Jill Jackson - 04 - Watch the World Burn (22 page)

‘What’s wrong?’ asked Gabriel, leaning into the open window of the passenger seat of his car.

Jill sat with her hand on the doorhandle. ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘It’s just that I feel a bit underdressed.’ They’d parked in a cop bay out the front of Central Police Station.

Expressionless, Gabriel appraised her bare arms and singlet. He opened the rear door and reached inside.

‘Hoodie,’ he said, throwing a sweatshirt through her window. ‘But you’ll get hot.’

‘Thanks, Gabe,’ she said, stepping out of the car and shrugging into the jumper.

A uniformed constable buzzed the security door open for them. Jill had seen her around plenty of times, but they’d never really met. ‘How can I help you guys?’ she said when they walked through.

‘We wanted to talk to whoever caught the stabbing death on Elizabeth Street, Thursday night,’ said Gabriel.

‘The vic was Frank Vella?’ she said typing. ‘Here it is. Yep, thought so, that’s Campbell and McCann. McCann pulled a night shift last night, but John’s in. I’ll let him know you’re coming. You know where the detectives’ rooms are, right?’

‘Yep, thanks,’ said Gabriel. ‘What’s Campbell like?’ he whispered to Jill as they walked past offices.

‘He’s an okay bloke,’ she said. ‘We’ll be right.’

John Campbell stepped out of an office to their left. With three pens protruding from his shirt pocket, he resembled an accountant more than a homicide detective. He wore business pants, spectacles and shiny shoes.

‘Hi, Jill,’ he said. ‘You shouldn’t have dressed up on my account.’

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I just got back from a ball.’ They shook hands. ‘John, this is–’

‘Delahunt, isn’t it?’ said Campbell, reaching out a hand. ‘We met during the Delfranchi thing.’

‘Yep, yep. That’s right. Delfranchi. Sick paedophile,’ said Gabriel.

‘How’s he going, anyway?’ asked Campbell, ushering them into his room.

‘He applied for forensic status to keep him out of the main,’ said Gabriel.

‘Bullshit! You fuckers didn’t let him get away with that, did you?’

‘It took us six months to process his application,’ said Gabriel. ‘During which time, a processing error occurred and he was sent over to Silverwater. Stomped to death his first night there.’

Campbell gave a short laugh. ‘Well, that’ll happen,’ he said.

‘We’ve reviewed our procedures,’ said Gabriel.

‘So, what are you doing with the Feds, Jill?’ asked Campbell. ‘And what do you guys want with my Ninja Turtle?’

‘Probably nothing,’ said Jill. ‘We’re working Scotty’s case.’

Campbell leaned back in his chair, exhaled hard. ‘Sorry, Jill. I saw you at the funeral but I didn’t come over. Everyone had swamped you, and you looked like you wanted to be out of there.’

‘Thanks, John,’ she said. ‘It’s fucked up.’

‘Where are you at with it?’ asked Campbell.

‘Scotty was investigating that restaurant fatality,’ said Gabriel.

‘Ah, the restaurant at the top of that hotel over at Hyde Park. I know the one,’ said Campbell.

‘They seem to be connected,’ continued Gabriel, ‘and we’ve got someone in mind. But he’s a slippery motherfucker. We’re working this political motive – it’s possible the prick has a thing for government workers.’

‘Well, sorry to break it to you – Vella was just a drug rep.’

‘This could be nothing,’ said Gabriel, ‘but would you mind giving us a run-down on what you’ve got so far?’

‘Of course,’ said Campbell. He banged a few times on his keyboard to bring the screen to life. ‘Here it is. Married, three children, same job for the past four years. Vella trained as a chemist, but his wife told me they didn’t have the money for him to open his own pharmacy. Apparently, the drug company paid better. She can think of no reason he might have been attacked. The neighbours put him as a great bloke; his employers loved him.’ Campbell scrolled down. ‘He’d just finished dinner with eight local doctors when he got jumped by this lunatic. We interviewed all eight of them. Same story – great bloke, wouldn’t hurt a fly, yada, yada. No priors, doesn’t look like he had a gambling problem. Seems Vella was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

‘And he wasn’t robbed, is that right?’ asked Gabriel.

