’d like to keep it that way.”

“I didn’t know you had a record.  What’ve you done?” Natalie said, eyeing him suspiciously.

“It was nothing.  Just a couple of DUIs and an assault charge when I was a kid.”

“But what if the guy isn’t dead?” asked Bryce.

“Trust me, he’s dead.  You don’t get shot three times from close range and live to tell the tale.”

“What happened then?  What happened after he got shot?” asked Natalie.

Craig stared at his drink trying to remember.

“I....I don’t really know.  I panicked and just ran.  I know it sounds stupid, but I can barely remember the next few minutes.  My adrenalin was pumping so hard my brain kind of shut down and I just ran like a sissy ten year old schoolgirl.  After a while I managed to calm myself down and then I just came back here.”

“Well I still think we need to report it to the police,” said Jen, shaking her head in disbelief.  “I mean you’re a witness, you saw the guy.  You can give a description or something.”

“And what do I tell the cops?” he sneered derisively.  “Maybe I should just tell them that me and my friends were out stalking some people and one of them just happened to murder a guy.  Yeah, I’m sure that will go down real well.”

“He’s right,” Bryce conceded.  “We don’t need to draw any attention to what we do.  There are laws against stalking you know.  We could all lose our jobs.  Carmichael would definitely sack me on the spot if he found out.”

“Did you get any photos or video of this guy?” asked Natalie.

Craig looked at her as if he didn’t understand the question.  “No.  No, I didn’t really get a chance,” he replied in an exasperated tone.  “I should have, I could have shown you guys, but I just wasn’t thinking straight at the time.  And he was always on the move, moving away from me, and after he shot the guy he moved so fast….it was over so quickly.

Grant had been quiet until now.  He was still stunned by the news but was trying his very best not to panic and to think his way through it.

“Did you get a good look at him Nat?” The question seemed to surprise her.  She tilted her head and recalled the moment from her memory.

“I guess, but it was just a quick look.  But as Craig said, he was kinda covered up, kinda mysterious and secretive looking.  That was the reason I chose him.”

Nero’s was starting to reach capacity and before long a queue would start to form at the door and the bouncers would begin to earn their money by keeping the numbers inside in line with the prescribed limit.  A four piece R&B band had set up their gear on a small stage at the rear of the bar and were doing sound checks on their instruments and double checking connections.

“So what are we going to do?”  Natalie asked.

Craig glowered at her under a heavy brow.  “We’re all in this together and we’ve all got something to lose if we get dragged into this.  We do nothing.”

Chapter 8

It was seven minutes past two in the morning.  All was quiet, apart from a noise that kept repeating, nagging, distracting dreams.  A phone ringing.  As his consciousness struggled to the surface to breath he became aware that the phone was not part of his dream.  An eye finally opened, registered the time on the old clock radio beside his bed.  He was of medium build, yet strongly put together but not in a pretty, waxed, gym junkie way.  He was thirty-five.  He sat up and turned the bedside table lamp on, causing momentary blindness which he shielded his eyes from.  He turned the lamp on because he guessed what was coming.  He knew without a shadow of a doubt that he wouldn’t be going back to bed and also knew from past experience that remaining in a prone position after finishing a call often resulted in him falling back asleep.  He had never quite got used to working nights.

The phone waited patiently for him while he rubbed his eyes.  There was no voicemail to offer respite after ten rings or so, you either answered it or you accepted the consequences of missing the call.  Earlier in the night he had partaken in a few celebratory beers, give or take several, and now he was beginning to regret it, a little.  It had been a slow and tedious week, mostly spent at the Central Local court in the city waiting to give evidence at the long winded trial of a case that had been laboriously dragged through the courts for several years.  The guilty verdict of murder, that had been returned by the jurors within two hours of the case being wrapped up had been a relief to all involved except the accused and his lawyer and had been the trigger for the celebration.  The case had been particularly traumatic on the Homicide detectives involved.  Two young children had been abducted on their way home from primary school and found murdered a week later.  The accused murderer was a sixty-five year old neighbour of the children who had used his relationship with the family to lure the children away.  All of the detectives involved in the case had been sickened to the core by the abuse of trust and calculated deception of the old man and were hopeful that when sentencing was handed down it would be sufficiently lengthy to ensure the offender would end his days on Earth in a small prison cell.

After nearly twenty rings, he finally reached for his mobile and flipped it open.

“Nelson here.”  He didn’t bother trying to hide his grogginess, anyone answering the phone at two a.m. sounded groggy.

“Detective Sergeant Nelson, it’s Detective Superintendent Crighton here.  I’m sorry to wake you.”

Nelson didn’t think he sounded particularly sorry and also thought it absurd that anyone would think it necessary to be so formal at that time of the morning.  Detective Superintendent John Crighton was the Commander of the Homicide squad.  He was a humourless and ambitious late forty-something year old who had made a career as a ‘yes man’ to those above him on the food chain.

“Something has come up and I want you on top of it asap.”

Nelson momentarily wondered why the hell he was speaking to Crighton instead of the usual suspects who normally woke him up in the middle of the night.  He also wondered why anyone was calling him at all because as far as his hazy mind could recall he was just at the beginning of three days off after having worked the previous seven straight.  He briefly wondered if he was still asleep and dreaming, such was the strangeness of the situation.

“I’m not the duty Detective tonight,” he said flatly.

“I’m aware of that Detective Sergeant, but I require your services nonetheless.”

Nelson decided to give in for the time being.  From previous experience he knew that Crighton had a habit of getting his way.

“What’s going on boss?” he said through a yawn.

“Are you familiar with the Fogliani family, Detective?”

“Yes.”

“Well Emilio Fogliani has just been found dead, shot in his car in the industrial area near Sydney Park in St Peters.”

Nelson’s mind shrugged off its veil of fog and through force of will became alert as he tried to remember what he knew about the Fogliani name.  It was reasonably well known in Sydney for mostly the wrong reasons, as a quick Google search could prove.  Emilio Fogliani and his brother Angelo immigrated to Australia in 1960 as eighteen and twenty year olds with their parents.  Their father had a long association with criminal gangs back in the old country and had brought his boys up on a diet of violence and crime.  Arriving in Australia the boys immediately put their skills to good use and wreaked havoc in the city in the seventies and eighties, building up quite an empire by utilising a mixture of standover tactics, drug distribution and generally well organised and occasionally violent, robberies of jewelry stores and homes.  Perhaps for all his sins, Angelo Fogliani died in 1997 from a seemingly innocent car accident and since that time the remaining family had given every impression of being just another tax minimising upper class Sydney family.

“I see.  Any other information?” Nelson asked.

“It’s a bit sketchy at the moment.  I want you and Detective Robards to meet me at the crime scene in thirty minutes.”  Crighton provided Nelson with the address.

Nelson stared sadly at the phone as the line went dead, lamenting the probable loss of his days off.  He sighed and then searched through the names stored on his mobile and placed a call.

“Hello, Pete Robards speaking.”

Nelson was slightly disappointed that Robards sounded chirpy, too chirpy, as if he hadn’t even gone to sleep, as if it was two p.m. and not two a.m..  In the background, Nelson heard the voice of a woman and realised with mild jealousy that Robards must have had some success in pursuing the quarry he had had his eye on when Nelson left him earlier in the night.

“It’s Nelson.  Crighton just called me.  He’s got a job for us.”

“Crighton called you?  What’s going on?” responded Robards immediately.  Robards was something of an annoying revelation to Nelson.  When he initially joined Nelson’s squad six months previously, Nelson could barely hide his amazement that this twenty-six year old ‘kid’ held the rank of Detective Senior Constable and had secured a placement in the highly sought after and elite Homicide Squad ranks.  In time however, Nelson came to understand how Robards had risen through the ranks so rapidly and seemed earmarked for future success.  Despite his second-rower appearance, he had a sharp and agile mind.  He also possessed some career enhancing character traits that Nelson didn’t, like the ability not to piss people off and always remembering to give a generous serving of respect and deference to his superiors, including Superintendent Crighton.  Nelson was resigned to the likelihood that Robards’ career would continue to blossom while he held no such thoughts of grandeur for his own.

“There’s a body in St Peters and Crighton wants us on it,” replied Nelson, massaging his stubbly face.  “He wants us to meet him there in thirty minutes.”

Robards energetically pestered Nelson for further information like a five year old on Christmas Eve, but Nelson cut him off, told him the location of the murder and hung up just as abruptly as Crighton had hung up on him.

Nelson made his way to his bathroom and regarded the man that stared at him in the mirror.  His light brown hair was cropped short at about a centimetre in length all over.  When it grew longer than that it had a mind of its own and grew in all different directions.  He had long given up on trying to style it because it point blank refused to be styled.  He noted that it was definitely starting to show more grey than he would have preferred but it didn’t bother him overly.  His father’s hair had been grey for as long as he could remember so he knew what he was in for.  His nose was slightly hooked, his large, blue eyes were set wide apart on his round face and were still red and tired after only a couple hours of sleep.  He cast aside the tired image in the mirror, disrobed and jumped into the shower.  He had a long day ahead of him.

Chapter 9

As Detective Sergeant Nelson sped along Southern Cross Drive at one hundred and forty kilometres per hour in his old rattle filled Subaru Liberty wagon, he mused that the lack of traffic was the only good thing about starting work at two-fifty a.m..  His mood continued to deteriorate as he considered that his next three days were unlikely to be filled with watching footy, heading down to the beach and catching up with some friends as he had originally planned.  His annoyance was transferred into extra pressure on the accelerator and his car touched one hundred and sixty kilometres per hour before he banked left and worked his way across to St Peters.

Despite making the journey from his home in Brighton LeSands in near world record time he still didn’t quite manage to make Crighton’s thirty minute time frame.  Nelson turned into Euston Road and immediately saw the flashing blue lights of a couple of general duties squad cars advertising the police presence.   He knew the area well enough as he had attended a few concerts in the park over the years.  The eastern edge of the park was framed mostly by small factories, storage warehouses and depots.  As it was only a fifteen to twenty-five minute drive - depending on the traffic - from the city centre, the floor space in the area was in high demand and a fairly expensive leasing proposition.

Nelson parked his car.  As he alighted into the cold night air he noted that Robards had already arrived and was speaking with a security guard alongside Crighton.  Nelson briefly wondered how the hell Robards had managed to arrive before him seeing that he lived further away.  Adding further to Nelson’s chagrin, Robards looked as fresh as a daisy in his thousand dollar suit and was no doubt impressing the hell out of Crighton with his dapper punctuality and eagerness.  Nelson was not so sartorially elegant but his fleece lined jacket kept out the cold June night, which was the most important thing to him.

Crighton noted Nelson’s arrival, excused himself and limped towards Nelson.  Crighton had spent only a couple of years in active operational duty before blowing out his knee while trying to wrestle a garrulous drunk into a cell.  The injury was severe and predated the wonders of modern orthopedic surgery.  Several botched treatments had resulted in an unholy fusion of ligament and bone that could never be properly fixed.  From that day forward he had walked with a limp and had been restricted to the non-operational areas of the New South Wales Police Force.  Although his injury hampered his mobility it proved to be the making of his career.  His spotless personnel record, his exemplary work ethic and his relative competence as an administrator ensured that he progressed smoothly through the ranks in the ensuing years, holding positions mainly at Police Headquarters and the Academy at Goulburn.  Rumour had it that in a previous life Crighton had been a fairly competent sportsman but his work habits and dodgy knee had long ago removed any sign of athleticism from his now podgy, round body.

His appointment to Commander of the Homicide squad two years previously had raised plenty of eyebrows among the ninety or so Homicide squad members who were generally of the opinion that someone with a little more front line experience would have been better suited to managing the squad.  However, those above him considered that he had done a reasonable job during his tenure.

“Take a walk with me Detective Sergeant,” he said by way of greeting.

Nelson followed him as they walked well out of earshot of the others in attendance at the scene.  He noted with mild satisfaction that Crighton looked tired as tired as he felt, with tight, deep lines framing his blue eyes.

“Now I don’t need to tell you Detective that the Homicide Squad needs to be seen to be on top of this from the beginning.  Emilio Fogliani is a well known name in some circles and there’s likely to be media interest in this.  I especially don’t want you or any other members of the Police Force giving off the cuff, speculative quotes to the media over what has transpired here tonight.  The only statements that I want to see in the press are those that have come out of the media unit or any press conference that will be organised through me.  What I do want however, is for you and Detective Robards to give this case your undivided attention and handle it as quickly and efficiently as possible.  Is this understood Detective?”

“Yes Boss.”  Nelson didn’t think Crighton had sufficiently earned his respect to warrant being called ‘Sir’.  In his opinion, few senior officers had.  “What about VanMerle?”  Nelson normally worked in a team of eight Detectives.  The team was headed by Inspector James VanMerle.  While he was officially Nelson’s superior, his role was mostly administrative in nature, although to Nelson’s annoyance, he had a habit of trying to get hands-on with the cases that had political or media cache.

“I will square it away with Inspector VanMerle when he gets to the office in the morning.  Alright now….”

“Before you go on, can I just ask why we’re handling this case instead of leaving it up to the LAC boys?  I mean, Fogliani isn’t that big a name anymore is it?”  Despite the noticeable frown that instantly creased Crighton’s forehead Nelson thought the question reasonable.  There were Detectives attached to most Local Area Commands or LACs, in the Sydney Metro region and it was usual procedure for them to handle the Homicide cases or any other criminal investigations in their region unless the investigation was identified as being too complex or would unreasonably stretch their limited resources.   When this occurred, the case was referred for assistance to one of the squads or taskforces in the State Crime Command that specialised in addressing certain types of crime like drugs, organised crime or homicide.

“All Homicide cases are important Detective and there may be more to this one than meets the eye.  Anyway, all you need to know is that I’ve made the decision that this is a case the Homicide squad needs to run with.  End of story.  Now do you have any more questions Detective Nelson?”

“No Boss,” replied Nelson, deciding to quit while he was behind.

“Good.  Then I will leave the investigation of this case in yours and Detective Robard’s capable hands.  The Newtown LAC Detectives have remained on-site to brief you more fully.  I want a progress report from you in my office by nine a.m..  After that I’ll meet with the media unit and issue a statement.”

“Ok boss.  What about the family?  Anyone told them yet?”

Crighton considered the question for a moment.  “No.  I will save you the trouble and go and speak with the Fogliani family myself.  I’ll give them assurances that you and Detective Robards are already on the case and that you will be in touch with them in the near future to gather whatever background information is available.”

“I doubt they’ll give us anything.”

“That may well be the case Detective,” said Crighton, looking sharply at Nelson.  “But I know you will make the effort nonetheless.  Treat them like any normal grieving family Detective.  Just because they may have had some spurious connections in the past doesn’t make them immune to feeling pain when a loved one has been taken from them.”  Crighton turned to go indicating the end of the conversation but then turned back to Nelson.

“Oh and Nelson.”

“Yes boss?”

“Don’t fuck this up.”

Chapter 10

As Superintendent Crighton left the crime scene, Nelson pondered the pep talk he had been given.  He wasn’t sure if it was the after effects of the beer he’d consumed earlier in the night, or if he was just plain stupid, but the circumstances as to how and why he had been given the case seemed unusual to say the least.  It was one of the few times he had ever seen Crighton attend a crime scene, at least one where there were no television cameras for him to spout mindless platitudes about how the good stats were up and the bad stats were down and that the Homicide squad was making the streets of Sydney safe.  He was confused as to why Crighton had handed he and Robards the case and not waited for the LAC Detectives to run with it, at least initially, or even why one of the on-call Homicide Squad detectives hadn’t been given the case.  Nelson knew he had established a high clearance rate for the cases he had worked on but there were other, more senior, more experienced members of the Homicide squad who boasted similar or even better clearance rates.

He also cynically wondered if every family that had a loved one murdered received a personal visit from a Superintendent, or if it was just the important or politically connected ones.  Putting aside these thoughts for the time being he cleared his mind and tried to focus on the job at hand.  Regardless of the circumstances, it was his case now and he had to run with it whether he liked it or not.

He looked around the crime scene, making mental notes of who was in attendance and what they were doing.  The two Newtown LAC Detectives who had initially been called into the case were leaning against their car with arms crossed, speaking to a couple of uniformed general duties Constables.  Robards was still drilling the security guard and two scene of the crime officers, or SOCOs, had commenced their analysis and collection of evidence from the crime scene.

Nelson decided to start with the LAC Detectives and made his way over to them.  He recalled that their names were Smythe and Bourne as he had attended a training course with them a year ago.  Nelson was reasonable at remembering names, but nearly flawless at remembering faces.  However, he wasn’t sure if they would remember him because he knew from past experience that he had one of those faces that didn’t seem to stick in people’s memories.  He sometimes wondered if his natural calling would be as an agent working for ASIO.  After introductions, which confirmed that neither of the LAC Detectives could recall Nelson from their minds, Sergeant Smythe began to brief Nelson on the case.

“The security guard discovered the body at around ten p.m. and called it in.”  Nelson removed his notebook and began to write rapidly in it.  “Upon discovery that this looked like a homicide, the uniforms called the Duty Officer from the Newtown Local Area Command who in turn called us.”

“What time did you get the call?”

“Around midnight,” said Smythe, looking to Bourne for confirmation and receiving a tilt of his head.  “We checked the body for identification and when we realised who we had here and that there were possible organised crime connections, we put in a call to the Duty Officer of the Gangs Squad.”

The Gangs Squad was similar in nature and function to the Homicide Squad but focused primarily on addressing organised crime that was not Middle Eastern related - which was handled by another squad.  Nelson realised that it was a sensible move to have called the Gangs Squad, yet it only increased his confusion as to how he had ultimately ended up with the case.

“What happened then?”

“They phoned us back within the hour saying they were passing on the case and that we were welcome to it.  Half an hour later Superintendent Crighton rolled into town with sirens blazing and said the Homicide squad was going to run with the case from here.”

If Nelson was confused before he spoke to the LAC Detectives he was completely non-plussed now.  In the four hours since the body had been discovered, the case had seemingly passed through several sets of hands and eventually ended up with him.

He decided to forge ahead regardless of the circumstances.  It was all he could do for the time being and he knew he would have to work fast to make the most of the fresh crime scene while it lasted.  He thanked the LAC Detectives for their help and they beat a hasty retreat, eager to return to the warmth of their station or homes, whichever the case, glad to handball a murder investigation Nelson’s way and not add it to their already burgeoning case load.

Nelson watched them depart and again surveyed the crime scene.  In some small way he was thankful it was the middle of the night.  Because of the hour, there were, as yet, no rubber-necking bystanders and no media camped outside the perimeter that had been hastily erected.  Apart from the police presence, the area was still deserted.  Nelson knew that despite it being Saturday morning this was likely to change as soon as the daylight hours arrived.  He estimated that they had three hours of relative peace to finish the initial assessment of the crime scene.

He walked over to the two general duties Constables who had been the first to arrive at the crime scene.  They stopped their chatting as they saw him approach.  As Nelson worked at Police Headquarters in Parramatta they didn’t know him and appeared slightly wary as he approached.

“Morning fellas, nothing like nightshift hey?”  The uniforms nodded and smiled in agreement at the ice breaker.  “Right, let’s get to work,” he said, rubbing his hands together in an attempt to ward off numbness.  “Firstly, I want the perimeter moved back another fifty metres so that the SOCOs have plenty of room to work in.  And secondly, I want you to call two more uniforms down here asap to help us with the search for evidence in the surrounding streets and parkland.  We’ve got three hours until this place becomes a zoo so let’s get moving.  Look for anything out of place like clothing, bloodstains, rubbish and of course, weapons.  If there are any people about, I want to know if they saw anything.  I know it’s cold out tonight but don’t rush anything and don’t miss anything.  This is the most important part of the investigation, ok?”  The two uniforms nodded.  “If you’re in doubt about something, get one of the SOCOs to give you a hand and I know I probably don’t have to tell you, but keep your hands off their crime scene until they give the all clear.”

“What happens with the body?” asked the shorter of the two Constables, nodding towards the car.  Nelson looked at him, noted his youthful, freckled face and wondered if he had ever been involved in a homicide investigation before.

“The body snatchers will be here soon.  They’ll take it to the morgue for an autopsy.

“Oh, ok.”

“Also, one more thing.  When the media turns up I don’t want anyone talking to them.  Superintendent Crighton will cut your nuts off with a blunt, rusty spoon if he finds out that anyone has spoken to them. Understood?”

“Yes Sarge,” came the unified response.

Although Nelson gave the warning, he knew the media would be all over the case long before Crighton made his precious media release.  Already the news that Emilio Fogliani had been murdered would be being whispered throughout the force and he also knew that too many police officers had close relationships with journalists for it to be kept a secret for long.  Nelson would be surprised if it wasn’t all over the seven a.m. news bulletins.

He left the uniforms to organise their reinforcements and made his way to Emilio Fogliani’s car which was parked in a driveway beside what appeared to be a small warehouse.  A forensics team of two had been on the job for about an hour already and were painstakingly collecting and cataloguing evidence from the body, the car and the area immediately surrounding the car.

“Morning Mike.  Good to see you again.  What’ve you got for me?”

“Morning Nelson,” came the reply.  Mike Martinez was a short, round, 25 year veteran of the New South Wales Police Force and despite not having advanced beyond the rank of Senior Constable was well respected as a crime scene examiner because he knew his stuff and was meticulous and thorough in his processing of crime scenes.  He wore a full protection suit and goggles which left only his mouth and nose exposed and gave him the appearance of something akin to a spaceman.

“We’ve got a white male approximately sixty years of age who has been shot three times from fairly close range.  About two metres I’d say, but don’t quote me, yet.  Two of the bullet wounds were to the chest and one to the head.”  Nelson made vigorous notes, trying to capture as much of the information as he could.  He knew he’d receive a full report later in the day but liked to take his own notes anyway.  He saved his questions until the end, allowing Martinez to finish his briefing without interrupting.

“We found three, nine millimetre cartridges on the ground beside the car.  From the amount of rigor that’s present in the body I would estimate that we’re looking at a time of death between eight and ten p.m. last night.  The body snatchers are on their way to take it to the morgue for a post mort.  You’ll get the details then. “

“Is the medical examiner coming down?”

“I gave him a call and explained the situation.  He said he was comfortable with leaving it to us and will check it out in the morning.”

“In other words he didn’t want to get his arse out of bed and come down here in the middle of the night?”

Martinez smiled.  “Yeah something like that.”

“And what about the car?” said Nelson, continuing to jot down notes on a small pad.

“It’s a brand new X-5 BMW.  Nice.  We’ve only just started to process it, although one of the bullets that penetrated his chest appears to have passed through the deceased’s body and is probably lodged in the lining of the seat somewhere.  The other two slugs appear to still be in the body cavity.  A flat-bed is on the way to take the car back to the garage where we’ll continue to work on it.”

“Alright, I don’t need to tell you that I want a rush put on this one.  Crighton wants a briefing at nine a.m. so call me on the mobile as soon as you’ve got any new information, and I mean anything.”

“Sure thing Nelson.  Nothing like a Superintendent riding your arse to get the wheels turning hey?”

“Yeah, tell me about.  I was supposed to be on three days leave, but instead I’m down here in the middle of the night, talking to you, no offence.”

“None taken.  I wouldn’t want to be talking to me either.”

“I want to get started on a search of the surrounding area as soon as we get some reinforcements.  Can one of you guys stay here until we’ve finished, just in case we find something?   I don’t want this being stuffed up.”

“No problem.  You can have McAuley for as long as you want.”  Hearing his name mentioned Constable McAuley looked up from his work and nodded to Nelson.

Martinez continued, “I’ll head back to the lab when the body goes and make sure things start to happen quickly.”

“Thanks Mike.  Appreciate it.”

Nelson left the SOCOs to finish their work and turned to Robards who had finished speaking with the security guard and had been listening quietly to Nelson speak with Mike Martinez.  Nelson looked at the security guard, who was now disconsolately leaning up against his car with his arms crossed.

“Hey Pete.  Glad you could make it.  Hope my call didn’t interrupt anything.”

Robards smiled briefly.  “Na.”

Nelson made a mental note to quiz Robards later about his nocturnal adventures.

“What did you get from the security kid?”

“He said he discovered the body on his rounds at about ten p.m. and then phoned it in.  He claims not to have seen anything or heard anything else.”

“How long in between rounds?”

“Two hours.”

“That’s not very often.”

“No.  He said there aren’t many break-ins around here because most of the places have decent security systems.  Plenty of easier targets he reckons.”

“Fair enough.  So Fogliani was murdered between eight and ten.  That fits with what Mike thought.  What’s his name?”

“Ben Pounder.  He’s twenty-one, goes to Sydney University and does this a few nights a week to make ends meet.”

Upon hearing his name, the security guard sauntered over to Nelson and Robards.  Nelson noted he had a bit of size on him and would be a reasonable proposition with the baton that was clipped to his belt.

“Can I go now?  My shift ended an hour ago so I’m not getting paid for this.”

“You got his details Pete?”

“Yeah.”

“Sure you can go Ben,” said Nelson.  “We’ll be in touch if we need anything else.”

Nelson watched as the security guard drove away in a Suzuki Sierra that was emblazoned with cheap looking security stickers and a couple of flashing lights attached to its roof rack.

Nelson turned back and again viewed the crime scene.  He tried to block out all external thoughts and absorb every detail of it into his memory.  He studied the small warehouse and the position of the car in the driveway down the side which led to the rear car park and loading dock.  He thought it would be a nice quiet place to meet someone at night, as while the lighting was good to the rear and front of the warehouse it was poorly lit down the side.  There was a line of trees and shrubbery behind the car park at the rear of the warehouse that provided a natural barrier between it and the park beyond.

“If the murderer left in a car or even on foot, it’s possible that one of the warehouses here, or across the road may have captured some video of it, if their security systems are as good as security guard Ben said they are.  There don’t seem to be any cameras covering the side of this warehouse,” said Nelson as he cast the powerful beam of his Maglite torch across the side of the building, “but I saw some at the front so we might get lucky and find something.  When these places open up for business I want you to go through them one by one and see what video footage they’ve got from last night.  It’ll take you a while but it could prove vitally important.”

“Sure thing,” said Robards, seeing the necessity, but not relishing the thought of several hours of probable tedious work.

“Now let’s get into the search before those uniform boys step all over our evidence.”

Chapter 11

Detective Superintendent Crighton double checked the Vaucluse address he’d been given by the night shift support staff at Police Headquarters.  He directed his driver, a barred-up Senior Constable named Clayton, to slow down and turn the unmarked white Commodore into the next driveway on their right.  They were halted in their tracks by a pair of imposing iron gates which were adjoined on each side by a ten foot high sandstone block wall which encircled the perimeter of what appeared to be a sizeable property.  A small security hut was situated beside the gate and two men sat inside, viewing footage from a dozen video cameras located throughout the grounds.  Crighton mused that the security measures seemed a little over the top for a family that had purportedly left their shady dealings behind them.

One of the security guards took his feet off the bench, stood up and lazily sauntered out to meet them.  His demeanour, like his dress sense was casual, but he was solidly built and carried himself with the confidence of someone who could handle himself.  He put his hands on the car and bent down to peer through the door window at the occupants.

“You can go on up to the house.  They’re waiting for you.  Just keep following the yellow brick road.”  He returned to his little hut and the steel gates silently parted.  Senior Constable Clayton gunned the police car through and headed up the driveway.

Crighton had taken the precaution of phoning ahead without explaining the circumstances of the visit.  He didn’t want to have to sit around for half an hour while the family dragged their arses out of bed.  They followed the well lit driveway and were soon confronted by the house.  It was an enormous post-modern creation that made the neighbouring McMansions look like cottages in comparison.  It had been built five years ago after the Fogliani family decided that the forty square mock Tudor mansion that had adorned the site for the previous sixty years was too small for their purposes.  Crighton was quietly awestruck by the sheer magnitude of the house and the neatly manicured gardens.  For just a brief moment he wondered that maybe he had made the wrong career choice somewhere along the way.  He looked over at Clayton whose mouth was slightly agape and wondered if he had similar thoughts.

He snapped out of his reverie and focused on the job at hand.

“Alright Senior, here’s how this is going down,” he said, fixing him in a steely glare that left no room for negotiation.  “I will do the talking and I will answer the questions.  You’re here for moral support only.  Understood?”

“Yes Sir.”

“Good.  Hopefully we’ll be in and out in twenty minutes.”

They alighted from the car and made their way to the nine foot tall glass front door, but before they had a chance to test the doorbell, a swarthy, athletically built man, dressed in shirt and jeans, opened the door for them.  He ignored Crighton’s greeting and ushered them into an empty formal lounge to the left of the entry.  Crighton noted that the room was about the same size as the housing commission house that he had grown up in.  The furniture was minimalist, metallic and looked uncomfortable and was probably the creation of an overpaid and overblown interior design consultant.

After a short wait, Michael Fogliani entered the room.  Michael was the fulmination of a fifty year migrant family dream.  He was forty-two, charismatic, had two business degrees from Sydney University and understood that there were plenty of legal ways to make even more money than the illegal activities that had given the Foglianis their initial start on the road to success.  Since the death of his father some ten years previously Michael had taken over the management of the family’s business interests and assets.  Overcoming protests from some members of his family, including those of his Uncle Emilio, he had steered the family money into a string of legitimate businesses and investments and the Foglianis had never been more profitable or law abiding.

“Superintendent Crighton, it’s nice to see you again,” said Michael, extending his hand in a warm greeting coupled with a smile.  “And Senior Constable?”

“Clayton.”

Michael Fogliani was dressed in jeans and a striped Ralph Lauren polo shirt.  Unusually for someone of Italian stock, his hair was naturally blonde – parted boyishly on the side - and his eyes were a soft blue.  If he seemed concerned about the nature and the late hour of the visit he didn’t show it.

“Please, take a seat,” he said gesturing to a white leather lounge as he seated himself in an identical lounge opposite.  “What brings you out here at this hour Superintendent?”

Crighton was still trying to hide his surprise that Michael Fogliani remembered him.  They had only met once, briefly, at a charity sports dinner and auction eighteen months ago.  Crighton recalled that Fogliani had dropped a lazy thirty thousand dollars or so on three or four items while Crighton had regrettably spent seven hundred and fifty dollars on a framed and signed photograph of Greg Norman striding up a St Andrews fairway wearing some very bad lime green pants and tartan patterned vest.  After the auction, his wife had chided him mercilessly for getting carried away in the heat of the auction moment.

Crighton leaned forward with his hands on his knees, trying to use his most sympathetic and understanding voice.  He noticed that two old women stood in the shadows of the doorway listening, perhaps sensing something that Michael didn’t.

“I’m afraid I have some bad news Mr Fogliani.  Earlier this evening we discovered a body in a car in the suburb of St Peters.  The identification that we found on the deceased indicates that this person was your uncle, Emilio Fogliani.”

If Crighton had expected a hardened, unemotional response from the son of an underworld legend he was mistaken.  The colour instantly drained from Michael Fogliani’s face and tears welled up in his eyes.  He tried to hold them back in an attempt to hide his raw emotions but they flowed freely regardless.  Their omens confirmed, the two women in the doorway clutched each other, left the room and could be heard wailing in another part of the house.

“How?  What happened?” Fogliani asked through his tears, incredulous, his voice thick with emotion.  “Do…do you have any information on how he died Superintendent?”

“We’re still looking into that Mr. Fogliani.”

“Please, call me Michael,” he responded automatically.

“Michael.  We do know that he was shot several times and that it appears to be a homicide.”

Fogliani wiped his eyes on his sleeves and tried to stem the flow.

“I want to assure you that we’re looking into this and will leave no stone unturned to find out what happened.  We will keep you informed at every step of the way.”

“Good, and thank you.”  The tears started again.  “I’m sorry for this.  It’s just that I lost my father about nine years ago and now my uncle.  I thought we’d left all the grief in the past, yet here we are again.”

“I am sorry for your family’s loss Michael.”

“Thank you Superintendent.”

“I’ve assigned two Detectives to the case.  Their names are Nelson and Robards and they are some of our best officers.  They are investigating the crime scene as we speak and will no doubt want to speak with you in the near future.  If you could make yourself available to them it would be appreciated.”

“Of course, of course.  I look forward to hearing from them and will give them my full co-operation Superintendent.”

The wailing from the other room increased in tempo and gusto, momentarily distracting Michael Fogliani.

“If there is nothing further gentlemen, I need to attend to my mother and aunt.”

“Yes of course Michael.  I will leave you with my card. Please don’t hesitate to call me if you need anything.”

“Thank you.”

Crighton stood up to leave.  “Oh and one more thing, someone will need to come down to the city morgue in Glebe to make a positive identification of the body.  The detectives can organise a viewing for you.”

Fogliani nodded numbly at the thought.

Chapter 12

Kylie Faulkner ascended the stairs in the Redfern apartment block she had been visiting on a regular basis for the previous few weeks.  There was no lift so her already shapely calves got a workout on their way to the fourth floor.  Normally she dressed down so as not to attract attention in a neighbourhood that was not renowned for its safety, but because of the hour and the occasion, she decided to take the risk and was wearing nothing but a woollen knee length coat and high heels.  And anyway, at six o’clock Saturday morning there was no one about to witness her mad dash from her car into the building and up the stairs.

Her knock on the apartment door was quickly answered by her recently acquired boyfriend, Manuel Torres.  Despite the early hour, he was wearing a blue singlet and shorts and was covered in sweat after just returning from an eight kilometre circular run through the quiet streets.  He had barely slept the previous night and needed the run to clear his mind.

“Morning baby,” she said, reaching up to kiss him and then stepping past him into the apartment.  She noticed with concealed amusement that he had made an attempt to tidy the small one bedroom apartment in preparation for her visit.  “I’ve got a surprise for you.”

“Oh?”  He closed the door behind her and smiled, already feeling the tension beginning to ease from his tired limbs.  Her presence always calmed him.

“Yes, you deserve it for what you’ve done,” she said, her eyes flashing with excitement.  She let her coat fall to the ground revealing her nakedness.

“Now come and do whatever you want to me.”  It took him the barest of moments to become aroused and pull her into the bedroom.

They had met in a sports bar six weeks ago, just two weeks after his release from prison.  Manuel had just begun to find his feet on the outside and had gone to visit his friend Bruno Trulli at Pellegrinos.  After dinner and a quiet discussion with Bruno in Hyde Park he had gone to a sports bar to play pool and meet up with some of his workmates.

Being an attractive woman sitting in a sports bar on her own at eleven p.m. on a Friday night, Kylie had attracted plenty of looks from men.  Most of them would have liked to have taken her home and shown her the best few minutes of her life thus far – according to them - and despite being well and truly out of most of their leagues, some of them gave it their best shot anyway.

She ignored the offers of free drinks, the cheesy one-liners and the looks she received until after thirty minutes she caught the one she was after.  At the time, she had started to think she was losing her touch.  She held the stare from Manuel’s dark eyes for about four seconds, before ending it with a half smile and looking back to her drink.  She didn’t have to wait long as he approached her after some goading from his workmates.  Their first night together was wild and energetic and such was her performance and his pleasure, it was never going to be just a one night stand.  His enjoyment was heightened because it was the first time he had been with a woman since before he had been sent to prison.  From that night onwards their relationship had blossomed and deepened and Manuel quickly found himself thinking that he had found the one who was made for him.

**************

They lay naked on the bed, Kylie facing away from him.  The morning sun arrived and cast its weak beams across the bed and their white and brown skins.

Manuel felt relaxed now and all the fears and anxieties of the previous twelve hours had slipped from his consciousness.  He playfully traced the curves of Kylie’s body with his finger.

“You have scars,” he said.

“You have scars too,” she countered absent-mindedly, her green eyes staring into the distant cloud filled skies.

“Yeah, but you know where my scars came from.  A man doesn’t spend seven years in prison without picking up a few scars.  But where do yours come from?  Have you spent time in prison from computer hacking or something?”

“No.” she laughed.

“Well?” he said poking her gently in the ribs.  She turned towards him, her face unreadable.  “What about this one?” he asked, feeling the faded white line on her forehead just below her hairline.

She stared at him and for the briefest of moments he thought he saw her face momentarily harden and lose some of its beauty before relaxing and returning to normal.

“It was from many years ago.  When I was fifteen.”

Chapter 13

Detective Nelson quietly entered the room, making small stealthy steps towards his quarry.  The element of surprise was everything.  He had left Robards at the crime scene to finish up the search while he dealt with other matters.

“What have you got for me Arnie?” Nelson said, close to the pathologist’s ear in a voice that reverberated through the quiet cavernous room.

Doctor Arnold – don’t call me Arnie - Agett, who had been bent over the corpse of Emilio Fogliani, nearly jumped out of his skin before realising a moment later who had sneaked up behind him.  The protective cover suit that he was wearing was stained with blood and other body matter from the autopsy he had commenced an hour previously.

“Oh for Christ sake Nelson!  I suppose you think that’s funny?” He growled through his mask, brandishing a scalpel in Nelson’s direction.

“Sorry Doc,” replied Nelson stepping back out of reach of the scalpel.  “Couldn’t help myself.”

“I will remind you once again that the city mortuary is not the ideal place for practical jokes.  If it was just your arse on the line with this case I’d put it on the backburner for a week.”

“It will never happen again, I promise,” replied Nelson with the barest of smiles.

On the stainless steel table before him Emilio Fogliani’s body lay in pieces.  The top of his skull had been hinged open and his brain had been removed and now lay in pieces on a stone cutting board beside several other of his internal organs.  His chest cavity had been cut down the centre and was butterflied open.

“Alright.  I assume you’re not just here to scare the bejeezus out of me and you would like some preliminary autopsy results, so let’s get on with it.”

“Yes, ok.”

“Now, Mr. Fogliani here was shot three times at close range.  I believe the first shot was to the upper left quadrant of his chest.  It tore through his aorta and then bounced around his rib cage, fragmenting into several pieces along the way.  The slug pieces are there,” he said pointing to a small stainless steel bowl which rested on a trolley beside his tools of trade.

“It was a fatal wound and he would have been dead in seconds.  The second bullet entered through the upper right quadrant of his chest.  It went through his right lung and exited fairly cleanly through his back in between the fifth and sixth ribs.  It probably wouldn’t have been fatal on its own, not immediately anyway.  The third and final bullet entered through this hole just above his right eye,” he said indicating a small blackened hole with his scalpel.  “It would also have been a fatal wound.  As you can see in the brain here, it has caused considerable damage to the frontal lobe, the temporal lobe and the cerebellum.  This bullet is still in reasonable condition although it has a few dents in it.”

Nelson looked at the grey and gelatinous lump that had been sliced like a deli ham.  He poked at it curiously with his pen.

“Please don’t touch, Nelson.  And next time you come in here I want you to be wearing a full cover suit alright?”

“Sure, ok Doc, wouldn’t want the bodies to catch anything off me.”

“Your shoes are going to stink for a month if you don’t wash them off properly before you leave.”

Nelson checked his shoes and noticed that he was standing in a small pool of blood.  For the hundredth time he made a mental note to put on the protective coveralls before entering the morgue examination rooms.

“What else is there?”

“The lividity present in his buttocks and legs indicate that he was probably sitting down at the time of his death.”  Nelson bent down to look at the dark purple bruise-like patches that had formed under the skin as the blood had pooled in the lowest areas of the body post death.  “Is that consistent with where he was found?”

“Yes, he was found in his car.”

“Makes sense.”

“Anything else Doc?”

“Not really.  There were no other significant injuries to the body.  The toxicology report indicates that Mr. Fogliani had been drinking on the night he died but not to any great excess.  It’s also worth noting that Mr. Fogliani wasn’t in great shape medically.  His lungs show the signs of heavy smoking for many years and were in such bad shape I’m surprised he didn’t carry an oxygen bottle around with him.  Also his liver was well on the way to developing cirrhosis and I found what is more than likely the early stages of bowel cancer.  In short, he probably had no more than five or ten years left in him anyway.”

“You gotta die of something I guess.  Thanks for putting a rush on this Doc.  I appreciate it.”

“No problems.  As soon as I’m done here I’ll send you a copy of the official report.  Then I’ll get someone to put him back together and clean him up so the family can make a positive identification.”

Nelson exited the City Mortuary, glad to leave the stark and sterile environs behind him.  He breathed the outdoor air deeply into his lungs.  The coolness of it seemed to cleanse and refresh him.  Dawn had arrived while he was inside the morgue and brought with it clear skies and another day of cool winds from the south-east.

Fifteen minutes later Nelson hung up on a phone call from Robards who provided an update on the ongoing search for evidence.  Nelson felt upbeat about the case as he bounced up the stairs to the third floor of the Sydney Police Centre, located on Goulburn Street in the city.  It was where the Forensic Services group labs and offices were housed.

Nelson moved down the quiet corridor peering through the glass windows into each of the labs until he found one occupied by Mike Martinez and a young female Constable who Nelson had seen before but never met.  Both of them wore long white lab coats and were bent over a work table illuminated by a bright desk light.

“Morning again Mike.”  Nelson said upon entry, his eyes immediately drawn to the bloodstained clothes from the deceased which were spread out on the tables.  “How’s it coming along?”

