Fatal Impact (24 page)

40

A
fter the post-mortem, Oliver drove Anya to attend the Launceston police station where she sat in an interview room with Oliver, who introduced himself and named Anya for the video recording. Schiller sat in. This was an internal investigation of Simon Hammond’s actions.

‘Have you ever seen this man before?’ He slid across a mug shot.

‘It looks like the man who tried to set me on fire, but it was dark, and he had a hat on.’

‘Can you please tell us more about the circumstances under which you encountered this man. What sort of mood was Constable Hammond in?’

Anya was tired, but recalled every moment of that night, as if it were a slow-motion movie in her head. Oliver let her speak. She gave him the facts as she saw them, without embellishment. She tried to be as logical and cogent in her recollection of that night’s events as she could. Hammond had been kind enough to offer to help locate her mother. He didn’t appear to be intoxicated or under the influence of any substances. He was calm and controlled, in her opinion, doing his job.

Both detectives took notes in addition to the recording.

Anya recalled how she had been confused when the gun was fired, momentarily disoriented after hitting the dashboard. She described seeing Hammond move in front of the car, gun poised to fire again, and the moment when she dropped to her knees to stop the chest haemorrhaging. She shut her eyes and breathed in.

‘What is it? What are you noticing?’ Oliver encouraged.

‘Petrol. It didn’t register before. I smelt it
before
the gunshot. It must have been on the car door.’

‘Anything else?’

‘There was another smell, even in all that rain. I couldn’t pick what it was.’

Schiller flicked through his notes. ‘The constable reported propane.’

‘Propane is odourless,’ Anya said.

‘They put an additive with it so you can tell if a canister’s leaking,’ Schiller explained. ‘That could be what you noticed.’

It was logical. She tried to capture the exact order of events. ‘Leske must have splashed the car door with petrol just before, or even as, Simon fired.’ It had to explain why he’d walked straight over to the car, eyes fixed on her. He’d approached and leant down through the window, and hadn’t tried to hide his face, apart from with the hat. ‘He did see me notice his tattoos. He didn’t try to conceal them.’ A former prisoner would know they were easily identifiable. She stared at the table, with a clear image.

Seconds later, when she had attempted to stop the bleeding, Mincer Leske had splashed her with what remained of the petrol and Hammond had yanked her away, just before it was lit. ‘I think he intended to kill us both from the second Simon pulled over to offer him a lift. Simon was being kind to a stranger in a storm. If he hadn’t read the situation so quickly and reacted .
. .’

The enormity of what could have happened hit her harder than before. She clutched her abdomen.

‘Let’s have a break.’ Oliver noted the time and moved over to stop the video camera.

He pulled his chair around to Anya’s side of the table.

‘Is this the first time you’ve talked through what happened?’

She felt a tightness in her chest. ‘I guess with everything that’s gone on .
. .’

‘You’ve been running on adrenalin since what was a life-threatening event. Your mother’s friend dies and it’s up to you to preserve a crime scene. A critically ill mother and hardly any sleep last night . . .’ He lowered his chin to meet her gaze. ‘Have you even told the people who mean the most to you?’

Anya still hadn’t spoken to Ben or Martin. ‘I didn’t want to worry them.’

‘For what it’s worth, loved ones usually want to share what you’re going through, and not just the good times.’

She wondered if he was speaking from personal or professional experience. His job involved investigating corrupt and self-destructive behaviour, as well as innocent police who were caught up in extraordinary circumstances.

‘How about we leave you for a few minutes to make those calls.’ Oliver left his phone on the table and closed the door on his way out.

Grateful, she dialled Martin’s number. ‘Hi.’

He immediately knew something was wrong. ‘I’ve been trying all night to call you. I saw the news. The fire near your mum’s place.’

‘I’m okay, but Mum’s in hospital after an adrenal crisis. She’s been unwell for a while, and no one knew.’

‘Hey, maybe that’s why she never liked me,’ he joked. ‘If she’s cured .
. .’

She smiled. ‘Medicine has its limitations. For that we’d need more than a miracle.’ It felt so good to hear his voice again.

‘Annie, what’s wrong? You don’t sound yourself.’

‘It’s been a hard few days.’ She told him about her mother’s friend dying, and how she had to stay a few more days to help Jocelyn handle the stress.