‘The fucker took nothing. Just stabbed the fuck out of him, did a jig for the camera and pissed off.’

‘You get the murder weapon?’

‘Nothing,’ said Campbell. ‘You wanna see the vid?’

‘Yeah, why not,’ said Gabriel.

Campbell opened another folder and a black-and-white horror movie filled his screen. The ferocity of the attack jarred grotesquely with the smiling cartoon face of the perpetrator. The victim curled into himself like a puppy being beaten; he’d had absolutely no chance. Jill suddenly felt glad she was wearing a jumper. She shivered.

The three sat silent for a few beats.

‘Thanks, John,’ said Gabriel. ‘That was really helpful.’

‘You get anything out of all that?’ asked Campbell.

‘Well, there was nothing much to get, was there?’ said Gabriel, standing.

Campbell frowned. He and Jill also stood. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘you get anything on this case, you put me in the loop first, okay?’

‘Of course,’ said Gabriel.

Sydney’s summer beat down and the air shimmered in Gabriel’s car. Jill peeled off the hoodie before she got in.

‘Why did you say that was helpful, Gabe, if you got nothing?’

‘Because nothing is everything with this cunt.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You gotta look for the absence of information for an explanation with Caine,’ he said. ‘He loves to hide in plain sight. He’s an expert at hiding his emotions and he also hides his crimes. Let’s think about this poor drug rep. There seems to be no reason for what happened there. And yet it happened. Was it just a random attack by a crazy – was Vella just unlucky? Of course, that’s possible. But why’s the perp in a mask? That shows some degree of planning, at least. And how did this fucker know the camera was even there? Why did he do his little dance for the camera? And if he knew it was there, why didn’t he just stab some random prick in the park in privacy? I think it’s all about the camera.’

‘You think that was Caine?’ she said, staring at him.

Gabriel raised his eyebrows.

‘And that Caine has a problem with CCTV cameras?’

He pursed his lips.

‘And government workers? And his mother? And Scotty?’ she said.

He made a clicking sound with his tongue.

‘It all seems a fucking tangle, Gabe. And even if that was him behind that mask, Vella’s death puts us no closer to him. I hope we’re not wasting our time with this guy.’

‘What did you think of him flipping the bird?’ Gabriel asked, just as his mobile sounded. ‘Yep,’ he said. Paused. ‘Yep. Draw it up. I’m coming in.’

He ended the call and met Jill’s eyes.

‘What?’ she said.

‘The bottle thrown into Erin Hart’s house was a one-litre Spring Valley juice bottle.’

Jill stood beside her car with arms folded, squinting in the Glebe sunshine. ‘I think I’d prefer to come with you to Caine’s house,’ she said. ‘I really think that’s where we’re going to get him.’

Gabriel leaned against his own car, which was double-parked beside hers. ‘Look, Jill,’ he said. ‘The warrant on Caine is thin. This guy’s a cleanskin. And all we’ve got on him is that he was at Incendie. Scotty’s linked to Incendie. And now we’ve got physical evidence that probably links Scotty’s death to another fire-related incident. I had to lean real hard yesterday to get my boss to promise that if we got a link he’d let me at him. And all I can say is that we’d better find something at his house connecting him to one of these crime scenes. I’m pretty sure we will, though. We’ve got five crime scenes now that possibly link to him.’

‘I want to come,’ Jill said. ‘No one will even notice I’m there.’

Gabriel laughed. ‘You’re funny.’

She scowled. ‘Do you really think his workplace is going to be helpful?’

He paused. ‘Who knows? Maybe. But in an hour he’s going to know we’re onto him. So, if you wait until four you can go there and be pretty sure he won’t show up. But, Jill, you have to promise me you’ll back right off if he’s there. He shouldn’t be, though. It’s a contract cleaning company – the cleaners phone in for their assignments. Just poke around. See what his colleagues think of him. I haven’t done any of that stuff yet – didn’t want to scare him off.’ From the side pocket of his cargos Gabriel pulled out a notepad and pen. He scribbled, tore out the page and gave it to her.