Martinez smiled.  “I knew you’d be in a rush so I’ve processed the car and the clothes myself.  Sabine here has been assisting me.”

“Hi Sabine,” said Nelson shaking her extended hand and nodding his head.  “That’s music to my ears Mike.  I’m briefing the Super at nine a.m. and he’s not big on slow moving cases.  Tell me what you’ve got.”  Nelson pulled out his notebook.

“Sure thing.  Based on the level and spread of gunpowder residue and burn marks we found on Fogliani’s shirt, I’ve estimated that the shooter was standing approximately one metre away from Fogliani when he shot him.”

Martinez stepped over to a full sized dummy that was seated in a chair.  The dummy had three long fluorescent green rods inserted into it, replicating the trajectory and entry of the wounds suffered by Emilio Fogliani.

“Allow me to introduce Howard,” Mike said indicating to the dummy.  “He’s agreed to help us out today.”

“Morning Howard,” said Nelson.

“If my estimation that the shooter was standing one metre away is correct I can then deduce that the shooter is approximately five feet six inches to five feet ten inches tall.”  Martinez, who stood five feet eight inches tall on a good day, took his position near the dummy and extended his arm towards it in line with the fluorescent rods to illustrate his point.  Nelson studied the positioning of Martinez arm in relation to the dummy and scribbled a few notes in his pad.  “There were no reflexive defensive wounds on the hands so I assume Fogliani didn’t see it coming.”

“You’re probably right.  Anything of interest on the body?  Any weapons?”

Martinez referred to a clipboard where he had made his notes.

“No, no weapons.  However there was fifteen hundred dollars in cash and plenty of credit cards intact in his wallet.”

“Fifteen hundred dollars?  That’s a lot of cash to be dragging around.”

“For you and I maybe, but maybe not for someone driving around in a brand new hundred grand car.  I wouldn’t know about that.”

“Where is the car?”

“It’s down in the basement for now.  There was nothing of particular interest in it.  In fact, it was impressively clean, probably because it was so new.  The rear and passenger side doors of the car were locked and there was nothing to indicate that anyone else had been inside the vehicle.”

Nelson grunted as he jotted.

“Now as for the cartridges we found at the scene, they were regulation nine millimetre.  We did manage to pull a nice clean intact slug out of the seat lining of the driver’s seat.  Sabine has been analysing it.  Tell him what you found Sabi.”

Nelson turned his attention to the young Constable.

“Unfortunately there isn’t much to say Detective.  As Mike said, it’s a regulation nine millimeter round.  Cheap Chinese crap probably.  I’ve run the striation pattern against our database and didn’t get any hits, so the gun hasn’t been used previously in any other crimes we know of.  Have you been able to locate the murder weapon?”

“No, we haven’t found it yet,” responded Nelson, slightly disheartened, knowing that the murder weapon was the cornerstone of any homicide investigation.

“Well if it turns up we should have a good chance at getting a match.”

Nelson checked his watch and realised he would have to get moving if he was to get across town to Headquarters in time to brief Crighton.

“Alright, thanks guys.  I’d better head back to HQ.”

“Did you find anything in your search of the surrounds?” asked Martinez as Nelson headed for the door.

“Yeah, I think we’ve found something that might interest you.  McAuley will bring it in when they’re finished.”

“Oh?” replied Martinez, quizzically raising an eyebrow.

“Patience my friend,” said Nelson smiling.  “Let the evidence speak for itself.  Isn’t that what you lab rats are always telling me?”

Nelson noted that Sabine laughed generously at his attempt at humour.  He also noted that she wasn’t bad looking and briefly wondered if she might be interested in becoming his future ex-girlfriend.  There was always room for one more.

“I think you’ve been watching too much television Nelson,” replied Martinez.  “But I’ll put a rush job on whatever comes in.”

Chapter 14

It was just past eight a.m. when Nelson made it back to Police Headquarters in Parramatta.  The dark tower, as it was sometimes derogatorily referred to by the lower ranks is located on Charles street, just to the east of the town centre and is a massive sprawling creation of black and green tinted glass, some fifteen stories high.  Nelson parked across the road in the eleven dollars per day dirt car park as only the Commissioned officers – Inspector and above - were rewarded with a car parking space under the building.

Feeling guilty about having barely exercised in the previous week, Nelson took the stairs to the seventh floor which was where the fifty odd members of the Investigative Response team or IRT were housed.  The other two teams in the Homicide squad, the Coronial Investigation Team and the Unsolved or Cold Case team were located upstairs on the eighth floor of the building.  The floor space on the seventh floor was mostly made up of public service style workstations, separated by bland grey partitions.  There were also opaque glass walled offices for the commissioned officers, meeting rooms and four large siege rooms which were used to workshop the larger cases.  Nelson disliked using the siege rooms because half the squad had keys to them, potentially allowing them access to the sensitive case information within.

Nelson exited the stairwell breathing heavily but not exhaustedly and made his way to his desk near the southeast corner of the building.  He treasured his window seat which had views of the city in the distance and when he needed a break he would stare out the window and let his mind wander.

As it was a Saturday morning, the floor was relatively quiet although he still spied a dozen or so heads at the other desks.  Nelson noticed that his immediate supervisor and team leader, Inspector James VanMerle – or Merlot when his back was turned because of his affection for wine - was in his office.  Nelson hoped that he stayed there, at least for the time being, as he tried to avoid Merlot’s company wherever possible because the man depressed the hell out of him.  Despite his reasonable promotional prosperity, VanMerle’s twenty-five years in the service and/or fifty-four years of living, had left him with a permanent half glass empty outlook on life.  If there was a dark lining in a silver cloud VanMerle would find it and share it with whoever would take the time to listen to him.

Nelson knew VanMerle should be briefed on the progress he’d made on the Fogliani case but decided he would wait a little longer as his day had started off badly enough already.  After booting up his computer he skirted VanMerle’s office and went to the kitchen and made himself a coffee, helping himself to somebody else’s milk from the fridge.  He returned to his desk by the same route, eager to make a start on the paperwork while the events of the previous night were still fresh in his memory.

Over the next half hour Nelson worked on his notes and developed a detailed account of case to date.  Apart from the perfunctory greetings to other members of the squad as they walked near his desk he kept to himself and was left alone.  He wanted to avoid any idle chats because a) he didn’t have time and b) he knew there would be questions asked and probably jealousies felt when word got out that he had been given the Fogliani case even though he wasn’t the duty officer for the night.

At five to nine, he printed out his case notes and headed up to the ninth floor where Detective Superintendent Crighton occupied a large and relatively plush office that housed his desk and a medium sized meeting table where he received – or some would say interrogated - his visitors.

Nelson noted that Crighton’s diminutive, fifty year old dark-haired executive assistant Pasha, who sat outside his office, had her back momentarily turned to him as she retrieved something from her desk drawer.  She was nicknamed the Alsatian because of her excellent guarding ability and she was an integral part of enforcing Crighton’s closed door management style.  Pasha’s nickname was well earned as Nelson, and most of the other Homicide squad staff could attest that her bite was an equal match for her bark and most of them had at some stage had strips torn off them by her for some perceived indiscretion.  Sensing a rare opportunity, Nelson silenced his footsteps and sailed past her unseen into Crighton’s office.

Nelson noted that Marie Pastello from the Media Unit had already arrived and was sitting silently across from Crighton at his meeting table.   She was pretty, neat and tidy and efficient - everything you would expect from someone intent on forging a career in public relations.

Crighton’s personal advisor and chief head kicker, Senior Sergeant Nathan Brede was also there.  As with Pasha, Crighton had brought him along from his previous posting when he had been promoted to the position.  Unlike Crighton, Brede had had a decent operational career before switching to his administrative role.  Nelson smiled and nodded at Marie and gave Brede a curt nod before taking his seat.  Along with Pasha, Brede was also on the long list of people that Nelson disliked.  Nelson’s dislike of him stemmed from a previous investigation where sensitive information had been leaked to the media and Brede was his prime suspect.

“Have a seat Detective Sergeant,” said Crighton without looking up from the papers he was reviewing.  Nelson wondered if Crighton had slept since their early morning meeting at the crime scene.  He looked tired and drawn but as usual, alert.

“Alright Detective,” said Crighton pushing aside his papers.  “Tell me what you and Detective Robards have been up to.”

Nelson referred to his case summary and provided a brief update on how the investigation had proceeded.  He chose to leave out any specifics about the evidence that had been discovered because he reasoned that the fewer people who knew the details the better.  He had been burned on several occasions when crucial information in the case he was investigating had somehow found its way into the media, potentially jeapordising his case.

Brede looked at him half smiling, half smirking.  “Is that it?  Is that all you’ve got?  I mean, did you collect any hard evidence from the crime scene Detective?”

“Yes we did,” replied Nelson flatly, knowing where the conversation was headed and gently maneuvering Brede into position.

“And, what is it then.  What did you find?” Brede said, his exasperation and his anger evident in the rising tone of his voice.

“I’d rather keep that to myself right now if you don’t mind,” he replied calmly, looking squarely at Brede for the first time.  “It’s not relevant to the press release and I want to keep the details of the case restricted to as tight a circle as possible.”

Brede’s face turned beetroot red and Nelson had to concentrate in order not to smile.  He was half wondering if Brede was going to have a coronary and he recalled that his first aid certificate had expired so he would be unable to perform CPR on the man.

Before Brede exploded Crighton stepped in.

“Marie, I think you’ve got enough for a first draft of the release.  I need you to get back to me within half an hour please.  Time is of the essence here.”  Crighton turned to Brede.  “Nathan, would you mind excusing us.  I want to speak to Detective Nelson for a moment.”

Brede wordlessly left Crighton’s office, glaring at Nelson from under a heavy brow as he went.

“You seem to have a particular gift for antagonising people Detective,” said Crighton.

“We all have our talents I guess.”

“I’m sure.  Let’s just hope you can put your talents to better use than annoying my support staff.  Now, what can you tell me about Emilio Fogliani’s death Detective?”

“Before I begin, can I ask you question first Boss?”

Crighton gave Nelson a sharp look, further creasing the wrinkles around his eyes which then changed their pattern into something bordering on amusement after a few moments.

“Go ahead Detective.”

“I’d like to know why you chose me and Robards for this case?  I mean, there are a dozen Detectives downstairs with twice as much experience as us put together.  Some people, including VanMerle aren’t going to be happy we got this case.”

Crighton leaned back in his chair, appraising Nelson with a calculating eye.

“I’ve already told you not to worry about Inspector VanMerle.  I’ve spoken with him.  His role is purely administrative these days anyway.  And, as far as why I chose you for this case, well, let’s just say that I haven’t been overly enamoured with the Detectives who were rostered on for duty last night.  I need a good result in this case and I think you and Robards can get it for me.  You’ve got a good track record for getting results in difficult cases and I want to see that continue here.”

Nelson was surprised by the compliment and found himself without a response.

“I see.”

“This could turn out to be a very important case.  If this is related to a gangland war then I want to be on top of it from the outset, even if the Gangs squad isn’t interested.”

Nelson’s mind finally found a comeback to Crighton’s earlier point.

“There are others who get results.”

“I know that,” responded Crighton, waving away Nelson’s comment like a persistent fly.  “I also know that some of the older Detectives cherry pick which cases they work on, often choosing the easiest ones and leaving the harder cases to the younger Detectives.  I also know that some of the Inspectors, including VanMerle, allow this to happen.”

Nelson knew it was true.  Time and again he had been handed the stale cases at the bottom of the pile, the cases with little or no accompanying evidence or witnesses.  The types of cases where there was only a small chance of a quick result.  He took them all on without complaint and worked them energetically and to the best of his ability.  They were all the same to him with the same objective.  Do your best to bring those responsible to justice.

“Now I know you’ve had some internal management issues in some of your cases, however I’m sure that’s all in the past now.”

Nelson pursed his lips into silence.  Crighton’s not so subtle reminder about the times he’d been investigated felt like a cattle prod in his ribs.  He had been investigated three times in the past three years by the Professional Services Command - previously known as Internal Affairs – as a result of official complaints received regarding his conduct during investigations.  Nothing untoward had ever been substantiated and he had been allowed to continue his duties without penalty, however Nelson knew his career had been badly damaged as a result.  The investigations would remain as a permanent stain on his official record and he had been told by other officers who had suffered similar fates that those stains had a habit of resurfacing when transfers or promotions were applied for.  It was a common source of complaint among the front line police that because of the often conflictive nature of their work they inevitably received official complaints – some justified, some not.  While the officers who worked behind the lines, the pen pushers, the report writers, who never left the safety of their desks, who never had to make arrests, retained their pristine record which stood them in good favour come promotion time.

“Those investigations were bullshit,” Nelson said sullenly.

“Maybe they were Detective, but you need to understand that despite what you may or may not have done in your investigations in the past, this is not the sort of case that you will get away with cutting corners on.  This case will be scrutinised from every angle, by me, by the department, by the media and no doubt by the Foglianis.  So although I want you to exercise your best problem solving abilities on this case you need to be very meticulous in how you go about it.  Do I make myself clear?”

“Abundantly.”

“Good.  Now unless you have any more questions I’d like you to give me a full report on your progress.  Leave nothing out this time.”

Nelson put his annoyance aside for the time being and took a deep breath.

“We’ve got a few things going for us.  We found some latex gloves about one hundred and fifty metres from the crime scene.  They had blood on them which is being tested and hopefully matched as we speak.  We also found the discharged firearm cartridges and a couple of intact slugs that can be matched to the murder weapon if we find it.  Robards is presently collecting the security camera video from the warehouses so I’m hopeful we’ll also get something there as the place was well covered.”

Crighton listened intently while Nelson referred to his case summary.

“Also, the SOCOs have taken a few plaster casts of footprints we found nearby in the park.”

After ten minutes of intense clarifying questioning by Crighton which made Nelson feel as if he’d just been cross examined by a QC, he was summarily dismissed.  Upon his exit he gave a saccharine filled greeting to Pasha and in return felt her gaze bore into his back until he was out of her sight.

He returned to his desk and put in a call to Robards.

“It’s Nelson.  How are you travelling?”

“Good.  McAuley left about an hour ago to take the evidence to the lab.  I’ve been through half a dozen of the warehouses looking at their security tapes from last night and I think we might have some good stuff here.  I’m just finishing up now.”

“Good work.  Any sign of the murder weapon?” asked Nelson hopefully.

“No, not yet.  Shooter probably took it with him.  If he had any brains he will have ditched it by now.”

“Alright, when you get back meet me at Meg’s and we can plan out our day.”

“Done.”

Chapter 15

Nelson arrived at Meg’s Café just before ten a.m..  Meg’s was located in the heart of Parramatta on Church Street, a good five minute walk from Headquarters.  Nelson often made the trek to Church Street because he liked the ambience, the coffee club culture.  In contrast, the cafes in the immediate vicinity of Headquarters always seemed full of high ranking police officers, which made him feel uncomfortable when he wanted to discuss a case with colleagues.

Robards was already waiting for him and had taken a table outside under the annex, despite the coolness of the morning.  Nelson had exchanged his large jacket which he had worn to the crime scene, for a grey suit which he kept in his locker at work, but was already beginning to regret it as it was only of summer weight thickness.

“Hi Pete.  Sorry I’m late.  VanMerle nailed me as I was getting my jacket from my desk and I had to fill him in on developments.”

“What did he say about Crighton giving the case to us?”

“He wasn’t happy,” smiled Nelson.  “He spent five minutes telling me how Crighton should have gone through him first.  I told him he should take it up with Crighton and not me, but he’s too gutless to do that.  By the way, I’ve got a present for you.”

Nelson handed Robards a copy of the press release that he had picked up from Marie in the media unit on his way out of the office.  Robards quickly read it.

“Things are moving fast on this one.”

“That’s why they’ve put the A team on it.”

“Who?  Like the movie?”

“No.  Like the series.  Never mind.”

While Nelson proceeded to give Robards a rundown of his meeting with Crighton and his earlier meeting with Martinez a waitress came to take their order.  She was tall and thin with faded blonde hair and had rings of flame tattooed around each wrist.  Nelson’s memory recalled her almost instantly and he remembered that he’d arresting her for drug possession on two occasions when he worked as a Constable at the Cabramatta Police station during a tumultuous ten month stint.  He glanced at her arms and noticed they appeared clean of track marks but decided to order just an apple and banana on the off chance that her memory was as good as his and she was in a mood to play games.  The food was brought out in quick time and Nelson suffered through his fruit as he watched Robards hoe into an enormous serving of scrambled eggs, bacon, toast and coffee.

Ok let’s get to work,” said Nelson without waiting for Robards to finish.  “First things first.  How far did you get with whatsername last night?  What was her name, Agnes?”

Robards laughed with an innocent shrug of his broad shoulders.

“Let’s just say the old Robards charm worked a charm on Agnes, eventually, but your phone call put an end to all that.”

“Oh, sorry about that.  Bad timing I guess.  How was she?”

Robards smiled.  He was the kiss and tell type.  “She was great fun.  It’s often the quiet ones who surprise you the most.”

“Lucky you,” replied Nelson dryly, beginning to feel sorry he’d asked.  “Ok, on to more serious things.  What’s the story with the video?”

“It’s all good.  I’ve got security video from six of the warehouses closest to the crime scene.  I’ve dropped it off with Mike at the lab and he said he’d pass it on to the video techs.”

“Good work.”

“It may take a while to analyse though.  There’s over three hundred hours of it in total.  There were cameras pointing every which way.”

“Hopefully something will turn up.”

“What else have you got in mind for today?  Are we going to pay the family a visit?”

“Yep.  We need to hear what they have to say even though I doubt they’ll be particularly helpful.”

“They take care of their own.”

“Probably, or maybe they’ll surprise us and give us something about what the old man was up to last night.”

”Maybe, I won’t hold my breath though,” replied Robards shoving another large forkful of food into his mouth.

“But first thing after breakfast I want to head back out to the crime scene.  I want to try and get a feel for what happened out there last night.”

Chapter 16

Craig jumped off his sofa and grabbed him mobile off his kitchen bench.  He was tempted to let it ring out but the ring sounded insistent to him even though he knew that was absurd.  He checked the screen and was glad to see it was Bryce.

“Brycey baby.  What are you up to?”

“Not much.  Have you seen the news?”

“No,” replied Craig drowsily.  “I just got outta bed ten minutes ago.”

“But it’s ten-thirty!”

“Is it?  I couldn’t sleep so I took a couple of pills to help me out.  God I feel like crap now though.  What news?”

“It was Fogliani.  Emilio Fogliani.”

“Who?  What?  What are you on about?” he said shaking his head in an attempt to clear out the fog.

“That thing you saw in St Peters last night.”  Bryce said, his voice was insistent and with an edge to it.  “It was Emilio Fogliani. You know, the underworld guy.”

Craig’s mind finally started to process the information.  His blue eyes stared unseeing at the wall.

“Oh shit.  I’m not liking this at all.  I think I should disappear for a while.”

“What?  Why?  Why would you do that?  You didn’t do anything wrong?  You were telling the truth last night weren’t you?” asked Bryce, with a slight note of accusation seeping subconsciously into his tone.

“Of course I was.  It went down just as I said.” Craig snapped defensively.  “Do you think I’d lie about something like this?”

“No, of course not.  Sorry.  Well then you don’t have anything to worry about do you?”

“I’m not so sure, I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

“Just relax.  I’m sure they’ll get the guy who did it and that’ll be the end of it.  As you said last night, this has nothing to do with us.”

Chapter 17

A pale, weak, winter sun hung low in the northern sky as Robards and Nelson arrived back at the crime scene.  It provided just enough warmth to slowly dry the dew off the grass in the adjoining park but little more than that.  Nothing was warm.

On the drive to St Peters, Robards had set up a meeting with Michael Fogliani.  The appointment was for midday at his office in the city so the two Detectives had almost an hour to kill.

A single Constable from the Newtown Local Area Command stoically continued to guard the crime scene - which was now just an empty, blocked off driveway - much to the consternation of those who needed to use it to access the rear of the warehouse.

The media scrum had arrived in force from eight a.m. onwards.  They got their footage of their journalists standing in front of the vacant crime scene, interviewed a few of the local workers, were frustrated by the stonewalling of the stoic Constable and had mostly moved on to the next story.  Now just a mere handful of the most persistent remained, hoping for an unlikely scoop on further developments.  Although it was Saturday, most of the warehouses and depots seemed to be a hive of activity.  A few workers on their breaks stood by watching and thinking how poorly the investigation compared to the shows they watched on the TV.

Nelson always returned to a crime scene at least once.  It was what he did.  He had lost count of the number of times he had learned something new about a case from revisiting the crime scene on his second or third visit.  He liked to get a feel for it, to take the time to soak it in and search for the details that he may have missed first time around.

“Alright Pete, you be Emilio Fogliani and I’ll be the killer.”

“Why do I always have to be the victim?”  Robards knew better than to argue but he did anyway.  Nelson always got to be the murderer.  He was good at it too.  He had an almost uncanny ability to put himself in other people’s shoes and get a feel for what they were doing and thinking at the time of the crime.

“Ok, so I’m thinking that Fogliani either came out here to meet someone or was planning a robbery or something.  You wouldn’t come out here on your own in the middle of the night just to sit in your car and think about life,” started Nelson.  “What do they store in the warehouse?” he said, nodding toward the closest building.

“The guy I spoke to said it’s basically just a depot to house imported gardening supplies.”

“Seems an unlikely target then, unless he had a big backyard or unless they were importing drugs at the same time or something.  That’s been done before.”

“Maybe.  Seems legit though.”

“I wonder if the Foglianis lease or own any floor space around here.”

“Good question.  We can ask them later.”

“Anyway, whatever the reason he was here, he was sitting in his car at the time he was shot,” said Nelson, indicating the rectangular outline that had been taped on the ground where the car had been parked.

“And as far as we can tell, he came alone,” added Robards.

“Why would he do that?  I mean why would he be out here alone in the middle of the night?”

Nelson watched as Robards thought hard.

“It would have to be a meeting.  But I wouldn’t come out here in the middle of the night unless I was armed.”

“But we didn’t find any weapon on Fogliani did we?  And the body didn’t appear to have been tampered with because he still had eight hundred bucks in his wallet, so let’s assume for the time being that he didn’t bring a weapon.”

“It was fifteen hundred bucks, not eight hundred.  That would mean that he felt comfortable, not threatened by whoever he was coming to meet.  Maybe it was an old friend, or a business associate, or even a woman.”

“Right.  He’s not stupid.  Gangsters don’t normally live to become sixty-one year old Grandpas unless they’re ahead of the game.”

Robards moved to a position inside the rectangular outline and pretended to be Emilio Fogliani sitting in his car.  Nelson stood where he thought the shooter would have fired from based on the information supplied by Mike Martinez.  The few journalists who had remained on site focused their attention and their cameras on the two Detectives who acted out their macabre play in front of them.

“But then, while he was waiting, someone walked up to the car and bam, bam, bam, shot him in the chest and head.”

Nelson tried to imagine the scene but struggled to bring it to life.  He shook his head and massaged the back of his neck, trying to fight off the lethargy that felt like it was seeping into his mind.  He was ready for another coffee whereas Robards, who was existing on even less sleep than him, still looked sharp.

“I’m just not feeling this one Pete.  Nothing feels right.  Have you got any ideas?”

Pete Robards rubbed his chin for a moment as he thought.

“I’m thinking, that because there were no defensive wounds on the body, he probably didn’t see it coming.  That either the person who he was meeting pulled out a gun and shot him before he had a chance to react, or maybe the shooter sneaked up to the car and completely surprised him.”

Nelson surveyed the area from where he was standing, trying to mentally factor in Robards’ theories.

“That sounds reasonable and yet….”

“What?  What is it?”

“Well in some ways it smells like a hit.  I mean, the money was left in the wallet, he was out here in this place in the middle of the night alone, and he was shot from close range.  It has characteristics of a clean, well organised hit.”

“But why does someone decide to whack a retired sixty-one year old gangster?  Why now?”

“That’s the sixty-four dollar question.  Let’s go ask Michael Fogliani what he thinks.”

Chapter 18

Michael Fogliani’s company offices were located on the thirty-third floor of the Dresden Place office block on Pitt Street in the centre of the city.  Nelson insisted on stopping for a bottle of water and a ham and salad sandwich from the little café in the foyer to fill the gnawing hole in his stomach that the fruit he had eaten earlier had not even gone close to filling.  He and Robards rode the high speed elevator to their destination, yawning to pop their ears as they ascended.

“Why don’t you take the lead on this one Pete,” Nelson muffled through a mouthful.  “I’ll butt in when I’m good and ready.”

“Sure thing.”

Nelson tucked the remainder of his sandwich into his pocket as they pushed through the glass doors of the offices which occupied a quarter of the floor.  They were greeted by a young woman wearing a professional looking business suit and a lustrous olive complexion who ushered them to a comfortable leather couch in the foyer.  She politely asked them to wait for Michael Fogliani to finish up a conference call.  Nelson occupied himself with the remainder of his sandwich while they waited.

After twenty minutes, Michael Fogliani came out to greet them, accompanied by another man.  Fogliani was immaculately dressed in what Nelson guessed was a thousand dollar Italian suit but Robards knew was actually closer to four thousand.  It made Nelson momentarily peruse his own apparel which he knew could not compete.

“Sorry to keep you waiting Detectives,” he said, shaking hands with each Detective and meeting their eyes.  “This is my family solicitor David Marini,” he said, introducing the tall, lean man at his side.  “I’d like him to sit in on our conversation if that’s alright.”  Nelson wasn’t surprised by the addition.  He thought to himself that Michael Fogliani probably didn’t even take a crap without a solicitor present to advise him of any potential ramifications.  Nelson and Robards exchanged brief handshakes and tight smiles with the solicitor who smiled back at them like a shark circling a school of baitfish.

“Let’s go to my office where we can be more comfortable.”

Fogliani led them to his office which occupied a sizeable portion of the office space.  Robards’ and Nelson’s eyes were immediately drawn to the view which stretched out to forever, taking in the harbour, the heads and the Pacific Ocean beyond.  The exterior walls were floor to ceiling glass and Nelson felt a brief moment of vertiginous anxiety as he looked straight down to the street one hundred metres below.

Fogliani took his seat behind a large oak desk and his solicitor sat beside him.  Two against two.

“Firstly let me say I’m sorry for your loss Mr Fogliani,” began Robards.  “I’m sure this can’t be an easy time for you so we’ll try and be as brief as possible.”

“Thank you Detective,” said Fogliani nodding sadly.  He took a deep breath, determined to keep his raw grief internalised and avoid another public display of his emotions.  “These are nice offices, can I ask what sort of business you’re in Mr. Fogliani?”

“Please, call me Michael,” he responded, glad for a less taxing subject.  “We do many things here, mostly though we run an investment company.  People pay me to invest their money for them.”

“Stocks and bonds?” added Robards hopefully.

“Some.  We also invest in a few offshore projects and we operate a couple of restaurants and a transport company.”

Robards nodded as if he was interested while Nelson just sat, quietly listening.

“Michael, we need to know why your uncle was at St Peters at ten p.m. last night.  Have you got any idea why he was there or if he was meeting someone?”

Fogliani thought for a moment as if examining the question for a trap.

“No Detective.  My uncle didn’t tell me where he was going last night.  If he went to St Peters to meet someone then I don’t know who it was.  He was a private man who liked to keep his own counsel.”

Robards looked toward Nelson, wondering if he wanted to ask anything, but he just sat silently, with his hands clasped on his lap, as if waiting for a bus.

“Is there anyone else in your family, perhaps his wife or some of his associates who might know what he was doing last night?”

“No,” replied Fogliani firmly.  “And I’d prefer that you ask your questions of me and don’t bother my family.  I’m sure you understand that they’re too distraught to speak to you right now.  It has affected my mother and aunt very badly.”

“Of course.  Does your family have any business interests in the St Peters area?”

“No.  Not in St Peters at least.  We have a couple of warehouses but they’re in the inner west area.”

“I see.  Was your uncle involved in any bad business dealings?” tried Robards again, trying to hide the note of frustration that was creeping into his voice.

“No.  He was pretty much retired.  He helped me out in the business occasionally, but for the most part he played golf and cards with his friends at the club.”

Robards continued to forge onward.  “Is there anyone you know who might want to harm you uncle?  Did he have any enemies?”

“No Detective, not that I know of.  He was loved and respected by those who knew him.  In our line of business we have many competitors, but that is all they are, competitors, not enemies.”

Nelson watched him and noticed that the lie came easily.  It didn’t take a genius to figure out that someone who had spent the last forty years of their life screwing people over would have a list of enemies as long as his dead arm.  He shook his head and smiled.

“Is there something amusing Detective?” asked the solicitor, noticing Nelson’s gesture.

Nelson looked at him but then provided his response directly to Fogliani.

“Yes, there is something funny.  What’s funny is that you think we have enough spare time to sit here and listen to all of your bullshit answers.  We’re trying to find your uncle’s killer for god sake, but you’re not going to lift a finger to help us are you?”

Michael Fogliani and his solicitor sat dumbstruck by Nelson’s comments.

“I think I understand though.  You might be well educated and sit up here in your nice office, but under your clothes and under your skin you’re still your father’s son and your uncle’s nephew and you’re not going to give us anything because that’s not the way the Fogliani family operates is it?  At the end of the day we’re still the enemy to you aren’t we, even if we’re trying to help you?”

Michael Fogliani’s face turned bright red

“You’ve no right to talk to my client in this manner,” said Marini, already tossing around some potential legal options in his mind.

Nelson ignored the comment.  “Now I’m going to ask you one more time Michael.  Do you know who your uncle was going to meet at the St Peters industrial area last night?”  Nelson sounded out his words slowly, as if speaking to a child.

“No Detective, I do not know,” replied Fogliani through clenched teeth, holding Nelson’s gaze.

“Do you know anyone who might want to kill your uncle?  Actually, let me rephrase that.  Among the people that your uncle has robbed, cheated or hurt during his lifetime, do you have any idea which of them might have been responsible for killing him?”

Michael Fogliani seemed to involuntarily gasp which he quickly converted into a clearing of his throat.

“No Detective.  As I said, I honestly have no idea who might be responsible for the death of my uncle.  I can’t force you to believe me, but over the last ten years my uncle has left his past ways behind him.  He is, was, an old man for god sake.”

Satisfied that Fogliani either didn’t know who his uncle was meeting or wouldn’t share the information if he did know, Nelson stood up to leave.

“Michael, one last thing.  You might think the best way of dealing with your uncle’s death is to give us nothing and then tear up the city seeking vengeance on anyone who was remotely linked to his death, but guess what, the people of this city don’t want gang warfare on the street, so if you’re thinking of starting something, then don’t.  It’s my job to find the killer and that’s exactly what I’m going to do, ok?  So don’t go getting in my way.”

Chapter 19

Nelson and Robards cleared the city centre heading west on the M4 on making their way back to Headquarters.  At one p.m. on a Saturday afternoon the traffic was about as good as it got and they sat on one hundred kilometres per hour for the most part.

“Well I think that went well,” said Nelson, with a straight face that a B grade actor would have been proud of.

“You’re kidding aren’t you?” replied Robards looking at him in disbelief.  “Why’d you have to go so hard at him like that?”

“Because he was stonewalling us and wasting our time.  Better to set him straight and know that we’re not going to take his crap.”

“Do you think he’ll make a complaint to Crighton?”

Nelson considered the thought for the first time.

“Maybe.  Doubt it though.  I reckon his family doesn’t talk to cops unless they absolutely have to.  It’s who they are.”

They lapsed into silence until Robards’ mobile started ringing to the tune of the pop song that was currently sitting at number one on the download charts.  Nelson frowned at the noise as it scrambled his thoughts.  He tried to follow the audible side of the conversation and became increasingly intrigued.  After Robards hung up it took all of Nelson’s control not to immediately start interrogating him like a serial murder suspect.  Sensing this, Robards focused his attention out the car window as the world sped by in a series of grey flashes.  Nelson not-so-patiently waited him out and after a long minute Robards put him out of his misery.

“That was Sabine from the lab.  She’s got some good news for us.”

“Why’d she call you and not me?”

“Maybe she finds me irresistible.  She’s only human.  Or maybe your phone has gone flat again.  She said she tried to call you but it went to voicemail.  Don’t you ever charge it?”

Nelson checked his phone and realised it was indeed flat.

“Shit.  I only charged this thing a couple of days ago.  It’s a piece of crap.  I need to get a new one but that cow Sharon in supplies, treats every new requisition as if the money was coming out of her own pocket.”

“Are you finished?”

“Sorry.  You were saying something about good news?”

“Yep.  The blood on the gloves we found at the crime scene is a match to Emilio Fogliani.  And it gets better.”  Again Robards paused overly long for effect like a reality TV show host about to announce who had been voted out of the show, and in the process, turned another fifty of Nelson’s hairs grey.  “She found a couple of fingerprints on the inside of the glove and CISB were able to get us a match.  The guy’s got some priors too.”

The Criminal Identification Specialist Branch or CISB for short, was part of the Forensic Services Group and specialised in all aspects of identification of suspects and offenders, particularly in the area of fingerprint examination.

Nelson pumped his fist in pure delight.  It was as animated as Robards had ever seen him.  Nelson slammed the steering wheel of the car a couple of times for good measure.

“That’s great news.  It’s the break I was hoping for.  Sounds like we’ve got enough for a warrant on this guy.  When we get back I want you to put a profile of him together so we know who we’re dealing with and track down a current address for him so we can pay him a visit.”

“Consider it done,” said an equally jubilant Robards, savouring the natural high that came with a breakthrough on an important case.  “We’re going to nail this bastard to the wall.”

“After that you’d better go talk to Crighton and let him know what’s going on.  But don’t go talking to that fat seal Brede.  He’s got a big mouth.  If Crighton wants to fill him in then so be it.”

Robards smiled broadly.  Giving Crighton some good news was his kind of job.

“Will do boss.”  It was one of the good things about working with Nelson in that wherever possible he hived off any jobs that even remotely resembled public relations, preferring to stay behind the scenes and concentrate on doing the ground work.  It gave Robards the opportunity to increase his profile.

“When you get an address for the suspect, get someone to sit on him until we get the warrant ready.  Get Bovis if he’s available, he won’t do anything stupid.”

Constable Bovis was a mature aged recruit to the N.S.W. Police Force and despite being thirty-one, was the most junior member of Inspector VanMerle’s Detective team.  Nelson liked him because he had more common sense than some of the young hotshots that came to the Homicide squad eager to make a name for themselves.

“In the meantime,” continued Nelson, “I’ll keep the paperwork going and check up on the final autopsy results and with forensics.  I’ll also find out if anything has come up on the video tape yet.  Hopefully, touch wood,” said Nelson tapping himself on the head, “things will start to fall into place now.”

When they reached headquarters, Nelson and Robards divided and went about their allotted tasks.  Nelson sat at his desk and fired up his computer.  While he waited for it he thought about how the gloves fitted into the case.  It was a good breakthrough and had the effect of re-energising his wearying body as if he’d skulled ten cups of coffee.  He was looking forward to an afternoon of methodically analysing the various streams of evidence they now had and building a picture of what went down in St Peters in the middle of the night.

Nelson checked his email and found a copy of Arnold Faulkner’s autopsy report waiting for him in his inbox.  He quickly scanned through the report and noted that there was no new information of any great importance.  Plain and simply, Emilio Fogliani had been shot three times from close range and had died as a result of the gunshot wounds.

“It’s a no-brainer,” said Nelson quietly to himself as he read it and then laughed at his little joke.

He put in a call to Mike Martinez in the forensics lab.

“Hi Mike, it’s Nelson again.”

“Hey Nelson.  I was just about to call you.”

“Sure you were.  That’s what all the girls say to me too.”

“That doesn’t surprise me somehow.  Anyway, it’s great news about the gloves.  I’m glad we could help you cake-eaters fill in a piece of the puzzle.”

“Makes a nice change.  Have you got anything new for me other than your insults?”

“Yeah, we managed to match the footprint plaster cast that was taken at the scene to a type of fairly expensive hiking boot that’s mostly sold in a number of outlets specialising in outdoor stuff.”

“Outdoor stuff?  Like camping stores?”

“Yeah.  It’s a good print too, so if you can find the boot we should be able to match it up pretty easy.”

“Good.”  Nelson was pleased with the way the evidence was starting to stack up.  He hadn’t expected the footprint to somehow miraculously identify its owner but knew that if they could find the person who had made the footprint, matching it would be another nail in their coffin.  Nelson’s goal in every case was to build a bank of overwhelming evidence, so that the accused had no room to wriggle out, no matter how good his lawyer was.

“Anything new on the slugs or cartridges?”

“No, we’ve run all the tests we could.  There’s nothing else of interest there.  Just find us the gun and we’ll tie up a match for you.”

“I’m working on it.  I’ll let you know if we find anything.”

As he hung up he noticed the red light on his phone.  He checked his voicemail and listened to the message from his roommate asking him if he was interested in going out for a card night at one of his mates places.  As tempting as the invitation sounded, he decided cards would have to wait for another night.

There were no other phone messages and he reflected that the positive side of Crighton’s tight control over the information being released about the case meant that he’d received no calls from journalists, although he guessed that Marie in the Media unit was having a busy day.  Interest from other sources however was constant.  News about the case had spread fast and wide through the Homicide Squad and several of the Detectives who were about the office were a regular source of interruption to his work.  Some offered Nelson their assistance on the case and others offered opinions on how Nelson should proceed with the case without knowing the full scope of the evidence that he was tightly guarding.  Nelson politely accepted the advice while at the same time tried to give the realistic impression that he was very busy.  Inspector VanMerle was the most persistent visitor and hung around Nelson’s desk like a bad smell and the pungent green tea that he habitually drank during work hours certainly did emit a bad smell.  Nelson gave him a brief update on the case and thereafter tried to limit his side of the conversation to one word answers.  Nevertheless, it was nearly twenty minutes of Nelson’s life that was wasted, never to be returned, before VanMerle finally got the message and returned to his office to work on his myriad of monthly reports.  Nelson almost felt sorry for him but the feeling quickly passed.

After he was satisfied that he was fully up to date with the paperwork on the case - including the litany of mandatory forms and reports that seemed to increase in numeracy and complexity each year - he put in a call to the video technician who had been burdened with the unenviable job of trolling through the warehouse security footage.  After discovering that the tech had been at it all day and had only reviewed less than a third of the video and had found little of interest, Nelson decided to offer him a hand which was gratefully accepted.

Nelson phoned his roommate and reluctantly declined the invitation to the cards night.  He turned off his computer, locked his three drawer cabinet with the files inside and made the trip back into the city to the Sydney Police Centre.  He spent the next six hours looking for the proverbial needle in the haystack with the video tech, however, his persistence was eventually rewarded.

Chapter 20

At one a.m. in the morning the winter rain came down in Sydney in sheets, turning the already dark and moonless night the colour of squid ink.  Boots quietly splashed through small torrents in the gutters and then moved quickly into the shadows.  No sounds above the hammer of the rain were made, no voices could be heard, no careless clink of metal on metal, as six men moved quietly through the night toward their target.

As the rain beat down, a man’s body moved rhythmically back and forward, thrusting firmly and deeply into the moaning woman on her hands and knees before him.  His skin was brown and stretched taut over his muscled back.  The monochromatic blue tattoo of an octopus on his right shoulder swayed with his pulsating muscles as if it were alive and swimming in the sea’s current.

Dressed all in black to mix with the shadows of the night the six men leapt up the twenty steps to reach their final destination.  Their assault rifles poised, their balaclavas covering their faces, their hands making quick, abrupt and meaningful signals to each other as they moved into position.

The woman’s body was soft, white and pliant.  Her moans came louder as he touched deep inside her.  Her sounds were covered by the falling rain.

Excitement was building, the heady rush of adrenalin coursing through the men’s veins, everyone ready and tense.  They could hear sounds now from inside and it added to their excitement, their readiness.

He moved faster back and forward and she moved with him, louder, faster, just a little longer, just a little more, almost there.

Back and forth, swung the key - a twenty kilo sledge hammer with handles - wielded easily, by the team’s biggest man, a man with Vikings for ancestors named Lars.  It connected with the door’s cheap barrel lock and exploded the door frame into a shower of splintered wood.  The six men poured through the opening in two seconds, guns raised, shouting verification.

Craig Thoms was watching a Foxtel repeat of Sydney versus Essendon.  It was hardly entertaining stuff as the Swans had as usual kicked only a handful of goals until halftime but there was little else on television at that time of night other than mindless infomercials.  He was still having trouble sleeping.  As his door disintegrated he jumped a nautical mile off his couch, his beer spilling over his jeans and shirt.  It was all he could do to hold on to the contents of his already tight bladder as the masked, black clad men, rushed into his living room making one hell of an entrance.  He looked at them in silent surprise, his mouth agape.  Three of them immediately closed in on him and threw him roughly to the floor.  His faced was pushed hard into the carpet and all he could see apart from how dirty his carpet looked, was several pairs of black boots moving quickly through the other rooms.  Knees were none too gently placed in his right hamstring, left kidney and head.  His wrists and feet were zipped tightly together with plastic ties.