Martin understood completely. ‘She’s lucky to have you. So are we. Hey, if you want, we can come down–’

‘No, please don’t.’ As much as she would love to see Ben, and his father, the time wasn’t right. ‘Everything’s a mess here. I’m involved in a case and have been a witness–’ She stopped herself. ‘Trust me. You and Ben are far better off where you are. I’ll see you as soon as possible, I promise.’

‘Annie, it isn’t just Ben who misses you.’

‘It’s mutual.’ She looked outside the window. Oliver was waiting. ‘Is my gorgeous boy around?’

‘Right here, with ants in his pants, wanting to talk.’

‘Hey, Mum, I don’t have ants in my pants. Dad’s being silly.’ She heard him bouncing something like a ball on the floor. He normally did more than one thing at once. ‘When are you coming home?’

‘I’ve been with your nanna. She’s sick in the hospital, but getting much better. I’ll be back as soon as I possibly can.’

‘Is she sick like Nita?’

‘Her illness is different. I’m sorry, sweetie, but I have to go now. There are some policemen who want to talk to me.’

‘Are you in trouble?’

She laughed. ‘No. I’m helping them, it’s my job sometimes. How about I call you later, then we can talk longer. Okay?’

‘Dad, Mum has to go. She’s gonna call later.’ Anya loved the way Ben often repeated information. ‘He says it doesn’t matter if it’s late.’

‘All right then. I better go. Love you, and I’m sending you the world’s biggest hug. To infinity and back again.’

‘Love you too, to infinity and never back again.’

She hung up and held the phone, as if it still had a connection to home.

Oliver came back with Schiller. ‘All good?’

She admitted he had been right.

Outside the room, Senior Sergeant McGinley boomed, ‘I don’t take kindly to threats.’

Through the glass window, Anya saw Samir Malik being escorted to a desk. ‘I have a right to know what this is about.’

Oliver’s attention was diverted. ‘Excuse me for a minute. Can you have a look through these and tell me if you recognise anyone?’

He laid out a number of photographs. They were from the protest she had witnessed at PT. He gestured for Schiller to go with him.

Anya recognised the spokesperson, the medical student, in a number of the pictures. Some of the vocal elderly tourists looked familiar as well. Then she saw something that surprised her. In the background, taller than the women, stood an imposing male figure, even beneath that cap. His mouth was open, fist raised, as if he were one of the protesters. She hadn’t seen him arrive off any of the buses. She would have remembered someone with such a distinctive appearance. Mincer Leske had been in the crowd that day. What was a violent man like him doing at a food protest?

41

A
nya watched through the window. Samir Malik sat, looking up. McGinley stood over him. Samir intermittently shook his head, then cast his eyes downwards.

Detective Parke ushered the senior sergeant away for a private word. Anya couldn’t hear what was said, but Oliver stood with arms folded, while McGinley spoke in his ear, counting on his fingers. When he finished, the Internal Affairs investigator said something the sergeant baulked at. Oliver slapped his colleague’s back and re-entered the interview room.

‘Why is Samir here?’ Anya asked.

‘McGinley says the guy has a history of violence and couldn’t account for his whereabouts when Len Dengate was shot.’

His gaze remained focused on Anya’s.

‘I saw him at the fire. He was on the northwestern boundary of Len’s property when we released the cattle.’ Anya wondered why the foreman hadn’t disclosed that information. She decided not to mention the baseball bat. The man had looked desperate and was trying to protect the farm. All Grace had to do was speak reason for him to back down. ‘His wife was with him. He wanted to stop the cattle from being released onto Len’s paddock, but Grace said it was the only humane thing to do. He agreed.’

Oliver’s brow furrowed. ‘For some reason, McGinley omitted that piece of information.’ He closed the blinds in the room, turned his chair around and straddled it. ‘I was warned, unofficially of course, that this place is about to be on centre stage. The state government want to turn the island into a feed lot for Asia, and environmentalists are applying international pressure to stop development. Len Dengate seemed to be at the epicentre of one giant storm.’

‘Not Len. PT was at the centre. He was convinced they wanted him ruined. His fiancée died at the research facility. Which is funded by PT and on their well-secured grounds.’

Oliver rubbed his chin. He scribbled something and tore off a piece of paper from his notepad, which he handed to Anya. ‘We might give the interview a break. It’s been a rough couple of days, and again, thank you for taking the time to assist in the investigation. We could resume tomorrow morning if it suits.’ He stood up, collected his papers and turned the chair back to the table. ‘All the best for your mother’s speedy recovery.’