An address in Alexandria. ‘It’s something, I guess,’ she said, kicking at gravel on the road.

Helen Herrmann tssked, straightened at her desk and waited for the approaching blonde woman. For goodness sake, not another one. When are they going to fix those signs?

‘It’s next door,’ said Helen, before the woman could speak.

‘Pardon?’ said Jill.

‘Party Hearty, the party supply shop,’ said Helen.

The young woman turned her head to look around the factory unit and Helen spotted the tattoo on her arm. Why do girls do that to themselves? Her two daughters would never have dared, and if any of her four grandchildren even thought about it, she’d come down on them
and
their mothers like a tonne of bricks.

‘You’re K&Z Industrial Cleaning, right?’ asked Jill.

‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry. We don’t have many customers come in off the street.’ Helen paused. ‘You’re not here for a job, are you? We don’t take cold-call applicants.’

The young woman reached into a back pocket and Helen tensed. Oh my God – this could be like that robbery over at Hung’s Fabrics. Well, if this little miss thinks she can come in here and–

‘Detective Sergeant Jillian Jackson,’ said the woman.

‘Are you sure?’ asked Helen.

‘I think I know who I am,’ said Jill.

Well, if this is how the police dress themselves nowadays, no wonder this society is in so much trouble, thought Helen, rising from her chair. ‘My apologies again,’ she said, holding out her hand. ‘My name is Helen Herrmann. I’m the office manager and dispatcher. How can I help you? Is this about the robbery at Hung’s? Because I don’t know anything about it.’

‘Actually, Mrs Herrmann, I’d like to ask you a few questions about one of your employees.’

‘Ahmed Riaz?’ I knew it, thought Helen. Those Lebanese are always stealing things.

‘Maybe we should have a seat?’ said Jill.

‘Of course, of course. May I get you a tea or coffee, Miss–’

‘Detective Sergeant Jackson,’ said Jill. ‘I’m right, thanks.’

The woman took a notepad from a big pocket situated halfway down the leg of her wrinkled, baggy pants. I suppose those pants are good for something, Helen thought. But why doesn’t she just carry a handbag?

‘I’m here about David Caine,’ said Jill.

‘David?’ asked Helen. ‘Is he all right? I just spoke to him. He has a job over at Milsons Point tonight.’

‘May I have the address?’ asked Jill, her pen poised.

‘Well, I suppose so,’ said Helen. ‘I can’t see that there could be a problem with that.’ She sat down, swivelled in her high-backed office chair and tapped her gel-tipped nails against the keyboard. After a moment she read out the address from the screen.

‘A moment, please,’ said Jill, flipping open her mobile. ‘Gabe? Is he there? Okay, send someone around to the corner of Cliff and Glen Streets, Milsons Point. Gleanoaks. They’re an engineering firm. Yep.’ She snapped the phone closed.

‘May I ask what this is about?’ asked Helen.

‘We’re trying to find Mr Caine, that’s all,’ said Jill. ‘We need to speak to him.’

‘Has he done something wrong?’

‘Why do you ask that?’ said Jill.

‘Well, he just doesn’t seem the type, that’s all,’ said Helen. ‘He’s been with us for five years now. He worked for three years, I think, at our Adelaide branch. When he asked for a transfer to Sydney, we were happy to take him. We’ve never had a single complaint about him. Not a one.’ Helen slightly adjusted a framed photograph of her granddaughter, then moved it back to its original position.

‘What shifts does he work?’ asked Jill.

‘He favours the early pms,’ said Helen. ‘That’s four until twelve. But he’s very obliging and doesn’t turn down anything we have available.’

‘Uh huh,’ said Jill, jotting. ‘And what kind of a person is he?’

‘What kind of a person? What do you mean?’