“Clear!” yelled the members of the Tactical Response Group who had rapidly searched his apartment.  Their job finished, they exited as quickly as they had arrived, giving each other high fives, followed up with prolonged gangsta style handshakes.  Detective Robards thanked them on their way out, entered the room and yanked the ninety-five kilogram frame of Craig Thoms to his feet, demonstrating his considerable strength.

“Take it easy champ.  I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if I have to.”

Craig regarded the small blue eyes beneath the hooded brow that showed several scars from previous battles and believed him.  Robards propped Craig up against the wall and patted him down roughly, removing his wallet from his back pocket.  He checked the name on the licence and compared it to the man who stood before him.

“It’s him.  We got him,” he called over his shoulder to Constable Bovis who had followed him in.  Robards regarded the man in front of him anew.

“I’m Detective Senior Constable Robards, are you Craig John Thoms?”

“Sure.  That’s me.  What can I do for you Detective?”  Robards smiled grimly and wondered if he had a smart arse on his hands.

“I have a warrant for your arrest and also to search your premises.”

“What for?”  It was a genuine question.  Craig wondered which of his discretions with the law had caught up with him.

“The murder of Emilio Fogliani.”

Robard’s accusation came as a shock to Craig and yet in some ways it was just confirmation and fulfillment of a growing unease that had been plaguing him since the night before.  It had kept him awake at night and had nagged at his consciousness throughout the day.  It was a vague but persistent feeling that something was wrong, something didn’t make sense, that his luck had fled from him.

“So what happens now?”

“We’re gonna to search your place for evidence.  Constable Bovis here will read you your rights and then you’ll be transported to the Parramatta Police Station where you’ll be charged with murder and held until your bail appearance.”

Craig’s Westmead apartment fell in the jurisdiction of the Parramatta Local Area Command and the Parramatta Police Station was only five minutes walk up Macquarie Street from Headquarters.

“Once we’ve finished up here my partner and I will come and formally interview you.  Understand?”

“Yes.  Do I need a solicitor or something?”

“That’s up to you champ.  The Custody Sergeant who charges you will fill you in on your options when you get there.”

Robards gave a few quiet instructions to Bovis and watched with a grin as Craig Thoms was taken away.

Ten minutes later, Nelson picked his way through the debris of the smashed front door and pulled down his large golf umbrella.  His noted with mild annoyance that his pants had still managed to get soaked as he had made his way through the downpour.

“Sorry I’m late.  I tried to get here as fast as I could.  Family emergency.  Trust me, you don’t want to know.  Did I miss anything exciting?”

Robards eyed him curiously.  Nelson had phoned him just an hour before the prescribed time for the raid and briefly told him that he would be unavoidably delayed.  He instructed Robards to go ahead with the raid and had hung up before Robards had a chance to protest.

“Not really.  We got him.  Bovis and Trimboli just left to take him to the Parramatta station.

“No injuries?”

“Na, the TRG locked it down tight.  It was just him in the apartment.”

“Good.”  Nelson looked around the small living room, noticing the faded and torn blue couch, old wooden coffee table and small CRT television.  “Nice place hey?”

“Yeah.  By the looks of him and his crappy apartment he’s probably your run of the mill deadbeat loser.”

“Alright.  Let’s get on with the search,” said Nelson. “How far have you got?”

“Not very.”

Robards showed Nelson through the one bedroom apartment.  It had outdated seventies décor, the type of which hadn’t yet, and probably never would, come back into style.  It was cramped and generally untidy.  Two SOCOs had been waiting in the wings for the apartment to be secured and were now literally picking their way through Craig Thoms’ dirty laundry.

Nelson’s phone started vibrating in his pocket.

“It’s Superintendent Crighton.  How did the raid go Detective?”

Nelson checked his watch and noted that it was one-twenty a.m..

“Don’t you ever sleep?” asked Nelson.

“Last time I checked it was my job to know what is happening in the Homicide Squad Detective.  Now, how did you go?”

Nelson had wanted to keep the news about the arrest of the suspect quiet until he had a chance to interview him and hear what he had to say, just in case it somehow turned out to be nothing more than a very embarrassing mistake.  It had happened before.  Three years previously Nelson had been involved in a case where the body of a young woman had been unearthed by a bulldozer that was clearing a proposed construction site.  Nelson had worked the case with his then mentor, Detective Senior Sergeant Mick Neale, or Mad Mick Neale as he was referred to by some officers in the Squad.  They had worked the case night and day and were absolutely certain that all the evidence pointed to a well known local deviant who had harassed the young woman on a previous occasion.  When he was finally located, they brought him in for questioning, full of certainty in their case, only to have it spectacularly fall apart when it was discovered that when the crime was committed, the suspect was serving a three month sentence in another state.  They had ignored all other leads on the case because they were so certain they had their man, but by the time they realised their error, the case had gone cold and no arrest was ever made on the case.  The thought of it still stung now.  Nelson sighed and resigned himself to briefing Crighton.

“It went well.  The suspect has been taken into custody and we’ve just begun to search his apartment.”

“That’s good news Detective.  Well done.”

“Let’s not get too excited yet boss.  It’s early days.”

“Of course.   But I’d like to be kept updated on this.”

“Will do boss.”

For the next two hours, Nelson, Robards and the pair of SOCOs methodically searched the small apartment.  It was five a.m. when they finished, by which time Nelson felt exhausted.  He had managed a few hours sleep earlier in the night, but his body clock knew it had been badly shortchanged.  Even the usually bullet-proof Robards was beginning to look worn around the edges.  Dark circles had formed under his eyes and his whole body slumped from exhaustion.  Nelson decided to go home and freshen up with a cat nap, a shower and some fresh clothes and he told Robards to do the same.  They would let Craig Thoms stew in lockup until they were ready to put their questions to him.

Chapter 21

The rain continued to sheet down as two bodies erupted together in an apex of pleasure.  Kylie Faulkner let out a banshee-like scream that startled awake several of Manuel Torres’ more immediate neighbours and he interrupted his own afterglow to laugh out loud and marvel at his obvious expertise.

They collapsed on the bed beside each other, bathed in sweat and temporarily unaware of the cold air inside the apartment.  Manuel, breathing heavily, smiled at her wholeheartedly and completely.  She smiled back, knowing that he had fallen hard for her and would do whatever she asked of him, he had proven that already.

It had been easier than she expected.  When she first came into contact with Manuel Torres, a twist of fear had knotted inside her stomach.  His face seemed so hard and implacable.  It was rare for her to feel fear and it gave her a small thrill while it lasted.

However it hadn’t taken long for her to realise that his face was just a mask, similar to the many different masks she had worn over the years when she wanted or needed to be someone else.  His was a mask worn for protection, developed during his seven years in prison where he learned to show little or no emotion, more specifically no weakness, so that the gaze of the lions that hunted in packs within those walls passed over him and turned their attention elsewhere.

It was a mask that she was soon able to remove from him once they were alone together.  Beneath the tough exterior she found that he was gentle, inexperienced and an emotionally stunted young man.  At that point her task became much easier.  Using her mind and body, she sensed his needs and his desires and appeased them willingly and completely.  He was soon overcome.  It wasn’t the first time she had used men to get what she wanted, a promotion, a favour or just money.  She understood men and considered them all to be simplistic creatures who never deviated far from a sameness that was easily exploited.  Their attention was caught by a stare and a smile and their minds were like clay, to be moulded into the required shape after she had enticed them with her body.  Sex was the tool of choice against all of them, something to even the ledger against their size and power.

Manuel Torres’ previous seven years had been filled with pain and emptiness which she now replaced with an intoxicating mixture of joy and pleasure, the likes of which he had never experienced before.  It had taken just a few weeks to insinuate herself into his life and his mind.

He told her of his time in prison during their third week together.  The stories saddened one part of her mind and excited another darker part.  She watched as he choked back his emotions, deeply buried, as he told her harrowing stories of gang rape, savage beatings and other depraved human behaviour he had experienced and witnessed in jail.  She contorted her pretty face to display sadness and understanding for him, while underneath laughed at his weakness.

In their fourth week together he told her of his secret plans, plans which she already knew about before they had even met.  It was why she had chosen him in the first place.  He had been sworn to secrecy, lives depended on it, including his own.  But such was his devotion, and her control over him, he volunteered the information and willingly placed his life in her hands.

By then her own plans had been carefully formulated to blend seamlessly with his.  She accepted it as fate that their paths had crossed.  Fate, coming to assist her in her quest for justice, a quest that had begun many years before, but had only recently begun to form into an actual shape.

She remembered the moment when she knew he was completely hers, like a sixteen year old schoolboy in love for the first time.

“Do you love me?” she had asked him after a long and tiring session in his bedroom.

“I do.  I love you.”   She appraised him minutely, carefully weighing the tone of his words and searching his face and body language for any hint of male insincerity.  She smiled when she found none.  He was hers for the taking.

“I want to help you.” she had said.  Then she had leaned close to him and placed a small seed of an idea into his mind.  She nurtured it and grew it in him, gently directing it toward the fulmination of her own plans, and so artful was her manipulation, that in the end, he considered it to be his creation, his idea.

The plan had been unnecessarily complex, she knew that, but she had fallen in love with its symmetry and its deliverance of natural justice.

Chapter 22

As she lay on the bed beside Manuel, Kylie’s green eyes gazed out the window to the blue morning sky beyond which showed no hint of the previous night’s rain.  Her mind reached back into the past and she remembered a time from long ago, the last time she could remember ever being truly happy.  It was a simple weekend trip from Canberra to the south coast of New South Wales with her parents.  It began with the singing of the usual road trip songs and ended when she awoke in complete blackness with water rushing into the car, already up to her knees and coming up fast.  She screamed but her parents didn’t answer.  She had instinctively known they were dead and that they could not be helped.  While there was still time she rolled down her window.  She gasped as the cold water flooded into the car and enveloped her body.  She waited until the car’s cabin was almost full and the inflow of the water had slowed before sliding her slim teenage body through the opening and blindly searching for the surface in the dark waters.

Misery touched her life that day and would remain a regular companion thereafter.  After a week in hospital she was visited by her Aunt Maggie, who despite being her only living relative she had met only twice some years previously.  Although her mother and her aunt were born of the same parents, their indifference toward each other had grown through the years and was sufficient to overcome their blood ties.  Her mother had rarely spoken of her sister and on the rare occasion that she did, she maintained they had simply drifted apart over time and neither had made the effort to bridge the gap.

In the ensuing days in hospital Kylie Faulkner came to understand that arrangements were being made for her to go and live in Cooma with her aunt and her defacto Lester after she was released from hospital.  She didn’t want to move to another town and live with people she barely knew but as she was still a minor she was given little choice in the matter.

In time, her physical injuries from the accident, which included a fractured ankle and several deep lacerations, healed to become only thin white scars on her pale skin, but the scars that couldn’t be seen, the ones in her mind, remained open and infected.  She was traumatised by her parents’ deaths and was troubled by nightmares and flashbacks of the crash, and would break out into a cold sweat whenever she travelled in a car.  In addition to her problems she was uprooted from her comfortable middle class life in Canberra to the seemingly perennially frost bitten and fog laden Cooma.

Although Aunt Maggie had similar facial features to Kylie’s mother, unfortunately that was where the similarities ended.  While Kylie remembered her mother as being a slim, pleasant woman with an easy going soul, Maggie was a short, dumpy and taciturn woman who rarely smiled because she found little in her life to smile about.  Her hair was cut boyishly short, she wore no makeup and dressed in clothes of a style that helped to date her ten years beyond her forty-seven years.

Her defacto Lester, who for some reason she had put up with for thirteen years of her life, was a fifty-five year old semi-functioning alcoholic who somehow managed to hold down a part time job as the local broker for an insurance company.  He was overweight, slovenly and his predilection for gambling and consuming enormous quantities of alcohol managed to keep the small family poor, despite Maggie earning reasonable money as a nurse at the local hospital.  The more they earned the more he spent.  Despite his habits, Maggie complained little and Kylie often wondered how the pair had come to be together.  She thought that perhaps it was an example of a relationship between two people who had stayed together for lack of anything better immediately on offer.

In the first few months of living with them, Lester had maintained a cool indifference towards Kylie in the presence of her aunt.  But when Maggie was absent, Kylie soon felt his eyes upon her, feeling their way over her young body and resting on certain places that are unique to a woman and strangely enticing to a man.  In time, as his boldness grew, the glances turned to stares and then in turn to lascivious leers.  Even though Kylie was still at the fledgling stage of her development to womanhood she reminded Lester that he still had the same urges of a younger man.

Once a month, as part of her duties at the local hospital, Maggie travelled with a doctor to conduct regional clinics in some of the many small settlements dotted throughout the Snowy Mountains.  It was an arduous, whistle-stop, two day tour and required an overnight stay at Cabramurra if all went according to plan on the first day.  It was during the third road trip since Kylie came to live with them that Lester made his big move.

Kylie awoke to the sound of keys being fumbled at the front door at around two a.m..  She had heard it all before as Lester went out drinking at least three nights a week and stumbled home, either at closing time or when he had run out of money, whichever came first.  It was a bitterly cold night of around minus seven degrees Celsius and Kylie groaned at being woken and pulled her doona tight around her.  After several unsuccessful attempts to identify and insert the correct key, Lester eventually made it inside.  Kylie listened to him take off his shoes and go to the toilet where he noisily urinated in the only bathroom in the ten square house.  The wooden floorboards creaked involuntarily as he then shuffled his way around the house but then stopped and silence prevailed.  Kylie wondered what he was doing as she hadn’t heard him go to his bedroom which was down the hall from hers.  She waited for him to move again and betray his position in the house but heard nothing.  Her nerves began to prickle and she raised her head from her pillow and looked at her door.  Through the one inch crack under it she could see the shadow of two feet and her breath caught in her chest as she realised he was standing outside her door.  Her heart raced and pounded like a drum up in her throat as she heard her door silently and slowly swing open.  She pretended to be asleep in the hope that he would go away but in he came, confidently staggering straight to her bed.

“Kylie?  Kylie, I’ve got something for you,” he whispered.  He lifted the covers and ran his freezing cold hand up her thigh and between her legs.

She gasped with shock from the touch and was slow to react.

“What are you doing?  Are you crazy?  Get out of here.”

“C’mon, don’t be like that.  You know you want it.  I seen the way you been looking at me,” he said chuckling.

“Please leave me alone,” she pleaded, but Lester ignored her.  She gathered her wits and tried to push him away as he continued to run his hands slowly over her body, but despite his obvious drunkenness he easily overpowered her, for although he wasn’t a strong man, he still outweighed her by over forty kilograms.  She fought harder and struck out at him with her nails but this angered him and he slapped her several times.  The blows jarred her head, blurred her vision and were enough to force her to submit to his will.

As Kylie stared sightlessly out Manuel’s apartment window at the thin and wispy cirrus clouds that she could see starting to form high in the sky she could still vividly remember Lester’s stale smell - a combination of body odour, stale beer and cigarettes - as he lay on top of her and rutted furiously.  She had screamed in agony as pain arced through her abdomen but he clasped his hand over her mouth, not that there would have been anyone within earshot to come to her assistance anyway.  It was over in two painful minutes but the memory of it would remain with her to her final day.  Lester left without a word and Kylie had curled into a ball and quietly cried and hoped for the pain to subside.  It was her first sexual encounter.

She spoke to no-one about that night, hoping that it was a one-off moment of madness and perversely wanting to give Lester some benefit of the doubt.  But sure enough, a month later when her aunt went on her next road trip, Lester returned to her bedroom.  Again she tried to fight him off but again he hit her, always with an open hand.  There would be no obvious marks to alert anyone or add weight to any claims she might want to make.

After several months of abuse she finally raised the courage to tell her aunt.  She wasn’t sure what reaction she expected to receive but she certainly hadn’t expected her to fly into a blind rage and accuse Kylie of trying to drive a divide between her and Lester.

“After all the things we’ve done for you.  No-one else would have taken you in.  If it weren’t for us you’d be dead.”

“But he’s been hurting me.”

“Look Kylie, I don’t know why you’re saying these stupid things, but if you cause us anymore trouble, or if you say these things to anyone else, I swear I’ll turn you over to the foster care people where things will be a lot worse for you.”

It was a vacant threat because unbeknown to Kylie, Aunt Maggie was being paid thirty thousand dollars per year from the solicitor who acted as trustee for Kylie’s dead parents’ estate to house and care for Kylie.  Although they had little to show for it, it was money that Maggie and Lester had become accustomed to spending.

Kylie desperately wanted to call her aunt’s bluff and take her chances in the belief that things couldn’t get any worse for her, but fear of the unknown held her back.  She also contemplated running away, but apart from a life on the street there was nowhere to run to.  She considered going to the police but argued reasonably that if her own aunt didn’t believe her then they might not either.  And so she decided to stay, not from choice but from a perceived lack of options.

After that she never mentioned Lester’s nocturnal visits to anyone.  Lester took Maggie’s defence of him as a sign of consent and continued his monthly visitation rights, becoming more confident and acting out all of his sexual fantasies with the fifteen year old Kylie.

In time, Kylie learned to become numb to his visits and an uneasy and unholy truce of sorts was arrived at.  He did what he wanted with her and did it quickly, inflicting as little discomfort as possible.  And in return she didn’t fight him and didn’t complain.  On one occasion as he penetrated her from behind she had seen him in the mirror which sat in the corner of her room.  The look of primal atavistic joy on his face scared and disgusted her and from then on she would close her eyes, pretend she was somewhere else and wait for it to pass.

She thought about her parents often to keep their memory alive in her heart and mind, and in an effort to honour them, vowed to survive and triumph over her current circumstance.

She locked herself away in her room as often as she could and concentrated on her secondary school studies.  In the process she became a better student than she had ever been at the private school she had attended in her previous life in Canberra.  She found casual employment at a local outlet of a fast food chain and welcomed as many shifts as she could get which kept her away from the small house several nights a week and weekends.  She saved her money and even stole a little from the register to supplement her hourly wage and planned for the day when she would have enough to make good her escape and start a new life.

Her big break came just a month before she was due to finish her secondary studies.  While cleaning the house she came across a letter from a Canberra based solicitor.  The official looking letterhead seemed out of place amongst Maggie’s other papers and piqued her interest.  As she read she came to understand something of the financial arrangement that had brought her to live at her aunt’s house, an arrangement that had never been explained to her.  Something snapped in her head and a cold rage swelled inside her as she realised the irony of her situation.  She laughed aloud savagely in the empty house as she realised that her dead parent’s money was being paid to the people who had made her life into a living hell.  She thought of Lester drinking and gambling away the money, her parents’ money, and then coming home and molesting her in anyway that he saw fit.  She thought of her aunt who had provided her with basic clothing, food and shelter but had never bothered to extend her an ounce of kindness or belief.   Kylie had known nothing of her parents’ assets at the time of their deaths and to that day had wrongly assumed they left little behind.  From the moment she read the letter however, she realised some options were open to her.  Her plans for escape began to accelerate and she smiled grimly to herself as she made them.

Chapter 23

Although it had been a relatively quiet night on the streets of Parramatta and surrounding areas for a Saturday night, the puking drunks, the banging cell doors and the yelling and screaming of the drug induced ensured that Craig Thoms didn’t get a moments rest, let alone a moments sleep.  He shared his five metre by five metre concrete floored cell with up to eight others depending on the comings and goings in the night and the noise was a constant and irritating companion.  He sat in a corner and tried to get as comfortable as possible while he waited.

After six hours of incarceration, at eight a.m. on Sunday morning, Detective Nelson arrived, signed for custody of one Craig Thoms and escorted him to an interview room on the first floor of the station.  The interview room was minimalist to say the least and consisted of only one table, bolted to the floor, and four lightweight plastic chairs.  Behind the obligatory one way mirror made of near half inch thick glass, was a viewing room that contained a video camera on a tripod which was also connected to two microphones located in the ceiling of the interview room.

“Just wait in here please Mr Thoms.  I’ll go and ask your Legal Counsel to join us.  Won’t be long.”

When Craig had initially been brought to the Parramatta police station he had been provided with a copy of the Yellow Pages to find himself legal representation.  He had phoned a small firm of solicitors who had in the past successfully defended him against an assault charge.  Although he wasn’t sure if the solicitor who had handled his case in the past was suitably qualified to defend him against a charge of murder he was the only person he could think of at the time.  He had been relieved and grateful when the solicitor, Martin Warnock, arrived at his cell at seven a.m. and seemed confident of helping him navigate his way out of the hole he was now in, or at least that was the plan.

Martin Warnock was around five feet six inches tall and barely nudged the scales past fifty kilograms.  He had a penchant for wearing bowties and despite being forty-eight and still living with his mother, was still unsure of his sexuality.  He had worked for the law firm Venter and Coward for ten years and while he only had a moderate success rate with his cases and brought very little new business into the firm, he remained upbeat about his chances of one day becoming a partner in the firm.  He considered that the Fogliani murder was opportunity knocking.

Initially, he had been lividly angry at being woken up so early on a Sunday morning to come down to the drab, brown brick, Parramatta Police Station, but when he learned the details of the case his ears pricked up at the enticing thought of being involved in the Emilio Fogliani murder case.  It had already received a lot of airplay on television and radio news the previous day and had featured prominently in the newspapers.  Journalists had been crawling over each other to get exclusives and eagerly pushed the angle that it might turn out to be yet another underworld gang war.  Warnock was glad to get a foothold in the case before one of Sydney’s many high profile celebrity solicitors inevitably waded in to offer their services pro bono and get their face on the evening news.

Warnock had spoken briefly to his client through the bars of the holding cell but was only able to elicit the barest of details as to why he had been arrested.  He guessed correctly that he would learn a lot more about how strong the case was against his client during his first formal interview.

Detective Nelson double checked that the recording equipment was working and entered the interview room with Robards trailing behind.  A Detective Sergeant from the Parramatta station named Braxton, had been roped in to monitor the interview and the equipment from the viewing room.

Detective Robards commenced the interview by getting Craig to confirm a number of details about who he was, his age and where he lived.  He also explained what crime he was being questioned about.  Robards was good at interviewing.  His mind was quick and agile and if there was any confusion or mistake made by the suspect he would pick it up instantly and turn it against him.  He was planning on using his favourite interviewing technique on Craig, which was to get him to repeatedly lie to questions that Robards already knew the answer to and then throw it all back in his face, backed up with irrefutable evidence.  Often this resulted in the suspect panicking at being caught out and becoming easy pickings.

“Craig can you tell me where were you at around ten p.m. last Friday night?”

“I was at home.”  During his six hours of incarceration he had given a lot of thought to his predicament and decided not to unnecessarily drag any of his friends into his problems by providing any information to the police about their Friday night activities.

“All night?”

“All night.”  Craig responded.

“Can anyone verify this?”

“Unfortunately I was alone.”

“Were you anywhere near St Peters at ten p.m. Friday night?”

“Saint who?”

“St Peters.”

“No, like I said, I was at home all night.  Don’t you hear too good?”

“Have you been to St Peters in recent time, say in the last week or so?”

“No.”

“Look Detectives,” interrupted Warnock with all the authority he could muster, hoping his voice didn’t sound too squeaky.  “With all due respect, if you have any evidence, please present it and stop wasting my client’s time.”  Warnock was beginning to enjoy himself.  This was a high profile investigation and he was a part of it, crossing swords with the big boys from the Homicide Squad.  He had only defended in two homicide cases and although he was zero from two, he was hoping to improve on that statistic.  He had already jotted down some notes on what he was going to say to the media who were hopefully encamped outside the station, waiting to hear from him.  He casually looked down at his attire and mentally reprimanded himself for not having worn his blue cotton shirt with matching blue striped bowtie.  Blue was definitely his best colour.

Nelson watched on as Robards proceeded with the questioning.  He knew there were many ways to get a suspect to confess to a crime they did or didn’t commit and that only the strongest minded people could resist a drawn out, exhaustive interrogation that could go on for days.  In some interrogations he had been a part of with his old partner mad Mick Neale, Nelson had almost been prepared to confess to the crime himself if it meant that it would bring the interrogation to an end.  Neale had seemingly limitless energy and would brow beat and intimidate a suspect over and over again, exhausting them until they just gave up and signed on the dotted line.  Most members of the Homicide Squad thought the bear sized, bald headed, Neale was mad – thus the nickname - and Nelson wouldn’t have argued with them, but there was method to his madness.  Although he was somewhat eccentric, he was persistent, thorough and diligent to an almost obsessive level in his approach to every case.  And over the time they spent working together, his ways rubbed off a little onto Nelson.  Nelson regarded Neale as the best cop he had ever worked with.  He was generous with his time and made the effort to instruct Nelson at every turn.  He found gaps in Nelson’s approaches and filled them with suggestions or guidance.  Unfortunately Neale’s obsession with the job came at the expense of his personal life and he ended up taking the early retirement option eighteen months previously, worn out by twenty-five years in the job.  He had been a powerfully built athlete in his youth but by the end, carried an enormous gut, tipped the scales at one hundred and thirty-five kilograms and had a blood pressure reading that gave his doctor heart palpitations.

Nelson decided that as Crighton was seeking a quick result he didn’t want to drag the interrogation out for days and would play it as straight as he could with Craig and his weedy solicitor.

“Mr Thoms, we do have a case against you.  We wouldn’t have arrested you if we didn’t,” Nelson said quietly, almost apologetically.  He reached into a large yellow envelope and laid photos from the crime scene neatly on the table facing Craig and his solicitor.

“You want to know what we’ve got against you?  Well here it is.  We’ve got a pair of latex gloves found near the scene of the crime.  These gloves had the blood of the deceased, Emilio Fogliani, on them.”

“So what?” replied Craig.

“On the inside of the gloves we extracted a set of fingerprints.  These fingerprints were run through our NAFIS database and came up as a match to yours.  You’ve been in a bit of trouble in the past.”

Craig looked at him as if he was speaking another language, maybe Danish.  He didn’t understand how the gloves, his gloves could exist at the crime scene.

“And,” added a now smiling Robards as he closed the trap with a snap, “we’ve got a plaster cast of a footprint in the mud which looks like it’s a perfect match to those fancy hiking boots we found in your apartment.  And, last but by no means least, we have video footage of you at the scene of the crime, at the time of the crime, taken from the security cameras at a warehouse next to where you murdered Emilio Fogliani.  So much for your watching TV alibi hey?”

Robards smiled triumphantly, starting to really enjoy himself as he slid the black and white images of Craig in the photos across the desk.  Craig craned his neck down to the photos, not wanting to touch them, not wanting to believe they were real.  He had to admit though, they were a pretty good likeness of him, an unmistakable likeness.  Martin Warnock had gone quiet and still as if he’d been frozen in his seat.  All of a sudden he wasn’t so excited at being a part of this.  He was now reconsidering his media strategy and wondering if there was a rear exit from the Police station.

“As you can see, video technology is pretty good these days, even at night-time,” Robards continued.  “So good in fact that we think we’ve even been able to match the clothes you were wearing in the photo to some that we took from your apartment.  We’ve sent them off to forensics to run a few tests on.”

Craig wiped the photos off the table in disgust with a broad sweep of his arm.  “This is all bullshit.  I had nothing to do with this.”

“Then how do you explain the evidence?” asked Robards mildly.

“You’re just making this shit up.”

“I’m afraid we’re not Mr Thoms,” said Nelson.  “Look, you may not believe this, but right now I’m your best friend in the world.  I see the evidence in front of me and it doesn’t look good.  But I’m prepared to listen to whatever you’ve got to say.  So if you didn’t do this, then you tell me exactly what went down out there and don’t leave anything out, no matter how small.”

Craig searched Nelson’s face.  He wasn’t sure who he could trust right now but he soon realised that he had no choice.  He looked to his solicitor who pursed his already thin lips.  From his past experience where he had lost cases, he had developed a reliable gut feel for when he was on a loser and those same feeling began to assail him now.

“Craig, it’s up to you how much you want to say at this stage however I strongly recommend that you say nothing until we have had the opportunity to discuss these developments in private.”

“It’s ok Martin.  I didn’t do this so I’ll tell them what happened and take my chances” he said dejectedly.

Craig Thoms began to tell his story.  He told them about the stalking game.  He told them about how it began innocently enough, with he and his co-worker Bryce wanting to field test the equipment they were selling at their employer Carmichael’s Security, but then grew into a regular stalking competition between a handful of friends.  The Detectives and his solicitor listened in silence and let him speak.  He told them that on Friday night they were playing their stalking game and he followed his mark by train to St Peters and then on foot through Sydney Park and into an industrial area.  He told them that the guy he had been following simply walked up to a car parked in the laneway and shot the guy in it three times and then immediately ran away.

Robards had been listening intently but now smiled derisively.  “That’s a nice story.  But if it’s true then why didn’t we pick up any video footage of this other guy?  All we got was you.  And why did the gloves have your fingerprints in them, instead of this mystery shooter?”

Craig’s face was blank, “I have no idea.  But you gotta believe me, everything I just told you was the absolute truth.”

Martin Warnock was now completely convinced that he was on a one way street to being zero and three from the homicide cases he’d defended.  He was sincerely wishing that Craig had taken his advice and remained silent instead of committing his story to the record.  He briefly wondered if this was all a dream and that he was actually still curled up in his warm bed on a Sunday morning.

Nelson rocked back on his chair, contemplating Craig’s story.  He saw the same holes in it that Robards had picked up.

“You’re saying that you were there, at the scene of the crime, at the time of the crime, but that you didn’t shoot Fogliani.  You’re saying,” he said, pausing as he tried to clarify in his own mind, “that you were set up?”

“I don’t know, I suppose.  It’s just doesn’t make sense.”  Craig replied, his palms outstretched, pleading.

“What did this guy you followed look like?” Nelson asked.

Craig searched his memory as if his life depended on it, because it did.

“He was strong and fit looking.  Built a little stronger than me but shorter.  His skin was brown and his head was shaved.  Oh yeah and he had a blue tattoo that showed above his collar on the right side of his neck, like the tail of a snake or something.  He was wearing a brown jacket, jeans and a baseball cap.”

Nelson took down notes of the description.

Robards shook his head sadly.  “Look, I must be a bit slow, because I still don’t get it.  You’re saying that you were stalking this mystery killer, a stranger picked from the crowd in the city no less, and then you followed him to St Peters and somehow, he managed to avoid leaving footprints where you left yours, that he avoided the security cameras where you didn’t and that he shot Fogliani and then planted gloves with your fingerprints where he knew we’d find them?”

“I guess,” responded Craig, with a shrug of his shoulders.

“That’s the craziest shit I’ve ever heard.”

The interview continued for a further two hours as Robards dissected, interrogated and rubbished every piece of Craig’s story before Nelson decided that they’d all had enough for the time being and Craig was taken back to the cell to prepare for his bail hearing at the Parramatta Magistrates Court.  It had been set down for two p.m. that afternoon and through the bars of his cell, his solicitor suggested that his chances of being bailed were looking decidedly slim.

Chapter 24

Robards returned to the interview room to find Nelson sitting where he’d left him, studying the photographs spread out on the table.  The look on Nelson’s face didn’t seem a match for his own buoyant mood.

“It’s a slam dunk case Nelson.  There isn’t a jury in the world that won’t convict him on what we’ve got,” he said, hoping his optimism would be infectious.

“Maybe, maybe not.  It can’t really be a slam dunk without a murder weapon though.  If we’d found the gun with fingerprints on it, then it’d be a lot stronger case.”

“He probably tossed it somewhere.  Maybe he put it in the bin with the gloves but then one of the homeless guys in the park found it while he was searching for his dinner.  We won’t need it to get a conviction.  We’ve got plenty without it.”

Nelson knew the evidence was strong and yet wasn’t convinced of Craig Thoms’ guilt.  There were things about the case that troubled him.  At the very least, he wasn’t prepared to let it go without further investigation.  Not yet at least.  He closely studied the eight by ten inch photographs in front of him, wondering if the answers to his many questions were right in front of him, waiting for him to find them.

“Why would anyone dump their blood covered gloves near the scene of the crime?  That’s not too smart.”

“So we’ve established that he’s not too bright.  He’ll feel right at home in prison with all the other idiots who we’ve nailed in the past.”  Robards answered, studying Nelson’s face, looking for some indication that he was winning him over, but seeing nothing.

“And what about the guy that Thoms is claiming did the shooting?  Who the hell is he?”

“Oh come on.  You’re not starting to believe his bullshit story about being setup are you?  If there was another guy there, he would have shown up on the video, unless he’s a ghost or something.  I mean, why are we looking so hard at this one?  Normally you’d jump at the chance to sign off on a case and move on to the next one.”  Nelson cocked an eyebrow at Robards, his blue eyes fixing him squarely in his gaze.  Robards realised that this was a warning sign that Nelson was beginning to get annoyed with him, but he pushed on regardless.  “Look Nelson, I’m not trying to sandbag anyone if that’s what you think.  We’ve placed him at the scene of the crime at the time of the crime and we’ve got his fingerprints on the bloody gloves.  Sometimes you just get lucky with a case.  Accept it.”

Nelson was tired of arguing with Robards and decided to keep any further misgivings he had about the case to himself.  He understood Robards’ view of things.  It was a big case and the evidence was probably more than sufficient to convict Craig Thoms.  And yet he still felt the need to fully investigate Craig’s claims and put them to bed one way or another before resigning him to lengthy prison sentence.

“Alright.  I hear what you’re saying.  However, it’s only day two of the investigation.  Even Crighton won’t complain too loudly if we spend a couple more days chasing up the loose ends.”

“Sure, but I still don’t see why you…”

“I want you to follow up with the lab,” Nelson interrupted resolutely.  “Make sure both the gloves and the clothes we took from his apartment are tested for gunshot residue.  According to Thoms he didn’t go near the car or the gun.  Let’s find out if the tests support that claim.”

“Alright, but even if they do come back negative for GSR it doesn’t mean he’s innocent.  He could’ve easily washed the clothes and maybe he wasn’t even wearing the gloves when he shot Fogliani.  Maybe he just put them on after the shooting to rifle through the body or something.  Anything’s possible.”

“But nothing appeared to be missing from the body.  His wallet was intact.”  Nelson countered.

“We don’t know that everything was intact.  For all we know Fogliani could have been carrying a twenty grand brick in his pocket.  It would’ve made anything in his wallet seem pretty incidental.”

“Maybe,” replied Nelson non-committally.  “But if he’s guilty then what’s his motive?  I mean why would this guy, with only a couple of priors, go out and kill and old gangster?  It hardly sounds like the track record you’d associate with a cold blooded killer.”

“Well, as a wise Detective once told me, the best crims don’t have any record at all.  And like I said before, if Thoms saw a drug deal go down and saw a bundle of cash being given to Fogliani, then that’s more than enough reason for him to kill him.”

Nelson smiled briefly at having his own quotes thrown back at him.  Maybe Robards was learning something off him after all, although Nelson wasn’t sure if he was learning the right things.

Nelson continued his devil’s advocate approach.  “There’s other stuff as well.  Mick Martinez said that the shooter was probably between five foot six inches and five feet ten inches tall.  Thoms is about six foot.”

“So what.  He only misses the estimate by a few lousy centimetres.” Robards replied, starting to get a little frustrated at Nelson’s inability to accept the most likely scenario.

“Thoms said the shooter was a little shorter than himself.”

Robards ignored the comment.  “Martinez will be the first to admit that his theory isn’t set in concrete.  If Thoms was standing a little further away from Fogliani than Martinez has calculated, then he would fit the trajectory of the shooter.  Any decent prosecutor would cut that argument to shreds in a second.”

“Speaking of prosecutors,” said Nelson checking his watch and seizing on the exit strategy.  “I need to go and brief them for Thoms’ bail hearing this afternoon.  After that, we can start interviewing his stalking friends.  I’m looking forward to seeing what they have to say.

“Ok.”

“You better go and brief Crighton.  I don’t want to deal with him right now.  But tell that pencil pushing prick not to issue another press release until we have run Thoms’ story to ground because I hate it when the media get ahead of the investigation.  After that, follow up on the GSR tests at the lab and then come back and help us out with the interviews.”

Nelson gathered up the photographs and his notes and found a spare desk in the small Detective’s room on the first floor of the station.  He phoned Craig Thoms’ fellow stalker, Bryce McKinlay, at his workplace and told him about Craig’s arrest.  Nelson thought Bryce seemed genuinely shocked when he told him, but Nelson didn’t even trust himself when it came to making assumptions about a person’s innocence or guilt for the simple reason that he had been wrong on more occasions than he cared to remember.  Bryce agreed to come into the station at midday and provide a statement.  Nelson checked his watch again and decided that he would arrange the remainder of the interviews after he had briefed the prosecutors.  He headed downstairs to the basement and made his way to the Parramatta local court next door via the underground tunnel that linked the two buildings.

Chapter 25

Detective Robards returned to Police HQ and took the elevator straight to the ninth floor to brief Crighton.  The ninth floor housed around twenty of some of the most senior officers in the New South Wales Police Force and their support staff and Robards liked the ambience.  Instead of the well worn commercial grade blue carpet evident on the other floors, the carpet here was new, a higher grade, and actually felt soft underfoot.  There were prints on the walls, a large waiting area with lounges and the offices and meeting rooms which were spacious and light.  This was where Robards pictured himself working, hopefully in as few years as possible.

He approached Superintendent Crighton’s office and was surprised to see his door open.  Those who had worked with Crighton knew that he didn’t want to be bothered by anyone unless they either had an appointment or he wanted to see them.

“Can I help you Detective?” asked Pasha, Crighton’s administrative assistant, who seemed to appear out of nowhere and placed her diminutive yet imposing presence in front of the doorway.  Robards realised he should have known better than to think the door was unguarded.  It was never unguarded.

“Hi Pasha,” he said putting on his best smile for her.  “I’ve come to brief the Super on the Fogliani case.”

“Is he expecting you?” she questioned, her dark eyes narrowing at him.  Robards could see Crighton working away at his desk only five metres away, probably within earshot of the conversation, but ignoring it.

“Yes, sort of.”

“Alright,” said Pasha suspiciously.  “Let me check if he’s available.”

Robards waited impatiently outside the office as Pasha spoke in hushed tones to Crighton.  He briefly wondered if she and Crighton had ever got it on, but pushed the disturbing thought aside.  Moments later Pasha returned and granted Robards permission to enter.

“Good morning Detective Senior,”  Crighton said, without looking up as he continued to worriedly examine the latest budget report that showed the Homicide Squad was currently running at a three percent overspend for the financial year.  Travel costs would have to be trimmed again.

“Good Morning Sir.”

“Where’s Detective Nelson?”

“He’s briefing the prosecutors.  He asked me to provide you with an update.”

Crighton smiled briefly.  If he read anything else into Nelson’s non-appearance he didn’t let on.  He knew he wasn’t particularly well liked and that Nelson in particular avoided him where he could, but he didn’t lose sleep over it as he had bigger things to worry about.

“Good.  There’s something that I’ve been meaning to talk to you about, but that can wait for now.  Tell me how your case is progressing.  I was pleased to hear that you have a suspect in custody already.”

“Thank you sir.”

Robards filled Crighton in on the case, updating him from the point where he was last briefed.  He briefly recounted how Craig Thoms had been identified from the evidence found at the crime scene and how he had then been arrested.  He told Crighton about the stalking group of friends and how Craig had, not-surprisingly claimed to have had nothing to do with the murder.

“Doesn’t sound like you’ll be getting a confession then,” stated Crighton.

“Not yet at least.”

“So what are your next steps Detective?”

Robards repeated what Nelson had told him almost verbatim.  He also passed on Nelson’s request – albeit in slightly less colourful language - that no further media releases be made until they had a chance to further shore up the case.  Crighton sat back in his chair, processing the information.  Although he had limited first hand experience in undertaking case work he understood it well enough when it was explained to him.

“Firstly, you can tell Detective Sergeant Nelson that I will decide how and when we deal with the media and not him,” said Crighton with a hint of steel in his voice.

“Yes Sir,” replied Robards, kicking himself for having been stupid enough to raise Nelson’s ridiculous request in the first place.

“Secondly, is there any evidence that this Thoms character is linked to any gangs or that this murder is gang related?”

“Not yet sir.  We’re still looking at his background though.”  Robards noted that Crighton seemed to exhibit a moment of disappointment.

“Well make sure you fully explore that angle.  If this murder was gang related I want to know about it.  The Foglianis may claim to be clean but they’ve got a long history with crime in this city.

“Yes Sir.”

“And if this does turn out to be the start of another Sydney underworld war then this becomes an even more important case and I want the Homicide Squad to be on top of it even though the Gangs Squad didn’t think it worth their while.”

Robards wasn’t sure if he fully understood but nodded emphatically.  “And if it’s not gang related?”

“Then so be it.”

“Of course Sir.”

“What does Nelson think about Thoms?”

Robards thought carefully on the words he was about to use.  He had already annoyed Crighton once and wanted to avoid an encore performance.

“Well, he doesn’t seem completely certain that we’ve got the right guy yet.”

“Why not?  The evidence seems strong enough.”

“It is.  I guess he just wants to be sure.”

Crighton got up and stood before his window, gazing at the Blue Mountains that rose up steadily out of the haze in the distance.