She looked at the note he’d written. On it was the name of a cafe in the main street of Longford and the time, 1 pm. She headed outside and shielded her eyes from the glare.

Across the road from the station, two women were involved in an animated discussion. From the back view, Anya recognised Alison Blainey’s long hair. The other woman was petite with red hair swept back into a bun. She was the protest leader who had wanted to give the petition to Moss at PT.

Their conversation was heated and from the body language, argumentative. The representative for POWER crushed a cigarette beneath her shoe and headed towards the station, briefcase in hand. She slowed when she saw Anya and peeled off oversized sunglasses. Her makeup was heavy but couldn’t hide the bruises or swelling on her face. Her left forearm was splinted with a fibreglass cast.

‘How’s the arm?’ Anya asked.

She moved the fingers on her cast side. ‘Don’t know how I’ll cope with six weeks of this, but it could have been a lot worse. I’m grateful you and your mother found me, and helped the way you did.’ She cocked her head and her hair flipped down her back. ‘Is your mother all right? I heard she was rushed to hospital. I was in shock, but what she must be going through right now .
. .’

Anya didn’t want to talk about her mother with Alison, who may or may not have been involved in the fires, despite the fact that she’d been with Jocelyn when Len’s body was found. She looked across the road. ‘I’ve seen her before. Do you know who she is?’

‘Madison Zane. She’s a member of POWER’s branch based at the university. They’ve been questioning her too, about Len Dengate, about the fire. Unfortunately, things go wrong when rogue amateurs try to make a name for themselves. They should have left the crop cutting to the experts.’

Anya squinted. ‘Are you saying she’s responsible for starting the fire?’

‘We don’t put lives at risk. There’s a vast legal difference between vandalising a crop and arson. We know it. Do they?’ She looked up at the door and straightened before going inside. ‘Thank you again for what you did the other night. Helping me.’

‘Do you have any idea who attacked you? Or why?’

‘Could be a redneck who sees environmentalists as a threat. For all I know, I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

The woman across the road was on her phone. Anya waited for a passing car and crossed over.

‘Excuse me,’ she said, approaching as the conversation ended.

The woman looked back with a blank expression. ‘I don’t have anything to say.’

‘I’m not a journalist, or police,’ Anya explained. ‘I was at PT when you tried to present your petition. My mother’s a GP in Longford who was friends with a man who was killed that night.’

She looked around, as if checking Anya was alone. ‘It’s just .
. .
I can’t believe any of this is happening.’ She retrieved keys from a backpack on the ground and levered it over her shoulder. ‘Now Alison Blainey wants the police to believe we set fire to PT. Why don’t they ask her what she’s playing at?’

Before Anya had the chance to ask what she meant a car pulled up and the student climbed in the passenger side.

Before closing the door, she called, ‘Check out the video of the night. It’s already gone viral. No one’s admitting to posting it, but you figure it out.’

While Anya waited at the taxi stand, she searched for POWER and PT on her phone. A number of video clips came up. The third clip was a recording of a group of six wearing plastic hazard overalls and air filtering masks. Each carried whipper snippers and sliced through a crop of wheat. The clip was dated the night of the fire.

42

A
nya got a taxi back to her mother’s home and extracted the heavy parcel from the chicken pen. Thankfully, it was still in place and no one else had been around. While still hidden from view, she carefully unwrapped it. Inside were four A4-sized notebooks containing scribbled notes and handwritten data. None of it looked familiar or was immediately decipherable. It was already 12 noon. In an hour she was supposed to meet Oliver at the cafe. She took the notebooks and hastily replaced the floorboards as best she could, sliding hay and newspaper over the top. From outside the pen, nothing appeared altered. It was the only place she knew of that was safe. Someone had moved things inside the house, searching. But for what? It had to have something to do with Jocelyn’s patient files. There was no reason to disturb them otherwise. Thieves would have taken the television, not moved papers across in front of the screen.

She thought of Simon Hammond collecting her carry-on bag and bringing it to her at the hospital. Maybe he had been looking for something and had used her bags as an excuse for being there. He had been so quick to shoot Mincer Leske. She strained to remember even the smallest detail. Had the standover man recognised the police officer? Was he the one Leske had wanted to kill, and Anya was just collateral damage? Had the plan been to kill Leske all along?

