Jill Jackson - 04 - Watch the World Burn (18 page)

‘I don’t get it. Why think Caine had anything to do with it?’

‘People don’t listen enough,’ said Gabriel.

Jill groaned and rested her head on her hands on the table. She just wanted to go and arrest the bastard who killed Scotty. She did not care about William Curtis or even Miriam Caine. She felt guilty even as she thought it, and tilted her head to the side to peer up at Gabriel.

‘Listening,’ she said.

‘I like your hair like that,’ he said.

‘Don’t push it.’

‘So,’ Gabriel went on, ‘then I’m thinking about people who might have been almost killed in the radius around Caine. People badly injured. Or maybe unexplained deaths. You know, other ways that this guy might have killed without causing any suspicion, like hits that appeared to be accidents.’

‘Anything?’

‘Everything.’

Gabriel smiled widely. Jill waited.

‘In every state that Caine has lived, within a fifty-kilometre radius of his home, there has been at least one unexplained or accidental death, and there have been several serious injuries.’

‘Are you for real?’ said Jill. ‘I mean, I’m trying here, Gabe, but you would probably get a pattern like that for hundreds of people.’

Gabriel smiled again. ‘And in every one of these cases – unexplained deaths, fatal accidents or serious injuries, all within fifty kilometres of David Caine’s place of residence – the victims were some type of government employee.’

‘Huh?’ said Jill.

‘A connection,’ said Gabe.

‘Same MO?’

‘Completely different,’ said Gabriel.

‘What are you talking about here, Gabe? You’re saying that David Caine is a serial killer who targets government employees, and that he’s killing using a different method each time?’

‘Yep.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, why he’s doing it, I don’t know yet. He could be paranoid, a hard-right or hard-left extremist, even a hardcore technophobe or environmentalist. We’ll get that out of him on interview. But he kills with different MOs because he’s an opportunist.’

‘So he kills these people whenever he gets an opportunity?’ said Jill. ‘You mean it’s not just about the killing, it’s about the ideology too? He’s trying to get his message across by killing and maiming?’

Gabriel nodded.

‘Which means you can sum up that possible list of yours with one word,’ said Jill. ‘Terrorist.’

Gabriel grinned.

‘So why target Scotty then?’ said Jill. ‘Because he’s a government employee? Or did Scotty have something on him, or at least Caine was worried he did?’

Gabriel frowned. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know that yet.’

‘Well, what do we do now?’ said Jill.

‘We’ve got to gather more evidence, quietly and very, very quickly. That’s the other thing I learned from the tape, Jill. Although he’s a master at hiding it, Caine is full of rage.’

Jill sat in the passenger seat next to Gabriel, miserable in the dark pantsuit she’d worn to Scotty’s funeral. Each time she moved she was aware of a black-clad arm or leg, which triggered the memory of watching Scotty’s casket being lowered into the ground, away from her forever. There was no way she’d waste time going home to get changed, though. Food, clothes, sleeping, breathing – all were inconsequential until she put some fucker behind bars or in the ground.

She stared out at the road ahead, thinking through what she’d learned this afternoon. ‘Gabe,’ she said finally, ‘why hasn’t Elvis considered that a remote device could have been used to start the fire that killed Miriam Caine?’

‘Occam’s razor,’ he replied. His trucker cap was low and she couldn’t see his eyes.

‘Huh?’

‘You know, Occam. The fourteenth-century philosopher.’ Gabriel made it sound like he was talking about someone they’d gone to school with.
‘Entia non sunt multiplicanda praeter necessitatem
– things shouldn’t be multiplied unnecessarily.’

‘Okay,’ Jill said tiredly, pushing her fringe away from her eyes and leaning back into the headrest. ‘Your translation makes about as much sense as the Latin, or whatever the fuck you were speaking. Psych patient here, remember? Can you cut me some slack?’

He laughed. ‘Sorry. The principle of Occam’s razor states that in any puzzle or conundrum, usually the simplest explanation is the correct explanation.’