“And what’s your take on this case, Detective Senior?”

“I think he’s guilty and that it was probably a robbery or a drug deal,” replied Robards firmly.  “I think our case will only get stronger.”

Crighton turned and looked at him as if sizing him up for a suit.

“You’ve shown a lot of promise in your career thus far Detective and I’m sure that if you continue to perform well, you will no doubt gain further promotions in the service.”

“Thank you Sir,” replied Robards, inwardly thrilled by the comment but wondering where the change in subject was leading.

“There’s something I’d like you to do for me.  Call it a favour if you will.”

“Sir?”

“I’d like you to keep me personally up to date on this case.”

“Of course Sir.  Nelson and I will keep you abreast of every development.” Robards replied innocently, even though he was sensed where Crighton was going.

“No, Detective you’re not quite catching my meaning.  I want to know how the case is progressing and I also want to know what Nelson is working on so I can be assured that this case is on track.  This would just be between you and me.”

“I see.  But, if I may ask the question, why did you put Nelson on this case in the first place if you have concerns about the way he operates?”

Crighton smiled.  “Because Detective Senior, if I had to get someone to investigate my own murder then it would probably be him.  I have every confidence that he’ll get to the bottom of this case, but Nelson likes to do things his own way and sometimes his methods are, shall we say, unorthodox,” he said raising an eyebrow.  “Lord knows I’m still getting memos from the PSC about that Razzo case that he was involved with last year.”

“Razzo case Sir?”  said Robards.  He recalled hearing various titbits of information about the case in the past but hoped that Crighton would enlighten him further.

“I think it was just before your time here, when he was still working with Detective Senior Sergeant Neale.  I won’t go into the details but there were accusations made by the defendant that some rather important evidence had miraculously appeared during the search of his apartment.  There was little doubt that Nelson and Neale got the right man, it was just a question of how they achieved that.  Anyway, the point is that Nelson has good instincts for this sort of work and you’ll learn a lot from him.  But on this occasion, on this case, I can’t afford to have Nelson making any mistakes along the way.  If this Thoms character does have underworld links and this is some sort of precursor to a turf war then it has to be handled very carefully.  And that’s where you come in Peter.  We’ll let Nelson run this case the way he wants for the time being, but I want to be kept informed by you every step of the way.  If I find out he’s starting to run a little too far or wide then I’ll need to yank his chain back in.”

Chapter 26

After briefing police prosecutors at the Parramatta Local Court, Nelson returned to Headquarters to prepare for his afternoon.  The Sergeant who would act as the prosecution for bail hearing was pleased with the strength of Nelson’s evidence and told him that Craig Thoms was highly unlikely to be granted bail.

While Nelson waited for Bryce McKinlay to arrive at the Parramatta station at midday and for Robards to return from forensics in the city, he contacted Craig’s other friends and arranged for them to come to the station and provide statements during that afternoon.  Grant McKinlay and Jennifer Nolan had already heard the news about the arrest and were eager to assist in any way they could.

Nelson sat at his desk and re-read the forensic reports on the victim, the murder scene and the gloves.  He admitted to himself that the evidence seemed solid.  He watched the video footage from the crime scene several times, looking for any evidence that might support Craig’s story that he had followed the real murderer to the scene.  Although there were some vague shadows in the corner of the footage that appeared to move, he could see no other person on the tape.  He made a quick phone call to the video tech who had reviewed the footage and asked him if there was any chance of enhancing the shadowed area.  The video tech told him he would try but it was unlikely that any further definition could be drawn out of the video.

When Nelson was satisfied that he had a complete understanding and knowledge of the evidence on the case so far, he busied himself on his computer, meticulously making sure that the case file was completely up to date.  Although he wasn’t particularly fond of the administrative side of casework he forced himself to keep on top of it as he knew it was an essential part of the case and would be referred to regularly in the future.

As opposed to some of the older Detectives in the squad, Nelson was highly computer literate and could type at over forty words per minute with few errors when the mood took him.  He smiled as he glanced at his fifty-five year old colleague, Detective David Smith, at a nearby desk laboriously punching his keyboard one finger at a time.  It was almost painful to watch.

At around midday, Nelson got a call from a Constable manning the reception area at the Parramatta Station informing him that he had visitors.  Robards still hadn’t returned to the office so Nelson proceeded on his own.  He decided to walk to the station so he could save the planet a few kilos of greenhouse gases.  Every little bit helps.  Ten minutes later he entered the front foyer of the brown, bunker-like building, his eyes quickly scanning the room for his visitors.  He soon focussed his attention on a young couple sitting in the corner trying to look relaxed but showing outward signs of nervousness.

Nelson made his way over to them.

“Bryce McKinlay?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Detective Sergeant Nelson.  And this is, Natalie?” he said indicating to the woman on Bryce’s left whose eyes met and held his.  She nodded in agreement.

“Hi.”  Bryce held out his hand which Nelson took and shook.  Nelson noticed that the palms of Bryce’s meaty hands were sweaty and mentally reminded himself not to shake hands with him again.

“Look, if you don’t mind I’d like to speak with you separately.  It’s standard procedure.” It was more than that, it was a golden rule of Detective work and ensured there would be no help and no corroboration for each of them once their interviews began.  It was one thing to rehearse a set of convenient answers together in the comfort of a lounge room, but telling them to a Detective, alone in an police station interview room was another thing entirely.  Divide and conquer.

“Would you mind waiting out here Natalie?  This shouldn’t take too long.”

Without waiting for an answer, Nelson led Bryce to the reception desk, signed him in and whisked him away through the electronic security doors.  He led him down a corridor to an interview room that he had booked out for the afternoon.  Nelson had arranged for a female general duties Constable to be available to assist with the interviews and she was already waiting in the room when they arrived.  They took their seats and Nelson placed his digital voice recorder between them.  Bryce eyed it nervously.  “You don’t mind do you?”

“No, of course not,” said Bryce, in a nervous voice.  Nelson wondered if he had something to hide or if it was just an innocent reaction.

“This is not a formal interview and the recording is not for use as evidences, it’s just to help me stay on top of things.”

“Ok.”

Firstly let me say right now that I have no interest whatsoever in your stalking activities.  I’m a Homicide Detective, so the only case that I’m going to be investigating here is the murder of Emilio Fogliani.  However, I can’t promise you that some of my colleagues won’t want to speak to you about your stalking game at a later time.”

“Ok,” replied Bryce glumly.  He hadn’t expected any favours and he wasn’t being given any.  He was just focussed on trying to distance himself as far as possible from a murder charge.  Anything beyond that, like keeping his job and not being charged with stalking, he considered would be a bonus.

“So let’s make a start.  I want you to tell me all you know about Craig Thoms and your relationship with him and then I want you to tell me your version of events last Friday night.  Try and remember as much detail as possible.”

Bryce took a few deep breaths and focussed his thoughts on what he was about to say.  He started quietly, hesitantly, and told Nelson how he had met Craig when they were both employed at Carmichael’s security.  They became good friends and as Craig had previously attested to, they eventually began taking some of the equipment out of the shop to field test it.  Bryce made no attempt to hide or minimise his involvement in the stalking game, instead he freely admitted it.  Others had joined the group over time and it became a regular event.  Their stalking skills improved, as did their bravado and sophistication, and some of the stalks that Bryce briefly recounted to Nelson left him quietly staggered and wondering if anyone had ever followed him and learned some of his secrets.

Nelson questioned him closely about Craig Thoms and asked him what his habits were, who his other friends were and what he was like.  Bryce gave little information of interest about Craig’s personal life and Nelson got the impression that Bryce was, if not trying to protect Craig, then at least trying to minimise the damage he was potentially causing him.  Bryce said that to his knowledge, Craig didn’t have many other friends and he didn’t know much about his money situation and didn’t ask.  Nelson thought about pushing him further but decided to remain with the friendly approach for the time being.  He could apply more pressure to Bryce later if it was required.

“Now tell me about last Friday night,” said Nelson.

“What do you want to know?” Bryce replied, feeling more comfortable, and why not, he thought to himself, I have nothing to hide because I didn’t do anything.

“Just run me through the night as it played out, from your point of view.  Leave nothing out, no matter how unimportant you think it is.”

Bryce began to recount everything that happened on that night, however he was fairly limited in what he could say about Craig’s stalk as he had left to follow his own mark before Craig did.  When he finished his story, Nelson sat back in his chair tapping his pencil on his lips as he digested what he had been told.  His gut instinct was telling him that Bryce was being truthful with him and yet he still asked him a number of leading questions in the hope of getting him to make a mistake or alter his story, however nothing changed.  When he was satisfied that there were no holes in his story he led him back to the foyer and left him with a pen and a statutory declaration form to formally record his statement.  Natalie had been waiting where they had left her and Nelson led her to the same interview room after signing her in.   She sat quietly in her seat while Nelson sorted out his voice recorder, taking extra care not to erase Bryce’s file.  He looked up at her and was momentarily lost in her cool green eyes but pulled away and forced himself to focus on the job at hand.

“Alright Ms Bassett, thanks again for coming in.”

“Please call me Natalie, Detective.  Ms Bassett sounds like my mother,” she said smiling.

“Alright Natalie.  I’m going to ask you the same questions I just asked Bryce.  I’d like to know what you know about Craig Thoms and then I want you to tell me your version of events from last Friday night.”

Natalie began to tell him how she had met Bryce about six months previously and that they had soon become lovers.  The thought briefly crossed Nelson’s mind that Bryce must be a tiger in the sack to catch and keep such a hottie, but he kept the thought to himself.

Natalie told him she had become involved with his circle of friends, which included Craig Thoms, and had joined them in their regular stalking evenings.  As with Bryce, she made no effort to hide her involvement in the game, and to the contrary, admitted that she was intoxicated by it.  She told him that she enjoyed the thrill and excitement of following strangers to see who they were, where they were going and what she could find out about them.  She told him about the events of the previous Friday as she remembered them.  It had been her turn to randomly choose each mark for the group. When she mentioned Craig leaving to follow his mark, Nelson questioned her closely, pushing her for details and a description of the man she had sent Craig out to follow.  Nelson had realised during Bryce’s interview that Natalie had been the only person apart from Craig to see the mystery mark who Craig claimed to be the real murderer of Emilio Fogliani.  Therefore, Natalie’s memory and description of him was vital to Craig’s version of events if he had been telling the truth.

She stared intently at the blank wall to her left, trying to recall the images of the man Craig had followed, but struggled to recall any distinguishing features.

“I just don’t know.  I’m trying, but he’s just a blur in my mind.”

“What did he look like?” pushed Nelson a little harder, a little louder.

”I only saw him for a few seconds.  He was just one face out of the hundreds walking past the bar that night.”

”Try harder, it’s important.  What did he look like?  How tall was he?  What colour was his hair?”  Nelson demanded, his voice rising in tone and with a hard edge to it.

“Maybe medium height?  Brown hair, yes I think short brown hair but I think he was wearing a baseball cap.”

“Any emblems?”

“No, he was too far away but I wouldn’t know one team from another anyway.  I’m not really into sports.”

“What about his clothes?  Tell me about his appearance.  How old did he look?”

Natalie tried again to remember.  “I’m not sure,” she started hesitantly.  “He was probably wearing jeans and a jacket.  Probably a brown leather jacket or maybe suede,   I’m sorry Detective,” she said throwing her wide in a gesture of frustration.  “I wish I could be of more help to Craig, but it all happened so quickly.

“If he was so plain and unremarkable then why did you choose him to be followed out of all the people in the street?”

“Good question.  I guess I just felt he looked a little sneaky.  He was moving a little quicker than everyone else and yet he was looking down.  It’s all my fault that Craig’s in jail isn’t it?”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because if I hadn’t chosen that guy for Craig to follow then none of this would ever have happened.”

“So you think Craig had nothing to do with this then?”

“Of course not.  Why would he?”

“But you’ve only known him six months.  How can you be so sure?”

She thought for a moment at the question and Nelson thought he detected a shadow of doubt cross her face before it quickly resumed its normal countenance.

“I’m sure.”

Nelson continued to question her for another fifteen minutes but it added little to her recollection of events.

“Ok.  That’s enough for today I think.  I need you to make a statement about what we talked about today and I’ll need your contact details in case I’ve got some more questions for you.”

“Sure thing.”

“And in the meantime, you need to keep trying to remember, because apart from Craig, you were the only person to see this guy.  If you remember any more details, no matter how small, I want you to phone me immediately,” Nelson said sternly.

“I will Detective.”

“I’d also like you to work with one of our identification experts to try and develop a likeness of the man you saw.  Will that be an inconvenience for you?”

“I’ll do what I can to help.”

Nelson ended the interview and led her back to the foyer where Bryce was waiting, sitting with his hands clasped between his thick thighs.

“Oh, one more thing.  You might be contacted by the media, asking about this case.  I advise you to say nothing and to keep your heads low until this is sorted out.  Don’t go giving any front page exclusives or you may end up facing charges yourself for hindering the investigation.”

Chapter 27

Nelson returned to HQ and found Robards at his desk.  He gave him a brief rundown of the interviews he’d conducted with Bryce and Natalie before turning his attention to what Robards had been doing.

“How’d you go with forensics?”

Robards had expected the question.  If he knew anything about Nelson, it was that he always followed through.

“They didn’t find any GSR on the clothes taken from Thoms’ apartment, or on the latex gloves found near the scene of the crime.”  Robards waited for Nelson to smirk or show some sign of superiority but he showed none.  He just sat at his desk staring out the window.

“As I said before though,” he continued, “it doesn’t prove anything.  There could be any number of genuine reasons for finding no GSR on the gloves or the clothes.”

“I know,” replied Nelson.  “But one thing it doesn’t do, is strengthen the case against Thoms.  If the test results had been positive, it would have gone a long way to discounting his claims.”

“So where do we go from here?”

“Well, whether Thoms pulled the trigger or not the game plan is still the same.  We have to dig deeper and chase up all the loose ends and find out if there is more going on here than meets the eye.  We need to discover if there is any credence to Thoms’ claims that he was setup.”

Robards felt frustrated but tried to hide it.  He had heard the ‘chase up the loose ends’ philosophy from Nelson a hundred times before.  He knew Nelson lived by it, but it didn’t stop him from again suggesting an alternative.

“I think we should lean on Thoms again,” he replied hopefully.  “You might have your doubts about him being the one, but if we keep at him I reckon I could crack him.  I’m certain he knows more than he’s letting on.”

“We can still do that.  The prosecutors gave me an iron clad guarantee that he’s not going to get bail based on what we’ve already got on him.  He’s not going anywhere.  And if he is guilty, then I’d like to have more evidence to support that before we go back to him.  If he has been setup though, then I want to know who did it and why.  If this mystery shooter exists then I want to find him.”

“You know, I still think it could be something as simple as a robbery.  I mean Fogliani’s an old school hood and maybe Thoms stumbled onto him making some sort of deal or something and took advantage of it.  Or maybe Thoms is a drug dealer and he didn’t feel like doing a deal with Fogliani so he just shot him and took the cash and the smack.  God knows it’s happened plenty of times before.”

“Yes it has and maybe you’re right, but we’ve still got to look at it from all angles.”  Nelson got up and started to pace back and forth in the area between the desks.  Robards watched him silently.

“Ok,” started Nelson.  “This afternoon I want you to finish up interviewing the other stalkers.  They’re due in about half an hour at the Parramatta station,” he said after checking his watch.  “Make sure you push them hard for details about Thoms’ personal life.  If you’re right and he had the balls to pull the trigger on Fogliani then there must be some history to indicate that he’s capable of that.  I didn’t get much from Bryce McKinlay or his girlfriend but maybe the others will be prepared to give up a little more on him.  Push the angle that if they aren’t fully frank with us right here and now they could find themselves facing accessory to murder charges.  It might be a bluff, but it will probably scare the shit out of them.”

Robards smiled at the thought.  He was skilled at using leverage points on suspects and witnesses and felt confident he would get every scrap of available information out of them.

“I want you to keep looking at Thoms, but I also want you to profile the other stalk club members as well.  Speak to their co-workers, previous employers, friends and ex-friends.  Get Bovis to help you.  I want to know everything about them including what they have for breakfast.  If there’s anything out of the ordinary in their pasts I want to know about it.  In particular I want to know if any of them have a link to Emilio Fogliani, no matter how tenuous or unlikely it is.”  Robards took notes as quickly as Nelson spoke.

“Got it.”  The way Nelson was rattling tasks off for him made him wonder if he’d be working on this case for the next six months.  Nelson kept pacing, his mind freewheeling, looking at the case from every angle.  Those within view of him looked up briefly and went back to work.  They were used to his habits, each to his own.

“While you’re doing that I’m going to tackle the case from the other end by going and speaking to an old colleague in the Gangs Squad to see what information he has on Emilio Fogliani and his family.  Maybe he knows what they get up to when they take their suits off.  It seems strange that the Gangs Squad didn’t show any interest in this case.  Normally they jump on anything that’s even remotely tainted with organised crime, but Crighton said they took a pass on this case and I want to know why.  I’ll see you later.”

Robards watched as Nelson grabbed a couple of pens and a fresh notebook and left in a whirlwind of energy.  Robards was left sitting at his desk, pondering the case and his future.  He wondered if the case would turn out to be the big success he initially hoped it might be when Nelson first told him about it.  He tried to pinpoint his doubts but couldn’t.  On the one hand, he agreed that the approach Nelson was taking was sensible enough and couldn’t really fault his logic, but on the other hand he couldn’t shake the vague feeling that he was missing something, or maybe that Nelson was holding something back.

Having worked with Nelson before, he knew that Nelson liked to do things his way and he often did things on his own.  Nelson always argued that it was just a matter of being able to cover more ground separately.  But then there were also rumours that Nelson had occasionally crossed the line to secure a conviction.  Although Robards had never seen any evidence of this during the six months he had worked with Nelson in Inspector VanMerle’s team, the mere thought of it made him uneasy.  He knew of the stains on Nelson’s record and had no desire to have them replicated on his own.

Robards sighed aloud and focussed his thoughts on the case at hand.  Nelson had always taught him to trust his instincts and so he set his jaw and decided to concentrate on filling in the gaps that seemed to bother Nelson and prove once and for all that Craig Thoms was the shooter.

During the course of the afternoon Grant McKinlay and Jennifer Nolan came to the Parramatta Police Station.  Robards interviewed each of them and took their statements.  As expected, they also confirmed Craig’s story about the stalking that night, but were unable to provide a description of the man he’d followed from Nero’s as they had both left before him to follow their own marks.  According to their stories, each of them claimed to be nowhere near the murder scene at the time it happened.  In short, they claimed they saw nothing.  Robards could see no reason not to believe them, however as Nelson directed, he pushed them hard for information on Craig and reduced Jennifer Nolan to a torrent of tears, but even then there were no startling admissions.

In the brief time he spent looking into each of their pasts that afternoon he found that none of the other stalkers had any criminal record, whereas Craig Thoms had been a regular transgressor of the law.  Robards cast the other stalkers aside in his mind as suspects and with the aid of a willing Constable Bovis plunged deep into Craig’s history.

Robards spoke to several people at the hospital where Craig worked and it made him smile.  He spoke to his previous employer, John Carmichael at Carmichael’s Security and he started to laugh at his good fortune.

Chapter 28

Nelson booked out an unmarked white Commodore for the afternoon and drove to the Hurstville police station where a portion of the Gangs Squad was located.  The Gangs Squad was established to target non-Middle Eastern gangs and organised criminal networks.  The main crimes it investigated involved the possession and use of firearms, acts of extortion, intimidation, drug trafficking and motor vehicle rebirthing.  Despite sitting alongside the Homicide squad in the organisational structure of the New South Wales Police Force they kept to themselves and Nelson had little to do with them in the past.

It was just after two p.m. Sunday.  Nelson had considered attending Craig Thoms’ bail hearing, but decided his time would be better spent chasing up leads instead of sitting in a courtroom watching a stream of human refuse plead their innocence to the Magistrate.  The Gangs Squad was located on the secondfloor of the station behind locked security doors.  He had phoned ahead before he left and was pleased to discover that Detective Senior Sergeant Raph Sanchez was on duty.  Upon his arrival at Hurstville station, he phoned Sanchez from the front foyer and within a minute Sanchez arrived in the foyer.  He was a tall man of medium build with a large hooked nose and pockmarked face.  Sanchez had been Nelson’s supervisor about eight years previously when Nelson was a Constable working at the Randwick station.  They had got along well and Nelson always admired Sanchez’s even handed management of the staff below him and considered him to be his best boss in the force so far.

“How are you Raph?” Nelson said smiling, taking the outstretched hand and giving it a vigorous shake.

“I’m good.  How are you Nelson?  It’s been a while.”

“Yes it has.  Too long.”

“You look like you’re in good shape.”

“Thanks, I wish I could say the same for you,” Nelson replied, gently poking the spare tyre that had begun to inflate around Sanchez’s midriff.

Sanchez smiled good naturedly at the taunt.  “How ’bout we grab a coffee from down the street?  We can talk in private there.”

They walked down the street toward Westfield, stopped at a café and took a seat away from the other patrons.  Nelson ordered a couple of cappuccinos and they reminisced briefly about old times while they waited for them to arrive.

“So have you come all this way to buy me a coffee or is there something else on your mind Nelson?”

“You always were sharp,” replied Nelson jokingly.  “Look, the reason I’m here is about the Fogliani murder.  I’ve got the case.”

“I know.  And let me guess, you’re here to ask me why the Gangs Squad hasn’t come in and taken the case off your hands, or at least offered some assistance seeing that Emilio Fogliani is part of an alleged underworld family?”

“Yeah something like that.  I’ve already said you were sharp.”

Sanchez smiled, sipped his cappuccino and wiped the froth from his lips.

“You know I’m not sure I should be talking to you about this stuff Nelson.  “If we were interested in the case we would’ve come in and taken it.  It’s as simple as that.  You know the drill.”

“C’mon Raph.  We’re all on the same side here.  We’re playing for the same team.  I just want to know if you’ve been looking at the Foglianis for anything.  I’m not asking you to divulge anything you shouldn’t.  If Emilio Fogliani is a cleanskin then that’s all you have to say.  You can’t get in trouble for telling me he was clean can you?”

Sanchez thought about it for a brief moment and then conceded the point.  “Alright, because it’s you, I’ll tell you what you want to know.  But this didn’t come from me ok?”

Nelson instinctively reached for his pocket to take out his notebook but stopped and let his hand rest on the table.  The conversation was off the record, or at least seemed to be because Nelson still has his digital voice recorder in his pocket which was set on voice activation mode and would record the conversation well enough for future reference.

“In short, Emilio Fogliani is, or I should say was, pretty much retired.  He was a nasty piece of work in his prime, but that was some time ago.  Twenty years ago he and his brother had their hands in a lot of pies but they gave all that away apparently.  There’s some anecdotal evidence that he’s still involved with the drug trade but we haven’t been able to turn anything up on it.  These days his nephew Michael is the power and has steered the family into finance, although apparently he still uses Emilio to open a few doors occasionally.”

“What sort of doors?”

Sanchez smiled.  “Well that’s where it gets a little complex.  In simple terms, Michael Fogliani is the head of a company that specialises in investing and managing funds, and probably laundering money, dirty money.  He used Emilio’s reputation and old school contacts in the organised crime world to gather investors.  Our best estimate is that the Fogliani family’s personal fortune is in the vicinity of thirty-five million, but their company manages an investment portfolio of around one hundred and fifty million and it’s growing each year.  It’s just like any normal financial deal in that Fogliani’s company skims a few percent in fees and charges off the top each year.  It’s a sweet deal.”

“I’m impressed,” said Nelson genuinely, trying to get his head around the numbers.  “That’s big money.  So are you guys looking at Michael Fogliani for that then?”

“Not really.”

“Why not?” replied Nelson, a perplexed frown creasing his face.

Sanchez smiled broadly and shook his head like a genial father.  “Because he’s not doing anything illegal!  The money he manages might be dirty but his investment companies are legitimate, or at least appear to be.”

“What do you mean appear to be?”

“Well there are some questions about how he moves funds around the world, but if anything, that is related to the tax law, not criminal law.  We’ve had meetings with the Tax Office about it.  They say it comes close to skirting the Transfer Pricing rules.”

“Transfer what?”

“Pricing.  Look, I’m no expert, but from what I understand it’s a technique where funds are moved between related companies in different parts of the world, sometimes using tax havens as a conduit.  The idea behind it is to minimise profits in countries that have higher tax rates and take the profits to a country that has low tax rates.  It’s not criminal activity.  It’s a grey area of the tax law and it’s very difficult to substantiate any illegality.  Michael Fogliani has a team of high priced accountants and lawyers and they’ve proven very effective at making the family business look entirely legitimate.”

“So he’s legitimately laundering dirty money,” said Nelson frowning.

“Pretty much.”

“So even though you think he’s dodgy you’re not going to do anything about it?”

“Look Nelson,” replied Raph becoming a little frustrated.  ”You understand as well as I do that we’ve only got so many resources to go around and quite frankly there are a lot of other organised crime groups that have way more impact on the street than the Foglianis.  The Italian underworld families that may have once ruled the roost in Sydney don’t hold much sway anymore.  They barely register as a blip on our radar.  These days it’s all about the Asian gangs down in Cabramatta, the Middle Eastern groups in the South and the Islanders who are all over the place.  They’re afraid of no-one and they’re tearing up the streets and we’ve got our hands more than full with them.  It’s all we can do to give the public the impression that we have some kind of control over them when the reality is that I’m not sure we do.”

“Yeah, but still…”

“But nothing Nelson.  When we compare the problems we have with them to what the Fogliani family is up to, well, it doesn’t really rate very highly on our things to do list.  And anyway if the Tax Office can’t find anything illegal then we aren’t likely to.”

“Maybe you just need to look harder,” said Nelson morosely.

“Maybe.  But the Exec wants our strategies to focus on the more visible criminal activity that makes the dirty money in the first place cos’ once it gets into Fogliani’s investment company it’s as good as gone.”

Nelson nodded and smiled tightly.  He understood only too well.  Over the years he had watched first hand as resources had been cut time and time again from front line policing as the politicians tightened the purse strings and the Police exec placed an ever increasing emphasis on feel good, high visibility, preventative policing, like education and marketing.  Despite all the tough talk, the police force was in no position to chase up every crime that was committed, but instead cherry picked what they calculated would give them the best bang for their budget buck.  Any victim of a petty crime soon came to understand that chasing up their complaint was not a priority.

“So what about the restaurants they own then?”

“They’re legit too from what I understand.  They’re just a small part of the empire.  I’m sure they’re profitable enough because Michael Fogliani wouldn’t run them any other way, but I think they’re just a trendy place to woo clients and for the family and their friends to hang out.  Anyway, what’s with all the questions about the Foglianis?  I’ve heard that you’ve already got someone in custody over this?”

“News travels fast.  Yeah, we do, but I’m just following up on a few things.  Just trying to make sense of everything and get a complete picture.”  Nelson said the words but they sounded hollow in his ears.  Not much about this case made sense.

He stared into the remains of his cappuccino and pondered what Sanchez had told him.

“You look troubled,” said Raph.  “What’s up?”

“Not sure.  It’s just that this case looks simple enough but a lot of it doesn’t make sense.  For example, if Fogliani is retired then why was Crighton so keen to bring this case into the Homicide Squad instead of just letting the LAC boys handle it?  If the Gangs Squad wasn’t interested, then why was he?”

Raph laughed aloud in genuine amusement, attracting sidelong glances from the other patrons of the coffee shop.  “Jesus you’re naïve Nelson.”

“What do you mean?” replied Nelson blankly.

“What I mean is that you aren’t up to date with office politics.  Look, I’m only speculating here, but I think Crighton grabbed the case because we passed on it.  He thinks that if this case turns into something big, like a gang war or something, and the Homicide squad’s in the middle of it and gets a bit of glory, then he’ll look good and we’ll look bad.”

“Why would he be hoping that?”

Raph Sanchez rolled his eyes to the heavens.  “Because his boss, David Chaplin, the head of State Crime Command is fifty-six, riddled with gout and expected to retire in January.  So, maybe Crighton is trying to look good to the upper Exec and get one up on our Gangs Squad boss, Detective Super Chisholm, who’s probably his main rival for the job.  The stupid thing is, is that this little episode shows you how out of touch Crighton is.  He thinks Emilio Fogliani was still a player when he’s just an old man, a nobody.  Crighton is still living in the fuckin eighties for god sake.”

“So you don’t think this is gang related then?”

“I doubt it.  But you’ve already got the guy in custody so surely you can work that out for yourself can’t you?”

“He claims he’s been setup.”

“And you believe him?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Nelson replied guardedly.

Chapter 29

Nelson returned to the office to find Robards working away at his desk.  As soon as he saw Nelson he effused a look of self-assured smugness on his face.  Nelson reasoned that either Robards had got laid in the last hour or so or that the case, from his point of view, had taken a turn for the better.  Nelson guessed it was the latter, but decided to deny Robards his joy and ignore him.  It would be revenge for Robards making him wait for the news about the evidence the day before.  He said a quick hello and dumped his notebook on his desk and went to make a coffee in the staff kitchen.  He growled when he discovered that the litre of milk he had bought that morning and put his name on, was already empty, but had been placed back in the fridge regardless.

“No doubt someone’s idea of an amusing joke,” he thought to himself.  In disgust he threw it in the recycling bin and used someone else’s.  He then returned to his desk, turned on his computer and ignored the still beaming Robards.

“Thoms didn’t get bail.  And I’ve found out some very interesting information about him.” Robards offered after less than thirty seconds of painful silence.

“What’s that?  He didn’t get bail?  Good.  Good stuff,” replied Nelson casually, continuing to type an email, trying his best to torment Robards.  It was a small gesture but Nelson had never considered himself a particularly big person.

“Yeah and I’ve found out some good stuff.”

“Oh?”  Nelson gave up his game and turned to face him.

“Yep,” said Robards no less smug, despite the delay.  “I’ve been doing a little digging into his background.  I spoke to some people at the hospital where he works.  The head nurse from the Geriatric ward says there have been drugs go missing recently.  Now she didn’t come right out and say it was him but she has her suspicions and Thoms was at the top of her list.  Apparently the drugs only started disappearing when he started working the ward and other wards have experienced similar problems when he worked in them.  Hard to believe it’s all a coincidence.”

Nelson rubbed his chin as he listened, weighing up the information.  “I suppose drugs go missing every day from hospitals though.  I’ve met plenty of dodgy doctors in my time.

Robards ignored the comment.  “I also spoke with a former employee, who’s a retired traffic cop named John Carmichael.  Thoms was employed at his security business before he worked at the hospital.  It’s where Bruce McKinlay still works.  Anyway he had some not-so-good things to say about Thoms as well funnily enough.  He basically said that he was a worthless piece of shit that he wouldn’t piss on if he was on fire.  His words, not mine.”

“Not exactly a glowing character reference then.”

“No.  Anyway after six months of working there, Carmichael discovered Thoms had been pilfering equipment from the shop, so he sacked him.”

Nelson sat quietly and listened.  Robards had his full attention now.

“But wait, there’s still more,” continued Robards, enthusiastically attempting to impersonate an infomercial salesman.  “Carmichael also said that Thoms was always hassling him for money to start up an internet porn business or something.  He said that he was desperate for financial backers because he was always broke, but Carmichael didn’t want a bar of it.”

“Did Carmichael have Thoms charged over the thefts?” said Nelson, backtracking to the earlier issue.

Robards looked slightly crestfallen at the question.  “No.  Thoms returned the stuff so he didn’t proceed with it.  But it all adds up.  I mean Thoms is probably a dirtbag drug dealer and maybe a user and has a history of always being short of cash and stealing.  During his stalk he probably stumbled onto a drug deal.  He waited in the bushes until it was completed and then he popped Fogliani, grabbed the cash, and took off.”  Robards looked to Nelson for a sign and was rewarded with a nod of his head.

“It sounds reasonable.”

“Yeah it does.”

“That’s good work Pete.  It looks like we’ve got a few more questions to ask Thoms about now.”

Robards smiled in agreement.  Nelson thought that it was starting to fit too.  It fit well enough with the information that Raph Sanchez had told him, in that Emilio Fogliani was possibly still involved in drug operations of some kind.  Maybe Thoms had stumbled onto a drug deal.  And yet the new information didn’t go close to filling in all the holes in the case and in some ways Nelson thought it just added more.

“But why did he tell the other stalk club members about seeing the murder if he was the one who committed it?  Why not just keep the whole thing to himself and not mention it at all?”

Robards thought for a moment and couldn’t think of an immediate explanation.  “Probably because he’s an idiot.  I mean he left the gloves too close to the crime scene, was caught on video and left his footprints there, so he’s made a whole bunch of mistakes.  Or maybe he was trying to impress them?  Maybe he was trying to get into the pants of the girl I interviewed today, Jen.  She was pretty nice.  Blue eyes and dark hair always does it for me.  What was the other one like, Natalie?”

“Yeah she’s good too,” Nelson admitted absent-mindedly.  “Did you dig anything else up on Thoms?” said Nelson, dragging Robards’ mind back on track.

“Yeah, I found some other stuff, nothing too serious though.  He’s got a couple of priors for drunk driving and a couple of assault charges that didn’t make it to court.  But that’s the reason why we have his fingerprints on the NAFIS database.”

“It’s hardly the record you’d associate with a cold blooded murderer.”

“Maybe not, but maybe he’s just got into the drugs fairly recently.  Drug users are capable of anything.”

“I can’t argue with you there.  Is that it?”

“Just about.  It’s probably nothing, but he was a suspect for a vehicular manslaughter some years ago.”

Nelson looked at him quizzically.  “Tell me more.”

“The accident was about fifteen years ago but there were file notes made on the case up until just a few years ago.  A couple of people died.  It probably doesn’t mean much.  He must have been just a kid back then.”

“Can I have a look?”

Robards slid the printout across his desk and Nelson scanned it.

“As you say, it’s probably nothing,” said Nelson as he handed the sheet back to Robards.  “What about his stalking friends?  Were you able to find out much about them?”

“No, not much.  They all look pretty clean.  None of them have criminal records.  Bovis ran the checks.  I asked Carmichael about Bryce McKinlay and he said he was a good worker and a stand-up guy.”  Robards hoped Nelson wouldn’t ask him any further questions about the other stalk club members, because beyond running their names through the on-line Criminal Record database he and Bovis had done little else to investigate their pasts.  After digging into Craig Thoms’ life and discovering his checkered past he remained convinced of his guilt and that the focus of the investigation should remain on him.

”Ok.  I think it’s time to talk to Thoms again.”  Nelson checked his watch.  “Tell him and his legal counsel that we’ll be re-interviewing him at the station at five p.m. sharp.  I’m going to grab something to eat first.”

Nelson returned ten minutes later with a ham and salad roll and waited for Robards to get off the phone to Craig’s solicitor.

“How’d you go?” he said through a mouthful.

Robards smiled.  “His solicitor isn’t happy.  He said we’re trying to railroad his client.”

“Railroad?  Who says that anymore?”

“He does I guess.”

Nelson told Robards what he had found out about Emilio Fogliani.  After some consideration he decided not to mention the behind the scenes political manoeuvrings of Crighton.  Although Raph Sanchez may have been correct in his theories as to why the case had been taken on by the Homicide squad, it was still pure conjecture and didn’t overly interest Nelson at this point in time.  He had other things to worry about.  He told Robards that Fogliani was still suspected of being involved in the drug trade and Robards quickly saw the connection between that and his theory that Craig possibly stumbled onto a drug deal.  If Robards hadn’t already been completely certain about Craig’s guilt, then this new information would have ensured it.

Nelson left Robards to bask in his own glory and returned to his desk to quickly prepare for his next interview with Craig Thoms.  He jotted down questions based on the new information they had gathered and then decided to take a closer look at Craig’s criminal history.  He scanned through the case notes for each infraction.  The unsolved vehicular manslaughter case from fifteen years previously piqued his interest.  He noted that as Robards had mentioned, there had been a few brief file notes added to the case in the years after the accident, with the final note being in 2009.

He also noted the name of the officer who had made the latest file note - Sergeant John Soward.  Nelson pondered the name for a moment, swishing it around in his mind to get a taste of it.

“Now there’s a blast from the past,” he said to himself.

Chapter 30

Detective Robards led Craig Thoms and his solicitor Martin Warnock from the holding cells up to the interview room.  Warnock’s lips were pursed paper thin tight in annoyance at having next to no time to prepare for another interview.  Thanks to the slow weekend bail court proceedings, his client had only been returned to his holding cell at around four-thirty p.m. after having spent most of the afternoon at the Parramatta Local court, waiting for his case to be heard.  When his turn had finally arrived the Magistrate took all of five minutes to summarily reject his bail application, much to his solicitor’s chagrin.  Warnock had spent hours preparing a noble speech on natural justice and wrongful confinement and had only got through the first few pages of it before the Magistrate tired of it, silenced him with a wave of his hand and denied the application.   As a result of bail having been denied, Craig was due to be transferred to the Silverwater Correctional Facility on the seven p.m. shuttle.  It was not something he was looking forward to.

Nelson was already waiting for them when they arrived, thumbing his way slowly through the hard copy of the case file that was already a half inch thick and growing rapidly.  Robards sat Craig down heavily in a chair and took a seat straight across the small table from him.

“Right Mr Thoms, thanks for coming,” Robards said, smiling at his own little joke.  “Let me start by telling you that I’ve been looking into your life a little bit and I must say that I’m impressed, but not in a good way.”  Robards went on to document the conversations he’d had with Craig’s colleagues at the hospital which elicited no response from him or his solicitor.  Robards then mentioned his conversation with Craig’s previous employer, John Carmichael.

“Carmichael said you were sacked because you were stealing stock, probably to feed your drug habit I’d bet,” said Robards grinning.

“I don’t do drugs and I didn’t steal from Carmichael,” retorted Craig indignantly.  It had been a long and exhausting day preceded by a sleepless night and he felt like he was running on empty.  He took a deep breath and tried to muster his last reserves of calm.  “I only borrowed a few things to use in the stalking.  I was gonna return the stuff the next day but Carmichael noticed they were missing.  Ask Bryce, he knew.  He was a part of it as well.  I took the blame cos’ I didn’t think there was any point in both of us getting sacked.”

“You took the blame for it did you?  That’s big of you.”

“And Carmichael had it in for me anyway.”

“Did he?  Maybe that was because you were always hassling him for money to invest in the porn site you wanted to start up?”

“Oh for fuck sake it wasn’t about porn,” snapped Craig, casting aside his short lived calm as his raw nerves were again raked by Robards.  Martin Warnock placed a hand on Craig’s forearm to try and calm him and maybe get him to think first, for once, about what he said before committing it to the record for all time, but it had no effect.

“I was going to sell security equipment on the internet.  You know, like nanny cams, listening devices, GPS trackers and stuff like that.  It’s all the rage these days.  I was just looking for a partner with some contacts in the industry and a bit of cash to help with the start up costs, that’s all.  You’re trying to twist everything that happened.”

“And this is all just hearsay and conjecture,” piped up Warnock bravely.

Robards ignored him.  “Come on Craig.  You’re among friends.  Why don’t you stop playing games with us and tell us what really happened that night.”  Robards waited theatrically for a response but got nothing but a sullen glare from Craig.

“Alright then, let me again go over what we’ve got on you.  We’ve got the bloodstained gloves with your fingerprints on them and we’ve got video of you, and the footprints which are a match with your boots, all of which places you at the scene of the crime at the time of the crime.  We’ve got missing drugs at the hospital with everyone pointing the finger at you, we’ve got an ex-employer, a retired police Sergeant no-less, who says you were fired for stealing and who thinks you’re a scumbag.  And to top it off, you’ve got a criminal record for a couple of assault charges and DUIs and there’s an unsolved vehicular double fatality that lists you as a prime suspect.  Now am I making all this up?  Am I twisting all this like you said, just to make you look bad, because if I’ve got it wrong somewhere I want you to tell me.”

Craig made no effort to correct him and sat quietly pondering his future, which was looking bleaker by the minute.  Robards continued his assault, his voice louder, booming around the small room, leaning forward so that their faces were separated by only a distance of fifty centimtres.  “Now I’m no expert on human behaviour, but I reckon if we put all this in front of a jury, it’s not going to take them very long to find you guilty.  So why don’t you just save everyone some time here, tell us what happened and tell us where the murder weapon is.”  Robards slammed his hand down on the table for emphasis resulting in the pint sized Martin Warnock visibly jumping in his seat.

“Detective, let me suggest that my client’s past issues have nothing to do with this case and would be inadmissible in court.”

Robards turned toward him as if noting his presence for the first time.  Warnock tried to bravely match Robards threatening glare but had to look away after a few seconds.

Nelson took a deep breath and sighed.

“Look, Mr Thoms, if you want us to help you, you need to give us something here.  You don’t have to be a genius to understand that right now it’s not looking too good for you.”

Craig looked at Nelson who met his eyes and stared back unemotionally.

A strained look came across Craig’s face.

