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  The dental expert would be necessary for formal identification. The young man had probably not been previously fingerprinted and there had been no documentation found on the body. The process of accessing dental records for a match would be faster than using DNA and certainly more circumspect. Having been assured by the photographer that a full set of images would be available in the morning, they said their goodbyes and McLeod departed.

  Although all suspicious deaths theoretically received equal time and effort in their investigation, Mahoney was shrewd enough to discern that this victim, by virtue of his public profile, would be the subject of a greater than usual amount of police resources. And that investigation would attract a potentially unprecedented degree of attention from the media. The former factor would allow for greater thoroughness but the latter necessitated that they work quickly to find a solution.

  The Detective Inspector decided to start assembling his team for the task in hand. This particular death brought with it a series of attendant problems. Aside from the obvious challenges of finding witnesses, sifting through the myriad sources of physical evidence and co-coordinating the pursuit of the perpetrator or perpetrators, there was an extra element to this case. The publicity. The blowtorch would be applied from the word go. The call from the Commissioner had heralded the ignition.

  Mahoney held no fears that he was up to the task of detecting but he preferred to go about his business quietly. Get the job done. No fuss. Had never hankered for publicity. In truth, he abhorred it. But now he would be right smack in the full beam of the headlights. And so would his squad. He must ensure nobody got stuck like a rabbit. The selection of key personnel was critical. Detective Sergeant Tim Munro was the first name he mentally inked onto his team sheet. Impulsive and at times stroppy, he was instinctively a good detective. People often misjudged him as a brutish bouncer type but that was merely a superficial assessment. Mahoney knew that Munro played to that perception in some of his dealings precisely so that unwary suspects would let down their guard in thinking they were cleverer than he. Then the tables could be turned. A definite asset.

  The promotion of Detective Constable Susan Haig to an Acting Sergeant’s position in the Drugs Squad had left Mahoney with a gaping hole. His fervent hope was that her designated replacement would be just as competent. He decided to call a bit later to inform the officer that the pending transfer was effective immediately and to report for duty early next morning. As would the rest of the squad and the uniformed officers who would be conscripted for this investigation. Very few would argue. It was the job after all. And anyone who did not relish the prospect of the hunt over their regular weekend activities could always be salved at the prospect of a healthy dose of overtime pay.

  The duty-roster Sergeant would take care of the task of drafting in the extras and contracting the regular crew. And gently but firmly reminding them that a night on the hops was probably not the brightest option on the eve of the morning briefing. He could practically hear the veiled warning they would receive: “Bright-eyed and bushy tailed. Ease off the sauce tonight. This is a biggie.” Anybody who ignored that could ruefully expect the fabled hairdryer treatment. A fire and brimstone telling off from the crusty Sergeant Manson was not something to bring on oneself. Well, at least not willingly.

  Having assured himself there was nothing more he could usefully do at the crime scene, Mahoney walked to his car. He needed to get to headquarters to set up the receipt of reports that would soon start coming in. There may be some useful feedback from the door-to-door canvassing and the combing of the site by the cadets and forensics teams. He must organize the correct procedures so that every detail was recorded. Sir Humphrey Appleby would have nodded approvingly. And he had one phone call to make.

  CHAPTER 16

  Friday 12th March 9pm

  The place was humming; voices were getting more raucous as the beers kicked in and off-duty cops started to forget the petty dealings with colleagues, surliness from the “disaffected youth” in the mall and general lack of co-operation from just about everybody in the community. In here, at the Central Social Club, the police force could comfortably be at play without any threat of aggro from members of the public: no chance of being accosted by anyone aggrieved, disgruntled or just plain belligerent as so often happened in other nightspots.

  The Bluetones Bar only admitted Tasmania Police personnel (no partners) to its monthly function (all being well aware that this euphemism signaled a Bacchanalian frenzy). Booze was ridiculously cheap and the members of the constabulary who over-imbibed (the majority) or at least lifted their blood alcohol levels to over .05 (practically everybody) had their cab fares home covered by the profits of the various raffles held during the year and by a generous subsidy from the Occupational Health & Safety budget. In a not so earlier decade they could get away with the social secretary sticking orange labels on drivers to avoid the breath tests.