‘You’re saying that Elvis has gone for the simplest explanation?’ she said. ‘I understand that. Elvis has simple down pat. But wouldn’t even he want to have a look at Caine? Setting someone on fire is just about as passionate a crime as you can get. You’d want to look at the family first.’

Gabe took his right hand off the wheel, held it up in front of the windscreen, checking off points with his fingers.

‘One, Caine has no priors,’ he said, dropping his pinkie finger. ‘Two, Caine is more than ten metres from the vic when she goes up.’ He lowered the next finger. ‘Three, your boy, Elvis, has his little arson profile on Berrigan.’ He dropped another finger. ‘But more than all that,’ Gabriel waggled his remaining index finger, flicked a glance in her direction, ‘Elvis has a boner for Berrigan. You know Elvis is a cop’s cop. He doesn’t like whistle blowers. It also turns out he shared piss-ups and whores with one of the Redfern knuckleheads that Berrigan took down. When Elvis learned Berrigan was a suspect, he didn’t want to look any further. He wants Troy trussed up, and he’s even willing to work at it.’

Jill shifted. She became aware of her black suit again and lost focus. She saw Scotty being lowered into the ground. She closed her eyes. Worse. She leaned her forehead on the window and watched the road go by. Scotty’s next agenda on the Incendie case was to come out here to speak to Miriam Caine’s community group. She pictured him in the shower last Saturday morning, telling her his plans. The road blurred outside the window.

‘Can you keep an eye out for four-four-five?’ said Gabriel. ‘It’s on your side.’

‘Four-oh-seven,’ she said, watching the pet, sporting and fashion wholesalers slide by. ‘Four-twenty-nine,’ she said. ‘Slow down. There. Pull up in the loading zone.’

She and Gabriel entered a two-storey brick building, its render so thick with paint that its walls were rounded at the corners. A grafittied sign at the front told them they could have their cards read, meet with a solicitor or a Mary Kay consultant, or attend a Weight Watchers meeting. Jill wondered whether anyone visiting the building had ever run the gamut – partaken of all the services on offer. She could see it happening.

‘Who’d you say we’re meeting again?’ she asked Gabriel.

‘Heather Smith organises the meeting,’ he said. ‘It’s just a social group. Heather makes sure everyone knows what’s happening and when. Up the stairs there, Jill.’ He pulled out a notepad, flicked it open. ‘She promised that some other group members would be there too – Hazel Wilson, Walter Gilmore and Rosa Gordano.’

Jill followed Gabriel into a room at the end of the dingy corridor. Who would want to come here to meet every week? Four people sat around a bare formica table. A smaller table with a coffee urn and disposable cups was the only other furniture in the room, other than a noticeboard stuck with layers of curling memos and posters.

‘It’s okay, please don’t stand up,’ she said. ‘I’m Jill and this is Gabriel. We’re with the police.’

‘Hello, I’m Heather,’ said a trim woman in glasses, standing anyway.

Jill put her age at maybe sixty-five.

‘I spoke with you on the phone,’ Heather said to Gabriel. ‘This is Walter.’

A stooped man in a cardigan used his hands to push himself up from the table. Gabriel stepped forward to shake hands. Walter nodded at Jill.

‘This is Rosa,’ continued Heather.

A hugely overweight woman aged between thirty and forty waved and smiled. Jill guessed that Rosa’s mental age was probably pre-adolescent.

‘And this is Hazel,’ said Heather. Hazel had to be seventy.

‘Would you like some cake and coffee?’ asked Hazel, smiling.

‘No, thanks,’ said Jill.

‘Great,’ said Gabriel at the same moment.

‘It’s a cinnamon teacake,’ said Hazel.

‘Hazel baked it last night,’ said Heather.

‘Because she knew you were coming,’ said Rosa.

‘Well, maybe a small piece,’ said Jill.

‘She makes us a cake every week,’ said Rosa.

Jill smiled.

‘Or sometimes biscuits.’ Rosa’s plate was empty and pulled close. She stared at the cake.