“I didn’t do this.  What else can I say?  What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to be straight with us right here and right now.  You claim you were set up, well if that’s true then you must have some idea about who would do that and why.  Who the hell would hate you this much to go to all this trouble?”

Craig sat in silence for thirty seconds as he weighed his meager options.  He knew he had enemies, everyone did, but by revealing them he would no doubt dig himself into a hole.  Still, he judged that it probably wouldn’t be as deep as the hole he was already in, charged with murder and facing a likely twenty years in jail.  He shook his head and wondered how his life had all gone so badly wrong and which god he had pissed off along the way.  He felt he had been backed into the tightest of corners and the only person standing behind him was his skinny sexually agnostic solicitor, which did little to comfort him.  He looked at Warnock for guidance and received a small nod of ascension.   Warnock knew the case was going to hell and he was going along for the ride.

“Ok,” Craig began.  “I have taken drugs from the hospital.”  Martin Warnock emitted a small groan as his case went from a seventy-five percent chance of being a loser to about ninety-five percent at the utterance of those seven words.

“Tell us about it Craig,” said Nelson.  “Tell us everything, for your own sake.”

Craig Thoms met Nelson’s even stare.  He began to tell them about the drugs he had taken and how he had on-sold them to a man named Harvey Petersham.  He had met Harvey when he had also worked at the hospital as an orderly, before he had been later fired for stealing from patients.  With his access cut off, Harvey had approached Craig and asked him to obtain the drugs for him.  He admitted that the money on offer had been too good to say no to, so he had agreed.  Harvey had provided him master keys for most of the drug lockers in the hospital and instructions on what drugs to focus on.

“It was only ever going to be a temporary thing,” Craig offered in consolation.  “Just until I got enough money together to start up the website.  I was almost there too.  I told Harvey that I was finished when I met him on Wednesday night.”

“How did he take that?” asked Nelson.

“He wasn’t happy.  In fact he was off his nut.  Harvey’s only a weed but he claimed his friends wouldn’t be happy with me cutting off their supply.”

“I knew it.  I fucking knew it.”  Robards laughed out loud, slapping his knee with genuine exuberance, unable to contain his elation.  “It all makes sense.”

“Oh?  And how’s that?” asked Craig, sneering and cocking his head to one side.

“Well I don’t know why I need to explain it to you, but I will anyway.  Firstly, you get this shit-brained idea about starting up the porn site or whatever you want to call it, but you need money.  You try and hit up old Carmichael but he tells you to get stuffed, so you steal a bit of his equipment and probably flog it off to your friends on the side.  Then you get caught and get sacked and start working at the hospital.  You still need money so you start flogging drugs and medicines from the hospital and reselling them to this Petersham guy, but then you hit the jackpot.  While you’re out stalking with your mates last Friday, you got lucky enough to follow some dealer to St Peters where you saw money change hands between the guy you were following and Emilio Fogliani.  You waited until the coast was clear and then you waltzed up to the car and put three bullets into Fogliani and made off with the proceeds.  Too freakin easy.  It all makes perfect sense and we’ve got all the evidence we need to prove it.”

“I didn’t do it,” Craig yelled back savagely.  “There was no drug deal and I didn’t kill Fogliani.”

Nelson studied his face looking for any sign that he was lying.  “I’m being straight with you,” he said almost pleading, his lank oily brown hair falling across his face.

“Ok Craig, let’s start at the beginning again.  Try and remember anything you left out.”

Craig Thoms told his story again, trying to squeeze every ounce of detail from his memory.  He kept his eyes on Nelson and tried to believe that he was trying to help him.  He needed to believe.

************

“Oh come on,” yelled Robards, his anger and frustration boiling over, his arms pointing to the heavens in search of divine help.  “Most of the idiots we arrest claim they’ve been set up don’t they?  It’s the standard fucking response to getting arrested.  ‘Someone set me up.  The cops planted the evidence’,” he mimicked in a sarcastic voice.  “It’s always the same tune so why should Thoms play it any differently?  It’s the best excuse in the world.”  Robards’ small, deep-set blue eyes flashed fire as he challenged Nelson.  “But what I don’t get is why you’re listening to him?  I mean what is it about him that makes you believe, even for an instant, that he was set up?  The evidence is so strong and it points straight at him.”

The interview had ended five minutes earlier and when Robards returned to the interview room after escorting Craig and his solicitor back to his cell, his anger had fissured its way to the surface.

“It’s not that I believe him,” answered Nelson evenly, trying to counter Robards with calmness and control.  “I just want to be sure he’s guilty, and despite all the evidence, I’m still not convinced.  There’s no GSR on his clothes or on the gloves.  There’s no murder weapon, there is no motive apart from your assumption that it was a robbery and there is no real history of violence with this guy,” he said, ticking off his reasons on his fingers.  “There are still major holes in this case and as I’ve said before I don’t want to get to court and have some smart arse lawyer pull our case to pieces because they looked harder at this than we did.”

“It’s not going to happen.  No-one is going to get him off because he’s guilty,” returned Robards emphatically as he stormed around the small room.  “The evidence is all there.  We found it.”

“I know, but it’s not enough.  I need to keep looking at it until I’m satisfied.”

“And what about Crighton and VanMerle?  What’re they going to make of this?”

“I don’t care what they make of it,” snapped Nelson, feeling the last of his patience evaporate.  “I’m going to keep looking at this case until I’m convinced that Craig Thoms did it or I prove that someone else did, and I don’t care what agendas anyone else has.”  Nelson stood up and looked Robards squarely in the eyes, their faces only inches apart.  “I’m the lead Detective on this case and what I say goes ok?”

“This case is fast becoming a fucking joke,” snarled Robards.  He stormed out of the room, slamming the door violently behind him.  The vibrations stung Nelson’s body and pounded on his ear drums.  It took all of his remaining self-control not to go after him and start something he would no doubt later regret.  He sat back down at the table, feeling the heat and redness of the argument in his face and tried to relax his breathing.  After five minutes he felt sufficiently calm to return his attention to the case.  He reviewed the notes he had taken from the interview.  Loose ends glared at him from every direction and plagued his thoughts.  He sighed loudly, snapped close the case file and headed back to his desk.

Chapter 31

The traffic was light and Nelson made good time as he aggressively sliced through the traffic, albeit not as quickly as when he had first sped to the crime scene in the early morning hours of the previous day.  He was yet to meet a traffic cop yet who wouldn’t let a fellow officer off, even though he’d tested their patience on several occasions.

His slanging match with Robards came at the end of a long day and it was a signal to him that he needed to take a break from the case and from Robards.  He was annoyed for having let Robards get to him and berated himself harshly for not staying calmer in the face of the Robards’ tirade.  A dark mood descended on him like a heavy curtain and negative thoughts about the case and the people involved in it swam into his mind.

He thought about Craig Thoms, who would be about to embark on his shuttle ride to Silverwater Prison and felt the weight of his life in his hands.  He knew he would only let Craig Thoms go if he could convince himself of his guilt.  Although the evidence was compelling, he was unable to do this and the thought of being the lead Detective in a case where an innocent man might be convicted of murder chewed him up like acid in his guts.

He pulled his car into the driveway of his rented Brighton LeSands house.  It was only a few hundred metres from the Bay.  Unlike some of the McMansions that neighboured him, it was a plain looking, single level house and the rent which he split with his buddy and fellow officer Damian Polak, was very reasonable for the location.  Polak worked at the Randwick Police Station and their differing shifts meant they often didn’t cross paths for a week.  Polak had gone through the Academy with Nelson sixteen years ago and was one of the few people Nelson counted as a close friend.

Nelson squeezed past his Cobra kit car replica that took prize position under the single carport and made his way inside the house.  He checked the house in search of Polak but found it empty and quiet and remembered that he’d gone to a mate’s house to play cards.  Nelson gave a moments thought to going to the cards night but decided against it as he knew he was verging on exhaustion and couldn’t take yet another late night.  He threw off his work clothes and put on a pair of tracksuit pants and a t-shirt.  He went to the lounge room and slumped into the couch.  He wished there was someone else there, someone he could talk to about normal stuff to take his mind off things but there was no-one.  There had been other housemates who had come and gone over time and there had been women in Nelson’s life who had also come and gone.  He felt like calling one of them up for some much needed female company but decided against it.  None of them had been able to overcome the callouts, the nightshifts and the baggage that came hand in hand with police work and none of the relationships had developed into anything sufficiently significant to compel Nelson to put their needs ahead of his work.

He went to the kitchen, ignored the mess in the sink because he didn’t make it and reached for one of the litre bottles of Johnny Walker on the shelf above the stove.  He poured himself a generous shot and added some coke zero.  While he was working he liked to limit his drinking, in an effort to keep his mind sharp and engaged, but made an exception for himself on this night.  He often made exceptions.  He swallowed deeply and felt the familiar and welcome burn begin to seep through his body and the anxiousness begin to fade as it was searched out and neutralised by the drink.

He refilled his glass and sat alone in the lounge room.  Through the haze of the alcohol his mind returned to the case and he jotted some notes on a pad as he planned his next moves.  He reasoned that if Craig was innocent then someone had gone to a lot of trouble to set him up and he needed to focus on finding out who that person was.  If it was a setup then the killing of Emilio Fogliani was not a random or opportunistic act - like Robards wanted to believe - but was planned, and unseen links somehow connected Craig’s and Fogliani’s fates together.

As he thought more deeply about the case, something about it began to nag and itch at his subconscious.  The feeling that he was overlooking something teased his senses, but the more he tried to focus on it the more elusive it became.  After trying for a while to force it into the sunlight, he ignored it and thought about other things, until through lack of attention, it finally revealed itself towards the end of his sixth drink.  He knew then what his next move needed to be.

Chapter 32

Craig Thoms’ solicitor had informed him what his immediate future would be if his bail application was denied, so it was of no particular surprise when the Magistrate who heard his case and denied his bail application, ordered him to be remanded to the strangely named Metropolitan Remand and Reception Centre until his pre-trial hearing commenced.  The MRRC is the maximum security section of the sprawling Silverwater Correctional Centre and has a reputation as being one of the toughest prisons in the state of New South Wales.  It is home to mostly untried and unsentenced offenders who have been refused bail on serious charges and are waiting for the wheels of the justice system to slowly turn their way.

At seven p.m. on the dot, two Corrective Services officers arrived at the Parramatta Police Station and signed for custody.

“Time to go mate.  Don’t give us any trouble now,” said the smaller of the two.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Craig responded glumly.

They shackled his hands and feet and led him out to the transport truck parked at the rear of the station.  Martin Warnock had stayed with him since his second interview and as he was led away, promised he would do everything in his power to help him beat the charges, but his claim sounded hollow in Craig’s ears.

Craig was the only prisoner being transported to Silverwater.  The other detainees that had shared the cells with him and who had been denied bail on lesser charges, had already been transported to the medium security, and infinitely more desirable – if such a description could be used on a prison - Parramatta detention centre.

Craig had tried to show no emotion during the time he spent in the cells and courtroom, but now as he found himself alone in the back of the transport and finally out of sight of the cold, hard eyes of the other prisoners and the police, he held his face in his hands and allowed his emotions to overwhelm him just for a little while.

After a bone jarring twenty minute ride along the badly weathered and cracked Parramatta Road they arrived at the MRRC at Silverwater.  Craig waited nervously while the transport slowly progressed through three sets of wire fences, each topped with rings of razor wire until they reached the inner compound.

By the time the rear doors of the transport were jerked open he had fully regained his composure and vowed to himself to stay strong for as long as it took.  He was led to a reception area, shackled to a sturdy, bolted down chair and told to wait – as if he had other options available to him.  The Corrective Services officers left the room while Craig stared at the four white walls and waited.  There were twenty chairs in the room, but again, he was the only prisoner.

He sat impassively and took in the sounds and smells of the prison as they filtered down to him.  He could hear the guards talking and laughing down the hallway, the occasional shriek and holler from the prisoners and could smell the evening meal being prepared in the kitchen.

Almost an hour later, with their handover complete, two prison guards came to collect him.  They led him by the arms down a long corridor and into a large room where new prisoners were processed.  His shackles were finally removed and he was made to strip off all of his clothing and stand inside a telephone box sized metal detector.  From there he was fingerprinted, retinal scanned, a sample of his DNA was taken from inside his cheek and then he was finally given a freshly laundered prison uniform.

As he pulled on his clothes, the enormity of his situation struck him and it was all he could do to finish dressing himself before nearly collapsing into a chair while he waited for a senior officer to arrive and conduct his entry interview.  Another thirty minutes of silent, queasy, abject boredom passed before another officer entered the room.  He was a heavily built man of around six feet in height with a large round gut, sloping, yet powerful shoulders and expressionless dark eyes.  He carried himself confidently, with an air of authority lingering in his wake.  He sat across the desk from Craig and began looking through his paperwork that had been attached to a wooden clipboard.  Craig noticed his name tag read ‘Mike’.

“So, you’re the guy that topped Fogliani,” he said with a cold sneer which showed crooked, nicotine stained teeth.  Craig thought about denying it but decided not to bother wasting his breath on someone who wouldn’t have believed him and was of no value to him even if he could convince him of his innocence.

“That’s what they’ve charged me with.”

“You must be one dumb fuck.  Are you a dumb fuck Thoms?” said Mike, double checking the clipboard to check if he had his name right.

“Maybe I am.”

The guard sneered, disappointed not to have got a rise out of the newby.  “There’s no maybe about it dumb fuck.  You know there’s been a lot of talk in here about you already.  Fogliani had plenty of friends and some of them are in here.  I hope you’ve got some friends too because if you don’t, some people are going to be testing you out pretty soon and we can’t keep an eye on everything that happens in here.  Enjoy your stay dumb fuck.  Take him to Pod 3 in D block,” Mike said to the other guard.  “I’ve had enough of dealing with scum for today.  We can finish up with him tomorrow.”

It was eleven-thirty p.m. before Craig Thoms was led down the bleak fluorescent lit corridor that led to D Block.  Lights out at eleven meant that all was dim and quiet in D Block except for the occasional cough or snore.  Craig looked straight ahead as he was marched to his cell and was watched by those who had not succumbed to sleep in the cells that he walked past.

“This is it Thoms,” said the guard.  “Open 103,” yelled the guard back down the corridor to the control post.  The door to cell 103 slid back with an efficient motorised clang.  Craig stepped through the threshold into the darkened cell.

“Close 103!”

He turned as the door closed, holding his bundle of meagre possessions which consisted of a spare uniform and toiletries that he would soon realise made home brand look luxurious.  The sight of the steel bars in front of his face made his soul shudder.  He choked back the emotions that threatened to spill out and turned away to face the inside of his cell.

On the top bunk was a form from which a quiet snore emanated and Craig quietly hoped that his cellmate wasn’t one of Foglianis’ friends.  As he lay down on the lower bunk he realised for the first time that he was exhausted and starving.  He hadn’t eaten since lunchtime and had barely slept in the previous seventy-two hours and although it was quiet and warm and he had his own bed, sleep was the furthest thought from his mind.

Chapter 33

Detective Robards reviewed his notes from the interview the previous day, where Craig Thoms had spoken about Harvey Petersham, his drug buyer.   He wasn’t even certain why he was chasing this lead up, if you could call it that, and doubted it had anything to do with the case, but Nelson’s brief phone call to him earlier in the morning left no room for negotiation.  It seemed like a futile fishing expedition and Robards figuratively and literally hated fishing, particularly trout fishing because those things never took the bait and when they did, they invariably spat it out before you hooked them good.

Robards sighed and mentally shrugged his shoulders.  He took the time to pull up Harvey Petersham’s criminal record on his computer and shook his head at the staggering length and breadth of his criminal career.  Starting at the age of fourteen and spanning the ensuing twenty-six years, there had been arrest after arrest after arrest, mostly for small amounts of drug possession, but there were also charges for drunk driving, assault and even a public mischief charge relating to indecent exposure.  Robards concluded sagely that he was a small time, pathetic and obviously not too smart career criminal.  Lenient judges and a soft hearted criminal system ensured that despite his repeated infractions with the law, Petersham had only been to prison four times that added up to a grand total of just over two years.

According to his file, Harvey Petersham was currently serving twelve months probation, courtesy of his most recent drug arrest.  Robards was grateful that he would be able to access his current address through his probation case officer, however that feeling soon dissipated, and he again sighed deeply, when he noticed on the file that the probation case officer was Sourav Bedi.   Robards had dealt with him before on a number of occasions and his dislike for him was so intense the thought of calling him nearly caused him actual physical pain.  Bedi’s arrogance and confidence in his own superiority were equally and oppositely matched by his incompetence and laziness.  Nevertheless, Robards pushed through the pain barrier and picked up the phone.  He was almost ecstatic to actually catch Sourav at work as he had a reputation for exploiting the already generous leave provisions of the New South Wales public service to the limit.  After an initial few minutes of idle greetings and small talk which stretched Robards’ patience to breaking point, Sourav confirmed what Robards had deduced in the few moments it had taken him to review his record, Harvey Petersham was a serial deadbeat.

“However, I think it unlikely he would be into anything serious though.  He is mostly small time you know,” Sourav said in a thick nothern Indian accent.

“You’re probably right Sourav but I need to speak with him anyway.  So where can I find him?”

“As far as I know, he lives out at Manly and works at a takeaway shop on the Steyn.”

Robards cursed under his breath, already dreading the minimum forty minute drive that lay ahead of him.  He took down the addresses for Petersham’s home and work, did his best to muster a thank you to Sourav and hung up.  He tried to look on the bright side in that he had actually found Sourav at work and he had been mildly helpful on this occasion.

Despite skirting the worst of the inner city traffic by taking Lane Cove Road and Lane Cove Motorway in succession, it still took Robards almost an hour to get out to Manly because as soon as he hit Military Road the traffic slowed to a near crawl.  He arrived at Manly annoyed and frustrated and drove to the boarding house that Harvey Petersham had told his probation officer he was living at.  It was a rundown weatherboard house probably around eighty years old and was badly in need of a paint job.  Its owner had assiduously identified a need in the market and partitioned off the house into ten tiny bed-sitter apartments which were rented for the princely sum of one hundred and ten dollars each a week to men who for one reason or another could afford nothing better.

The grass was long and unkempt and pamphlets, newspapers and beer bottles littered the front lawn.  Robards looked at the house with distaste and gave a cursory thought of sympathy to the neighbours.  He took a deep breath in preparation and made his way inside the front door which was ajar.  Upon entry, he was physically assaulted by the stale smell of unwashed men, cigarettes and musty carpet.  To his left was a large communal living room which was crammed full of mismatched lounge chairs in such poor condition they looked like they had been salvaged from the dump.  A couple of dregs of society were watching a morning news program on a small battered television and either didn’t notice his presence or ignored it.

“Harvey?  Harvey Petersham?” Robards called to them.

“Number eight up the stairs,” replied one of the men without removing his eyes from the television.

Robards made his way up the creaking wooden stairs to the second floor, found unit eight and proceeded to bang on the door for two whole minutes.  There was no response.  He put his weight against the door and found that it had a surprisingly solid feel to it.  He sighed theatrically and decided he’d have to give Petersham’s work address a try.  One of the men who had been watching television was now sitting on the front doorstep having a smoke.  He was small and wiry and despite it being only twelve degrees outside he was shirtless.  Robards noted the tattoos that covered most of his torso.

“Do you know where I can find Harvey Petersham?”  The old man interrupted his smoke and looked disdainfully up at Robards.

“I ain’t seen him in weeks pig.”

Robards smiled tightly and put aside any thoughts he had of attempting to teach the old bastard some much needed manners.  His day was just getting better and better.  Robards had an intense dislike for this part of policing, having to chase down deadbeat losers who wouldn’t tell you anything once you caught up with them anyway.  And when they did tell you something it was either a lie or of little consequence.  He was tempted to call off the search and head back to the station, but knew that Nelson would probably insist that he come out again tomorrow and search for Harvey Petersham if he returned to headquarters empty handed.

He worked his way down through the streets to the Steyne which girdled the crescent shaped Manly foreshore.  Although it was only ten in the morning there were already hundreds of long-socked tourists looking for their next photo opportunity, thousands of squawking seagulls crapping on the pavement and looking for their next chip and a handful of young people spending their sickie on the famous beach.  Petersham had told his case officer that he worked several shifts a week at his uncle’s takeaway shop.  Robards thought it would be a convenient location for Pethersham to ply his trade to the profusion of backpackers, tourists and anyone else in the area that was in need of a little chemical pick-me-up.

He scanned the shopfronts and picked out the takeaway shop amongst all the others.  He had noticed the prices on their outdoor billboards and wondered why anyone would pay near on twenty bucks for the privilege of eating few greasy chips and a piece of fish likely to be imported from some muddy Vietnamese creek.  As Robards approached the shop from the south, his presence was noted by a man sitting at an outside table studying a form guide for Randwick races later in the day.  Their eyes met and both instantly recognised each other as a natural enemy.  Petersham took a brief moment to look around, searching the street in the other direction for more enemies.  When he saw none, he leapt up out of his chair like a startled rabbit, knocking chairs and a table over and tripping himself up in the process.  He got up and took off at a run in the opposite direction from which Robards was approaching.  Robards took after him, moving with surprising speed and grace for a heavily built man.  Petersham kicked off his thongs as he ran, in a frantic search for more speed, his skinny brown legs flailing in all directions.  It was of little use however, as two strong hands latched onto the back of his shirt and propelled him forcefully to the ground.  Petersham did an unplanned forward roll and came to rest on his back, staring up at the clear blue sky above.  Robards stood over him enormously, a man-made eclipse of the sun.

“Harvey Petersham?” he growled through his teeth.

Petersham tried to think of something smart or tough to say but his alcohol and drug abused mind refused to cooperate to any great degree.

“Yeah.  What do you want?  I ain’t done nothing.”

“Then why’d you run?”

Petersham picked himself up off the ground, surprised and thankful that all the parts of his body were as they should be and still seemed to work reasonably well.

“I just don’t like cops ok?  Especially when they want to talk to me.  I’d rather just sail under their radar you know.  Nuthin’ personal.  What’s all this about anyway?”

“It’s about your good friend Craig Thoms.”  Robards noticed that Petersham’s eyes narrowed perceptibly at the mention of the name.

“What about him?”

“Well for starters, did you threaten him when he said he wouldn’t be supplying you anymore?”

Harvey thought for a moment and smiled through a mouth with a couple of missing teeth and a couple well on the way out.  He was a walking talking advertisement for a national dental health program.

“What are you talking about?  I wouldn’t do nothing like that.  He’s pulling your leg if that’s what he said.”

Robards rolled his eyes and thought of a drink he’d once had at a party, a Harvey Wallbanger.  Although he didn’t like it much at the time, the thought of banging Harvey into a wall greatly appealed to him, however when he looked around he saw a host of potential camera bearing witnesses looking in their direction.

“Craig Thoms said he’s been selling you drugs that he’s been stealing from the hospital he works at.”

“Drugs?  I ain’t into no drugs.  That would be a violation of my probation you know.”  Petersham was beginning to feel more confident.  He started to wonder why he bothered to run at all seeing that he’d never been particularly fast.

“Yeah I’m sure it would be.  How about last Friday night.  Where were you then?”

“Dunno.  I can barely remember what I did this morning let alone last week.”

Robards had just about had enough and he closed in on Petersham menacingly.

“Just answer the fucking question or so help me I’m going to mess you up and I don’t care who is watching,” he growled through clenched teeth.

Petersham’s eyes went wide with genuine fear and he took an involuntary step backwards.  “Ok, ok, let me think.  Last Friday night?  Last Friday night?  Ah, that’s it, no wonder I can’t remember it.  I spent most of last week visiting some friends in Newcastle.  Unfortunately I had a bit too much to drink on the Friday and made a bit of a spectacle of myself.  The local boys in blue picked me up and dragged me off to the lockup to sober up.  They didn’t let me out until the next mornin.”

“You’d better not be bullshitting me because I won’t be happy if I have to drive all the way out here to talk to you again.”

“I’m telling the truth.  Go check with them.  I been picked up there a few times before.  Talk to Sergeant Garland.  He’ll vouch for me.  He can probably tell you I was there most of the week.”

Robards decided he’d had enough for the time being and left Harvey to his own devices.  On the walk back to his car he called the Newcastle city centre police station and Sergeant Garland confirmed Petersham’s story.  He had been picked up at eight p.m. in a local park, drunk as a skunk and raising hell with a couple of friends and hadn’t been released until the next morning.  There had also been sightings of him during the week. They hadn’t charged Petersham with anything and didn’t bother to inform his probation case officer.  Robards thought it a reasonable decision.  He had wasted enough of his own time and energy on Petersham himself.  But as he made his way back toward the city, on his way to Parramatta, a tight smile formed on his face.  The trip hadn’t been a complete waste of time as he had learned that Petersham was most probably a dead end.  He was most probably too stupid and small time to have been involved with any mythical setting up of Craig Thoms.  Robards mentally penciled in another small stroke of guilt on the hangman picture he was drawing for Craig Thoms.

Chapter 34

Nelson pushed the accelerator to the floor and heard the engine respond in a barking growl.  The wind whipped over the windscreen and battered his ear drums.  He grabbed fourth gear but eased up as he reached the highway limit of one hundred and ten kilometres per hour - plus a little bit extra for good luck - all too soon for his liking.  He was glad to leave the city behind him and felt his spirits and energy lift as he wound his way down the coast, occasionally glimpsing the grey white-capped Pacific Ocean to his left.  The day had dawned dark and ominous, but the clouds were beginning to be pushed to the north by a south-easterly breeze that was gaining in strength.

Nelson hadn’t told Robards where he was going when he spoke briefly to him earlier in the morning.  He felt slightly guilty about that, but felt justified in keeping his cards close to his chest after he had read the article in the mornings Telegraph on the Emilio Fogliani case.  The page three story devoted half a page to the ongoing investigation and contained far too much detail about the case for Nelson’s liking.  He pondered where the information might have come from but soon gave up on the thought, conceding that it could have come from one hundred different sources.  He decided to switch off his mobile phone for a while because he didn’t want to be the first person Superintendent Crighton spoke to after he read the story.  Let him take it out on someone else, Nelson mused.

He was pleased he had bet against the chance of rain and chosen to take his Cobra convertible for the drive down the coast.  It was his pride and joy.  He had built the car himself from a kit, and had originally expected to have it finished within a year of getting it.  Seven years later he finally managed to get it roadworthy and registered, although it still required some body work on a few rust spots that had developed over time thanks to the salt sea air and a paint job to cover the grey undercoat and its many blemishes.  The three hundred and two cubic inch V8 engine rumbled beneath him.  The sound and vibration of it hypnotised his senses and helped him put the case far from his mind for a while.

After three hours of steady driving he crested the final hill and saw the coastal town of Batemans Bay ahead of him.  He knew the area well.  At the age of nineteen he had graduated as a cadet from Goulburn Police Academy and had been posted to Narooma, some thirty minutes drive south of Batemans Bay.  Back then, Batemans Bay and Narooma had been little more than sleepy hamlets with just a few shops, fishing boats and beach houses.  But during the holiday seasons, as with most coastal towns, they would witness an invasion of people from Canberra, Sydney and the surrounding areas and became noisier, or livelier, depending on your point of view.  Nelson was stationed at Narooma for just six months before being posted back to Sydney at the first available opportunity.  He hadn’t been back since.

He drove across the old steel truss Clyde River bridge that once marked the northern entrance to the town and noticed that although the town appeared to have changed considerably since he was last there, the Clyde River remained unchanged and still looked clean, dark, cold and deep.  Despite its size, the ebbing current moved swiftly towards the sea and was more than a match for all but the strongest swimmer or the most determined soul.  Nelson marvelled at the beauty of the river and vaguely promised himself he would take some leave soon and come down for a week, maybe hire a boat and do some fishing for flathead and bream.  However, deep down he knew he’d never get around to doing it.

Nelson had phoned ahead and spoken to Sergeant John Soward’s wife, who told him the now-retired Sergeant Soward would be spending most of the day at the local bowls club where he was a member and also worked a few shifts a week behind the bar.  Casting his memory back he recalled his memories of the man from all those years ago.  Although they had been stationed in towns close in proximity to each other, their paths had only crossed a few times.  Nelson, being straight out of the Academy had been sentenced to work almost exclusively night shifts, whereas Soward’s seniority ensured he worked almost exclusively days unless an emergency dragged him out.  Occasionally the Narooma and Batemans Bay police joined forces when their limited numbers were insufficient to deal with a particular problem and it was from these occasions that Nelson remembered him.

A few minutes later Nelson entered the bowls club.  Despite being only ten a.m. it was already filling with senior citizens, playing bowls and pokies, chatting with friends, drinking two dollar pots of beer and reminiscing about how good things were back in their day.

Nelson surveyed the club, scanning the male patrons for Soward, idly thinking they all looked alike with their white clothes, grey hair and wrinkled brown faces.  Nelson’s wondered if he was losing his touch as he struggled to find a face that even vaguely matched his memory.  He then remembered what Soward’s wife had told him in that he sometimes worked behind the bar and spotted him serving with a cheery smile.  Nelson studied the man and had to concede that the years had been good to him as he still had a full head of hair, albeit completely grey now, had dropped a good fifteen kilograms off Nelson’s memory of him and looked fit and strong for his age.

He had considered speaking with Soward over the phone about the vehicular manslaughter case that Craig Thoms had been a suspect in some years previously, but decided to take the time to drive down to see him and show him a few photographs to help jog his memory.  He hoped he wasn’t wasting half a day of his precious time and a full tank of LPG, but either way, he felt a desire to lay it to rest before moving in any other direction with the case.  It was a thin and possibly meaningless lead, yet it still nagged at him sufficiently for him to want to chase it to ground. Leave no stone unturned, he reminded himself.  It was one of Detective Mark Neale’s commandments that he had adopted as his own and he considered it to be one of the reasons for his high clearance rate of cases.

Nelson made his way to the bar and waited for a bunch of octogenarians to shuffle back to the bowling green with their cheap beer.  Soward noted his presence immediately as being out of place and stared at him.  He recognised a fellow police officer when he saw one but was unable to forge any connections with his past on this occasion.  Nelson smiled in amusement.  In contrast to Nelson’s excellent memory for faces was the fact that few people seemed to remember him.  His soft, plain features and generally quiet demeanour – except when he was riled - seemed to give him a natural anonymity from people he didn’t regularly deal with.  He often wondered if he’d missed his calling in life and should be working for ASIO as a spy of some sort.  To be fair, Nelson hadn’t expected Soward to remember him.  To Soward he was probably just one of many probationary constables who had done their brief stint at a country station before heading back to the city, never to be seen or heard of again.

”Can I help you?” asked Soward, his rich, gravelly voice still slightly inflected by his English heritage despite having lived in Australia for nearly forty years.

Nelson introduced himself, explained their mutual history and waited while Soward again studied his face and tried to match it to his memories.  Soward’s mind slowly clicked into gear and eventually a vague recognition began to dawn.

“It’s been a while, but I think I remember you.  You were just a kid then.  I’d heard you were a decent officer.  A shame you went back to the city.  Anyway, what can I do for you?”

“I’d like to talk to you about a case I’m working on Sergeant.  There might be a connection with a case you worked a few years ago.”

“It’s just John now.  I don’t know if I’ll be able to help.  I’ve worked a lot of cases in my time, but I’ll listen to what you’ve got to say.”

Soward organised to take a break from the bar and ushered Nelson to a nearby table.  He seemed happy to see him now and relished the prospect of rehashing old times.

Nelson told Soward about the case he was working on and as promised, Soward listened attentively.  He had read about it in the newspaper and was curious to find out how it might be linked to his past.  Nelson explained that he was chasing down a possible connection between the case and a car accident near Batemans Bay fifteen years ago that Soward had worked on.

He showed Soward a printout of a story from a newspaper from 1997, which he had pulled off the internet the previous evening.  It described an accident where a car had run off the road and plunged into the Clyde River at Nelligen, about ten minutes drive west of Batemans Bay.  Both parents had died, but a teenage daughter had miraculously escaped a similar fate.  Soward nodded and grunted in recollection as he read the article.

“You remember it,” said Nelson.

Soward looked up at Nelson and now he looked all of his sixty-four years of age as small tight lines circled his opaque eyes and his brow furrowed into deep valleys.

“Yes I do.  I always hated car accidents you know.  It was the worst part of the job.  People who haven’t seen one up close have no idea what they’re like.”

“Do you know what happened to the girl?”

Soward laughed ironically.

“Kylie Faulkner was her name.  I remember her.”

“Do you remember what happened to her?” repeated Nelson hopefully.

“Some.  After losing her parents and spending a couple of weeks in hospital with a few broken bones, she was bundled off to her only living relatives, an aunt and her boyfriend who lived up at Cooma.  The aunt was paid by the family trust to take her in.”

“Your memory is still good after all these years,” said Nelson, impressed by the old man’s recall of events.

“Maybe, but some things are hard to forget.  Part of being a copper I guess.  We were never able to identify the other car involved in the accident.  I mean I couldn’t give her back her parents, but I was hoping we could find out who was responsible.  We never did.”  Soward’s voice grew thick with emotion as he spoke.  “Or should I say we were never able to prove anything.”

“You had your suspicions?  Suspects?”

“Yeah, but nothing ever came of it.  We only had the skidmarks as hard evidence.  There were no witnesses, and at the time the girl barely remembered anything of the accident, probably because of her head injury.  We questioned several people about it but the trail went cold.”

“I know how that feels.”

“Yeah I’ll say.”

Nelson noted that the number of patrons in the club had continued to grow.  Soward’s five minute break had turned into fifteen, but he didn’t seem to care.  It was just a job to keep him occupied in his retirement and add a little extra cash to his pension.

“Just a couple more questions Sarge if you don’t mind.  When I was looking at the case summary on the database I noticed you’d placed a file note which was dated only two years ago, thirteen years after the accident.  What was that about?”

“Yeah, it was only a few months before I retired.  A woman walked into the station asking for me.  I didn’t recognise her all grown up, but blow me down if it wasn’t the same girl from the accident, Kylie Faulkner, all grown up.  She’d turned out real nice too let me tell you.  Anyway she spoke to me about her parents’ car crash.  She wanted me to re-open the investigation.”

“Why?  Did she know who was responsible?”

“No, I don’t think she did.  From what I remember, she said she’d been having dreams about the accident and she remembered more about it, but she didn’t have anything substantial to go on.  I told her that unless she had something real good for us then I wasn’t interested in reopening such an old case.   We just didn’t have the resources for that sorta stuff.  And at the time of the accident we’d spent a lot of time and energy investigating the case.  We couldn’t nail anyone for it then, so I doubted we could do any better after all that time.”

“Did she mention any names?  Did she mention the name Craig Thoms?” said Nelson, trying his best to contain the flutter that was growing in his stomach.

Soward thought for a while as he rubbed his chin.

“No, I don’t think she named anyone.  As I said, I don’t think she had anything substantial to go on.  I do seem to vaguely remember that name though.  He may have been one of the suspects.  It’ll be in the file.”

Nelson stared thoughtfully out the window and briefly watched the bowls matches being played out on the flat green rinks outside.

“How did she take it?  I mean, what was her reaction to you not wanting to reopen the case?”

“She wasn’t happy of course.  She bent my ear about natural justice for a while but eventually gave up and left.  I think she gave herself a headache or something. That was the last time I saw her.  At the time I remember wondering if she had a kangaroo loose in the top paddock if you know what I mean.  Anyway, I didn’t think there was much to it.  As you probably understand we get plenty of requests to re-open old cold cases, but I slipped a note into the case file just in case.  You never can tell when these things’ll come up again.  You visiting me here and now is a testament to that.  So does that help with the case you are working on at all?”

Nelson sat back in his chair contemplating Soward’s words.

“I’m not sure, but it’s something I’m going to find out.”

Chapter 35

After his visit with Soward, Nelson felt re-energised.  His drive back up the coast was at a much faster pace than the drive down had been and his Cobra growled angrily along the highway and ate the kilometres up.  He turned his phone on and within seconds it was beeping furiously, indicating the presence of several messages.  He put in a call to Robards who was at Headquarters.

“Where the hell have you been?  Inspector VanMerle has been looking for you and he’s about to shit out a kidney,” said a clearly agitated Robards.

Nelson almost drove off the road from laughing.

“Well it’s lucky that he’s got two of them then.  Look, I’ve just been chasing something up.  I’ll tell you all about it when I get back.  How’d you go tracking down Harvey Petersham?”

“Good.  Great in fact.  I found him, but I don’t think he had anything to do with this.  He’s got an ironclad alibi for last Friday night.  Actually for most of last week he was up at Newcastle, plus he’s small time and as dumb as dogshit.  There’s no way he has the brain power to set Thoms up, if that’s what you were thinking.”

“Ok.  Anything else to report?”

“Yeah, VanMerle says he wants you to wrap up the Fogliani case because he’s got something else he wants us to look at.”

“What?  We’ve only been on it two days.  Jeezus.  Just tell him I’m still tying up some loose ends and I’ll be in soon to talk to him.”

“Gee thanks for letting me do the dirty work.  I’m sure that will go down real well.”

Nelson ignored his partner’s protestations.  He felt a moment of guilt about putting Robards in the firing line but it soon passed.  He decided to continue to chase down his lead while it was hot, or at least lukewarm.

“Look I need you to do something urgently for me.  It’s important Pete.  I want you to dig up everything you can find on a woman named Kylie Faulkner.  She’s about thirty to thirty-two years of age and initially lived in Canberra.  Her parents were killed in a car accident in June of 1997 and then she moved to Cooma to live with an aunt.  See if you can track down a current address.”

“What’s she got to do with anything?” replied Robards sullenly, yet showing a flicker of interest in Nelson’s request.

“Don’t worry about that right now, just get the address and I’ll fill you in.  Just trust me ok?”

“Whatever you say boss.”

Within half an hour Robards phoned Nelson back.  He told Nelson that tracking down a current address for Kylie Faulkner hadn’t been easy.  She had no criminal history, hadn’t lodged a tax return in three years and didn’t appear on any current databases that the New South Wales Police Force had access to.  Robards had managed to speak to her aunt in Cooma who Kylie had been warded to in her youth, but her aunt said she hadn’t seen or heard from her since the day she left twelve or so years previously.  Fortunately Robards had a contact in the Roads Traffic Authority and had managed to get an address on Kylie Faulkner’s licence.

“It may not be her current address though as the licence expired two years ago and hasn’t been renewed.”

“I see.  Nothing else then?”

Robards sensed Nelson’s disappointment.

“No, it was all I could come up with at such short notice.  It seems like she just dropped off the face of the earth about three years ago.  Maybe she’s dead?”

“Maybe, check with Births, Deaths and Marriages or whatever they’re called now while you’re at it,” replied Nelson.

“I will.  Do you want me to come out there with you and check it out?”

“No. I can handle this.  It’ll probably just lead to another dead end and anyway, I need you to keep VanMerle and Crighton off my back for a while.”

“That’s not going to be easy.”

“I know and thanks in advance.  I appreciate it.”  Nelson hung up.  He wasn’t overly hopeful that a two year old address would yield anything useful but was still excited at the possibility of tracking down Kylie Faulkner.  He wasn’t sure where she fitted into the scheme of things, or if she fitted at all, but he felt compelled to find out one way or another, especially seeing that the drug angle appeared to come to nothing.  Nelson had thought it an unlikely connection anyway.  He reasoned that if Harvey Petersham or his connections were unhappy with Craig Thoms wanting to pull out of supplying them with their hospital drugs then they were more likely to have found a more simplistic way to exact retribution, like beating the crap out him or something.  However, sending Robards out to follow the drugs lead at Manly had afforded Nelson the time and space to chase down the lead in Batemans Bay.

Nelson plugged the Woollahra address that Robards had given him into his GPS unit and followed the verbal directions through the early afternoon traffic.  He parked his Cobra in the street, just south of where the arrow on the screen was indicating and noticed that his car’s patched paintwork looked out of place amongst the Beemers and Hondas that seemed par for the course there.  He double checked the street number against what he’d written on the scrap of paper.  The address belonged to an impressive looking group of eighteen units that had been squeezed onto what was once three residential blocks.  Nelson briefly admired their sharp architecturally designed lines and neatly manicured minimalist gardens and guessed correctly that some reasonably serious money would be required to buy there, especially seeing that the third floor units were high enough to afford their occupants a view of the harbour and beyond.

He took the stairs to the third floor and knocked on the door of apartment number seventeen.  Almost immediately he heard quick footsteps move across the floor inside the apartment.  He held his breath and felt for the Glock twenty-two in its holster on his belt, just in case.  The door was quickly flung back and he was faced with a slim young woman with dark shoulder length hair, blue eyes and pale skin.  He wondered if the search for Kylie Faulkner was over.

“Can I help you?” she asked, her voice melodic and low.

“I hope so.  I’m Detective Sergeant Nelson from the Homicide Squad.”  He showed her his New South Wales Police Force badge.  “I’m looking for a Kylie Faulkner, is that you?”  He watched her face closely and noticed it blanch to an even whiter shade of pale.

“I…I don’t know anyone by that name Detective.  What’s wrong?  I don’t understand.  What’s going on?”

