Honorable Assassin (2 page)

“What did the monster look like?”

“I couldn’t see it. Then I woke up.”

“Inspector, were you able to glean any
information from the child?”

“Yes, Superintendent, I was. It seems George
Kingston has a brother named Ginger in Molong. Child Services can
look into that after we have a talk with him. We already knew he
doesn’t conduct business from his home, but it seems there is a
golf course he favors and conducts business there.”

“Anything else?”

“Miss Cherry tells us he still has no memory
of what happened after the yacht left Greenwell. She seems
confident that his memory will return, but that it may take a
while. A traumatic event like that can shock the mind and remove
the memory.”

“Inform her that it is imperative that we
find out what happened.”

“Yes sir. I’ll call in a few minutes. She
was still with him when I left the hospital. Is there any more
information I can use?”

“Nothing substantial. Yes, he owns the
insurance company in Orange, The Kingston Agency. A subsidiary of
the Helping Hands Insurance Corporation. It seems the books are in
good order and the Agency makes a good profit but nothing that
allows a man to buy a yacht. His home was shut down as if he
expected to be gone for some time. The furnace and air conditioning
was shut off. The hot water heater was turned way down. What man
does that for a day off?”

“So he wasn’t planning to come back for a
while, and he has an alternate source of income. Have we gone
through his personal books, bank records?”

“I have a woman looking into them now. I’ll
have her report whatever she finds to you. I think he is a very
careful individual, but he needed to finance that purchase
somewhere. There is a safe in his home and we will be getting
authorization to open it soon. I don’t think we will find much
inside but it is worth a look.”

“Very well then. I’ll report again as soon
as something changes. I think I would very much like to go out to
see this Ginger, if you don’t mind?”

“Yes, Inspector, I think that it might be a
capital idea. Call first.”

“I can’t call; the man has no phone. I’ll
leave in an hour or so. Oh, about the wife, Marcia Kingston. She
came from a well-to-do family in Canberra. Parents were professors
at Copland College. They’re both deceased. She did not work outside
the home. We are looking into extramarital affairs and the like,
but I don’t think we’ll find anything. She seems to have been
deeply devoted to her son and husband. Local officials say she was
a religious woman and spent quite a lot of time on volunteer work.
We still have feelers out, but I don’t think we will dig up
anything on her.”

Inspector Barlow was on the telephone with
Sherry Cherry when the news came in that the Kingston yacht had
been located 80 kilometers due south of Ulladulla and 23 kilometers
east of Tuross Head. The fuel slick that was released on a calm day
allowed the pilot of a small plane to spot the location. He called
it in and the police dive team located the wreck. It had been
scuttled next to Bass Canyon, the immense underwater rift that
shadows the entire southeastern side of Australia. Whoever had sunk
the yacht had undoubtedly intended to drop it into the canyon and
thereby effectively lose it forever. It was a good plan but they
were a couple of kilometers short of the shelf break. As a result,
the yacht was resting about 200 meters below the surface, not the
3000 meters it would have been if it had been sunk in the trench
itself. Divers had identified the wreck as Agamemnon, George
Kingston’s vessel, but no bodies were found.

Inspector Barlow ruminated over the
information for a while. Insurance was always motivation for
sinking a ship but he discounted it in this particular instance.
One cannot collect, even from one’s own insurance agency, if one is
presumed dead. There was no evidence that George had a drinking
problem or that he was in debt from gambling or drugs. His one
excess seemed to be the yacht and he spent quite a number of
weekends sailing. He lived far enough from the ocean that his home
was not very expensive and it was modestly furnished.

The real question he wanted answered was
where did George go when he visited Greenwell Point? Who did he see
and what did he do? Whoever George visited in Greenwell Point might
have the answers to the real questions.

Barlow took a deep breath and exhaled
through his nose. He was getting nothing done and the case was
getting colder and colder. He tossed his jacket over his shoulder,
smoothed his thick, graying hair back and went to report to his
Superintendent before leaving for Ginger Kingston’s farm in
Molong.