While Heather made coffee for everyone, handing the cups to Walter, who shuffled them over to the table, and Hazel carefully cut a slice of cake for six plates, Jill sat on her hands. Literally. The process going on around her was clearly a ritual for the group, and she sensed that asking questions before it was completed would be rude. And pointless: Rosa’s piece of cake was gone before Hazel had cut the next, and Rosa watched the rest of the slicing with complete devotion. Walter was pinpoint-focused on the brimming plastic cups as he hobbled from one table to the other. Heather and Hazel were busy playing perfect hosts.

Jill wondered how the group would feel about her doing some short interval sprint training across the room; she reckoned she could get six laps in for every one of Walter’s crosses. She caught Gabriel’s eye and gave him a please-kill-me-now look. He shovelled in cake, grinning. Finally, Heather and Walter sat down at the table and Jill flipped open her notebook.

‘If it’s all right with everyone, I’d like to get started asking a few questions,’ said Jill. The group watched her, suddenly solemn. ‘Firstly, Gabriel and I would like to say how sorry we are about the death of your friend Miriam.’

Heather nodded and Walter bowed his head.

Hazel, slowly shaking her head, said, ‘It’s just terrible. We can’t believe it. She came here every week for years. It just won’t be the same without her.’

Rosa began to cry, and Hazel stood and moved around the table to comfort her.

Jill ploughed on. ‘I’m sure you all know now that we believe that Miriam was actually murdered.’

‘Just terrible,’ said Hazel again.

Rosa blew her nose. ‘She always said it was going to happen,’ she said through her tissue.

‘She always said what?’ asked Jill, sitting forward.

‘Someone’s going to kill me,’ said Rosa.

‘Miriam said that someone was going to kill you?’ said Jill.

‘No,
me,’
said Rosa. ‘She said someone’s going to kill me.’

Jill looked at Gabriel.

‘Rosa’s saying that Miriam was worried that someone was trying to kill her,’ he said.

‘That’s what I said,’ said Rosa.

‘Sorry,’ said Jill, writing. She looked up. ‘When did she say this?’

‘You’ve got to understand that Miriam was a very suspicious woman,’ said Hazel. ‘I’ve known her for a few years now, and she’s always been worried about something.’

‘Like what?’ asked Jill.

‘She had a list,’ said Heather. ‘She used to say there would be a war or a terrorist attack, or that Indonesia would invade Australia.’

‘And she thought that the government were watching her,’ said Hazel.

‘Because she’s a Jew,’ said Rosa. ‘That’s what she said.’

‘She survived the Holocaust, you know,’ said Hazel. ‘I think that made her a suspicious person. And who could blame her? But she wasn’t always talking about these things. She liked playing cards with us.’

‘And picnics,’ said Rosa.

‘And she would tell stories about the war,’ said Heather. ‘I could listen to her for hours.’

‘But she also mentioned that she thought that someone was trying to kill her? Is that correct?’ asked Jill.

‘Yes, just recently,’ said Hazel. ‘Within the last six months, I would say – would you say that, Heather?’

‘Yes,’ said Heather. ‘One week she’d come in here and tell us all that she didn’t have long to live, that she was going to be killed.’

‘And then the next week,’ continued Hazel, ‘she’d be right as rain. We’d ask her how she was feeling and she’d say she was fine. She’d talk about her granddaughter or about her childhood.’

‘We were a little worried about her memory,’ said Heather. ‘She’s been forgetting things a lot recently.’

‘Like when we were going to meet at the bus stop in Mascot, remember?’ said Rosa. ‘To go to the beach? She forgot.’

‘And she was getting mixed up with dates,’ said Heather.

‘And she’d repeat herself a lot,’ said Hazel.

Gabriel pushed his chair away from the table. ‘That’s a great cake,’ he said.

‘Please, can I offer you another slice?’ asked Hazel. ‘Would anyone else like another piece?’

Gabriel and Rosa slid their plates towards the cake, both beaming. Jill glared at him.