  The beat from the jukebox carried another song by either Farnsy or Barnesy – hard to tell apart sometimes but perennial favorites of this crowd. If asked, most would have guessed the Buzzcocks to be a new motorcycle gang, thought Kate Kendall. She persevered with attendance at these nights because not to attend would have seen her labelled from newcomer to snooty stuck up bitch in the blink of an eye and curl of the lip.

  Transferring from Melbourne had been a breeze, administratively speaking, but had involved more of a cultural leap than she had envisioned. Practically all the uniforms had gone to the local Academy and had plenty of shared reminiscences about initial postings to small towns (‘bogan hotels’) where they’d felt about as welcome as a black shirt at a bar mitzvah. Kate knew how they felt.

  When Gerard, her partner, had suggested a move back to his home state, she had been enthusiastic. He was sick of teaching history to unresponsive high schoolers who thought last century was ancient, let alone the Middle Ages. His argument was that they could sell their weatherboard cottage in Yarraville for a small fortune and purchase a stucco brick inner city Federation cottage in Hobart for a song. The problem was he was basing his calculation on real estate prices from the mid ’90s when he had first come over Bass Strait to teach at a mid-range Catholic boys’ school. Then, Hobart prices had been seriously undervalued but had experienced a serious correction since. As it turned out, they just about broke even on the deal and still had a decent old mortgage to deal with.

  Still, they did have a very cute little place – were previous generations that much smaller? – in South Hobart near the Adult Education building with an arresting view of Mount Wellington. There was a Graduate Course in Journalism at the University of Tasmania that was not steep in terms of fees and would give him a real chance to properly change careers. He could write instead of endlessly marking the slovenly essays of others. It would be a sea change for them: they could even contemplate the prospect of a beachside shack in a few years.

  Twelve months of sheer hard slog to be accepted as an equal by her colleagues in Traffic had been marked by Gerard announcing he was not really happy with the course and wanted to head off to teach English as a Foreign Language in Hong Kong…solo. No, there was nothing to discuss: he would be leaving in a week to take up a post at a school in Kowloon. She could keep the cottage as the title was in her name anyway (as was the mortgage, she had thought ruefully). He needed a clean break.

  Standing there, that cold August night, she had instantly decided to agree and let him go. If he could conspire to apply for and gain his job without her knowing, while keeping his true feelings from her, then he was obviously not a person she would ever miss, regardless of the decade long relationship with its trove of shared memories. She slept in the spare room for the rest of the week Gerard used to pack and move his belongings, then bidding him a calm good riddance set about making the cottage her own. Without his series of landscapes to clutter the walls and ramshackle library of travel books, she had room to place her own favorite memen
toes and to decorate with scarves, mugs and candles. She considered taking in a flatmate to subsidize costs and repayments but decided that she deserved some breathing space for a while. That was almost exactly six months ago and tonight, God knows why, she was thinking of Gerard.

  Somebody had chosen Meatloaf on the jukebox so before the drunken chorus of “Know Right Now’s” started, she shuffled out onto the smokers’ balcony and perched herself next to the rail and gazed at the view of the Domain.

  “Five dollars for them,” from just behind her right shoulder.

  She turned. “I’m sorry?”

  “Well, they’re obviously worth more than a penny. Your thoughts. You seem pretty engrossed.”

  “Oh yes, I was. Just brushing off the week. You know.”

  “I most certainly do. TGIF and all that. I’m Rex, by the way.”

  “Kate. Nice to meet you.” She shook hands with her fresh acquaintance and tried to comprehend his attire. He was dressed in a mustard colored dress shirt, grey slacks through which ran a purple checked thread and black winkle picker boots. She was not sure whether he was dressed for a dance party or an audition for the Rupert Bear comic strip. “That is a rather eclectic wardrobe. You certainly stand out in this crowd.”