When Inspector Theodore Barlow pulled his
unmarked Holden into Ginger Kingston’s driveway he was unpleasantly
surprised. The farm was in a state of disrepair that made it look
deserted. Some of the outbuildings were sagging and threatening to
collapse. The smell of animal waste was to be expected on any farm
that dealt in sheep and chickens but here it was overwhelming. The
rusty hulks of tractors that had not run in many years adorned the
sides of the house though there was newer equipment visible through
a broken window in the nearer barn.

When he stepped out of his vehicle, Barlow
got his second unpleasant surprise. Standing on the unpainted,
sagging side porch was a man in overalls and rubber boots holding a
double-barreled shotgun. The man had no shirt on but his chest was
covered with a huge red beard. A cigar protruded from the beard
like the tail of a squirrel from its nest.

“What business do ye find here?” asked the
man.

“Ginger Kingston, I presume. Inspector
Barlow here. I’m conducting an investigation into the disappearance
of your brother George.”

“He’s missing, eh? What does that have to do
with me?”

“I assume it has nothing to do with you, but
as his only relative outside the home I thought there may be
something to be learned.”

“Let me see yer badge.”

Barlow produced his badge and edged sideways
slowly to move away from the business end of the shotgun. Kingston
squinted at the badge and shrugged. The shotgun pointed toward the
ceiling and its wielder grunted and motioned with his shaggy head.
The top was bald but the sides were in desperate need of a
trim.

Inside the house was the same sort of
shambles as the rest of the farm. The side porch led to the kitchen
where newspapers were piled up all over the place. The dishes in
the sink had gone past the point of unwashed and would soon qualify
as genuine archeological finds. The kitchen table held a pile of
unopened bills, newspapers, dirty glasses and coffee cups, a liter
bottle of Bundaberg and a can of Coopers Ale.

“Shot of Bundy, Inspector?”

“Oh, I don’t imbibe in the stronger spirits,
I…”

“Crack a Cooper, then?”

“Yes, a Coopers would help cut the
dust.”

Ginger Kinston moved to the refrigerator and
opened the door. Inside were what appeared to be examples of
genetic experiments along with a dozen cans of ale. He tossed one
across the room and Inspector Barlow caught it. When he cracked the
top it blew beer all over the unopened bills on the kitchen
table.

“Oh, I’m dreadfully sorry. I didn’t think it
would fly so.”

“Cripes. I never intended to pay them
anyway.” To Barlow’s surprise, Kingston swept the bills and
newspapers off the table and onto the floor. “Grab a chair. If you
want a shot of rum, take one.”

“No, no rum. The Coopers is good.” The
correct protocol for drinking an Australian ale is to guzzle the
first half of it immediately and Barlow did just that. His
immediate reasoning was that to gain the confidence of an
alcoholic, nothing works better than drinking with him.

Ginger poured himself about four ounces of
Bundaberg Rum and knocked it back, draining what remained in his
can as a chaser.

“So, Inspector, what’s this about my
brother?”

“Well, Mr. Kingston…”

“Call me Ginger.”

“Very well, Ginger, it seems, excuse me,”
Barlow belched voluminously. “It seems your brother has gone
missing about two weeks now. His son was found floating in the
water off Cunjurong Point on October 24th. We have just located the
wreck of his yacht off Tuross Head.”

“October 24? That’s almost two weeks ago.
You mean to tell me you’re just getting around to telling me
now?”

“The boy just woke up. He was in a coma all
this time and we didn’t know who he was until he woke up. We never
would have found the yacht if the fuel tank hadn’t developed a leak
after it hit the bottom.” It was a small lie but effective.

“Oh. The boy is still alive?”

“Yes, Terry is awake and seems none the
worse for the experience. He misses his parents, of course, but we
may still find them.”

“Two weeks later?”

“Stranger things have happened.” Barlow took
another huge drink from his can.

“Better to keep your feet on the earth,
anyway.”

“That’s always been my thought as well. Tell
me, Terry says you visited George’s house from time to time, what
was your business with him?”

“He’s my brother. I don’t need business to
visit my brother.”

“No, certainly not, but people don’t do
things for no reason. I assume you’ve had reasons for visiting
him.”