‘Did Miriam ever talk about any specific threats?’ asked Gabriel, drawing his plate back towards him.

The room stilled.

‘Yes,’ said Walter – his first word for the meeting. ‘She said that someone was going to set her on fire.’

Erin decided to pass on the swimming after work idea for today. She had an evening community meeting at six pm and she couldn’t be bothered doing her hair and make-up again. She ate an apple and browsed an online foodie forum, torturing herself with the recipes. Her email alert sounded and she clicked on the icon. A message from Shane. She wondered whether it would always feel like she’d been punched in the gut each time she saw his name.

‘Hey, I’m going away for work this weekend,’ he had written. ‘I’m going to have to reschedule with Callie and Reece. I’ll call them tonight. Sorry.’

She hit reply. ‘Hey,’ she wrote. ‘Why are you sorry? Because you’re taking your whore away for the weekend rather than keeping your promise to your kids? Because you promised me that we’d be together forever and you’re a fucking liar? Because Christmas is coming up and I’m never going to get to spend it with your family again?’ She took a deep breath, highlighted the text and typed over it. ‘Right,’ she wrote. ‘Thanks for letting me know.’ She hit the send/receive button, and instantly another email with an attachment came through.

The subject line shouted in capitals: ‘DO YOU WANT THIS TO HAPPEN TO CALLIE?’ There was nothing in the message body.

Erin became very still. Her computer fan kicked in, droning in her quiet office. She stared down at the screen. Moments ticked by. She moved the cursor towards the attachment symbol of the email. Holding her breath, she opened the attachment.

Erin’s hand flew to her mouth. The acid attack on those kids in Pagewood – a scanned newspaper article. No one had ever threatened her kids. What kind of sicko had sent this? She reviewed the article quickly – the police hadn’t caught anyone.

She picked up the phone. Stabbed in the number. ‘Callie!’

‘Mum, what’s wrong?’

Erin forced herself to speak more calmly. ‘Nothing, honey,’ she said. ‘I just called to check that you guys are okay.’

‘We’re fine,’ said Callie.

‘Reece in his room?’

‘Of course. Online.’

‘And no one else is over there?’

‘Nope.’

Erin relaxed her grip on the phone, sighed. ‘Your dad called you yet?’ she asked.

‘Why? Is he cancelling again?’ asked Callie.

‘I’ll let him tell you.’

‘I’m glad, anyway,’ said Callie. ‘I mean, it’s not like when he was here we were all hanging around each other anyway. We’ve all got stuff to do.’

‘What are you thinking about doing this weekend?’

‘Danni’s party? Remember? I’ve only told you, like, ten times.’

‘Oh, right. And I said yes?’

‘Mum! Don’t muck around with things like this. You know me and Danni have been planning this for ages.’

‘Tell me again,’ said Erin. ‘Tell me who’s going, what you’re wearing, where her mum will be, Danni’s address, what time it starts, whether or not there’ll be alcohol, who uses drugs at your school, whether you’ve ever been arrested, had sex or smoked a cigarette.’

‘I have homework.’

Erin smiled. ‘I am going to call Danni’s mum, though, honey.’

‘Fine. If you’ve got all this time to talk, why aren’t you home?’

‘Another CCTV town meeting. Remember? I’ve only told you, like, ten times.’

‘Well, at least I’ve got an excuse for forgetting,’ said Callie. ‘The things you do at work are so boring.’

‘My excuse for forgetting is called old age.’

‘I’d call it Korsakoff’s,’ said Callie.

‘I’ll call you grounded this weekend if you’re not nicer to your mum, smart aleck.’

Erin felt her daughter grinning on the other end of the phone.

‘What time will you be home?’ asked Callie.

‘Around eight, I hope. I’ll let you go. Don’t let anyone come over and don’t answer the door. And make sure your brother eats something. The fridge is chockers with stuff.’

This time some sensible questions were asked and there was a reasonable turnout for the meeting. Erin thanked her fellow committee member, Ron Kennedy, for attending and fielding questions with her. She told him to go home, that she’d be fine to pack up. Ron, a senior constable from Glebe Local Area Command, had been with her since the beginning. The local police were her biggest champions for the camera project.