“Are you Kylie Faulkner?” Nelson asked again, a little more firmly.  He judged the age of the woman in front of him as being about thirty, which was the same age as Kylie Faulkner would be now.   “I’ve been given this address.”

“I just told you that I’ve never heard of that name before,” she said becoming increasingly defensive.  A woman moved into view behind the girl.  Nelson craned his head to the side to get a look at her but his view was shielded by a large potted rubber plant just inside the door.

“Is everything alright Jen?”

“It’s ok Simone, I can handle it.  Look Detective, I already gave my statement yesterday.  I had nothing to do with this Emilio Fogliani thing.”

Nelson turned his head and furrowed his brow as a seed of doubt began to grow in the pit of his stomach.  Something about her answers didn’t sound right.  He got the sinking feeling that he was missing something but he didn’t know what it was.  “What do you mean, you’ve already given your statement?”

“I gave my statement to a Detective Robards at Parramatta station yesterday.  My name is Jennifer Nolan.”

It took Nelson’s brain several moments to play catch-up.  He hoped he didn’t look too stupid, standing in the doorway, speechless, but he took his time anyway.  He soon joined the dots and realised who he was talking to, another member of the so-called Stalk Club, Jennifer Nolan, the girl that Robards had browbeaten into tears the day before.

“Can I come in please Miss Nolan?”  Nelson said, trying to buy himself more time to think and work out his next move.

“Look, no offence Detective but I think I’ve answered enough questions for the time being and I want to speak to a solicitor before I answer anymore, ok?”

Nelson quickly searched for a reply that would stall her but nothing came immediately to mind as the door was closed in his face.  Nelson stood there for a further thirty seconds before making his way back to his car.

***********

On the drive back to Headquarters, Nelson’s earlier smugness evaporated.  He now regretted telling Robards to push Jennifer Nolan so hard in her interview, which had only resulted in putting her offside and in no mood to talk to him.  He was also annoyed at himself for being startled at finding Jennifer Nolan when he had expected to find Kylie Faulkner and for having failed to sufficiently regain his composure before she shut the door in his face.  As he gunned his car through a set of orange lights he smiled tightly and resolved to start looking very hard at Jennifer Nolan upon his return to HQ.

Chapter 36

It was the end of Kylie Faulkner’s final year of school.  She had been planning on leaving Cooma and all its not so fond memories for a long time, but after finding the letter addressed to her aunt from her dead parents’ solicitor, her escape plans rapidly accelerated into reality.  Before she did however, she knew she couldn’t leave without saying a special goodbye to someone she had come to know intimately.  It had to be done.

While the other kids at her school prepared for their graduation ceremony and made shallow plans for their summer break and their lives beyond, Kylie bought a suitcase and quietly packed the very few belongings she felt were worthy of taking with her into her next life.  She had declined the invitations she’d received to attend the graduation ceremony and the after-party, saying that she had an unavoidable family commitment.  This had disappointed a number of her male classmates who had begun to realise that she had developed nicely into adult womanhood.  On that mild, early December night she went to bed smiling and excited, knowing that the end was near and the next day, if all went according to plan, she would be on her way to a better place.

Of all the friends and enemies she’d made in her time at Cooma it was Lester who had come to hold a special place in her heart and she wanted to give him something to remember her by.  As regular as drunk clockwork, Lester noisily traipsed home at around one a.m..  She had timed her departure with her aunt’s monthly road trip and for the first time ever was pleased she would have Lester to herself.

He entered her room, as was his way, but to his great surprise he found the light was on and that Kylie was sitting on the end of the bed wearing only a pair of panties and bra, as if she was waiting for him.  He went and stood before her, coming to the obvious conclusion that she had finally succumbed to his natural charms.

“Makes a nice change.  About time too.”

“Come here Lester, I’ve got something for you,” she said coolly.

He approached her and let her loosen his pants and drop them to the floor.  He looked down at her.  Normally her eyes were pinched so tightly closed that crows feet were visible at their corners, but on this occasion he was surprised to see them open, green, and staring flatly up at him.  If his mind wasn’t dulled with enough alcohol to make the average man comatose he would have realised something was desperately wrong.  Before he could think further on these developments Kylie reached for a steak knife she had hidden under her leg and slashed it across his unprotected testicles.  Lester screamed wildly as pain lanced through him.  He looked at his torn and bleeding testes and then at his attacker.

“You crazy fucking bitch,” he yelled, his voice high, enraged and broken.

She stood there ready with knife in hand, the anger and rage that had built up from all the humiliation and abuse finally erupted and turned her into a savage animal ready and willing to fight to the end.

“Come on,” she taunted him.  “Come and get what you deserve you sick bastard.”  The look on her face was enough to force him into action and he ran from the house and into the street despite the blinding agony he felt between his legs.

In hindsight Kylie was glad that Lester’s wounds were relatively superficial even though he deserved to be punished further.  She realised that if she had killed or seriously injured him it may have resulted in jail for her or maybe a lifetime on the run.  That wasn’t what she wanted.  That wouldn’t have been justice.  After she calmed down she washed her hands and put her clothes on.  As she hefted her luggage she smirked at the blood on her bed and the floor and wondered if that, combined with the several stitches that would be required to hold Lester’s nuts together would be sufficient proof for her aunt.

“Probably not,” she said to herself as she walked out the door.

She spent the remainder of the night sleeping at the bus station and in the morning caught the first bus to Canberra.  After what had seemed a lifetime but was in fact two years and one hundred and forty-nine days Kylie Faulkner made good her escape.

*********

The next day Kylie met with the trustee of her parents’ estate.  He was surprised to see her turn up unannounced at his office, as although he had managed her estate for over two years he had never bothered to meet her or ensure that the money being paid to her aunt was in any way benefiting her.  He was pretty much as Kylie had expected, middle aged, well presented and confident, but Kylie saw him as a fat, lazy tick that made a living from siphoning off the proceeds of people like herself.  She felt a cold malice towards him because he too had played his part in her misery.  She contemplated handing out a similar punishment to him, but decided against it, for the time being at least.  It took her only ten minutes to convince him that it was in his best interests to hand over the remaining estate money to her.  She calmly explained to him that she was her parents’ only child, she was eighteen and for the last two years her aunt’s boyfriend had been molesting her in any way he saw fit while he was effectively being paid thirty thousand dollars per year to do so.  She also said that if he didn’t hand over the remaining money she would have no qualms in making life very difficult for him in any way that she could.  Something in the implacable stare of her eyes convinced him of the wisdom in complying with her request.

After subtracting the money he had paid to Kylie’s aunt and his own generous management and administration fees there was only one hundred and eighty-five thousand dollars left of her parents’ initial two hundred and seventy thousand dollar estate.  Although he was sad to see the money go, he cut her a cheque which she took straight to the bank and deposited.  In addition to the nine thousand dollars she had saved from working, she had enough to start her new life.  That same day she caught the bus for Sydney.

Chapter 37

Slowly but surely Kylie Faulkner tried to put the previous few years of her life out of her mind.  She enrolled at the University of Sydney, worked part time as a waitress and purchased a unit with the proceeds of her trust money.  After she graduated she travelled and worked and attempted to lead what she perceived to be a normal life.

And yet the more she tried to escape her past the more it seemed to doggedly cling to her and remind her who she was and the tainted soil she had grown from.  She had few if any close friends and found it difficult to form long term relationships with men.  Adding to her misery were the flashbacks of the day her parents died that continued to haunt her nights.

In the period immediately after the car accident she had remembered little of it.  However, as time slowly progressed, horrific glimpses of the past would sometimes rush through her mind as she was on the verge of falling asleep.  Visions of swimming through cold dark water and the white lifeless faces of her parents would shake her violently awake and leave her unable to sleep for hours thereafter.

Unlike most memories that fade and blur around the edges with time, the memories from the accident grew sharper and more vivid each passing year and plagued her with their insistent nature.  Unbidden, fragmented pieces slowly knitted themselves together in her mind and revealed to her more and more of what happened that night.  The stress resulting from the flashbacks caused her to consult doctors, psychologists and even hypnotists in an effort to calm her mind and reduce their effect, but none of them were successful in easing her torment.

Twelve years after the accident, Kylie Faulkner’s life was steadily falling apart.  The dreams and flashbacks harassed her to the edge of exhaustion and insanity.  In a final and desperate effort to save herself she decided to embrace her memories and try to understand their nature and meaning.  She wrote down everything she remembered from the accident and as the flashbacks raced through her mind she grabbed snippets of extra information from them and slowly built a fuller, more complete picture of the event in her conscious mind.  She remembered the night more clearly, including that the other car involved was a large battered 4wd and that it had appeared around the blind corner, driving in the middle of the road with headlights and two bullbar mounted spotlights blazing in the direction of her parents’ car.  The flashbacks also revealed that her father had instinctively tried to shield his eyes from the glare and in an effort to avoid the collision had swerved to the left.  He had tried to steer the car back onto the road but it was too late. The car slid off the shoulder and speared into the river.  She remembered escaping from the car and swimming frantically upwards through the darkness as her lungs screamed for air and then crawling up onto the riverbank through the mud and reeds as the pain from her broken ankle sent raw jagged pain shooting up her leg.

In time, Kylie began to believe that there was a greater force behind the flashbacks and that perhaps they were a sign, perhaps a plea from her long dead but unresting parents, crying out for justice beyond the grave.  It made sense to her and became her focus and her passion.  She spent time investigating the accident during her waking hours and filled scrapbook after scrapbook with newspaper cuttings, photographs of the accident and her own notes.  She contacted anyone who had been at the scene of the accident, the paramedics, the holiday park manager, the tow truck driver, and unashamedly drilled them in search of extra information.  She contacted the Sergeant who had attended the scene of the accident.  Armed with her new memories of the accident she hoped to convince him to reopen the case and ultimately identify the driver of the car that caused the accident and bring them to justice.

She sat in Sergeant Soward’s office and told him about what she remembered from that night and implored him to reopen the investigation.  He pulled the case file and scanned through it, but despite her enthusiasm and his sympathy for her he was unmoved.

“I’m sorry Kylie, but we’ve got enough work to keep us going for a year to come and seeing that you don’t have any real evidence, I just can’t approve the reopening of a twelve year old case.”

“But there must be something you can do?  I’ve remembered so much more now.  I can help you.  I could even work with you.”

Sergeant Soward studied her face.  He was moved by her plea but the harsh reality of running an understaffed country police station remained absolute in his mind.  If he relented for her, then other, more current work would not get done.

“I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do unless you have something certain to go on.”

She tried to read him and turn him to her way of thinking, like she had successfully done with many men before, but could find no weakness in his character, no extravagance of pride or ego to exploit.  She tried to flatter him but he shrugged it off.  She stretched back in her chair, slowly and languidly, and then leaned over his desk, to show him some of her notes, suggestively revealing her cleavage, but he kept his eyes on the paper and didn’t even glance in her direction.  After half an hour of discussing, cajoling and pleading to no avail, she thought of a new tack and slumped forward in her chair, complaining of nausea and a migraine.  Her act was convincing and Sergeant Soward rose and offered to get her a glass of water and a wet towel.  As soon as he left the office she sprang up like a startled cat and rifled through the case file on his desk.

She quickly scanned the pages and tore out just one that related to the suspects that had been questioned over the case.  By the time Sergeant Soward returned, Kylie Faulkner was back in her seat with her hand held to her face, shielding her sensitive migraine eyes from the light.

************

Obsessed and energised by the new information snatched straight from the case file, Kylie threw herself into trying to succeed where the police had failed and work out who was driving the other car in the accident.  According to the file there had been five people who had been questioned over the accident.  She ignored all calls on her mobile that day as she poured over the notes made by the investigating officer on each of them.  She searched for any possible link between the new evidence and what she already knew about the accident.  After a long and exhausting day she fell asleep on her lounge.

Again she dreamed of the accident as she had so many times before.  It always began in the same way, always with her parents singing in the car as they started the trip to the south coast.  As the dream played forward she saw the fateful corner looming ominously in the distance.  She floated above the car in her dream and watched herself as she dozed in the back seat.  As her parents’ car rounded the bend, light filled the cabin, her mother screamed, Kylie snapped awake and her father wrenched the steering wheel to the left.

And then, just for the barest of moments, there in between the confused miasma of bright lights and screaming and screeching of tyres she saw something she had never before remembered in her dreams.  She looked up from her seat and saw a young face in the other vehicle turning towards her parents’ car.  His hair was light brown, long and lank, his eyes blue, wide set and unfocussed, his full mouth parted in laughter.  Kylie awoke from her dream with a physical jolt but tightly clutched the new image, savouring it, touching it over and over in her mind and burning it into her memory.  It would be a face she would never forget.  The field had been narrowed to one.

Using the internet, it was a simple enough task for her to track down the five main suspects from the list stolen from the police file.  One by one, like a black cat, she quietly crossed their paths, searching for the man of her dreams.  After finding that the first four were not a match, she was beginning to think that the man from her dreams might just have been a creation of her own desperate mind seeking closure from the pain of the past.

She tracked the fifth suspect down at his work in a store specialising in selling security equipment in the Western Suburbs of Sydney.  According to the case notes she had lifted from Sergeant Soward’s desk, he had been a suspect, the main suspect, because he had been arrested for drunk driving just twelve kilometres from where the accident had occurred and only ten minutes after the time of the accident.  The car he had been driving was a 4wd.  It was a neat fit.  He had been visited and questioned the day after the accident and his car was checked, but his tyre treads hadn’t matched those found at the crime scene.  He had also denied that he was had driven along the road in question at the time of the accident and without any hard evidence, the investigating officer had not been able to pursue the suspect any further.

Kylie entered the shop and browsed through its merchandise while surreptitiously studying the faces of the staff working there.  She discounted the short, solid, dark haired assistant who was completing a transaction with a customer and focused on another who had his back to her as he stocked shelves.  She watched him from a distance and waited patiently, hoping.  He turned his head to the side as he answered a question from his co-worker and Kylie audibly gasped as she saw his face, the face from her dream.  Older now, less carefree, more creased, but the same unmistakable face nonetheless.  A mixture of emotions assailed her.  Her hands started to shake and beads of perspiration erupted on her forehead.  She wanted to confront him and scream at him for the parents he had taken from her.  She wanted to tell him about the years of hell he had put her through and the nightmares and the pain she had suffered.  But her rage was soon replaced by a cold and bitter anger and as she walked away, her anger focalised into one small hard point, with one thought repeating itself in her mind.  Justice.

Kylie pondered her next move.  As she still had no tangible evidence that this man was responsible for initiating the accident that killed her parents she thought it unlikely that Sergeant Soward would show any further interest in reopening the case.  He had made his position quite clear to her.  She considered buying a gun and extracting natural justice with her own hands and although the thought held some attraction, she decided that a quick and easy death would not be sufficient punishment for him and would not result in justice being served.  She calculated that he owed her thirty years of life for each of her parents.  To this debt she added her own suffering at the hands of Lester and the years of trauma that followed.  At that stage, she wasn’t sure how she was going to extract this debt from him.

His name was Craig Thoms.

Chapter 38

On the drive back to HQ Nelson again played the case through his mind, weighing each piece of information he could recall and tried to fit them together.  The loose ends taunted him, but their only effect was to make his resolve stronger and his urgency greater to tie them up neatly and solve the case.  He decided his next move would be to put Kylie Faulkner’s and Jennifer Nolan’s lives under the microscope and work out what the connection between them and Emilio Fogliani was.  He knew there was a link, but the form and nature of it eluded him for the time being.  Once he had found the link he would bring Jennifer Nolan in for another interview, with her damn solicitor and she would not be let off as lightly as she had been today.

He parked his car and entered the building.  He impatiently ignored the perennially slow arriving elevators and bounded up through the stairwell.  By the time he reached the eighth floor he was breathing heavily.  He was pleased to see Robards working at his desk as he had half a dozen things lined up for him to do.  Nelson reversed his chair towards Robards’ desk.

“I’ve got some news,” he said in between gradually quietening breaths.

“Me too,” replied Robards evenly.  “But you go first.”

Nelson told him how his morning had panned out.  He described his meeting with the retired Sergeant Soward and how they had discussed the car accident that left the parents of a young girl named Kylie Faulkner dead.  He told him that Craig Thoms had been one of the main suspects at the time but was never charged through lack of evidence.

“Is this the car accident we talked about yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t know you were that interested in it.”

“I wasn’t.  But I am now.”  Nelson told Robards that he had gone to the address at Woollahra that Robards had given him for Kylie Faulkner and had been confronted by none other than Jennifer Nolan.  Nelson briefly skimmed over his discussion with her because he felt embarrassed to admit that he had been slow to regain his composure and that he’d had the door slammed in his face.

Robards listened quietly to Nelson’s speedy recitation of events and although he was surprised and mildly intrigued at the discovery of a possible connection between Jennifer Nolan and the car accident from fifteen years ago he was not fully infected with Nelson’s enthusiasm.  It did little to sway him from his own theories, which to him, seemed to have a much stronger foundation than Nelson’s flights of fancy.

“This afternoon I want to find out everything we can about Kylie Faulkner and what the connection is with her and Jennifer Nolan.  I know there’s something there, I can feel it.  We just have to dig down and unearth it.”

Robards leaned back lazily in his chair.  His arms were folded and his chin rested on his chest.  Nelson realised that in his own excitement he hadn’t noticed that Robards’ body language was all wrong.

“What’s up?  You’re not still angry about our disagreement last night are you?”

“Na, that’s water under the bridge as far as I’m concerned,” replied Robards good naturedly.

“Well, what is it then?  Here am I thinking we’re just about to bust this case wide open and you’re sitting there as if your best friend nailed your missus and she told you he was much better at it than you,” said Nelson.

Robards managed a smile.  “That’s unlikely.”

“Well what’s the problem then?”

“The problem is that as of now, the case is closed.”

“What?  What are you talking about?”

“Well, after I gave you the address for Kylie Faulkner this morning, VanMerle and I were ordered up to Crighton’s office where I was asked to give an update on the case.  I told him where we were at and that we were still chasing up some loose ends but Crighton would have none of it.  He said that it looked like we had enough on Thoms to convict him three times over and that if there wasn’t an obvious underworld connection then there’s no point in spending weeks looking at it as there’s a huge backlog of cases.  He ordered us to close the case.”

“I don’t believe this,” said an incredulous Nelson.

“Look, if it’s any consolation, Crighton said to pass on his thanks to you for doing such an excellent job in arresting the suspect so quickly.”

Robards watched Nelson as he took the news in.  He forced himself to stifle a smile as patches of red coloured Nelson’s cheeks and neck.  Although Robards’ description of the discussion with VanMerle and Crighton was reasonably accurate, he had omitted the part where he had provided his own full and frank opinion on the case and Craig Thoms’ guilt.  You lose Nelson.

Based on Robards’ summary of the case, Crighton and VanMerle had been equally convinced that Craig Thoms was good for the conviction and that there was no more work to be done on the case.  Nelson sat silently with mouth slightly agape while he processed the information.

“That’s just crazy.  We’ve only just begun to look hard at this one.”

“I told them they should speak to you first but Crighton was pretty adamant.  Sorry Nelson.  I tried to call you but your phone was off.  They’ve already issued a press release saying that the investigation has been finalised.”

“You’re kidding?  Already?”  Nelson got up and kicked his chair away.  He began to pace back and forth and massage his forehead.

“Yep.  VanMerle said he’d speak to you about it when you got back to the office.  I think he’s out to lunch at the moment.”  Robards handed Nelson a copy of the Press Release which he read carefully before screwing it up and tossing it at the bin, only to see it rim out.

“This is bullshit!  We just need a couple more days.”

Robards decided to get all the bad news out of the way while he was at it.

“And VanMerle’s already dumped a new case on us.  Some bigshot property developer was knocked off in his home in Potts Point this morning.  The Kings Cross LAC boys say they’ve got their hands full investigating half a dozen deaths from drug overdoses during the last couple of days and have asked for assistance.  Bovis is working up a profile on the deceased for us.  VanMerle said we should head out to the crime scene asap and close out the Fogliani case paperwork in our spare time.”

Nelson’s anger hit the rev limiter.  He wanted to mindlessly lash out at something but forced himself to calm down.  In some ways he was surprised that he hadn’t foreseen this.  Sydney was the sort of city that kept Homicide Detectives busy and he knew that VanMerle’s in-tray was always full.  He realised he should have spent more time buying time from the likes of VanMerle and Crighton instead of leaving it up to Robards while he chased down leads.

He wordlessly returned to his desk and thought about what it all meant for the Fogliani case.  He understood that VanMerle would expect them to work the new case full time.  At best, they would only be able to continue working the Emilio Fogliani case on a very limited basis.  There would be precious little time for chasing down leads in between, or around the other cases that would become their priority.  They had done it before, but Nelson knew it was a poor substitute for working a case full time.

Nelson sat at his desk, watching and waiting for VanMerle to return from lunch.  He had the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that the case was slipping away from him.  There had been cases like this before, cases that no matter what your suspicions might have been, there just wasn’t enough evidence to nail someone’s arse to the wall before time pressures required them to put the case aside and move on.  These were the cases that nagged at Nelson and during the few quiet moments he had at work, he would pull the old case files out of his three drawer cabinet again and go over them in the hope of finding something he had missed or possibly linking them to a new case.  He was realistic enough to understand that not every case could or would achieve a conviction but it didn’t make it any easier for him to let them go.  It was never easy to look into the eyes of the victim’s family and tell them that a killer remained free to continue their life while the family of the victim received a life sentence of sorts.  For these people the loss was devastating and every time a birthday or anniversary rolled around, the celebration would be tempered by the memory of the lost one who wasn’t there to share it with them.  This case was different though.  They had Craig Thoms in custody and would more than likely get a conviction, but Nelson was almost certain that they didn’t have the right person in custody and as lead Detective on the case, this bothered him just as much as any unsolved case.

Nelson saw VanMerle return from lunch and duck into his office.  He stormed off after him, his rage building quickly again and shut the door to VanMerle’s office behind him.  The other Detectives in the office sensed the conflict and watched the vague outlines of the two men through the opaque glass of the office as Nelson’s voice carried out to them.  It was unusual for Nelson to be so fired up on a case and they smiled and nodded to each other in amusement.

“I just need a few more days!”

”I’m sorry Nelson,” came VanMerle’s smug reply.  “There’s nothing I can do.  My hands are tied.”

“How about Robards and Bovis work the new case while I finish up the Fogliani case in the next forty-eight hours?  Surely that’s not too much to ask?  And it will be good experience for Bovis.”

“You know the rules Nelson.  What Crighton says, goes.  And I’m too close to retirement to start pissing the exec off.”

“This place is crazy!  We’re more concerned with statistics than ensuring the right man goes to jail.”

“Nelson, I’ve seen the evidence,” replied VanMerle, now matching Nelson’s verbosity. “That isn’t the case here.  You’ve already got the right man in custody so move on.”

Nelson stared at the man in front of him and all of a sudden wondered why he had bothered starting the argument in the first place.  VanMerle had no authority to overturn Crighton’s decision and probably wouldn’t even if he could.  He hadn’t had an original idea in the last twenty years.  VanMerle just enjoyed wielding the ounce of power that he possessed because that was all he had.  He wasn’t liked, he wasn’t respected and ten minutes after he retired everyone would forget he ever existed.  Nelson realised he was wasting his time and energy talking to him.  He stormed out of VanMerle’s office and headed up to the ninth floor to take it up with Crighton directly but was told bluntly by Pasha that he was in meetings for the remainder of the afternoon.  Nelson returned to his desk and sat quietly fuming, swishing alternatives around in his mind.  He thought about ignoring VanMerle’s directive to move on, but as attractive and heroic as that thought sounded, he dismissed it.  The realities of life were that he still needed money and he still loved and needed the job.  However, he vowed quietly to himself that he would continue working the Fogliani case with every spare moment that he had.

Chapter 39

Kylie Faulkner sat down on her lounge and tried to fight the feeling of nausea that was churning inside and threatening to overwhelm her.  The plan which had been carried out in seemingly flawless execution had for some unknown reason started to unravel and now she suddenly felt alone and scared.  She breathed deeply in an effort to calm her jangling nerves.

During the course of planning Craig Thoms’ setup she had given thought to every conceivable eventuality and how she would deal with them, including the seemingly unlikely event that she may in some way be linked to Craig by the past.  She had thought the likelihood to be almost non-existent and yet somehow Detective Nelson had managed to find the ethereal link within two short days and follow it to her door.   She felt as if she could feel his hot breath on her neck and the thought of losing everything she had worked so hard for sent fresh waves of nausea radiating through her body.

She thought long and hard and tried to fathom where she had gone wrong, which mis-step she had taken, but for the life of her couldn’t locate it.  It had all gone so perfectly.  “The evidence is too strong,” she said aloud to herself as she slowly paced in circles around the lounge room of her apartment.  “Why the hell is he running around tracking down Kylie Faulkner instead of nailing Thoms’ big white arse to the floor?”  It just didn’t make sense.

She knew that she needed to be very careful with her next step, as one wrong move could spell her ruin.  She put herself in Nelson’s shoes and tried to imagine what he was thinking.  She reasoned that if he had come so far so quickly then he would be putting all his attention into proving her connection to the past and to the murder.  If he was smart enough to track down Kylie Faulkner, then he was probably smart enough to find the link between her and Fogliani’s death. It would only be a matter of time.

She came to the conclusion that she had only one option.  It was time to tie up loose ends and sever the connection once and for all between her, the murder and the murderer.  It was time to enact her insurance policy.  It wasn’t something she wanted to do, it was something she had hoped to avoid, but now she knew she had no choice.

She made herself a strong cup of coffee and started to think her way through her actions for the next morning.

She slept fitfully that night and in the mid-morning, as light rain fell from low hanging grey clouds, she made her way into the city.  She had done her homework on the Fogliani family.  It wasn’t hard.  Their wealth and past notoriety ensured that their name was well known in Sydney and although they kept a reasonably low profile, she had found several interesting and insightful newspaper articles on them while searching on the Internet and had come to an understanding of where the power lay.  She snapped on a pair of latex gloves and placed a call from a phone booth.

“Fogliani Investment, can I help you?”  The voice that answered was female, young, yet self-assured.

“Hello, I need to speak to Michael Fogliani,” responded Kylie, hoping that she didn’t sound as nervous as she felt, as a swarm of butterflies fluttered inside her breast.  She savoured the feeling and tried to hold on to it but it soon passed and calm again prevailed.

“I’m sorry, Mr Fogliani is not receiving calls at the moment.  Can I help you?”

“Oh he’ll want to speak to me I think.  Tell him I know who killed his uncle and that it’s not the person the cops arrested.  Tell him that if he talks to me for a moment I will give him some information that will prove invaluable to him.  Go and tell him that.  I’ll hold.”

After a moment of indecision the young woman put Kylie on hold to the strains of Neil Diamond singing Shiloh.  Kylie tunelessly hummed along as she waited.  She didn’t mind Neil Diamond, even though he was ancient.  After less than a minute a man’s voice came on the line.

“Hello, this is Michael Fogliani.  Who is this?”  He sounded anxious but still in control.

“It doesn’t matter who I am.  What matters is who killed your uncle.  I know who it was and I know that it wasn’t the guy they arrested.  They’ve got the wrong man.”

“Look, if this is some sort of joke it’s not very funny.”

“Mr Fogliani, this is no joke.  I know who killed your uncle and I’ve got incontrovertible proof.  Now are you interested or shall I walk away?”  Kylie’s confidence was building now as she knew she was already on top of Michael Fogliani.  She listened to the silence on the other end of the line with a smile and could almost read Fogliani’s thoughts as they came to him, just as she had planned.

“I’m interested.  But, why haven’t you taken this information to the police?”

“Well let’s just say I don’t like the cops ok?  And I don’t think they’d pay as well as you.”

“What sort of evidence do you have and how did you get it?”  Fogliani responded, trying to stay calm.

“I’ll be honest with you.  I guess I was in the right place at the wrong time and I witnessed your uncle being murdered.  I took a video of the whole thing.”

“You have a video of my uncle being murdered?”  Fogliani said, his voice involuntarily rising in pitch.  Kylie noted it.

“Yes.  You can see all that you need to see to be absolutely certain about who killed your uncle.  It’s not pretty though so I hope you have a strong stomach.”

Anger flared inside Fogliani.  He wanted to reach through the phone and grab the person on the other end.

“Where are you?  What do you want?”  He fired his questions at her. Kylie smiled at his eagerness and sensed his desire.  She had judged him well enough.  She judged all men well enough.

“What do I want?  What does everyone want?  Money of course, something that you no doubt have plenty of.”

“Of course.  Come down to my office in the city and we’ll talk.”

“No,” she responded flatly.  “This is the deal so listen carefully.  I’ll give you a couple of photographs free of charge, as a sign of good faith.  They should be more than enough to whet your appetite and convince you I’m not full of shit.  If you want the full video of the murder then it will cost you a hundred grand.”

Michael Fogliani’s mind raced with a heady mixture of thoughts and emotions.  He shook his head in an effort to clear it and focus on the one thing that mattered – playing this out and getting his hands on the photographs.  That was the first and most obvious step.  “Ok.  I’m with you so far but this better not be bullshit.”

“It’s not.  Trust me.”

“That’s not going to happen, but for the time being I’ll assume you’re on the level.  So how do we do this?”

“I’m going to tape an envelope to the underside of the shelf in the public phone booth outside your building.  Inside that envelope is a memory stick with a few photos on it that are just a small part of the video.  I’ll call you in a week and we can talk business.  Have the money in cash ready if you’re prepared to deal.”

Kylie hung up the phone, attached the envelope underneath the shelf of the phone box and rapidly moved away to the north up Pitt Street.  She was dressed in a dark blue business suit that clung to her lithe body and quickly disappeared into the lunchtime crowd, merging seamlessly with the office workers who filled the street.  When she was satisfied that she was far enough away she stopped and waited.  She had a clear view of the phone box from where she stood.  Within two minutes a young woman emerged from the office and made a beeline for the phone box.  Kylie wondered if she was the one who had answered the phone.  Just as quickly the young woman returned to the building with yellow envelope in hand.

Kylie smiled and disappeared up the street.  She was pleased with the way things had gone and that Fogliani had at least taken the initial bait.  She sighed aloud and mentally patted herself on her back for having the foresight to take a video of the murder.  At the time it hadn’t seemed necessary, but now it was about to pay a handsome dividend by extricating her from a deep hole that Detective Nelson was trying to put her in.

She had no intention of phoning Michael Fogliani back in a week and trying to collect on the hundred thousand.  As tempting as it was, she considered it to be too risky a play.  The mention of the money had just been a ruse to allay his suspicions about being given something for nothing.  She reasoned that Fogliani would try and save himself the hundred grand by identifying and locating Manuel Torres on his own.  Rich guys don’t get rich from being generous benefactors to the needy, they get rich by being tightfisted pricks and screwing over whoever they can to make a dollar, she had thought to herself as she made her plans.

From the carefully chosen stills from the murder video, Kylie reasoned it shouldn’t be too difficult for a man with Fogliani’s money, power and connections to find Manuel Torres.  One of the stills on the memory stick was a very clear picture of him moving away from Emilio Fogliani’s car moments after the shooting.  His face and the tattoo that snaked up his neck from underneath his jacket were clearly visible.

She reasoned that in the unlikely event that she had misjudged Fogliani and he ended up taking the evidence to the police, the stills – without the accompanying video - would not be sufficient evidence to get Craig Thoms off the hook.  Not when compared to the plethora of evidence that had been stacked against him.  It was a calculated risk, but one that she felt she now needed to take to protect herself.

As she walked down the busy street she thought of Manuel Torres.  She felt a flicker of remorse at her betrayal of him but it quickly passed.  He had served his purpose and had been a willing participant every step of the way.  She searched inside herself for any remaining feelings she had for him and found none.

Chapter 40

Michael Fogliani waited nervously for his niece to return from her errand to the phone box.  He hoped that he hadn’t put her in any danger, although he knew she was a capable young woman and running strange errands was nothing new to her.  She returned within three minutes, but to Michael it felt like an hour had passed.  She knew better than to ask questions and wordlessly handed the unopened envelope to him.  It was better that she didn’t know what was in the package anyway.

He returned to his office and quietly closed the door.  He cautiously opened the envelope as if it were laced with a liberal dose of Anthrax powder, gently removed the memory stick and inserted it into one of the USB drives on his laptop.  The laptop automatically detected the presence of the memory stick and brought up fingernail size pictures of the photos.  Michael double clicked on the first photo which expanded it to full size.  The first image showed a man who seemed to be moving towards a car that Michael recognised as his uncles’.  He recognised the car because he had been there when his uncle bought it.  The man’s left was mostly blocked by his body but Michael thought he could see that he carried a gun in his hand.  The second image showed what appeared to be the same man moving away from the car.  The third and final image was a zoomed in upper body shot of the same man.  Despite obviously having been taken at night, in an area of limited lighting, the photographs were of good quality and finely detailed under the circumstances.

Michael stared closely at the face that confronted him and inwardly seethed with anger.  There in front of him were pictures of his father’s only brother being murdered.  His uncle’s ghost seemed to reach out from beyond the grave and whisper in his ear to grab the gun which was stored in his office safe, search the streets for his murderer and exact natural justice with his own bare hands.  He fought for control of his emotions and calm eventually won the day.  It was his trademark.  He could be just as hard nosed and cruel as his father ever was, but while his father’s blood ran hot and his temper quick, Michael’s blood ran cool, his mind calculating.

The photos seemed legitimate, but he knew that any fifth grader with an ounce of Photoshop ability could put Jennifer Hawkin’s head onto Tiger Woods’ body in a matter of moments, so he was reluctant to believe the authenticity of the photos without further supporting proof.

He sat in his office for the next half hour, quietly thinking about his next move before settling on a course of action.  He picked up a business card on his desk and dialed the number.

“Detective Nelson speaking.”

“Good Afternoon Detective.  It’s Michael Fogliani here.”  He was smooth and in total control again.  “Firstly, let me apologise for the way our first meeting went.  As you understand I am still grieving over my uncle’s death.  It has been a difficult time for me.”  He sounded believable because it was the truth.  His mother was still inconsolable even though she had never particularly like Emilio, and his aunt, Emilio’s wife of forty-one years, had been sedated and bed-ridden since his death.

“It’s ok.  I can imagine things are tough for your family right now.” responded Nelson evenly.  “What can I do for you Mr Fogliani?”

“Please, call me Michael.  I just wanted to know how your investigation is proceeding.  I understand that you’ve arrested someone in relation to my uncle’s murder.  Is that correct?”

“Yes it is.”  Nelson felt a moment of regret at not having phoned him and personally brought him up to date as Crighton had instructed him to do.  It was poor form and he knew it.  “I had planned on calling you and letting you know but I’ve been tied up.”

“That’s alright Detective.  Detective Robards gave me a call on Sunday afternoon to let me know.”

“Yes, yes of course.”  Typical Robards efficiency, let’s give him another commendation.

“I’m grateful for all your efforts in arresting someone so promptly.”

“Just doing my job.”

“Do you think that’s the end of it then or do you expect to make further arrests?”

Nelson hesitated before answering and Michael pondered its meaning.

“I’m not really sure at this stage.  All I can say is that we are continuing with our investigations.”

“Look Detective, I’m not asking you to divulge anything that could endanger your case but my family once had some bad business dealings with an ethnic group and I’m fearful that Emilio’s death is related to that and that they may still be targeting my family.  I just need to know if I should be hiring extra security?”

Nelson again hesitated before answering.  He felt there was something wrong with the conversation but couldn’t pinpoint where his concern was coming from.  He remembered Crighton’s words about keeping Fogliani informed wherever possible.

“No Michael, I don’t think your family has anything to fear.  The man we have in custody is Caucasian and does not appear to have any ethnic background or connections with organised crime groups.  We think he probably acted alone.  Our evidence against him is strong but he has made certain claims about his innocence that we are looking in to.  That’s really all I can tell you at this point.”

“Thank you Detective.  That’s all I needed to know.  Oh, and please let me know if there are any further developments.”

“Will do Michael.”

Michael Fogliani hung up the phone, quietly pleased with the results of the conversation.  Detective Nelson as expected had given little away and yet he had given up more than he knew.  He reasoned that although Nelson had arrested someone in relation to his uncle’s death, he didn’t sound completely convinced of his guilt.  That, and Nelson’s reference to the lack of ethnicity of the person who had been arrested, fitted neatly with the story he’d been told by the anonymous female caller an hour previously.  Fogliani re-studied the face in the photographs.  The skin tone of the man in the zoomed in photograph was definitely brown, not white.

“Perhaps she was telling the truth,” he said to himself.

Michael Fogliani decided that it was time for him to take action, although he did not make the decision lightly.  He reasoned that if ever there was a time to step back into the past and get his hands dirty again then this was it, to seek revenge for his uncle’s murder.

Over the past ten years he had tried to raise his family above the ordinary criminal activity that had laid the foundation of their fortune and which he was now rapidly multiplying through legitimate means.  It hadn’t been easy.  Friends had been lost and sacrifices had been made along the way.  He had given away a lot of the influence, power and networks that his father and uncle had worked so hard to establish, but it had been worth it in the end.

He had put an end to most of the family’s illegal activities, but not all.  Unbeknown to the Gangs squad and anyone else who looked at the Fogliani family, they had quietly retained one of their most lucrative illegal sidelines.  Every couple of months or so a Sydney based, deep sea, fishing trawler made a slight detour from its regular fishing grounds to meet up with a large, fast, cabin cruiser that was based in Vanuatu and operated legitimate charters for wealthy holiday makers.  The small but precious cargo of cocaine – with a street value of around eight hundred thousand dollars - was passed to the trawler, sealed inside a watertight metal box and attached magnetically to the underside of the hull.

At the first sign of trouble the cargo could be jettisoned by a remote switch inside the cabin and collected later by remotely triggering a GPS beacon located inside the box, although this had never been required.  No money changed hands at the time of the exchange either.  Payment was routed to the supplier through a myriad of related companies and transactions.

The drugs were quietly and carefully offloaded in the middle of the night and their distribution onto the streets of Sydney was handled through a tightly controlled and trusted network of family friends.  It was a smooth, low risk operation, which went unnoticed by the police and added some extra cash flow to the Fogliani’s operations.  It was one of the last direct links the Fogliani family maintained with the underworld community which came in handy at times when men with special skills were required.

Michael Fogliani rode the lift down to the basement of the building.  Although reception was poor it was still sufficient to make a call.  When he was sure he was alone he pulled out a phone.  It wasn’t his usual mobile phone but rather a prepaid version that had been purchased with cash by his niece for eighty dollars at BigW using a false licence.  In short it was untraceable.  The voice that answered was familiar and trusted completely.

“Hi.  It’s me.  I have an urgent job for some of your friends.  Can we meet tonight at the usual place?”

Chapter 41

As Nelson slowly opened his eyes to the new day he felt like he was closer to eighty-five years of age instead of his actual thirty-five.  He successfully fought against the feeling of exhaustion that threatened to engulf him and dragged himself out of his bed.  The previous days work had been long and tiring.  He, Robards and Bovis had worked their new murder case until eight p.m., studying the forensics reports and case notes made by the investigating officers.  And then, despite his aching lethargy Nelson had steeled himself with a large coffee and spent a further two hours working up a profile of Kylie Faulkner’s past in the hope of linking her to Emilio Fogliani with some tangible evidence.

He had experienced mixed results with his research.  Kylie Faulkner was a cleanskin, in that according to the police databases she had never been arrested or been a suspect in any crime, however there were some parts of her life that intrigued Nelson.  He spoke to the aunt that old Sergeant Soward from Batemans Bay had mentioned.  The aunt had had few good words to say about Kylie and didn’t seem particularly bothered that she hadn’t heard from her since she left fifteen years earlier.  She maintained that she had done everything in her power to care for the girl but that one day she had just upped and left without so much as a good-bye.  It seemed like a strange conversation to Nelson and he sensed that there was more to the story.  He tried to draw the aunt out and although she refused to go into any detail, she eventually revealed there had been some sort of falling out.

Despite the late hour, he had also managed to contact some of Kylie’s past employers, identified off her group certificate information which had been provided by an Australian Tax Office liaison officer that Nelson had worked with in the past.  They appeared to hold her in high regard, however there were instances of erratic behaviour and on several occasions she had taken long, unexplained absences from her work or had quit altogether at short notice.  There were no reports of long term relationships with men, although one of her previous supervisors had hinted that Kylie had led somewhat of a broad minded and promiscuous lifestyle.  As Nelson sat on the edge of his bed, he reflected on what he had learned about her and wondered if the profile was indicative of a person capable of setting a man up for murder.

Nelson quickly showered, grabbed a couple of pieces of toast and headed back to Headquarters while it was still dark out.  He arrived there just before seven a.m. and immediately made himself a large and strong coffee in the hope that the caffeine hit would jolt his tired system into action once again.  His plan was to keep his head down and fit in a few more hours working the Fogliani case before VanMerle or anyone else noticed.