Simon had seemed to be doing the right thing after Len Dengate was killed. He and McGinley could have intentionally stomped all over the crime scene. By the time she had been called, the room had already been disturbed and altered. Was the fire a diversion to distract attention from Len’s murder? The police should have honed in on what a violent criminal, just released from prison, was doing with a homemade flamethrower. Leske had to be a suspect in the fire as well as Len’s death. Proving it was another matter.

Anya dug her fingers into her temples. She was beginning to sound paranoid and was seeing conspiracies all around her. Just like her mother before hospitalisation.

Wiping dirt and dust from her jeans, she headed back towards the house.

The only thing Anya did know for certain was that Oliver Parke had set up a secret meeting. He had to have a good reason. Or maybe some information that could help answer their questions. Grabbing her mother’s keys, she locked the house and headed for the cafe in the hire car.

Within fifteen minutes she was at a table in the corner, with a white coffee and her laptop, checking emails. An email from Beatrice Quaid’s lawyer was straight to the point.

Mrs Quaid is aware of Mr Dengate’s unfortunate death and no longer wishes to claim damages or pursue litigation. She is concentrating on finding her daughter and grandchild, and will sue for custody if the situation arises. She wishes to thank you for your kindness and assistance.

Anya reread the message. The grandmother no longer wanted to mount legal action. It was possible she felt guilty after hearing of Len’s death, or had lost the desire to seek revenge. She wondered what Quaid’s response would be if she knew PT could have been directly responsible.

It didn’t matter to Anya. Ben had a new-found obsession with
Star Wars
. Martin had attached a video of her son. It began with him standing beside a whiteboard with magnetic letters that spelt out the title of the movie series. As Ben hummed the theme song, he used both hands to slide the letters from the top to the bottom of the board. ‘That’s the opening titles bit,’ he declared, and then proceeded to give a summary of the story about good guys ‘versing’ bad guys. Martin’s voice whispered from behind the camera, ‘Warning, retelling may take longer than the actual movie.’ Ben acted out a battle with a toy lightsabre. Her gentle little boy was evolving into a child who liked nothing better than a fight scene. Still, she couldn’t help but grin.

‘Hope that’s legal, whatever you’re doing.’

Anya looked up to see Simon Hammond standing by her table. She snapped closed the lid of her laptop.

‘Sorry, didn’t mean to sneak up on you.’ He surveyed the specials blackboard. ‘Detective Parke asked me to drop this off and mentioned you were a fan of this place so I thought I’d try to be here first.’ He seemed to be waiting for a response from Anya.

She shrugged. ‘What can I say? According to Mum they do great coffee.’

The officer presented her with a sealed envelope and headed over to order from the counter.

She opened it and carefully removed the contents. Inside was the PM report for Patsy Gallop. Anya slid it back into the envelope. ‘Thanks for bringing it.’

‘Mind if I join you?’

Simon Hammond pulled back a chair. His hands were now wrapped in crepe bandages.

She reached across and helped. ‘How are the wounds today?’

He sat and slowly wiggled each finger. ‘Stiff and sore. How’s your mother?’

‘Doing better. Suspect she’ll be dangerous after a couple of days’ rest. Can you imagine her on steroids?’

He laughed and Anya tried to read his face for any sign that could reveal whether or not he was hiding something.
A waitress arrived with a quiche and placed it down on the table in front of him.

‘What did Parke want you to see?’ He cut off a large piece of quiche and chewed with his mouth open. Steam came out.

‘Len’s post-mortem,’ she lied. She didn’t want anyone knowing she was looking into Patsy Gallop’s death as well.

He finished chewing. ‘Would it be a little .
. .
easier
. . .
for you if I read it?’

‘No, but thanks. I was there this morning. Did you hear?’

‘The big guy could have been murdered. I had a gut feeling, which is why I called you the first chance I got.’ Hammond swallowed his mouthful. ‘You know McGinley’s questioned Samir Malik. Next he wants to question your mother. At the moment, he’s pushing her as the number one suspect. No one saw her between when you had that fight and when Alison Blainey called the police at Len’s. McGinley thinks the environmentalist was so hysterical when we got there, a lawyer could rip her statement apart in court. If your mother can’t account for her movements, she’d better get a lawyer before saying a word.’