Barry winked at Tye. ‘He’s younger than he looks.’
Wayne took Tye’s hand without smiling and introduced Barry. Tye’s gaze returned to Wayne. He scanned the older man’s torso before making a big deal of looking under the table at his legs. ‘Still fashionably retro I see.’
‘Fashionable?’ Barry snorted. ‘He just hasn’t bothered to buy any new clothes since the seventies.’
Wayne gave Tye a blank look. ‘Happy days,’ he said.
Tye was not to be put off. ‘You know who you remind me of, Wayne? That pommy secret agent, the one who says “Shagadelick baby” and all that shit.’
‘More like Eeyore if you ask me,’ Barry said, pushing the basket of wedges across the table. Wayne didn’t touch them, he’d suddenly lost his appetite.
Tye slammed his fist on the table and grinned. ‘Fuckin’ oath.’
Wayne’s patience was wearing thin. He knew Tye was playing the redneck for Barry’s benefit, making himself out to be one of the boys, a talent that had gained him a fair degree of support from his colleagues at the time of his dismissal. While Stevie was proved technically to be the ‘good guy,’ it was Tye who had won the sympathy vote.
Tye shifted in his seat. Maybe he’d got the message and was thinking about leaving. But then Barry blew it; sometimes the kid just couldn’t help himself.
‘So, what’s your story then?’
‘Working on the mines, Baz, three weeks on and one off. Haven’t been down to the big smoke for a couple of months, only arrived yesterday. Figured I’d catch up with a few mates, visit my kid.’
‘I suppose the restraining order’s well past its use-by date now.’ Wayne couldn’t resist the jab.
Tye’s face reddened and Wayne caught a glimpse of the violence that simmered just under the handsome surface. ‘It was a temporary order, only for a couple of months. Just a misunderstanding.’ He took a slug of beer then turned to Barry, clearly the more malleable member of the partnership. ‘I hear Stevie’s joined you blokes at the SCS. I can’t see it being a wise move, but here’s to her anyway.’ He lifted his glass for a toast and scanned their faces, leaving the bait dangling.
Barry took a nibble. ‘What’s the problem with Stevie joining the SCS?’
‘I would have thought that was obvious. Frankly I’m surprised her application was taken seriously,’ Tye said.
Wayne sighed. ‘C’mon, Barry, drink up. We’ve got places to go and people to see.’
‘What with the history between her and Monty, I can’t see how his being her boss could lead to anything but a conflict of interest,’ Tye continued.
Barry was hooked. He put his hand out to stop Wayne from leaving the table. ‘Wait a tick, let me just hear this out.’
Tye ignored Wayne’s impatient huffing. ‘Monty’s an old pal of the Hooper family, at school with her big brother...’
‘I’ll be in the car,’ Wayne said.
And he left them to it, along with the beer Tye had bought him, untouched on the table. He might have a moral obligation to stir Stevie’s pot, but gossiping about her behind her back was not a part of his agenda.
7
The investigating officer has to be able to think like the killer in order to pre-empt him. It is an unpalatable talent that few are able to master and still fewer able to adjust to without some form of adverse physical or behavioural effect.
De Vakey, The Pursuit of Evil
The sun was a distant pearl in the leaden sky, the city streets still black and slick with rain. Stevie sat in the parked car and watched the profiler retrace Royce’s last walk down Wellington Street. In order to put himself into the mindset of the murderer, De Vakey had explained, he needed to be alone. That suited Stevie; the man was still having an unnerving effect on her and she was glad of the break.
She rubbed a clear patch in the mist on the car window with the sleeve of her jacket and took advantage of the opportunity to sit back and think.
Her role in the investigation had broadened to include liaising between De Vakey and the primary investigating officers. At first she was pleased; it meant Monty thought she had sufficient grasp of the case to relay information accurately between both parties. Upon further reflection though, she could see how the others might read it as a sign of Monty’s favouritism, and could only hope the team would remember the shit jobs he usually allocated to her.
She’d had several triumphant moments collaring criminals in her career, top grades in her sergeant’s exams, near-perfect scores in her firearm proficiency tests—but nothing notable since joining the SCS six months ago. Maybe this would be the case in which she could prove herself; show pricks like Wayne she was as capable as any of them. In order to succeed though, she would have to keep her personal feelings in check.
It didn’t help that communication with De Vakey was proving to be more difficult than she’d imagined. He might consider his skill an art, but he handled the evidence with the empiricism of a scientist, reluctant to formulate any theories without proof. He had been studying the case notes and watching the videos all night: she felt he must have reached some conclusions by now. But when she asked him questions he dodged like a politician. When she put forward her own ideas, he shot down her theories with the flamboyance of a TV prosecutor. One minute he seemed eager to make a connection with her, the next minute he would cut himself off and withdraw, his sparkling eyes becoming nothing but empty grey holes.
Stevie was a detective; she was paid to be curious. She spent most of her days and many of her nights seeking answers and solving puzzles. With a strange sense of unease she realised she was being drawn into the mystery of the profiler as much as the mystery of the case itself.
She watched as he pulled at his billowing overcoat, doing up the buttons as he walked from the photographer’s studio towards the bus stop. He came to a sudden stop and pivoted to his right, peering at something that looked like a bottle lying in a wall alcove. He produced a miniature cassette recorder from his coat pocket and started to speak into it. What was he saying? He put the recorder away and stooped. With his pen inserted into the neck he picked up the bottle, still clad in the brown paper bag in which it was sold. What was its significance? Could the killer have been standing in the alcove drinking, then grabbed Linda as she passed by?
De Vakey acknowledged Stevie with a heavy wave and approached the car with the bottle still on the end of his pen. He was pale and seemed sapped of energy. Despite the cold, a light sheen of sweat glimmered on his forehead.
‘What day’s rubbish collection here?’ he asked as she buzzed the car window down.
‘Tuesday.’
‘Street sweeping?’
‘Tuesday evening.’
‘Did SOCO search the scene?’
‘Of course.’
De Vakey nodded to the bottle. ‘This was in the wall alcove, tucked to the side. It could easily have been missed by SOCO, and the garbos.’
‘You’re a detective too?’
Undeterred, he continued to hold the bottle out to her.
It was her turn to play devil’s advocate. ‘Then again it could have been missed by the garbos for weeks in a row, or it could have been left there yesterday.’
‘True, but the light coating of dust and the absence of any insect life suggest it’s only been here a few days. Humour me?’ he said, raising an eyebrow.
She shrugged. ‘I guess there’s no harm examining it for prints.’
‘My feelings exactly.’
Stevie extracted an evidence bag from the glovebox and De Vakey dropped the bottle into it. She twisted around to place it in the back while he got into the passenger seat. He stretched the seatbelt across him then leaned forward and rested his head in his hands.