He sat at his desk and began to go through the case file, certain that the answers lay somewhere buried within it.  He re-read Craig Thoms’ statement and pondered about the identity of the person that he said he had followed that night.  According to Craig, the man who he had stalked had been the triggerman, yet only he and Natalie Bassett had seen this mystery man and their descriptions of him were vague at best.  They had both worked with a sketch artist to create a computerised likeness of the mystery man, but CISB had been unable to come up with any meaningful matches on their databases of previously arrested criminals to either likeness.  Nelson knew that identifying the man Craig had followed would be pivotal in unraveling the case.  He made a note to contact the N.S.W. Rail Authority to see if they had any security video that might contain pictures of the mystery man at the Central or St Peters stations.

His other focus would be on finding out more about Jennifer Nolan.  He reasoned that her presence at the apartment that was the last known address of Kylie Faulkner had to be more than a mere coincidence.  His plan was to find out all he could about her before bringing her in for a formal interview on Saturday.  Although that would have been his first day off in more than ten days, he was prepared to sacrifice it to progress the Fogliani case.

Nelson continued to slowly and methodically work through the case file but before long was annoyed to see VanMerle arrive with his usual morose visage and lack of vigour.  The only positive in seeing VanMerle was that he made Nelson feel and look like a million dollars in comparison.  Nelson shrunk a little at his desk in the hope that VanMerle wouldn’t notice him above the partition that surrounded two sides of his desk, but it was to no avail.  Within minutes, VanMerle spotted him and came to his desk.  Nelson saw him coming out of the corner of his eye, closed the Fogliani case file and pretended to have been working on his computer.

“How’s the Crenshaw case coming along Nelson?” he asked while simultaneously and overtly eyeing an open email Nelson had on his screen.

“Yeah, good morning to you too.”  You cadaverous old bastard.  “So far so good.  Forensics finished up with the house last night.  Today we’ll help out the LAC boys interviewing the relatives and business associates.  “There’s a bucketful of them so it’s going to be a long day but we should do ok.”

The Detectives from the Kings Cross Local Area Command, who the Homicide squad was assisting in the case, were known to Nelson and although they had previously handled only a few murder investigations, were capable enough.  Nelson went on to explain that the early evidence pointed to the possibility of an inside job.  VanMerle spent another five minutes chatting with Nelson before growing tired of Nelson’s increasingly monosyllabic answers.  Just as he headed back to his office, Robards and Bovis arrived for work.  Nelson pushed aside the Fogliani case file with a sigh and opened the Crenshaw file ready for work.

Chapter 42

Manuel Torres left work at around nine p.m. Wednesday.  He had been working late at the Tuff Street’n’Strip body shop in Lidcombe because some hood with seemingly bottomless pockets - Manuel thought that this was probably the result of a successful drug distribution business - wanted a custom built street cruiser ready for a car show that was only two months away.  Manuel had spent more than one hundred and twenty hours prepping the cars body for painting in the previous two weeks alone and although he admired it as a work of art, it would be happy days when the hood finally towed it out of the workshop and out of his life.

As he reached his car which was parked on the street, a man stepped out of the shadows, took aim and fired.  Two electrodes flew from the Taser gun with a pop and in the blink of an eye, sliced through Manuel’s jacket, hooked into his skin and sent fifty thousand volts of electricity coursing through his body.  Manuel fell to the ground in silent screaming agony, his muscles constricted violently and threatened to tear themselves off his bones.  After what seemed like an eternity but was actually only five seconds the pain stopped and was replaced by an even more terrifying numbness.  He lay on the ground, semi-alert, but unable to move.  He knew he was in trouble.  Using every ounce of strength he had, he tried to get to his feet but found that his body no longer obeyed his commands.  A car pulled up beside him, the engine idling quietly in the night.  Although he was in no shape to argue, a large foot was placed in the middle of his back, pinning him to the ground while his two arms were wrenched behind his back.  Manuel heard the zip as a pair of looped plastic ties cruelly bit into his skin, binding his wrists tightly together.  The two electrodes were torn from the skin of his back but he didn’t feel a thing.  Two pairs of strong, rough hands pulled him to his feet, quickly frisked him and emptied his pockets.  Those same hands threw him into the boot of the car and slammed it shut on him, leaving him in near complete darkness.  It had only taken thirty seconds.

Manuel felt the car accelerate away and was flung about the boot as it sped around the corner.  In time he slowly regained his breath and feeling in his body and was able to brace himself with his legs to stop further collision with the confining boundaries of the boot.

Manuel was completely alone and although the situation wasn’t looking good, he knew he had one thing going for him.  He reached around to the back of his jeans and carefully pulled out a knife.  It was a small flick knife with a blade of just a couple of inches in length and a slim handle.  He had chosen it specifically for its ability to be concealed and had hand-sewn a small pocket on the inside of his jeans so that the knife rested neatly in the crevice of his butt cheeks.  Despite still being on probation and risking the chance of a return to prison if he was found in possession of a weapon, he never left home without it.  He smiled grimly at the fact that his kidnappers hadn’t noticed it during their quick and faulty search of him and hoped that it would prove to be a costly mistake for them.

He cut through his plastic cuffs and massaged some life and blood back into his wrists and hands.  As the car stopped at a traffic light, the brake lights of the car illuminated the boot space within.  He noted that the cable that operated the boot locking mechanism had been completely enclosed with sheet metal so that it couldn’t be accessed from inside the boot.  His kidnappers had done this sort of work before.  He tried jamming the knife blade into the part of the boot lock that was visible in an effort to pop it open, but only succeeded in snapping off the knife’s tip.  He cursed quietly and gave up on his escape attempts for the time being.  He calmly reasoned that the knife was his only chance of escape and the he should wait for a time when he could use it to better effect.

He thought of Kylie while he waited to reach what might be his final destination.  He thought of her scent, her pretty face and her slim, tight body.  He knew he had something to live for, something worth fighting for and it gave him strength and callous resolve to survive.

After fifteen minutes, the car pulled to a stop, the engine remained idling.  Manuel heard a car door open and one of his kidnappers walk around to the front of the car.  He heard the squealing of a garage door being rolled up.  The car slid forward through the door then stopped.  The engine was turned off and the garage door closed behind the car.

Manuel readied himself for action.  He decided to attack first and ask questions later while he still had the element of surprise and hoped that wherever he was there were only the two men who had picked him up and not another half a dozen waiting in the wings.  He knew that if the latter was the case, it would be a very short fight indeed.  Footsteps approached the car boot as he waited ready and tensed.

The boot popped open and Manuel squinted his eyes against the light and quickly took in his kidnappers.  One man was very tall, six foot four plus, dressed in a brown leather jacket and slacks.  His grey hair and lined face was proof of a man in his early fifties.  The other man was shorter, younger and bald.  Manuel noted his strong build, and his small blue eyes which were flat and devoid of any emotion.

“Come on sunshine,” said the bald man.  “We’ve got some questions for you.”

Manuel decided to strike at him first.  He lay on his side with his hands holding his knife behind his back to give the impression that he was still bound.

“What do you want with me?  I haven’t done nuthin!” he responded, trying to show fear on his face in an effort to put his kidnappers momentarily off guard.

As those same rough hands grabbed him to pull him out of the boot he lashed out savagely with his knife, slashing the bald man deeply across his neck.  He kicked out viciously at the tall man, striking him in the chest and knocking him on his backside.  Manuel leapt out of the boot, ignored the bald man who was busy trying to hold his neck together with his hands and concentrated on the tall grey haired man who was quickly regaining his senses.  As the man reached inside his coat pocket Manuel instinctively dived full length on top of him and used his momentum to try and drive his knife into his chest.  The tall man half blocked the blow and the short blade got caught up in the folds of his thick leather jacket.  The narrow handle twisted in Manuel’s hand and broke free.

Manuel quickly realised his kidnapper outweighed him by more than twenty kilograms.  He wrestled the man’s hands away from his pocket but was rolled over onto his back by the bigger man who then butted his forehead down violently, connecting with the bridge of Manuel’s nose.  Manuel felt excruciating pain burst through his head and his sight blackened for a few seconds.  He fought the darkness off and as his vision cleared he brought his knee up with all his strength and caught the man’s unprotected groin in a sickening blow.  The man grunted loudly and although he tried to keep fighting, Manuel felt the strength ebbing out of his arms.  He managed to roll the big man off him and hit him with a flurry of wild punches to his head.  The big man rolled away and gamely got to his feet, but by that time Manuel had recovered his knife and plunged it savagely and repeatedly into his chest.  The man groaned and slowly slumped to the floor with a groan and deep wheezing exhalation of breath.

Manuel removed a gun from the tall man’s inside coat pocket.  He walked up to the short bald man he had slashed in the neck with his knife who was on his knees, still trying to staunch the blood that was flowing profusely from his neck wound and creating a pool on the ground around him.

“Why did you do this?” Manuel growled as he stood over the man, but the only response he received sounded like a wet cough.  “Who told you to do this?”

The bald man tried to reach out weakly for Manuel’s leg as Manuel put the gun to his head and fired once.

Manuel surveyed his surroundings for the first time.  It appeared to be a small warehouse of about twenty metres by thirty metres in size and was half full with crates of furniture, piles of packing materials, food stuffs and also three large shipping containers.  There were two offices partitioned off from the rest of warehouse and Manuel was relieved that there wasn’t anyone else around.  Although the fight had been short and he was ultimately victorious, he felt exhausted from the primal exertion.  He looked at the bodies lying on the ground and tried to regather his breath.  Blood dripped freely from his nose and he pinched the bridge in an effort to stop the flow.

When he had caught his breath and the worst of the bleeding had stopped, he searched the bodies and removed their keys and wallets.  As he was searching the big man he removed something from his pants pocket that astonished him.  It was a photograph of Manuel and worst of all, judging by its background appeared to have been taken shortly after he shot Emilio Fogliani.

He stared dumbly at it for almost two minutes, wondering how such an impossible thing could exist and yet there was no mistaking the likeness.  He wondered who could have taken the photograph and from where.  He held the photograph up at eye level and tried to position himself back at the warehouse that night.  He judged that the photographer must have been hidden in the garden bed at the rear of the warehouse, concealed by the dense bushes.  It seemed unlikely that someone passing by had chanced upon the meeting carrying a high quality camera or video camera and managed to capture images of the actual murder taking place.  There were too many maybes for that to be a realistic possibility.

“But who then?” he wondered aloud, and was answered by a slight echo from the empty warehouse.  Although he didn’t want to accept it, he already knew what the most likely answer was.  As far as he knew, there were only three people, including himself, who knew when and where Emilio Fogliani was going to be punished for his sins.

He put the thoughts to the back of his mind for the time being and forced himself to concentrate on the problems that immediately confronted him.  He looked down at his clothes and noted the blood on them, probably from him and his assailants.  And he knew that his blood, his DNA, had been dripped all over the concrete floor of the warehouse, his assailants and possibly the car as well.

Manuel knew the cops had a sample of his DNA on their databases and the thought of it worried him.  If they found his DNA it would only be a matter of time before they caught up with him and the thought of returning to prison after just a few months of pure naked freedom sickened him to his core.  He quickly considered his next move, knowing that it would be crucial.  He thought about moving the bodies and cleaning up the mess but thought it would be too time consuming and risky, and besides, he hated cleaning, so he decided to leave them where they were.  He walked outside the warehouse in an attempt to get his bearings and noticed for the first time he had strained his left calf muscle during the fight.  Fortunately the area where the warehouse was located, which was comprised mostly of decrepit corrugated iron clad warehouses, appeared to be deserted.

He went back inside and briefly massaged his calf as it rapidly tightened.  He looked longingly at the car, but decided it would have to stay in the warehouse.  Using every ounce of his remaining strength, Manuel dragged the bodies inside the car.  He tore a sleeve off the big man’s shirt, removed the petrol tank cap and fed it down into the petrol tank, leaving a bit hanging out.  He lit the end of it with matches he had found on bald hood and limped as fast as he could out the door and away from the warehouse.  Within twenty seconds a large explosion cracked the night air, percussioning violently on his ear drums.  Manuel took a quick look back and saw that the explosion had set fire to most of the contents of the warehouse.  Orange flames were already leaping up towards the windows high up on the walls.  He smiled grimly and moved away into the night secure in the knowledge that whatever DNA that wasn’t destroyed by the fire would be destroyed by the Firefighters who would no doubt drench the place with their hoses.

As he left one problem behind him, he turned his mind to the next.  A mixture of emotions churned inside him as he looked again at the photo he clasped tightly in his hand.

Chapter 43

Nelson morosely worked his way through the seemingly bottomless pile of witness statements - or witless statements as he often like to refer to them - from the Crenshaw homicide investigation.  Even though it was only ten in the morning he felt tired and lethargic.  He, Robards and Bovis had spent the entire previous day at the Kings Cross Police station assisting the LAC Detectives in their investigation before joining them at a local watering hole for what was supposed to be just a couple of relaxing drinks.  Despite his very best intentions, Nelson had eventually struggled home slightly after midnight, again short changing his body of much needed sleep.

He tried to work through his flat spot and forced himself to concentrate on the work in front of him.  He noted that the LAC Detectives seemed to have done a reasonably thorough job of collecting evidence and interviewing witnesses, although Nelson made notes on some inconsistencies that would need to be chased up.  The case appeared to be a matter of finding out which of his relatives or business associates had knocked the old man off so they could benefit from his death.  There was plenty of motive because Crenshaw had amassed a property portfolio that was estimated to be worth in the vicinity of $50 million.  Nelson mused that murder for profit was a re-occurring theme in history.  Already the LAC Detectives’ attention had been drawn to the youngest son and his wife who had been the last people to have seen Crenshaw alive.   They were in debt up to their eyeballs as a result of losing big on the stockmarket and there were witnesses to heated arguments over money in the past between them and the deceased.

Nelson leant back in his chair and stared out the window.  His thoughts drifted back to the Fogliani case and to Craig Thoms in Silverwater mixing with some of the state’s worst criminals.

Detective Sergeant Tony Robinson sauntered over to Nelson’s desk, holding two cups of coffee, one of which he handed to Nelson.  Nelson took the steaming brew appreciatively and felt the aroma seep into his lungs and begin the revival process.

“You’re a lifesaver Tone,” said Nelson, grateful for the distraction and the much needed pickup.  Robinson was also a Sergeant in VanMerle’s team and had worked with Nelson in the past.

“I know, and by my calculations you owe me five coffees now.”

“Is that all?  I thought it was closer to ten.  I’ll be sure to remember you in my will.”

“Hey, I’ve got some information that might be of interest to you.”

“Oh yeah, and what’s that?  You finally lost your virginity?  That’s not that interesting Tone,” said Nelson with a deadpan expression to the thirty-nine year old Robinson.

“Nope, it’s not that, but I’m still hopeful,” returned Robinson with a smile.  “I took a call from the South Sydney LAC a while ago.  Word is a couple of bodies have turned up.”

“So what’s strange about that?  Bodies are always turning up around here.  You could even find some in the Homicide squad if you looked hard enough,” said Nelson smiling at his own joke and nodding his head toward the ancient, grey haired colleague at a neighbouring desk.

“True enough, but it’s where they turned up which will interest you,” Tony said conspiratorially.

“Well are you going to tell me or will I have to beat it out of you?” returned Nelson, his interest beginning to pique.  “Because I will if I have to.  You know I can take you.”

“The story is that there’s been a warehouse fire in Strathfield.  It took the Firies quite a while to bring it under control but when they did, they found two bodies inside.  The early forensic reports are indicating that they met with foul play.  Now the interesting point for you is that the warehouse appears to be owned by the Fogliani family.”

“What?” said Nelson instantly casting aside his veil of tiredness.  “When did this happen?  Who died in the fire?” he said, snapping out the questions.  Robinson smiled genially at Nelson’s instant change in demeanour.

“The fire started around ten p.m. last night.  They haven’t been able to identify the bodies because they were pretty much crispy bacon by the time they got to them.  We’ll have to wait on the dental records.  One thing’s for sure, the Firies reckon it was deliberately lit.  Someone torched a car inside the warehouse.”

Nelson thought hard for a moment, quickly sifting through the information and discovering new angles and possible links to the Fogliani case.

“Do VanMerle or Crighton know about this?”

“Yeah, they both do.  When I told VanMerle who owned the warehouse he choked on his tea and immediately phoned Crighton.  From what I could tell, I don’t think Crighton was particularly happy about it.  VanMerle told me and Davis to stay tuned.  I think they’re still trying to work out what they should do about it.”

“Yeah and I know why,” replied Nelson with a grim smirk.  “They shut the Fogliani case down before we had a chance to sort out what really happened.  If other people look into this case and find out that we’ve got the wrong guy in custody, then it’s not going to look too good for them, or me for that matter.”

Nelson barely noticed Robinson leave as he turned his full concentration to the meaning of the new information.  His gut instinct was telling him these two new deaths were somehow linked to his case and he was mindful that this could be his best and perhaps last chance to set things right in the Fogliani case.

He made the decision to back his instincts and take the rest of the morning to run the new developments to ground regardless of any possible consequences.

Robards and Bovis were still at the Kings Cross Police Station helping with interviews on the Crenshaw case so Nelson would be on his own.  He considered giving Robards a call and telling him what was going on or even asking for help, but decided against it.  If his investigations came to nothing he would steal back into the office and pretend to have been working the Crenshaw case and hopefully no-one would be the wiser.

He decided to call in some favours and dialed the number for Raph Sanchez of the Gangs Squad.

“Sanchez speaking.”

“Hi Raph.  It’s Nelson.  Look, I need a favour.”

Raph Sanchez noted the business-like tone in Nelson’s voice.

“What sort of favour?”

“I need you to tell me where I can get some information on what the Fogliani family might be up to.  Apparently, two bodies have turned up in a burnt out warehouse in Strathfield that the Foglianis own.”

“Shit.  I wonder what the hell is going on there?”

“I don’t know but I’m going to find out.”  If Sanchez knew that Nelson had been told to wrap up the case on the Fogliani murder he said nothing.

“Look Nelson, I know you’ve been working the Fogliani case from the start, but I’m not sure you should be chasing this one.  Three murders in a week related to the Fogliani family sounds like our territory and as soon as our Super hears about it I think he’ll be wanting us to take a closer look.  Maybe Crighton was right after all and there is some sort of war starting.”

Nelson chose his words carefully.  He knew he was treading a fine line.

“Don’t worry Raph, I’m not going to stomp on your toes.  If the Gangs Squad want to take the case then that’s no problem, I’ll give you all the case files.  But until then, I just want to take a quick look at things to see if they relate to my current case, that’s all.  Now I know you guys have plenty of contacts on the street who you pay an arm and a leg to for information, so I’d be grateful if you could help me out this time and tell me who I can talk to.”

Raph Sanchez thought for a moment.  He had an uneasy feeling about Nelson’s request and wasn’t sure if his motives were as pure as he had tried to make them sound.  And yet their friendship was still strong so he begrudgingly cast his concerns aside.

“Alright Nelson, you win.  There’s a guy who we’ve used in the past.  If anyone has an idea of what’s going on it’s him.  He’s got links to all the underworld groups, new and old, because he’s done business with all of them at some stage.  He’s about as well connected as they come.  The bad news is that he hasn’t been too forthcoming lately.”

“You gotta name?” asked Nelson, trying to control his eagerness.

“Mark Dendy.”

“Is he dangerous?”

“Probably not, but you never know your luck, so be careful.”

“Thanks Raph.  I owe you one.”

“Oh you owe me more than one and I’ll be looking forward to collecting one day.”

Chapter 44

Nelson grabbed his coat and strolled lazily out of the building as if he was going down the street for a coffee.  Once outside, he made his way to his own car, hoping that he hadn’t been noticed.  He drove it out of the car park and headed for the club in the city centre where Sanchez had said Mark Dendy was a part owner and could be found most days.  Thirty minutes later Nelson lucked a park on Pitt Street almost directly in front of the club and passed through the glass doors, glad that despite the early hour it was open for business.  The club was small and had a country and western decor to it which seemed mildly ridiculous to Nelson.  He made his way to the bar and asked the barman – a tall pimply faced redheaded kid - for Mark Dendy.  The barman nodded wordlessly toward his left as he grumpily continued to tidy up the mess that the night shift should have cleaned up but didn’t.  Nelson made his way to the small betting lounge and found only one occupant who was attentively watching Race 1 from Wagga Wagga racetrack.

“Mark Dendy?” Nelson asked casually.

“Who wants to know?” replied the man, without taking his eyes off the race in progress, his ire growing as the horse he’d backed for five hundred slid inexorably towards the rear of the field.  Nelson briefly studied the man before him.  He had lank dark greasy hair fastened behind his neck in a ponytail.  His blue eyes were tired and creased and he wore a faded and stained Hawaiian shirt.  Nelson judged him to be about fifty years of age but in reality he was only forty-two.

“Detective Nelson, Homicide squad.”  Nelson flashed his badge briefly, more from habit than to impress.

Dendy took a quick, furtive look at Nelson and a shadow of derision passed across his face, which made Nelson smile briefly.  In some ways, Nelson enjoyed dealing with people like Dendy because there was no confusion.  It was black and white that he was the enemy of the police and society.

“Mark, I’m not going to beat around the bush because that’s not my style,” Nelson said firmly.  “I need some information and I need it quickly.”

Dendy cursed as the race finished and threw his betting ticket on the ground.  He turned and faced Nelson.

“Oh?  What sort of information?” he replied with false geniality.

“I want to know about the Fogliani family.  First Emilio Fogliani was murdered and now two bodies have turned up in one of their warehouses and I want to know why.

“I’m always prepared to help out where I can Detective…..”

“Nelson.”

“Nelson.  As I was saying,” said Dendy, as he began to show slightly more interest at the prospect of recouping his losses.  “Sure, I know some stuff about the Fogliani family but I’m not sure it’s in my best interests to be telling it to the likes of you.”

“Why not?”

“Because people like the Foglianis and their friends don’t take too kindly to their private affairs being discussed with the cops.”

“It’s ok, I won’t tell them anything.”

Dendy smiled tightly.

“Ok Detective man, but my information don’t come cheap.”

“How much?”

“Maybe five grand might make me loosen my tongue a little.”

Nelson felt a growing disgust for the man as his fetid breath and body odour assaulted him.

“Five grand?  Sounds a little steep,” replied Nelson, a frown creasing his forehead.

“Yeah well information can be expensive.  If you don’t like the price you can go and crawl back into the arsehole you came out of.”  Dendy turned away and grabbed another betting card.  He had to rush because race two in Shepparton was coming up in four minutes and he had a solid tip that had been given to him by his friend’s uncle who knew a guy who knew the trainer of the horse, or something like that.

Nelson realised the conversation appeared to be over as far as Dendy was concerned.  He sighed bitterly.  “I don’t have time for this shit,” he mumbled under his breath.  He briefly thought about leaving Dendy to his losing streak, but the thought of reaching another dead end left him with a sick and sour taste in his mouth.  He looked up and noted the black dome video cameras in the ceiling and then took a quick look around the club to see who might be watching.  The place was empty except for a few disaffected elderly patrons who were onto their third schooner already and the barman who was applying himself diligently to washing five hundred schooner and midi glasses.  Nelson grabbed Dendy’s arm and twisted it roughly and quickly behind his back.

“Let’s take a walk.  This place smells like a toilet,” growled Nelson roughly, his reasonably pleasant demeanour instantly evaporating.

Dendy momentarily tried to struggle but Nelson had the element of surprise on his side and also outweighed the older man by a good ten kilograms.  Nelson frog marched him out the nearby fire exit and into the alley beside the club.  A white delivery van was parked in the alley entrance and ensured Nelson had some privacy from those walking past in the street beyond.

“Hey, no need to get rough, tough guy,” said Dendy, still holding his betting ticket and pencil.

“Ok,” growled Nelson menacingly.  “I’ll give you one more chance.  Now tell me what I want to know.”

Dendy laughed out loud.  “You’re really starting to scare me.  You guys are all the same. Go fuck your….”  Dendy didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence as Nelson ripped a savage right uppercut into his ribs and followed it up with a crashing left hook to the side of his head.  Dendy had already been on the way down after the first blow but the second blow ensured he crashed into the ground with force.  His ears rang, his vision darkened and blurred and blood began to flow freely from a deep cut that had opened on his cheek.  He desperately searched for his next breath but failed to find it and could only manage a slight wheeze.

Nelson crouched down to the prostrate man, his face close to Dendy’s ear.  “Now you don’t know me and I don’t know you, but I’ll tell you something about me for free.”  Nelson’s voice was quiet and calm.  “I’m here to get some information and I will do whatever I have to do to get it.  Do you understand?”

Dendy managed to spit in Nelson’s direction.  Nelson slammed a downward punch into Dendy’s ribs and heard a satisfying crack.  Dendy shrieked in pain as the cartilage between his ribs separated, sending shooting, excruciating pains through his body.

“Do you believe me now or will I keep working away at you?  I’ve got all day you know.  I’ll take it slow and I will hurt you like you’ve never been hurt before.”  Dendy slightly lifted his head and looked into Nelson’s eyes, which showed nothing but a calm stare and he realised he had made a serious error in judgment and as a result his day had just got a lot worse.  Dendy had survived dealing with some of the toughest and most dangerous criminals in Sydney because despite his failings as a human being he was normally a good judge of men.  He knew when to push hard against those who could be pushed and he knew when to back off.  The look he saw in Nelson’s eyes reminded him of some of the people he did business with and it scared him as Nelson crouched above him, alone in the alley.

With great effort, he gave a slight nod of his head.

Ignoring the man’s pain, Nelson grimly pulled him into a sitting position with his back against the wall, literally and figuratively.

“Good.  Start talking.”

Dendy found that he could now manage to talk when he exhaled in short raspy breaths.

“I don’t know who killed Emilio Fogliani.  Fogliani was just an old man……who acted tough, and lived off the handouts from his nephew.  It came out of the blue……”

“Was it gang related?  Or maybe someone trying to settle an old score?”

“I don’t think so.  Not that I know of.”

“Are you sure?”

“No, but if it was, then no-one is talking about it.  Normally word gets out.”

“What do you know about two dead bodies at the Fogliani warehouse in Strathfield.  Who are they?”

“I’m not sure……but maybe I can guess.  A couple of days ago, two guys were flashing a picture around trying to find someone.  They were offering good money.”

“Who were these guys?”

Dendy tried to gently maneuver himself into a more comfortable position which only resulted in sending new spasms of pain stabbing through his torso.

“I seen them around, hired muscle.  They’ve worked for the Foglianis before.”

“What did they want with this guy?”

“They didn’t come out and say outright, but they hinted that it had something to do with Fogliani getting smacked.”

“Who was the guy in the picture?”

“I didn’t know at first.  But he had a prison tattoo on his neck.  I told them to leave a copy of the photo with me and I’d get back to them.  I asked around some friends of mine who’ve been on the inside recently and one of them remembered him.”

“What did you do then?”

“I phoned through the information and later in the day someone dropped off a little money for me.”

“What name did you give them?” asked Nelson, the flat implacable stare in his eyes masking the flutter of excitement growing within.

“His name was Torres, Manuel Torres.”

Nelson savoured the name.  It meant nothing to him, but inwardly he gasped at the possibility, the hope, that he had just found the missing link.  He casually thanked Dendy for his help, left him in the alley with his shirt full of cracked ribs, satisfied with his mornings work.  He considered giving Dendy one hundred dollars for his help but decided against perpetuating his gambling addiction.  It would be better spent elsewhere.  Nelson returned to his car and headed west.

Despite the new developments, there were many questions that remained unanswered and still next to no direct evidence that pointed at anyone other than Craig Thoms.   Nelson checked his watch and accelerated as he joined the traffic on the M4.  He decided that the Crenshaw case would have to wait, and that his immediate priority was to locate Manuel Torres before the Foglianis or anyone else did.

Chapter 45

In hindsight it seemed ridiculous.  Manuel Torres searched his memory for ideas on how he could find Kylie and apart from ringing her mobile phone – which she wasn’t answering - he had no idea.  He didn’t know where she lived apart from it being in an apartment somewhere east of the city.  They had been together for six weeks and he had never been to her place.  She had told him she was renovating and that he could see it when it was finished.  It sounded perfectly reasonable at the time so he didn’t question it.  He didn’t know where she worked either, other than it was somewhere in the city.  She had rarely talked about her work and when she did he normally tuned out through lack of interest or it went straight over his head.

After dealing with his would-be captors and finally getting home just before midnight, he spent the remainder of the night lying on his bed chewing panadol while his calf beat like a jungle drum.  He assumed he had a few hours grace before possibly receiving any further visitors but had his hand gun on his bedside table in readiness just in case.  Kylie had told him to throw it in the harbour where no-one would find it but now he was glad that he’d kept it.  He was exhausted and he tried to sleep but his mind kept thinking about her.  Although he loved her, he realised he knew very little about her.  As he remembered and analysed their time together he recalled that on the few occasions he’d asked her about a personal topic, she had gently deflected his questions, and distracted him with her physical presence in some way, which was an easy enough thing to do.

He desperately wanted to talk to her and get her to explain why it couldn’t possibly have been her who had sold him out because she loved him and would never hurt him, but in the back of his mind his doubts were spreading.  As far as he knew, apart from himself, only two other people had known about the time and the location of the hit he carried out on Emilio Fogliani.  One of them was Bruno Trulli, a man who he owed his life to and who he would willingly give his life for, and the other was Kylie.

Manuel felt certain that Bruno would have maintained his silence because it had been his idea to kill Emilio Fogliani in the first place.  Bruno had worked tirelessly for the Fogliani family for twenty-five years and was repaid for his service and loyalty by Emilio Fogliani raping his nineteen year old daughter late one night in the kitchen of Pellegrinos after Bruno had gone home.  His daughter had been so traumatised by the event that she refused to report it to anyone, so Bruno had also remained quiet and devised another way of seeking retribution.  He had lured Emilio to St Peters on the false presumption that he would be meeting one of his mistresses for a secret rendezvous.  It had been an easy enough thing to achieve as Emilio had never been particularly discreet with his numerous affairs.  Bruno had everything to lose if his part in the murder was discovered.

So that only left Kylie.  He shook his head in disbelief at the possibility that what they had together wasn’t real.  A hot rage began to simmer mindlessly inside him and yet it was tempered by his confusion and doubt.  He vowed to find her and find out the truth once and for all.

The next morning, despite the soreness of his calf muscle, which felt as though someone was jabbing a fork into it with every step he took, he walked the streets of the city looking for her.  It was all he could think to do.  He pulled the hood of his jacket to cover his head in search of anonymity, just in case.  After several hours of fruitless and pointless searching, scanning the myriad of faces on the street, he decided to go to Nero’s Lounge and Bar because it was the only place he knew she frequented.  On the night that he had killed Emilio Fogliani, he had taken a quick glance in there and seen her there, laughing with her friends.  Finding her here again seemed a long shot, but it was all he had.

He sat drinking beer after sullen beer in a quiet corner at the rear of the bar and waited.  He watched the people who came in and went out the front door and kept to himself.  At around six p.m. a couple entered the bar and his heart skipped a beat as he recognised their faces.

Manuel Torres struggled with his self-control over the next hour while they chatted and laughed together.  He sipped another beer and watched them under hooded eyes as the bar began to fill and the evening outside darkened.  Eventually his patience was rewarded and they left together.  Manuel followed them, his face set in a grim mask, the pain in his calf dulled, and mind swimming recklessly, from an afternoon of drinking beer.  After a short walk they appeared to say their goodbyes to each other and went their separate ways.  Manuel followed fifty metres behind her, his eyes burning holes in her back.  He waited for the right time to approach her, somewhere quiet, somewhere where there would be little chance of being disturbed while they talked.

Fifteen minutes later, Manuel saw her turn into a block of apartments.  His calf had stiffened considerably during the walk and the renewed pain throbbed loudly throughout his entire leg as if it had its own heart.  He heard the jingle of keys as she checked her mail box and then made her way upstairs, her heels echoing loudly on each step.  Manuel quietly followed, closer now, close enough that he could smell her perfume, which he breathed in deeply.

As Jennifer Nolan unlocked the door of her apartment, Manuel loomed up quick and large behind her.  He placed one hand around her mouth and the other tightly, cruelly, around her waist picking her up in the process.  He pushed her forward into the apartment, bearing her slim body to the ground beneath his and flicked the door closed with his foot.

Chapter 46

Upon his arrival back at Headquarters Nelson threw himself into finding out everything he could about Manuel Torres.  He checked the criminal history database and got a full printout of his record including several photographs from various angles.  Nelson studied the pictures that were on file and compared them to computerised likenesses of the mystery triggerman that had been provided by Natalie Bassett and Craig Thoms.  Neither likeness was particularly accurate, however Craig Thoms’ image showed some resemblance to the tone of his brown skin, his high cheekbones and squarish jaw.  Nelson noted that the file photographs of Manuel Torres were taken upon his arrest some eight years ago, when Manuel had been only eighteen and reasoned that he may have changed quite a lot in the ensuing years.

The file on Manuel Torres’ criminal history was surprisingly short as he appeared to have spent almost all of his adult life in the maximum security wing of the Goulburn prison for manslaughter.  Nelson phoned the Corrective Services department and asked them to send him a list of names of those people who had visited Manuel Torres during his period of incarceration.  He used all his powers of persuasion on the clerk on the other end of the line to encourage a quick turnaround.  While he waited, he studied Manuel Torres’ file in an effort to gain an understanding of the man he was now hunting.  To Nelson’s pleasure and surprise the fax from Corrective Services arrived within thirty minutes.  He read it eagerly and scanned the list for the name of Kylie Faulkner, but didn’t find it.  That would have been too easy, he thought to himself.  Manuel had received very few visitors during his period of incarceration, however the name of Bruno Trulli appeared several times.  Nelson was certain he had seen or heard that name somewhere before, but couldn’t quite place it as he stared up at the office ceiling, trying to force his mind to divulge its deeply buried knowledge.

Like an energetic hound on the trail of a fox he ran the scent to ground.  He again searched the criminal record database and found that Bruno Trulli had no criminal record.  Slightly confused but still determined, he Googled the name on the Internet.  The search pulled up almost one hundred hits on Bruno Trulli, the first of which was an article on a website that contained back copies of a local newspaper.  The article was a 2010 review of a restaurant in the city named Pellegrinos.  Nelson vaguely recalled having dined there a few times a couple of years ago, with a pretty blonde girl named Susan who hadn’t hung around for long before moving on.  The article named Bruno Trulli as the long serving maitre’d of Pellegrinos.  Nelson thought briefly for a moment then smiled knowingly and felt a rush of excitement and adrenalin as he recalled that Pellegrinos was one of the restaurants the Fogliani family owned.  He laughed aloud - which drew quizzical looks from the surrounding desks – as he realised he had found another small but important missing piece of the puzzle and was now perilously close to filling in the complete picture.

Nelson knew he’d had a good morning.  He hoped that he had put an identity to the mystery triggerman that Craig Thoms had told him about and found the connection between the triggerman and the Fogliani family.  It was heady stuff and he was half tempted to sit in his seat and bask in his own glory for just a couple of minutes.  Instead he phoned Manuel Torres’ probation officer and got his current work and home addresses.  Finding Manuel Torres was the key.  When he got hold of him he’d let Robards go to work on him in the interview room.  The probation officer told him that Torres seemed clean since leaving prison and although she pushed Nelson for information on why he was asking about Torres, Nelson gave her nothing in return.  With the Manuel Torres file tucked under his arm Nelson stood and peered toward VanMerle’s office.  To his relief, it was still empty.  He asked one of the Homicide squad civilian administrative assistants where VanMerle was and was told he would be in budget meetings for the remainder of the afternoon.  Nelson gave a quiet prayer of thanks to no-one in particular for VanMerle’s end of financial year preoccupation and smiled at the way his luck was holding.   He grabbed his jacket and headed out to his own car to track down Manuel Torres.

**********

Nelson initially checked the panel beater shop in Balmain where Manuel Torres’ probation officer said he was employed, but was told by a tattooed grease monkey with body odour issues that Torres hadn’t shown for work in the last two days.  Nelson accepted the information as a neat fit to his emerging theory that the Foglianis were pursuing Torres for the murder of Emilio Fogliani.  He reasoned that Torres would be unlikely to return to his home address but decided to check it out anyway and see if his luck continued to hold.  He drove to Redfern and leisurely drove by Manuel Torres’ apartment block on Elizabeth Street before parking on the side of the road sixty metres up from it in a position that afforded him a clear view of the front of the building.

The building was four stories high and was built in the early sixties for housing commission tenancy.  It was reasonably neat and tidy but couldn’t hide its undercurrent of underpriviledge.  Nelson considered his options and decided to make a quick reconnoiter of the old apartment block before settling in to wait for his quarry.  Entering the building he took the stairs to the fourth floor and quietly made his way along the hallway to Unit thirty-three.  There was nothing out of the ordinary to be seen from the exterior of the apartment.  The front door, while stained and marked by the passage of time, was intact.  Nelson contemplated busting the door in and searching it for evidence.  He knew there would be questions asked later if he did, but without witnesses he could deny responsibility.  He had done it often enough before.  On this occasion however he decided to try the patient approach and return to his car and wait.  He was still smarting at his error in judgement in approaching Jennifer Nolan without any evidence to back him up and didn’t want to repeat his mistake.

On his way out of the building he checked for other entry points where Torres might be able to sneak into the building out of sight of his vantage point, but was satisfied there were none, unless he possessed spiderman-like climbing abilities.  Nelson returned to his car and settled in to wait.  He hated stakeouts with a passion and struggled to sit still in a car for hours while still maintaining high concentration levels.  He began to wish Robards was with him, as he possessed a keen set of eyes and also a seemingly never-ending supply of crude and amusing stories that he was only too willing to share.

Nelson surveyed the street and those who were on it.  Redfern was a suburb that no police officer enjoyed visiting.  Its reputation for lawlessness and for pushing back against those who sought to tame it was second to none in Sydney.  The road and foot traffic on Elizabeth Road was regular but not heavy.  Most of the people in the street were a mix of either first generation middle Eastern and African migrants or ten-thousandth generation Aboriginals.  Although the location was in the better part of Redfern, if there was such a place, Nelson kept his car locked and his keys in the ignition just in case.

**********

Three hours later Nelson was regretting the Grande sized cappuccino that he had brought with him to help him stay alert and keep the tiredness at bay.  He looked through the car for a bottle to urinate into and was surprised and disappointed at his own cleanliness when he could find nothing.  Darkness had come early thanks to the proximity to the winter solstice, so he alighted from his car, ducked behind a tree in a nearby garden bed and noisily urinated.

As he was finishing up, a battered old VH Commodore rattled past and double parked in the street.  Nelson’s presence was hidden by the shadows of the trees, where the street lights didn’t penetrate, and from his vantage point he watched a man leap out of the car and run into the apartment block.  It happened so fast that Nelson wasn’t able to get a good look at him.  With his curiosity alerted and his nerves tingling, he crossed the street and concealed himself beside a large four wheel drive.  As he waited to get a closer look his phone vibrated in his pocket.  He considered ignoring it, but his hand flipped it open.

“Hey, it’s Pete.  Where are you?”

“I’m just on my way home.”

Nelson didn’t think Robards believed him and didn’t care.  “What’s up?”

“I’ve got some news.  Remember Jennifer Nolan from the Fogliani case?”

“Yeah, sure, how could I forget.”

“Well she’s just been found dead in her Woollahra apartment.  Apparently she took a bit of a beating before she died.  Bovis and I are still at Kings Cross station and heard about it from the LAC Detectives here who have gone off to check it out.”

“Shit,” said Nelson taking the information in.  “Anyone see anything?”

“Yeah, a neighbour saw a guy running from the apartment block.”

“Got a description?”

”Yeah, he had brown skin, shaved head and was of solid build.”

“Torres,” Nelson said under his breath.

“What did you say?  I didn’t catch that?”

“Ahh, nothing.  It’s nothing.”

As Nelson continued to quiz Robards for further information the man from the double parked car came out of the building.  He scanned the street as he walked towards his car carrying a small suitcase.  As he passed underneath a street lamp, Nelson’s heart skipped a beat as he recognised the face.  It was Manuel Torres.

“Look Pete, I’ve got to go.  I’ll talk to you soon.  Give me a call if anything new comes in about Nolan.”  He snapped his phone shut.  He considered asking Robards to provide backup for him but decided against it for the time being.  He felt bad about leaving Robards out of the picture but wanted to follow the lead through to the end without having to explain or justify his actions to anyone else.  It was something he would have to do alone.

Manuel Torres jumped in his car and drove off, accelerating hard.  Nelson sprinted back to his car, pulled out from the curb with his headlights off and followed at a discrete distance.

Chapter 47

Nelson followed the battered looking Commodore as it made its way northward through the city, crossed the Harbour bridge and wound its way along the Pacific Highway.  Nelson found it difficult to conceal his presence because Manuel Torres had pulled over three times during the journey.  As Nelson drove past the stationery vehicle on the first time Manuel had stopped, he looked into its lit cabin and had seen that Manuel appeared to be looking at something on his lap.  After the third stop, Nelson realised that he was probably checking his progress on a street directory on his lap.