  A quick flick of the tongue over his lips, “Well, I am the Department’s resident metrosexual. And before you ask my feet are very nearly the size of Thorpedo’s as well.”

  Unsure as to whether this was a come on from the twilight zone, Kate stuck to the realm of the here and now. “So you work here?”

  “Yes, Internal Investigation Unit. Given I’ve tested the patience of my superiors in just about every other division, they thought I’d be best suited to sticking my nose in other people’s business.”

  An aside from a previous conversation twigged Kate’s memory. “So you must be Rex Chambers. I’ve heard of you. Aren’t you the guy who was a bit careless with his weapon in a nightclub?”

  “That old chestnut,” he smirked. “From the old days in the drug squad, that one. A couple of us were watching at the Granada Tavern hoping to spring a few underage drinkers. Thought the safest thing would be to unload my revolver, put the bullets in one jacket pocket and the gun in the other. Trouble was I got a bit worked up doing the shuffle, tripped and the bullets sprayed over the dance floor and as I lurched after them, the revolver fell out. Now this was a slightly rough part of town but that cleared the dance floor pretty damn quickly. If the suit hadn’t already given us away, that little piece of theatre scotched the undercover operation that night.”

  Kate could not help laughing. This was certainly one idiosyncratic copper; not the slightest hint of beige about him. “Now having so ruthlessly interrogated me, might I ask what you are doing here?” So she told him; the whole story over a pretty decent number of Coronas on the balcony. She even smoked a few of his Stuyvesant cigarettes (“Your passport to international smoking pleasure”).

  For the first time in months she felt relaxed in the close company of a male. She had not laughed so spontaneously for a long time and there was not a hint of a come-on. Perhaps he was gay. It was a bit hard to tell but he was certainly the perfect company for this particular evening. A short while later, after some dancing, they were back on the balcony and her mobile started ringing. The call, short and to the point, was from DI Mahoney outlining her immediate secondment to Serious Crimes. She quickly shared her great news with Rex.

  He responded with something like a gospel singer’s riff. “Maaa Honey.”

  “Sorry. What’s that? It’s certainly not Al Johnson.”

  “You’re with the Beekeeper now. Well, under him, so to speak.” A wicked roll of the eyes. “You’d better be on your game.”

  “I’m guessing that already. He seems very matter-of-fact. That call was almost terse. But he’s got the track record, hasn’t he?”

  “No doubt about that. He even turns over the pebbles to find the truth, that one. Not the most flexible man I’ve ever met, however, he’s got the clean-up figures they all want but won’t ever admit to it. Let’s toast your success with what is probably going to be your final drink.”

  Kate gave a generous smile. “Yes, let’s. We should do this again sometime without all the others around.”

  “Certainly. I’ll keep my eye out for an opening.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Saturday 13th March 9am

  As Kate crossed the corridor from the lift to the incident room, she felt a small surge of panic. Was she ready for this? Could she cut it? It was all very well wanting something badly but she was no use to anybody if she could not contribute. She had fretted over what to wear and finally opted for pump shoes and an olive two-piece trouser suit over a short-sleeved black cotton top. Smart but practical. Did the male detectives ever worry about this stuff? If she dressed like that awesome woman from Mad Men on TV, she would certainly command attention but hardly respect in this workplace.

  Unfortunately it was still something of a minefield for females who could choose their own attire in a mixed sex work environment. Probably even more so in a workplace that could barely be described as progressive. The force may herald itself as an institutional benchmark of equality but the reality, as Kate well knew, was always more problematic.

  Wardrobe aside, she was more immediately concerned with the dilemma of how to enter. Not even knowing how the room looked nor its configuration did not assist her. She was deliberately early so at least the embarrassing scenario of tardiness would not be an issue. As she walked through the open doorway, she edged her shoulders back, lifted her chin level and looked straight ahead.