“I need money from time to time. The farm is
not as profitable as might be expected and he has plenty of money.
Sometimes I stop by for a loan. Just until I can get wool to
market, or get paid for eggs and chickens. I pay him back when I
can.”

“But there is no problem between you? Money
problems or the like?”

“If you think I killed him and sank his
boat, you’re out of your mind. He’s the only brother I’ve got. We
don’t see each other often enough. Don’t get me wrong, we fought
when we were kids, all boys do, but we never hated each other. We
grew up on this farm. If there was ever a problem we settled it the
old-fashioned way, but we never shot each other. We started hunting
together when we were six and seven, or seven and eight, or so… We
never shot at each other. If I was going to kill him I would have
done it when we was teeners. I always been a better shot. When I’m
sober enough.”

“You were never a suspect. Do you know of
anyone who would wish to harm them?”

“Nobody I know of. He don’t talk of his
business. He sells insurance. Sold me insurance on the farm, cheap.
He’s a good man.” Ginger poured himself another glass of rum and
held it in salute. “To George. May he live long and… well, may he
be alive.”

“So you can’t think of anyone?”

“I told you, I don’ talk business wit’
George. Hey, what happens to the boy?”

“That is not my department. Health and Human
Services or Orphan Services will determine what to do with him once
the doctors say he can leave the infirmary.”

“Drop him off. I’ll take care of him till
his father shows up.”

“As I said, sir, Orphan Services will handle
that.”

“No worries. Say, did you talk with his
representative, Mr… uh… Shwartz or Shvance… uh… Stein… cripes.
Streng, that’s it, Streng.

“Is this his legal representative, Mr.
Streng, and is his office in Orange?”

“So far as I know. He may have something for
you.”

“We’ll contact him. Thank you for the
information.”

“You think I’m a slosher, don’t you?” Ginger
went to the refrigerator and got himself another can of
Coopers.

“The evidence points in that direction.”

“I can stop drinking any time I want.”

“It may be a good idea to consider wanting
to.”

The man with the huge red beard picked up
the half burned cigar from the ash tray and fished in his pocket
for his Zippo. He lit the stub without setting his beard on fire
and spat out a bit of tobacco. “I’ll need to if I want to help
George’s son, won’t I?”

“It will make a large difference with
Services.”

Ginger took a deep breath and shook his
head. “The bastards never let a man be a man, do they?”

“They take a dim view of drunkenness.”

“Right, then. It’s time.” Ginger surprised
his visitor more than he had when he had greeted him with a
shotgun. He picked up the half full bottle of rum and walked to the
sink. He uncapped the bottle and poured it into the drain.

“Well, that’s the way the old bugger is. It
happens at odd times. He lost his wife 10 years ago, to cancer, and
got drunk for about two years. Then he sobered up for a while.
Look, when he’s not drinking he works like a Tasmanian devil and
when he is, nothing gets done about the place. It’s been six
months, right about on time, I’d say. If he poured his bottle down
the sink then he’ll be alright for a while. Would you like one of
us to check up on him?”

“No, I don’t think so, Constable. Orphan
Services and the Health and Welfare people will be popping in to
see him. Thank you for your concern. If Mr. Kingston has any
incidents in the next few days, give us a ring, will you? His
record shows he thrashes people from time to time.”

“Certainly, Inspector. He hasn’t been
drinking in the taverns for a while but we’ll call if there’s a
problem.”

“Thank you, we’ll be in touch.” Inspector
Barlow hung up the phone and thought about all the men he had known
who had said they could stop drinking anytime they wanted to. He
could not count on one hand the heavy drinkers he knew who really
could.

Ten o’clock came around and Theodore Barlow
went back to Saint Vincent Hospital to see Terry Kingston again.
Doctor Cherry was still busy with another patient so the inspector
leafed through the Sydney Morning Herald looking for anything
relevant that came from a different direction. He had found nothing
when Sherry Cherry sauntered down the hall. Her long blonde hair
was tied back in a tight bun and secured with ornamented black hair
sticks. The style accented her creamy skin, long neck line and
smiling cheeks. Inspector Barlow had been married for many years
and loved his wife but Doctor Cherry could have brought out the
worst in him.