‘I’ll wait for you,’ Ron said, walking through the seats and collecting leftover information booklets. Erin noted that even though she put him at late twenties at best, his ginger hair was already thinning. Policing was a hard job.

‘You want some of these quiche things?’ she asked, throwing some paper plates into the large waste bin next to the food table. Sheesh, it would have been easier for these people to have dropped the used plates into the bin instead of onto the table. Some people just had that attitude – the government owes me, the free food’s not enough, someone else can pick up the mess.

‘Are you serious?’ Ron said. ‘Some squirrel out there might’ve left a little something there hoping the cop would eat the leftovers.’

Erin stopped what she was doing and screwed up her face. ‘What are you talking about?’ she said.

‘You know – bodily fluids.’

‘Ron, you’re paranoid,’ said Erin, shaking her head. ‘Not everyone is out there to get you.’

‘Yeah?’ he said. ‘Used to be, when my dad was on the job, citizens were always dropping stuff off. There was always a cake, biscuits; shit, sometimes some lady would bring in a roast chook around dinnertime with all the trimmings. No cop ever had to buy his own meals. Not like that now.’

‘No one brings stuff to you guys anymore?’

‘Oh, people still bring stuff,’ said Ron. ‘But it goes straight in the bin or we send it back home with them.’

‘That’s crazy,’ said Erin. ‘A little old lady bakes the boys in blue a chocolate slice, and, what, it’s seen as a bribe or something?’

‘You’re not getting it,’ he said, stacking chairs. ‘That little old lady might have had her old man or son jammed up by one of us, and the chocolate in that slice might not be Cadbury, if you know what I’m saying.’

‘That’s disgusting.’ Erin stood motionless with a stack of plates.

‘That’s life nowadays,’ said Ron.

‘It’s sad, that’s what it is.’ Erin went back to the tidying.

‘I’m not sure what would be worse,’ said Ron, ‘getting a mouthful of shit or a mouthful of needles. A few years ago, some poor prick out at Guildford bit into an orange from a big bag dropped off by some kind citizen and got two sewing needles rammed into his tongue and gums. Some loony motherfucker had spent his weekend studding every orange with at least ten needles. But hey, don’t cry too hard for us. Every couple of weeks a bloke will come in and drop off a slab. Now, that gets put to good use, I can tell you.’

Erin moved about the hall, collecting discarded fliers. ‘A few people had something to say tonight about that stabbing murder in the city on Thursday night,’ she said.

‘Well, of course they did,’ said Ron. ‘It was bound to come up – it happened right in front of the camera. And a few people made the same point; it was a valid point too. These cameras – even these new cameras – aren’t going to be able to catch everyone. But I think you handled it really well. You just acknowledged that this project is not going to solve every crime in every place, but it will increase the success rate.’

‘There’s not a lot a camera can do when someone’s wearing a mask like that,’ she said. ‘I swear that footage gave me nightmares.’

Ron snorted. ‘Good thing you didn’t see the whole thing, then.’

Erin stopped and turned. ‘Did you?’

Ron paused as well, leaned on the stack of chairs in front of him. ‘It was about as bad as anything I’ve seen in my life,’ he said. ‘Whoever did that is completely deranged. The perp went absolutely mad shanking that poor bloke. He stabbed him eight or nine times, and it wouldn’t have been easy, Erin – a screwdriver through clothes?’ Ron shook his head. ‘We better get that one quick. He’s a mad bastard.’

When the hall was reasonably tidy, Erin and Ron made their way out to the quiet council carpark. At her car, Erin’s mobile sounded.

‘Night, Ron,’ she said before answering it. ‘Thanks again for everything.’

Ron Kennedy was half-lowered into his driver’s seat when he heard Erin’s scream. He pulled a muscle in his calf springing back up again.

Erin Hart ran full pelt towards him, eyes wild, frantic.