‘Does he have a temper? Does he drink? Does he talk about his family? Does he get on well with people? Is he a flirt? Does he talk about religion or politics?’

‘Well, aren’t these interesting questions,’ said Helen. She laid her palms flat on her blotting pad, smoothing it. The detective waited, reclining back in her chair with an ankle crossed over her knee in a most unladylike pose. ‘To be honest with you,’ said Helen, ‘we don’t have that kind of working relationship. I’m not social with the staff. And I don’t actually see them very often at all. We phone or email the job details through to them, and the cleaners are given enough supplies to last four to six months. They might come in two or three times a year. But David, especially, is a private person. He doesn’t even come to any staff get-togethers, like the Christmas party, and we do a thing for the Melbourne Cup.’

The detective sighed noisily. Suddenly, she dropped her foot to the floor and moved to the edge of her seat.

‘What about Saturdays?’ she asked. ‘Does he ever work Saturdays?’

‘As a matter of fact, yes,’ Helen said. ‘He’s worked the last three. Sanje Singh had to fly back to his country for a death in the family, and David kindly took over his Saturday shifts.’

‘Pms?’ asked Jill.

‘No, it’s a day shift, actually. Serviced offices in North Sydney. Seven am to twelve pm.’

‘Hang on a sec,’ said Jill. ‘Let me get this right. On Saturday the twenty-seventh of November, David Caine was cleaning offices for you?’

‘That’s correct,’ said Helen.

‘But how do you know he showed up?’ asked Jill. ‘And he could have left early, isn’t that correct?’

‘Well, as to that, Detective Jackson, I can assure you that David showed up.’ Who does this woman think she is? Now she’s questioning my integrity? ‘And I can promise you that he did
not
leave early.’

‘How can you know that?’ asked the detective. ‘This is very important, Mrs Herrmann. I’d really prefer that you do not make statements that you can’t be sure of.’

Helen arched her brows, swivelled in her chair and clicked at her keyboard again. ‘You might need to stand to see this, Detective Jackson,’ she said. ‘My screen won’t rotate enough.’ She picked up a biro for extra emphasis – pointing power. ‘Whenever we can, Detective Jackson, we make use of a company’s security system to keep track of our staff. When a cleaner is assigned to a building that has internal security, he is usually given a keycard, an access card, which he has to swipe to enter the building. Most major office buildings systems like that for after-hours access. I’m sure you’re aware of that?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, Detective Jackson, here is a log from the building indicating that David Caine did indeed use the access card when he arrived. And you can see here that he also used it to exit – at twelve-ten pm.’ Helen tapped the screen twice with the pen tip. ‘Moreover, I can assure you that the offices were thoroughly cleaned. Almost every week, this particular company complains about at least one nit-picky issue they feel wasn’t done properly by Sanje Singh. But for the last three weeks, since David Caine has been cleaning the offices, I’ve heard not a peep from them.’

Back in her car, Jill ground the heels of her palms into her eyes. She didn’t want to cry anymore. The tears that threatened to break right now were more of frustration than anything. They had the wrong man. Caine was working the morning Scotty was killed. Nothing had seemed quite right about this investigation from the beginning. Gabriel kept trying to shove everything that came up into a box marked ‘Caine’, but the lid just wouldn’t stay down. Well, he needed to know that this particular piece of information sent the whole box to the shredder. She dialled his number.

‘Jill,’ he answered. ‘We’ve got a shed full of accelerants.’

‘You’re kidding!’ she said. What?

‘Yep,’ said Gabriel. ‘Methyl alcohol, nitric acid.’

‘Wow,’ said Jill. ‘You find anything else to link him?’

‘Not yet,’ said Gabriel. ‘He’s a slippery bastard.’

‘You send someone over to Milsons Point?’ she asked.

‘Yep. Haven’t heard back yet. They should be there soon. I told them to bring him in.’

‘Is the daughter home?’

‘No one here,’ he said. ‘We’ve got the place to ourselves.’

‘Gabriel,’ said Jill.

‘Yep?’

‘The chemicals in the shed – could they be cleaning supplies?’

