De Vakey looked from one of them to the other, deliberating, assessing, contemplating.
Stevie took a drag on her cigarette, determined to turn the conversation back to the bricks-and-mortar evidence. ‘Oh, there’s one thing we haven’t mentioned,’ she said, trying to sound casual. ‘There was some writing down the side of her leg.’
‘Is it detailed here?’ De Vakey tapped the notes.
‘Yes.’
‘Then I’ll read about it later. At this stage I’m more interested in your gut reactions than the concrete evidence.’ He held the champagne flute between his long sensuous fingers and took a sip. ‘I’m sorry to have to put you both through this again. You see, I not only have to understand the killer, but I have to understand the team sent out to catch him. You are understaffed, morale is low, you are already under extreme pressure from the press.’
‘You must have heard my ex in the lobby,’ Monty said, deciding to lighten the tone. ‘She writes a weekly column for our local rag called “Watching Big Brother”—meaning the police. The name says it all. She’s on a moral crusade—“To keep the bastards honest”—he drew quote marks in the air. ‘There’s nothing wrong with that of course, it’s just her timing that’s so lousy.’
‘How awkward for you,’ De Vakey said before draining his champagne with one swallow. ‘But jet lag’s catching up. I’d better get to bed and do some reading.’ He tapped at the file before pushing himself up from the table.
‘Pleasant dreams,’ Monty said, causing De Vakey to raise an ironic eyebrow.
Stevie climbed to her feet in anticipation of leaving, but flopped back down again when the men embarked on a series of extended goodnights. She reached for her phone; she’d let Dot know she’d be sleeping in her spare room, so at least Izzy would wake in the morning to find her there. She wouldn’t be able to walk her daughter to kindy because of the early briefing at Central, but maybe she’d make the special parents’ assembly later in the morning.
Monty shook the profiler’s hand. ‘I expect you’ll want to examine the scene tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Give Stevie a ring when you’re ready. She’ll pick you up and take you there.’
De Vakey nodded. ‘That’s fine, I should be ready mid morning.’
Stevie almost punched the speed dial button through the guts of her mobile. Behind the profiler’s back she glared at Monty and mouthed ‘How dare you!’
3
Power is the single driving force behind the serial killer. He will enforce his power through domination, manipulation and control. These traits will not only be evident in his crimes, but in his private life also.
De Vakey, The Pursuit of Evil
The Minister pounced just as Superintendent John Baggly stepped under the shelter of the hotel awning.
‘John, is it true you’re throwing your hat in for Assistant Commissioner? Doug said you’d approached him on the golf course the other day to discuss it.’
With a brick wall behind him and slanting rain ahead, Baggly felt cornered and panicky. He glanced to his left and right, dismayed to see the hovering journalists still there. He’d expected most of them to have been lured over to McGuire’s press conference.
He smoothed down his salt-and-pepper moustache and spoke in a voice that was low and controlled. ‘Minister, I think Doug took my generalised comments about the need for a home-grown West Australian assistant commissioner out of context. While it would be an honour to be considered for the post, the thought of applying hasn’t crossed my mind. The current AC is, after all, still two years away from retirement.’
His focus darted back to the street. The rain made the lights seem hazy, the cars behind them no more than indistinct blurs. At once he regretted accepting his secretary’s offer to run for the car and bring it around to him at the hotel entrance. He hadn’t anticipated that waiting under the awning with this group from the dinner would have been quite so awkward. And, if that wasn’t enough, the AC himself was pushing his way through the revolving door to stand with the group outside. If word got out that he had already started his campaign of back scratching and clandestine meetings, he’d be in trouble. With the AC still so entrenched in the job, Baggly might just as well be planning his own retirement instead of any kind of career advancement.
Thank God, here she was at last, pulling up at the curb. He hastily shook some hands. A handsome young doorman opened the door for him. Baggly smiled and pressed a gold coin into his palm before retreating into the safety of his car.
He wriggled in the seat to get comfortable, but couldn’t get the damned seatbelt to stretch far enough over his girth. Yanking did nothing; he could hardly breathe. He was about to yell in frustration when Christine stretched over and gently coaxed the belt, getting him secured in a jiffy.
‘I thought the dinner went well, Sir,’ she smiled as she pulled away from the curb and into the night. She was going to drop him home then pick him up in the morning because, after a heavy night of eating and drinking, John Baggly was not one to take foolish risks.
He touched the knot of his bow tie. ‘You think my speech was okay, then?’
‘Perfectly delivered. I don’t see how they could refuse the funding now.’
Happy with the compliment, Baggly relaxed deeper into his seat. The belch caught him by surprise, filling the car with brandy and plum pudding fumes. He put his hand over his mouth. ‘Oh, excuse me, Christine. That must have been the second brandy talking.’
Christine laughed, but kept her eyes on the road. She really is a very nice girl, Baggly thought, though not in that kind of way. His thoughts for her were nothing but paternal and he took pride in the fact that despite the temptations, he wasn’t that kind of a boss. Had he not learned, after all, the havoc these kinds of indiscretions could wreak and the leverage they could give those willing to exploit them?
He might have had no problems resisting the charms of his delightful secretary, but he wished he could say the same about the fourth brandy. The seediness, like flying particles of powdered cement, began to settle in his stomach and mix with the juices there and he knew he’d be paying for his indulgence by morning, if not before. He fumbled with the button of the passenger window as his eyelids began to droop. The night air was as cold as metal but did little to drive away the alcoholic fog that engulfed his brain.
Despite the icy blast, sweat was prickling on his forehead by the time Christine crunched the car into the driveway of his ordinary brick-and-tile house. He heaved himself from the car and waved goodbye. Overcome by a sudden dizziness, he reached for the wrought iron front fence, clutching it as he watched Christine’s tail-lights disappear down the dark street.
Christ, he hoped he wasn’t going to be sick.
Matters weren’t helped when he tilted his face to the sky to seek the refreshment of the gentle rain and caught sight of it, the leviathan silhouette dominating the skyline about three blocks east of his house.
They’d flicked the switch on the old power station at about the same time as Baggly’s divorce, leaving the historic building to a fate of crumbling decay. The first thing he’d do when he was made AC, he vowed out there in the rain, would be to use his influence to get the damned thing knocked down.
‘Bugger the proposed arts centre,’ he said aloud, still clutching at the railing. For once he would side with the Aborigines. ‘Let the Wagyl have it.’