  Twenty feet across the room, next to a row of windows, was an officer writing on a large whiteboard. She decided to head straight for him. She greeted the man with the rather neat handwriting as confidently as she could. He turned. A not unpleasant face. Neither striking nor handsome, he had sharp green-grey eyes. They looked straight into her. He extended his hand.

  “Welcome to the team, DC Kendall.”

  Of course he would know who she was. He would hardly request an officer without carefully considering the personnel file with the mandatory photo ID. Kate made a reasonable assumption. “Good morning, Sir.” No negation so she was right, thankfully. “Thank you for bringing me on-board. I appreciate the opportunity.” Not too much? She was actually ecstatic but this was not the time, person, place or emotion.

  “That’s perfectly OK. You wouldn’t be here now if I didn’t think you could make the most of it.” He glanced over her right shoulder. “And here is the person with whom you’ll most closely be collaborating. DS Tim Munro, this is DC Kate Kendall.”

  “Hi, good to meet you. Welcome to the team. This one could be very interesting. Need good people. If the boss can spare you, I’ll show you round before the briefing.”

  Mahoney agreed so Munro proceeded to show Kate her allocated desk where she could place her laptop. He patiently went through the rigmarole of explaining where everything was on this level of the building: toilets, photocopier, tea room et al. She noticed he was not only thorough but he managed to conduct her familiarization with a deft touch.

  They came back into a large room with windows facing over to the Royal Hobart Hospital. Behind the whiteboard was a glass partition that marked off what she assumed to be Mahoney’s office. The desks were standard government department issue and the carpet was, well, serviceable was the most anybody could reasonably say. It was like this through so many areas of the Public Service. Foyers that were frequented by members of the wider community and executive officers were usually smartly fitted out but the facilities for the average workers were pretty basic. While the two colleagues were going over procedural matters, a number of other officers, some uniformed and some in plain clothes, filtered into the incident room.

  Almost exactly on the stroke of 9am, Mahoney turned to address a group of a dozen officer
s. Everyone had made it well ahead of time and looked fresh and expectant. “Good morning, everyone.” Mahoney sounded like a senior coach addressing a crack team. “Just quickly, I’d like to introduce DC Kendall who is joining this Homicide Squad. From my viewpoint she could not be more welcome, especially today.” Kate acknowledged this with a nod to the group. This guy was pretty good alright. Inclusive language that conveyed a strong ethos of teamwork. The initial hint of praise mixed with an overriding sense of the importance of the fresh investigation. “Now to the case in hand.”

  All eyes were fixed on the Chief Inspector. “The corpse of a Caucasian male was found yesterday at a building site in Kingston. Initial identification is that it’s Bradley Finch, a footballer with the Tassie Devils.” A murmur of recognition went around the room. “Yes, I know, the great white hope for this season. So there’ll be much more publicity and hence greater scrutiny of this investigation. From the word go, we must be meticulous and resilient. Every victim deserves our full attention but we’re going to have to be seen to be doing it perfectly this time. I know that’s a bit odd but there it is.” He paused and slowly swept the room with a gaze that reinforced the warning.

  “To the details. The body was discovered early afternoon by a retiree walking his dog through a new residential development on Osborne Esplanade. The scene was secured and forensics had enough light to get the job done. Absence of any identifiers at the site, apart from fresh footprints, suggests the attack occurred elsewhere. Supporting that is the lividity of the corpse. The patterns on the skin strongly suggest the body was moved after the heart stopped. We can assume the assault took place in another location and Finch’s body was transferred. That he was contained in a large bag supports this.”

  Mahoney half turned to point to the photos on the board. “Two blows to the cranium. An autopsy being conducted now will determine the precise cause but you can assume it was being battered with a solid object that caused the trauma. When you look at these other photos, you’ll see the body was wedged into a foundation trench. So far no eyewitnesses to this crude burial. Preliminary tests for rigor mortis and body temperature suggest all this happened sometime on Thursday night. Given the changeable external conditions, it is very hard to be precise, but we’ll consider the hours of darkness between 10pm and 4am as our window, for now.”