It piqued Nelson’s curiosity even more and during the course of the journey he thought hard about where Manuel might be going and how it fitted with the case.  A small seed of an idea began to germinate in his mind and grew with confidence after every passing kilometre.  When Manuel turned off the Pacific Highway Nelson knew where he was going and was reasonably certain he knew why.

After almost thirty minutes of driving, Manuel parked his car outside a Roseville apartment block and made his way inside.

Nelson switched off his engine and glided to the curb fifty metres behind Manuel’s Commodore.  He again considered calling for backup, this time from the nearest Local Area Command, but decided against it for the time being as he didn’t want the outcome to be hijacked by the wailing sirens of a couple of squad cars filled with energetic and nervous young Constables.  He checked his weapon, got out of his car and headed into the apartment block.

Nelson entered the lobby with gun drawn.  He tried to quieten his beating heart which pounded heavily in his ears and throat.  He looked up through the dim central staircase and thought he could hear faint voices filtering down to him from above.  Moving quickly yet cautiously he went up the stairs, bypassing the silent first floor and making his way to the second.  He could almost make out the voices now.

He crept down the short corridor, honing in on the raised male voice.  The door to apartment ten was ajar by about forty centimetres and light spilled out into the hallway from within.  The frame of the door had been shattered and broken shards of wood lay on the floor.

A door opened behind Nelson and he swung around instantly, ready to retaliate against the surprise attack.  Within a split second of pulling the trigger he realised that it was just an old woman, a nosey neighbour, with incredibly lousy timing or a euthanasia wish.  He lowered his weapon, showed her his badge, urged her to silence, frantically waved her back inside her apartment and was relieved to find that his heart was still beating within his chest cavity.  Taking a few deep breaths which had no effect, he sidled quietly and smoothly along the wall until he was just outside apartment number ten.  He focused his hearing on the enraged voice within.

“Do you think I’m completely stupid Kylie?  I know what you been doing.  You set me up.”  The words were bitterly spat out, the tone was menacing and hard edged.

“C’mon baby it’s not like that.  I didn’t do anything.  I didn’t tell anyone anything.  I helped you, remember?” she replied, her honeyed voice, calm and soothing.  “I gave you someone to take the fall for you so you’d be safe.  He’s already been arrested for it.”

Manuel Torres looked into her sea green eyes, searching for a hint of a lie and saw nothing.  He wondered if he was making a terrible mistake in accusing her and that maybe someone else could have known about the murder and taken the photographs.  She had been so good to him, so good for him.  He shook his head in an effort to clear it and pressed his hands against the growing pain in his temples.  He looked away to block out the sight of her and give his mind time to think.  His resolve to exact revenge had been diluted by her convincing words and thoughts rushed through his mind, confusing him.  And yet, it had to be her, there was no-one else.  He looked back to her and noticed her eyes quickly dart back to him.  For the briefest of moments he had seen something in her face before it had been wiped clean to be replaced by a different look.  What was it?  Fear?  Anxiousness?  What had she been looking at?

He looked toward where he imagined her eyes had been focussed and his eyes fell upon an eight by ten framed photo on the television set.  It was a photo of Kylie draped warmly over another man.  The inference of intimacy was unmistakable.

Kylie saw his eyes go to it and quietly cursed.  She looked longingly toward the open door but didn’t highly rate her chances of escaping through it, at least not intact.

“That’s just an old photo.  Someone from the distant past,” she said, hoping to placate him.  It was to no avail.  Manuel’s confusion and doubts evaporated.

“You’re a fucking liar,” he shouted.  The force of the accusation made her flinch involuntarily.  He raised the gun and gestured at her.  “You played me bitch.”

“No, no baby I didn’t,” she said, knowing her control over him was gone.  Her control over herself was barely in check, as panic clamoured at the edges of her consciousness, searching for a way in.

“Where are the fucking photos?” he snarled.  “Give them to me now or so help me I’ll blow your fucking head off.”  He pointed the gun straight at her head and Kylie stared at the dull burnished metal of the weapon, transfixed, unable to speak.  She thought she had the strength to be calm in any situation, but as she looked down the barrel of his gun, the remainder of her facade receded away like an outgoing tide, leaving her naked and alone.

“Where are they?” he shouted again.

“Ok, ok.  Please don’t hurt me,” she begged, as legitimate tears began to roll down her cheeks.  “I’m so sorry, it wasn’t meant to be like this.” She reached into her bag on the floor and removed a large yellow envelope which she passed to him and then backed away slowly.

Nelson stood outside the door, waiting, listening, fascinated by the conversation within, slotting each sentence neatly into the case as they were spoken.  Through the gap in the door he could see Manuel Torres standing, gun in one hand and envelope in the other.  Nelson guessed that the contents of the envelope was all that he needed to ensure Craig Thoms escaped a wrongful murder conviction and yet despite witnessing the scene of impending doom play out before him he was uncertain of his next move and remained rooted to the spot as competing priorities and agendas decayed his resolve.

Manuel Torres rifled through the envelope.  It contained photos of him shooting Emilio Fogliani and a dvd which he correctly assumed contained more of the same incriminating evidence.  His rage hit new heights and his hand began to shake now that his doubts had been replaced by a cast iron certainty that it had been the woman he thought he loved, the woman standing in front of him, who had betrayed him.  He realised he had known all along, but a part of him had resisted the truth until now.

By telling her of his plans to murder Emilio Fogliani he had put Bruno Trulli at terrible risk if his part was discovered.  His disgust at his own stupidity was more than he could bear.  His face was fixed in a hard and cold grimace and a horrified Kylie backed away in abject fear.  All her planning had turned to dust in the last five minutes and now she faced death.

“Please baby, don’t hurt me,” she cajoled meekly.  “We can go away together.  We can get away from this place.  I’ll do whatever you want.  Anything.  Whatever makes you happy.”

Her words were to no avail.  Manuel’s resolve flooded his senses with certainty.  It was time to erase a very bad mistake.  He raised his gun and fired.  In a last ditch moment of clarity Kylie cast aside her fear and faced her fate head on.  The gunshot split the air and the bullet travelled the five metres that separated them in an instant, thudding audibly into her body and propelling her backwards to the wall where she slumped to the floor.

Nelson stood transfixed outside the door and tried to control his breathing and stay calm.  His heart was pumping, and despite the coolness of the night, sweat trickled uncomfortably down his back and formed wet patches on his shirt.  He held his weapon tightly in both hands and quietly shouldered the door open.  Manuel heard nothing as he stared blankly at Kylie on the ground, his face a mask of regret and pain as if he too had been shot.

“Police, Police,” Nelson yelled, his Glock pistol steadfastly trained on Manuel’s chest.

Manuel moved his gaze to Nelson.  He looked at the weapon in his hand, a thousand thoughts rushing through his mind.  He slowly raised it toward Nelson, but well before it reached perpendicularity Nelson fired three times in quick succession.  Manuel Torres’ body was flung violently into the air.  He was dead before he hit the floor.

Chapter 48

Nelson entered the apartment cautiously.  He searched the other rooms of the small two bedroom apartment quickly, to ensure there were no unseen threats.  He then moved to Manuel Torres who had fallen on his back as he died and noted grimly that all three of his shots had struck home.  His blood lay in a growing pool around him, bright red, contrasting vividly with the light brown polished timber floorboards.  He checked for a pulse and not surprisingly found none.

No-one would survive with three gaping holes in their chest, but he kicked Manuel’s gun away from his body anyway and made a mental note to have it checked ballistically against the Fogliani murder weapon.

Nelson eagerly but gently pried the envelope from Manuel’s dead fingers and checked its contents.  A miasma of elation and relief welled up inside him as he confirmed the contents contained photos of Manuel shooting Emilio Fogliani and that the dvd was still intact.

“Now I understand why the Foglianis were after you,” said Nelson conversationally to Manuel.  The last piece of the puzzle had fallen into place and he knew it would be more than enough to bring an end to the case and free the wrongly accused Craig Thoms.  As he studied the photographs a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye drew his attention.

He looked toward the body of Kylie Faulkner and realised that in his eagerness to get his hands on the evidence he had not checked on her, and for a supposed corpse, she was making a good fist of struggling her way into sitting position with her back against the wall.  Nelson studied her pale, unlined face and thought how young, small and fragile she looked.  An abject feeling of disgust and revulsion for his inaction of the last few minutes crashed across him like a following wave and forced him to look away.

Kylie Faulkner clutched her shoulder with her hand and blood trickled through her fingers and down her white blouse.  Her breath came in quick shallow gasps.  She watched Nelson closely, through pain-slitted green eyes.  He moved to her, gently prised her hand away from her shoulder and inspected the wound.  The bullet had missed bone and major blood vessels and only gashed the muscle and skin above her collarbone.  He retrieved a tea towel from the nearby kitchen, folded it twice and placed it over the wound.

“Hold this as tight as you can bear.”  She grimaced through the pain but held it firmly in place.  Nelson stood up and paced around the room in deep thought.  His face was unreadable.  After a minute he seemed to finally come to a decision.  He grabbed a chair from the dining table, reversed it and sat facing her.

“You’ve led me on quite a chase these last few days,” he said impassively.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she croaked, ignoring the pain and effort required to speak.

“Oh, I’m sure you do Kylie Faulkner, or would you prefer I called you Natalie Bassett?”

“Call me whatever you like.  Doesn’t seem to matter now.”

“No, I guess not.”

“So are you going to get me an ambulance any time soon?  I’m dying over here in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“You’re not going to die in any hurry, at least not from that gunshot wound.  Your boyfriend was a lousy shot.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” she replied flatly.

“Well not anymore, but he was still a lousy shot.”

“I took a dive when he shot me,” she volunteered.

Nelson thought for a moment, smiled, genuinely this time, and shook his head.  “Well that explains your injury, or lack thereof.  You really do have nine lives don’t you?”

The blood flowing from Natalie’s wound began to slow and she started to feel a little stronger.  Her normal colour returned to her face and she inched her back higher against the wall.

“What are you going to do with me?”

“We’ll get to that in a moment, after we’ve had a little talk.”

She coughed a little to clear her throat.  “I’m listening.”

“Firstly, let me say I admire your handiwork.  You came within an inch of pulling off a truly remarkable crime.  I’m not quite sure how you finally worked out that Craig Thoms was involved in the car accident that killed your parents, but I can tell you that from what I know about the case, you were right, he was involved.”

The admission came as a gush of relief to her and tears involuntarily rolled down her cheeks.  Someone else believed her.  Someone else knew what Craig Thoms had done to her parents and to her.  She wasn’t crazy.  It hadn’t all been for nothing.

“I guess then you tracked him down and started screwing his best mate so you could get close to him.  I love a woman with flexible morals.”  If the insult bothered Natalie it didn’t show.  “Then somehow you found yourself a hitman,” he said indicating to the dead body on the floor.  “Maybe as part of your little stalking game you followed him one night and overheard him and Bruno Trulli planning a little revenge killing against Emilio Fogliani?  Was that it?”

Natalie’s face registered a moment of surprise at the extent of Nelson’s knowledge before quickly covering it back up.

“Maybe,” replied Natalie non-commitally.

“I thought so.  It makes sense.  I’m not sure what it was revenge for, but I’m sure Fogliani deserved it.  Anyway, in some perverse and bewildering attempt at getting justice, you decided you could piggyback on Torres’ plans, and set Thoms up for the murder.  So you started screwing Torres as well and no doubt brought him around to your way of thinking.”  Natalie sat quietly, absorbing his comments and reflecting little.

“You had Torres walk past Neros at exactly the right time.  Then you sent Thoms out after him and he followed Torres to the crime scene.  You knew you needed some hard evidence to stitch Thoms up so you got your hands on some of his gloves from the hospital and got Torres here to leave them at the crime scene after he’d done the deed.  And as for the security video we found that showed Thoms bumbling into the crime scene, well, somehow you knew where the cameras were pointed and you told Torres how to avoid them.  Maybe your other boyfriend Bryce had something to do with setting up the security system or something?  Craig Thoms had said the person he followed had crawled along the ground at some stage.  He didn’t realise why though.

“Bryce had nothing to do with this.”

“No, he doesn’t seem the type.  He’s just another innocent victim here, like Thoms.  I guess you thought you’d be smirking at him through prison bars for the rest of his life.  But, and there’s always a but, unfortunately for you, I got on the trail of Kylie Faulkner and traced her to the Woollahra address.  I must admit I got a little confused at finding Jen Nolan there.  I naturally assumed that she was Kylie Faulkner.  On your statement, you put your address down as here, but this is Bryce’s place isn’t it?  The Woollhara apartment is yours and she’s just your roommate.  Oh, by the way, did you know she’s dead?”

“Who?”

“Your little friend Jen.  I guess Torres didn’t get around to mentioning that.  He went to your apartment a couple of hours ago.  I guess Jen was home alone and got caught in the cross fire.  He made a bit of a mess of her too, probably because he thought she was holding out on him, but the truth was she didn’t know who Kylie was.  She must have figured it out in the end though and given Torres this address, but by then it was too late.”  Nelson watched her for a reaction and saw only a small shadow of guilt caress her face.

“The contents of this envelope tell me why Torres was trying to find you.  You sold him out to the Foglianis.  That was a nasty and nearly brilliant move, but apparently Torres here was a little more resourceful than expected because he killed the two men Fogliani sent after him.  How am I doing so far Natalie?”

Despite the throbbing pain in her shoulder and her plans and life laying in tatters, she couldn’t help but give a small smirk.

“You’ve got one hell of an imagination.”

“I know,” replied Nelson smiling back.  “But I bet there’s one question you’re just dying to ask me.”

“Oh?  And what’s that?”

“With all the evidence that you laid out so beautifully for us against Thoms, how or why did I end up looking for Kylie Faulkner?  Why didn’t I just lock up Thoms and throw away the key like all the other Detectives involved in the case wanted me to do?”

Natalie regarded him intently.  It was the one burning question she had wanted to know the answer to since Jen Nolan told her of Nelson’s visit to their apartment.  After all her meticulous planning, where had she gone wrong?  Finding out seemed to be the only thing that mattered now that it was all over.

“Maybe it’s crossed my mind.”

“I’m sure it has,” Nelson replied almost laughing.  He shifted his weight and made himself more comfortable on the unpadded wicker dining chair.

“I’ll tell you why, and this is really going to make you laugh.  You see Thomsy and I are old friends.  We go back a long way, a long long way.  We even went to school together.”  To Nelson’s amusement she didn’t laugh along with him, instead a bitter grimace ruined her lovely face.  “I guess you didn’t come across that connection when you did your homework on him.  I admit, it’s not something I’ve been advertising of late and fortunately he was smart enough to keep his mouth shut about it when he got arrested.  No point in telling everyone and then getting me taken off the case because of a conflict of interest.  I wouldn’t have been of much use to him then would I?”

“You’re lying,” she vehemently snapped at him.

“I’m afraid not.  Maybe we’ve drifted apart a little over the years, you know this job doesn’t exactly allow for a full social calendar, but I still try and catch up with him every now and then.  After he was taken into custody I paid him a quiet visit in the cells and asked him what had happened.  He told me his story and swore on his life that he didn’t murder Fogliani.  Now I admit that it took me a while to come around, the evidence against him was so strong, but eventually I came to believe him.  You see, Craig is many things, he’s annoying, offensive and arrogant, but the one thing he is above all other things is honest, sometimes painfully and brutally honest, but honest nonetheless.  It’s a rare trait these days.  The unlucky part for you in all this is that if any other Detective had been assigned to the Fogliani case they probably wouldn’t have believed a word he said.  They would have taken that beautiful evidence trail you and Torres laid out and slammed the case shut.  But not me.”

Natalie continued to clutch her shoulder as she listened to Nelson.  She was beginning to understand how Nelson had discovered her subterfuge.  She wondered why God continued to think of such ingenious ways of torturing and taunting her.

“Almost from the beginning I was working towards finding a way of getting him off.  I thought about removing some of the evidence to weaken the case on him but decided against it.  It would have been too risky.  There were too many people sniffing all over this case from the start and they would have known it was me, so I decided to focus on finding the real killer and who had set him up.  Looking back, I should have had vague suspicions about you from the start.  I mean call me cynical, but when was the last time you saw a beautiful woman hanging onto the arm of an overweight and unattractive guy with no money?  And you were the one who chose Craig’s mark for him.  It had to be you.  And yet for all your planning, here you are, sitting with a bullet hole in you and probably facing some pretty serious charges.  It’s certainly going to be ironic if you end up in prison and Craig walks free,” said Nelson with an amused glint in his eye.

Natalie’s mind recoiled at the thought of going to prison.  It was the exact antithesis of what she had been planning for the last three years and the thought of it sent a wave of nausea flooding over her.

“I don’t care what you do,” she hissed.  “I’m going to tell the whole world that he killed my parents.  It’s all I have left now.  Someone will listen.”

Nelson smiled like a benign father and shook his head.  “Well I hate to burst your bubble, but that’s not quite correct.”

“What do you mean?  You said you knew he killed my parents!”

“I said I knew that he was involved.  Let me tell you a little story, hopefully we have just enough time before the local cops arrive.  This story is about two young men who went out one night to celebrate after one of them had graduated from the Police Academy.  You see I’d been posted to Narooma straight from the Academy and Craig drove down from Sydney to see me.  One thing led to another and by closing time at the local pub we’d had way too much to drink.  I took the keys from him because I was trying to be responsible and I thought I was in better shape to drive than he was.”

“I don’t believe you,” she said halfheartedly, beginning to feel uneasy with the direction the conversation was taking.

Nelson continued as if he didn’t hear her.  His mind reached back into memories which were still clear in his mind.  “I was just a stupid kid filled with beer.  Anyway, I came around a corner a bit fast and a bit wide and……and that’s where you and your parents come into the story.  I didn’t see your car until it was right in front of me.  There was nothing I could do.”

Natalie’s faced blanched at the admission and her world continued its downward spiral into the abyss.  She had spent the last three years of her life hating Craig Thoms and plotting his downfall and the realisation that her energies may have been misdirected shattered her like a fragile wine glass.

“But I saw his face in my dreams, in my memories of the accident,” she said defensively, not wanting to believe.

“Maybe you did.  Craig was in the car, but he was on the drivers’ side in the back seat of his 4WD.  I was driving that night, Natalie.  It was my fault, not his.”  She searched his face, looking desperately for a trick, for a sign of a lie but saw none.  He had no reason to lie seeing that he already held all the cards.

“But I saw him,” she said, her voice faltering.  “He was laughing at us.”

“No,” responded Nelson firmly.  “He was laughing because he’d just opened a can of beer and sprayed it all through the car.  Sounds ridiculous now, but it was funny at the time I guess.”

Natalie looked inward and replayed the memories of the accident in her mind as she had done a thousand times before.  She closed her eyes and willed herself painfully back into her parents’ car again.  She looked up at the car that bore down on them and then for the first time, the full hazy veil seemed to lift from the scene and she saw Craig Thoms looking down at them laughing, or, laughing at something, from the back seat of the dual-cab 4WD, and there in the driver’s seat was another man, his face which had been turned towards Craig in the rear vision mirror slowly began turning toward her as they sped past each other in the night.

“I stopped the car and looked back to see where your car was but didn’t see anything at all.  I assumed you’d just driven off, so I did the same.  If I had known, I would have stopped.”  Nelson’s normally calm, unlined face, creased with the memory and Natalie instinctively knew that every word he spoke was the truth.  “Five minutes later I drove head long into a breathalyser team of my very own colleagues.  Craig and I both knew that if I was caught, it would probably be the end of my very short career.  Craig didn’t hesitate for a moment.  As we slowed down to queue up for the breathalyser, he swapped places with me in the car and then I slid out the passenger side door into a ditch beside the road and from there made my way home.  Fortunately for me it was a dark night and there were half a dozen cars in line waiting to be tested so no-one witnessed my escape.  Craig was tested and found to be well over the limit and was charged with drink driving.  He took the rap for me and lost his licence for six months, but he didn’t say a word to anyone about me being there.  Later that morning I dragged myself in to work still nursing a sore head.  I heard about the car accident and started to wonder.  I drove to the scene on the pretext of offering assistance.  I saw the skid marks on the road and realised what had happened.”

“Stop, please stop,” said Natalie quietly as tears continued to roll down her cheeks.

Nelson ignored her, wanting to get it all out once and for all.

“I stood by the road for ages trying to decide what to do.  The other cops there thought I was feeling a bit squeamish because I was a new cop.  In the end I just drove away.  I phoned Craig and told him to change the tyres on his 4WD and dump the old ones where no-one would find them.   Sure enough, a couple of officers paid him a visit two days later but they didn’t have any evidence without being able to match the tyres and Craig didn’t say anything.  In time, it all blew over and I left Narooma as quickly as I could to put it behind me.”  Nelson felt relief after his admission of guilt.  He had never spoken of that moment to anyone but Craig Thoms before.  “Natalie….Kylie, I know my apology is a bit late, about fifteen years too late, but I am sorry.”

Natalie’s emotions fluctuated wildly with Nelson’s revelations.

“You’re a murderer!”

“No, it wasn’t murder.  I’ve seen murders.  I just drove over the centre line on a road by a couple of feet, that’s all, and then fate took over,” Nelson justified.  “Once it had happened there was absolutely nothing I could do to change anything.  It was just a stupid accident.”

“You could have come forward and acted like a man.”

“Maybe I should have, but that wouldn’t have brought your parents back or given you a better life.  The only thing that would have achieved would be to put an end to my career and possibly putting me in jail, and the thought of being a nineteen year old cop in jail didn’t sound too good, so I decided to protect myself and Craig.  Self-preservation kicked in I guess.”

Nelson waited for Natalie to respond but she just stared at him, trying to process all he had said.

“I know I did the wrong thing but I’d like to think that over the last fifteen years I’ve done some good in my life and I’ve made a positive difference in a lot of people’s lives through my work.  Would society have been better served by me spending five years in jail or me working my arse off to take cold blooded killers like Manuel Torres off the street?”

“I’m going to tell the fucking world that you killed my parents,” she hissed at him, spittle flying from her mouth in her enthusiasm for the idea.

“Are you?  I don’t think that would be a good idea,” Nelson replied evenly.

“Why?”

“Because it happened fifteen years ago and you have no evidence.  Trust me, I’m a cop and I’ve been through a few internal investigations in my time.  It’s my word against yours and Craig will support me, not you.  It will get messy for me, but I’ll survive.  On top of that, if you stay, you’ll probably be charged with conspiracy to commit murder among other things.  That can carry a pretty hefty sentence.  Admittedly the star witness is dead,” he said, again indicating Manuel Torres’ corpse on the floor beside him.  “And you’re a smart girl who has probably covered your tracks pretty well, so maybe you’d come out of it ok, but then again, maybe not.  It’s amazing what a team of Detectives can dig up on a person.  We tend to look after our own.  And finally there are the Foglianis to consider.  No doubt they’d be interested to find out you were involved in Emilio’s murder.  Maybe they’d come after you too.”

Natalie stared at him, weighing his words.  She hated to admit they made sense and she had the feeling that she had been backed into the tightest of corners.

“Look Natalie, I can’t bring your parents back, but maybe, maybe if I let you walk away now it will go some small part of the way toward balancing the ledger between me and you.  Maybe if you agree to disappear and never come back to New South Wales, I can leave Kylie Faulkner out of my reports and pretend I didn’t find you here.  You could put all this shit behind you and start your life over again.  It’s the best offer I can make you with the way things are.”

Natalie thought hard on his words and didn’t know what to do.  She found it hard to accept that her three year crusade had come to such a pointless ending and that her parents’ killer would again walk free, unpunished, and yet she could fathom no other way out of her predicament other than a full scale retreat.  She felt desperate, tired and drained of life and her shoulder throbbed incessantly, reverberating through her head.

“What about my shoulder?”

“I don’t know.  You’re a resourceful girl, I’m sure you’ll think of something.  Go and find a doctor to bat your eyelids at or something.  It’s just a flesh wound so as long as it’s cleaned and stitched and you take a few antibiotics you should be alright.”  Nelson cocked his head as he heard the sound of wailing sirens approaching.  He surmised that the neighbour who he had almost shot earlier had placed a call to the police and told her story.  “Now we don’t have much time so I’m going to turn my back for a few seconds and if you’re still here when I turn around then there’s nothing I can do for you and you’ll have to take your chances against me, the police and the Foglianis.”  Nelson turned his back on her and pretended to gaze out the window to the night beyond.  He wondered if she would make a move for Manuel Torres’ gun that lay on the floor only ten feet away from her and placed his hand within easy reach of his holstered weapon just in case.  He watched her carefully in the reflection of the window as she got slowly to her feet.  He saw her gaze shift and momentarily rest on the gun on the floor before she turned, grabbed a bag of belongings that she had been in the process of filling when Manuel Torres had arrived and disappeared out the door.

Nelson quickly made a call to the Chatswood Police station and then to Inspector VanMerle.  He took a seat in a comfy leather recliner while he waited in the apartment for the cavalry to arrive.

It had been six days since Emilio Fogliani was killed.

Chapter 49

Nelson spent most of the rest of the night at Bryce McKinlay’s apartment as a seemingly never-ending stream of people traipsed in and out of the apartment to perform their allotted duties.  A forensics team of two combed the apartment for evidence and the staff from the State Coroner’s office removed the dead body of Manuel Torres.  Detectives from the North Shore Local Area Command and investigators from the Professional Services Command - previously known as Internal Affairs - questioned Nelson time and time again about the events that led up to the death of Manuel Torres.  Nelson kept his story straight and simple and told each of them that he had gone to the apartment on the pretext of asking further questions to Bryce McKinlay about the Fogliani case.

“Upon my arrival I found the door ajar and the lock broken.  I entered the apartment, twice identifying myself as a police officer and encountered an armed man.  He raised his weapon toward me in a threatening manner, at which point I fired three times.  I searched the premises for other threats, checked the vitals of the offender who was deceased and phoned it in.”

It was close enough to the truth to be believable and Nelson thought it should fit reasonably well with the nosey next door neighbour’s account of things.  Nelson mentioned nothing of Natalie Bassett and all that remained of her presence was a few drops of her blood on the floor and wall.

There were still obvious and unanswered questions as far as the investigators from the PSC were concerned.  They wanted to know where the photographic and video evidence had come from, why Manuel Torres had come to McKinlay’s apartment and where Bryce and his girlfriend Natalie were.  Nelson played dumb on the answers to these questions and claimed to have no idea as to the whereabouts of Natalie Bassett, which wasn’t a lie.  She could be anywhere as far as he knew.

“Maybe Torres somehow found out about the stalking club and took it upon himself to eliminate those who he thought may have witnessed his crime,” said Nelson, by way of a possible explanation.

Nelson knew the internal investigation would drag on until they were satisfied nothing overly untoward had occurred.  He’d been through several of them before.  In Nelson’s favour was that there were no other direct witnesses to counter his version of events and he now had incontrovertible proof that Manuel Torres had indeed murdered Emilio Fogliani.  Shooting dead a murderer in apparent self defence wasn’t something that would generate too many repercussions.  And, after all, he had just saved the state of New South Wales about one hundred thousand dollars per annum for the next twenty years in upkeep of yet another maximum security prisoner.  He knew he would have to wear yet another black smudge on his permanent record from the investigation even if he was completely exonerated, but didn’t concern himself with that for the time being.

Bryce McKinlay arrived home at ten p.m. to find his apartment awash with police.  He had worked late and gone out for a couple of drinks with his work colleagues.  When Nelson told him what had happened, his concern for the missing Natalie was almost painful to watch.

“I haven’t been able to contact her all day.”

Bryce checked his bedroom and discovered that the small amount of clothing she kept at his place for the occasions that she stayed over was gone.  Bryce sat on his lounge and broke down in great wracking sobs from the strain.  Nelson felt a pang of sympathy for him but doubted that he would ever see his Natalie again.

In the early hours of the morning an exhausted Nelson headed home for a few hours of precious sleep before returning to Police HQ to face more of the music.  Superintendent Crighton had already been fully briefed on developments by the time Nelson turned up to work at nine a.m. and VanMerle corralled him and directed him to Crighton’s office before he had even had a chance to turn on his computer and grab a mug of coffee.  Pasha let them sail through unmolested on this occasion, which Nelson took as a sure sign that he was expected and in trouble.  Crighton was, as usual, seated at the table in his office and Nelson knew that he was displeased with him because Crighton told him so in no uncertain terms.

“What the hell are you up to Nelson?” he yelled, his blue eyes flaming and the ligaments in his neck pulled tight.  “I’ve got a press release that makes me look like an idiot, Thoms’ solicitor was on all the breakfast television news shows this morning spouting to the media how we arrested the wrong man and I’ve got dead bodies turning up all over the place.  And do you know what the common denominator is?  It’s you Detective.”

Pasha, heard the raised voice and closed the door to the office without looking in at the occupants.  Nelson wasn’t sure what to say.  Crighton had seemingly answered his own question leaving him with nothing more to add.

“It’s over now.  We’ve got the killer on ice,” he said hopefully.

Crighton ignored him and continued to rant while Nelson sat quietly, pretending to look chastened and waited for it to come to an end.  As Crighton’s veins in his neck bulged dangerously, Nelson wondered if he was about to suffer from apoplexy and there would be yet another dead body which he would be connected with.  He did his best to explain that in the end it had been a good result, the right result, but it did little to placate Crighton who continued to vent for another ten minutes.

“I suppose it’s up to me to again clean up this mess.  I’ll have to re-issue the press release and try and smooth things over with the Exec.  God knows what they’ll make of all this.  However before I do, go and tell Detective Robards that I want to see him.  He’s a part of this debacle too, so he can share the repercussions,” said Crighton, his tone ominous.  As Nelson got up to leave, Crighton stopped him in his tracks.  “One more thing Detective, there’s the small matter of one of the Gangs Squad’s informants being assaulted.  Apparently he was admitted to hospital yesterday with cracked ribs and a broken cheekbone, but I assume you know nothing about that?”

“Nothing at all Boss.  I’m guessing there weren’t any witnesses?  Otherwise we could make an arrest,” said Nelson with a dead-pan expression that would have done justice to a B-Grade actor.  He felt no sympathy for Dendy.  He chose his side.

“Don’t get smart Nelson, it doesn’t suit you.  Detective Superintendent Chisholm is livid.  No, there weren’t any witnesses, but I’m sure the PSC will want to speak to you yet again if they get wind of it.  They’ve probably got your number on speed dial.”

“I’ll be sure and make myself available.  Is that all Boss?”

“Get out of my sight Nelson.”

**********

Nelson’s next appointment was a follow up interview with the PSC where he spent the next two hours going over his statement regarding the death of Manuel Torres.  They questioned him about the other blood on the floor of the apartment which did not belong to Manuel Torres and the bullet in the wall which did not come from Nelson’s weapon.  Nelson continued to plead ignorance and stuck to his story to the obvious frustration of the two PSC detectives.  Fortunately for Nelson, the old woman in the adjoining apartment who he had almost shot, suffered from mild dementia and was unable to provide any worthwhile counterpoints to Nelson’s version of events.

Although the detectives from the PSC made it clear that they were far from satisfied, they eventually tired of asking him the same questions to which he provided the same answers and ended the interview.  Nelson breathed a sigh of relief as he left the room, thanking his lucky stars that they hadn’t questioned him about the Mark Dendy incident.

Ignoring his waiting phone messages and emails, Nelson grabbed his coat and drove out to Silverwater Prison to arrange for Craig Thoms’ release.  He waited patiently, read the paper and tried to work out his footy tips for the weekend while the Department of Corrective Services officers took over an hour to process the paperwork.  Craig changed out of his orange prison overalls and into the unwashed clothes he was wearing when he had arrived.  He collected his few belongings from storage and as Nelson accompanied him out of the centre he smiled, saluted and waved not so fond farewells to the guards he passed on the way out.  Nelson said nothing and kept his face tight.

They walked through the front gates of the centre together.  Nelson looked around but saw no eager journalists ready to snap the picture of a free man.  There was nothing newsworthy in that.

Craig took in the day, which promised to be fine and clear, breathing in the sweet free air and stretching his arms up to touch the sky.  Nelson indicated for him to follow and they walked together to Nelson’s car.

“Don’t talk yet,” said Nelson.  “You can never be too careful.”

After ten minutes of driving in silence and making sure that no-one was following them, Nelson pulled into the carpark of Finegan’s hotel at Parramatta.  He parked at the rear of the building and they entered through the back door.  He checked that there was no-one who knew him in the hotel, ordered two beers and carried them to a quiet corner table at the rear of the bar, which afforded them a good view of the door and the other patrons but also privacy in the dim light.  It was a pub Nelson frequented when he needed to take a break from being a cop.  In the two years that he had been going to it he had never seen another officer in the place.

Craig Thoms tasted his first beer in a week.  He normally drank most nights and as a result of his enforced sobriety it tasted like nectar from the gods.  Nelson began to explain the events that had taken place in the previous few days in good detail.  Craig sat and listened in stunned silence, finding it nearly impossible to believe the person he knew as Natalie Bassett had been involved in the car accident all those years ago and had slowly and methodically plotted her revenge against him by setting him up for murder.

“How the hell did she pull all of this off?  How did she fake the gloves?” Craig asked incredulously.

“I think the gloves were real, taken from the hospital.”

Craig stared blankly at Nelson, reaching into his memories.  “She came to the hospital just over a week ago, when Bryce was sick with gastro.  That was good timing.”

“Maybe, maybe not.  There are plenty of ways to give people food poisoning.  It would have given her a good reason for being there.”

“Crazy bitch.”

“Maybe, but if she is then it’s probably my fault,” said Nelson quietly.

Craig studied Nelson’s face, thinking on his words.  He looked away and drained his second beer.

“Adam, I want to thank you for getting me off.  You went above and beyond the call for me and I appreciate it.  I don’t know how long I would have lasted in there.”

“I’m just sorry you had to spend any time at all in there, but it was impossible to swing bail for you with the evidence as it was.”

“What doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger right?  Isn’t that what they say?”

“I’ve never believed that.  I don’t feel so strong right now.  And anyway, it’s not quite over.  There may be some charges over taking the drugs from the hospital.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about that in the first place.  I didn’t think it had anything to do with this so I didn’t mention it.  I should never have got involved in that shit.  It was stupid.”

“No, you shouldn’t have, but if you get your solicitor to trade off any charges against the wrongful arrest you should be ok.  The Exec don’t like handing out compensation money, so they should be prepared to deal.”

“Thanks.”

“It’s ok.  We’re tied together you and me.  You looked after me in the past and I’ll look after you now.  Anyway, enough about that, now that you’re a free man, what’re you going to do with the rest of your life?”

“I’m going to go straight, or at least reasonably straight, and start up that internet business.  Wanna be an investor?” Craig asked with a straight face.  Nelson looked at him for a moment and then laughed as if it was the funniest thing he’d heard in ages.

Chapter 50

After three or four beers with Craig Thoms, remembering old times, some good, some not so good, Nelson had to forcibly drag himself back to Headquarters.  Now that the case had come to an end, the events and lack of sleep from the preceding week seemed to catch up with him all of a sudden and his energy deserted him.  He toyed with the idea of calling in sick for the remainder of the afternoon and returning to the pub where he had left Craig with one hundred dollars to celebrate his freedom and pay for a taxi home, but decided to make the effort and put in an appearance for at least an hour or so.

As he reached his desk, Robards approached him from behind.  Nelson spun around slowly on his chair to face him.

“Can I talk to you?” Robards asked quietly.  His face was downcast and Nelson guessed correctly that he had been raked over the coals long and hard by Crighton for this part in the case.  Nelson nodded, feeling a moment of guilt and followed Robards as he weaved his way between desks and into a small meeting room down the corridor.  Robards closed the door behind them and they sat facing each other from opposite sides of the small table.

“I just wanted to let you know that I’ve requested a transfer to a different Homicide team,” started Robards evenly.  “It’s nothing personal but I think it would be for the best.”

Nelson thought for a moment.  It didn’t come as any great surprise.  He had butted heads with Robards on several cases before, but this case had been different.  On this case they had openly and divisively argued.  Robards had railed against Nelson’s seniority and right to control the case and as a result Nelson had shut him out of the investigation at crucial moments.  Nelson knew it wasn’t good form from either of them.

“I guess that’s your choice Pete.  Maybe they’ll be able to teach you about Detective work better than I did.” Nelson replied looking Robards squarely in the eye, the alcohol providing an edge to his words.

“What do you mean by that?” questioned Robards, eyeing Nelson suspiciously.

“Look, you’re a good cop and I don’t doubt that you’ll eventually get to wherever the hell you wanna be, but you’ve still got a lot to learn about being a Detective.”

Nelson saw the anger rise in Robards face but couldn’t help but continue, wanting to clear the air between them perhaps once and for all, for good or for bad.  “You were wrong on this case because you were more interested in getting a good result rather than getting the right result.”

Robards took the comments on the chin and jutted it forward, readying himself for another flurry of jabs.  “Are you finished?”

“No.  All I’m saying is that if you’re going to send a guy down for twenty years, you have to be certain.  Otherwise it catches up with you one way or another.  At no stage was I certain with Craig Thoms despite all the evidence against him.  And maybe if you’d followed up and properly profiled each of his friends as I asked you to, you would have found out that Natalie Bassett didn’t exist up until three years ago.  We should have been working as a team, but instead, I got the feeling that you were watching me instead of watching my back.”

“Ok, Ok.  I hear you,” he said sullenly.  “I admit I made some mistakes on this one but I’m sure you made mistakes too when you were learning the job.  Crighton did ask me to keep an eye on you.  He put me in a difficult position and I didn’t know how to handle it.  Maybe I should have been more up front with you or told Crighton to get fucked, I don’t know,” he added, throwing his hands in the air in an unusually exasperated fashion.  The point hit Nelson hard and spidery doubts crept into his conscience, undermining his lofty perch on the high moral ground.  He wondered how his mentor Sgt Mick Neale would have handled Robards and guessed that he probably would have done a better job.

“But maybe if you’d trusted me from the start instead of shutting me out things might have ended differently,” Robards continued.  “But you don’t trust anyone do you?”  Robards got up to leave and opened the door before turning back and again facing Nelson.  “You know I found something out when I was profiling Craig Thoms.  Did you know that he went to the same high school as you, in the same year?”  Nelson’s face betrayed nothing but Robards’ small hooded blue eyes bored into him and saw the truth as if it was written on his forehead.  “It seems strange that you don’t remember him?  Anyway, it’s not important now, and it’s none of my business.  I’ll see you around,” he said with no hint of malice or victory.

Chapter 51

It had been a week since the Fogliani case had been finalised.  Nelson had requested a months leave from Inspector VanMerle which was approved on the proviso that he wait until the Crenshaw murder case was wrapped up.  Fortunately, the original gut feel of the LAC Detectives had paid off soon enough.  After a week spent gathering evidence and conducting hour after hour of interviews with family members and business associates, the wife of the youngest son had cracked from exhaustion and repeated badgering at the hands of Robards and admitted to being involved, but placed the blame squarely on her husband.  Nelson had felt enormous relief and elation when the case broke and as he sat at his desk he finalised the paperwork relating to his involvement in the case in record time.

It was Saturday so there were only a handful of Detectives coming in and out of the office.  Nelson acknowledged their greetings briefly but kept to himself as he didn’t want to end up mindlessly chewing the fat for an hour when he had things to do and places to be.

Paperwork finished, he tidied his desk and packed away his files.  He was already in holiday mode and had worn just a pair of board shorts and a t-shirt into the office.   His old battered Subaru Liberty wagon waited outside for him, already burdened with clothes, boogie board, fishing rod and camping equipment.  His plan was simply to head north toward warmer climes and see as much of his own country as he could squeeze into his month off.  It was something he’d always wanted to do but had previously never really had the time, the money or the determination to do.

He sat at his clean desk with all tasks ticked off on his list and pondered the last two weeks.  They had affected him more than he wanted to admit.  Old memories, long buried, had found their way to the surface again.  Finding Kylie Faulkner, seeing what she had become, had reminded him of past mistakes and he knew his actions had stained and disfigured her life in a way that could never be undone.  Letting her go free didn’t even rate as a drop in the bucket towards paying her back for what he had done to her.

He had wanted to believe that he’d become a better man over the last fifteen years by making a positive difference in people’s lives through his work, but realised he probably hadn’t changed at all.  His momentary indecision or inaction, standing outside the apartment while she faced down Manuel Torres had proven that he was still that same nineteen year old kid standing by the roadside deciding what to do, with his self-interest, like the grey fog that came off the river that morning, clouding his vision between wrong and right.  He now felt disgusted in himself that at the time, he had wondered if it would have been better for everyone, especially him, if Manuel Torres had killed Kylie Faulkner in that apartment and sealed him off from his past once and for all.  Mistakes and more mistakes.

He sighed aloud and broke himself out of his morose reverie and before anyone could find a reason why he shouldn’t go, he took the stairs to the ground floor, passed through the front doors of HQ and didn’t look back.  He thought of the month ahead as he walked away, his mood lightening slightly at the prospect.

In a car parked eighty metres further down the street a pair of green eyes watched him closely in a rear view mirror.  They watched him come down the steps and get into his car and drive away.

The End.

Content

Cossins Neil, et al The Stalk Club