‘No. There’s a shitload here.’

‘Like, six months’ worth? Gabe, K&Z send their contractors home with about six months’ supply of cleaning chemicals.’

‘Yeah, well there’s a lot of cleaning gear in there too. The cleaning job is a perfect cover for this squirrel.’

‘He’s pretty good at his job, they reckon,’ said Jill.

‘He’s pretty good at a lot of things, Jackson. Look, I’ve got to get some more shit on this fucker. I’m going to go and search the bins. I’d better go.’

‘He has an alibi,’ said Jill.

‘What did you say?’

‘He was working at the time Scotty was murdered.’

‘Says who? That’s bullshit,’ said Gabriel.

‘He swiped in electronically at an office building in North Sydney on the Saturday morning and swiped out at ten past twelve. I got the call from Andreessen about Scotty at ten past twelve.’

‘So what?’ said Gabriel. ‘It’s another game. He’s swung it somehow – got someone else to cover the shift. You’ll see. Fucking clever cunt, though. I’m going, Jill. I really have to get this fucker.’ He disconnected.

Jill didn’t know what to think. She knew she was hungry, though; it was now five pm and she’d had no lunch. She drove back to the main street of Mascot but couldn’t see a cafe with tables, and she didn’t feel like eating in a hot car, waiting for Gabe to call. She drove over to the Eastlakes shopping centre, parked in the street and walked inside. The aircon blasted noisily and the plaza stunk of the stale oil used to fry donuts. Her appetite evaporated. Regardless, she ordered a roast chicken and salad roll from a takeaway shop and took a seat at a small plastic table in a dining area nearby. A young couple sat at the table next to her, each eating a plate of chicken and chips. They were using knives and forks, smiling across the table at one another, as though they dined at Bennelong.

Jill sipped an apple juice while she waited for her food, watching a man opposite closing up his electronics store for the night. Tired shoppers wheeled grocery carts past the shop. On their way home to their families and a proper dinner. Jill felt completely lost. She should be getting ready for a night class right now, but she knew she wouldn’t be going back this semester. Not while she didn’t know what happened to Scotty. Same deal for heading back to real work. She didn’t even have a place to sign in. She hadn’t been posted back to Maroubra – and anyway, she couldn’t imagine working there right now, with Andreessen, Emma Gibson, Elvis. And with no Scotty. She just had to see this through before she could even begin to think about what she would do next with her life.

And yet she was no closer to knowing what had happened. She had let Scotty down big-time. She felt that she’d just been wasting time since he was killed. All that time at Lyrebird – just sitting around talking, for fuck’s sake. Jill pulled the straw out of her drink and twisted it. At least then she’d had hopes that Gabe was on it. Now, she wasn’t sure of anything.

Jill usually trusted Gabriel’s instincts, but now she was worried that he’d spent so much time formulating his serial-killer theory that he was blind to other possibilities. She hated to even imagine it, but maybe Elvis was right and Troy Berrigan
had
killed the woman at Incendie? Maybe he was bored shitless working in a restaurant, wanted to make himself a triple-zero hero again. Maybe Scotty’s death was completely unrelated? Every cop had enemies. It might just have been some sick fuck who decided to throw a Molotov into a car – and a police car was the perfect score. And the petrol bomb at the politician’s house could also have been anyone. It was not that uncommon to see a local member’s office firebombed; maybe someone had just expressed their dissatisfaction a little closer to home this time? And this bloody woman pushed in front of a train, the man stabbed in a carpark – was Gabriel going to blame every death in the city on some fucking cleaner from Rosebery?

A girl in a too-tight uniform that was smeared by the day’s trade brought Jill’s chicken and salad roll to her table. She tore off a big bite savagely. Her mobile rang.

‘What?’ she said, mouth full.

Gabriel. ‘Guess what I found in the bin?’

‘What did you find in the bin?’ Jill asked flatly.

‘Spring Valley juice bottles. Could match the bottles we got from Scotty’s car and Erin Hart’s house.’