Missing (The Cass Lehman Series Book 3) (28 page)

She contemplated the lines of anxiety that were etched into his brow. Despite his disability he occasionally had moments of clarity where he made good sense.

She brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. ‘If we could afford it I would, Jonathan, but the price of beef is too high for my budget these days. Don’t worry. We’ll choose someone who won’t be missed this time. And don’t worry about the police. As we saw today they’ve got plenty to keep them busy for a while,’ she laughed.

Jonathan’s face shifted into an uncertain smile.

‘You just need to remember that we help hundreds of men every year. They’d go hungry, homeless and maybe even die without us.’

‘Yes, Mama. Sacrifice one to help many.’ He chanted the words.

She walked over and stood in front of him. ‘Look at me.’

His eyes crawled upwards.

‘I’ll always look after you.’

She reached up and brushed her fingers against his face. He flinched at the contact. ‘Now, don’t be like that. You know Mama loves you, don’t you?’

‘Yes Mama. I love you, too, Mama.’

CHAPTER
31

The drive back to Adelaide felt longer than usual to Dave. The Southern Expressway was open and for once was both roadwork-and accident-free, which in itself was a small miracle. The time dragging had nothing to do with traffic and everything to do with how much the case was weighing him down. He didn’t know if he could handle another serial nut-job so soon after the last one.

Despite working nearly ten years in MCIB, Dave liked to believe that most of the crimes he worked were straight forward. He liked his bad guys to be light on grey cells and heavy on predictability. He also preferred crimes that centred around the usual cardinal sins of lust, greed and wrath.

A killer who’d been bumping off homeless people and eating them offended him on many levels. If it was homeless people
killing each other, it wasn’t even gluttony. It was just madness and desperation, and he didn’t like being in a world where people were so desperate and crazy they ate each other.

This Mark Saunders character that half of Adelaide was busy looking for sounded like he was on the stark-raving end of the crazy spectrum. But that wasn’t what was bugging him. Lots of killers were crazy. But this wasn’t normal crazy, if there was such a thing. This was cold, calculating, highly functioning crazy. It was crazy while still capable of making plans, staying under the radar and systematically killing, cooking and disposing of bodies for months. God, for all they knew it might have been years. What if the dump they were searching was only one of a whole bunch of sites?

It was almost enough to put him off his food — almost. He swung past his favourite pizza bar on his way home and picked up a gourmet pizza with buffalo mozzarella, baby spinach, artichokes, roasted capsicum, hot salami and prosciutto. It was his own personal creation and he loved it. He carefully placed the pizza box on a folded newspaper on the passenger seat. He didn’t want grease on the upholstery.

His plan of attack was simple. He was going home for a shower and a change of clothes. Then he’d eat before heading over to drop the urn into Mrs Jacobs’ and visit with her guests. In the morning he’d go and see Beth Crowley again. He didn’t think she was a serious contender on their list of suspects but the link to the Hutt Street Centre and the cabinet full of surgical equipment in her lounge room instead of the usual porcelain and family heirlooms made him wonder what other dark hobbies she might have.

The thought of a hot shower made him put his foot down.
Eau de dump
was becoming a regular feature, much to his disgust. He was sick of the smell of himself. He’d had to invest in some special lemon body wash and shampoo to get rid of the stench at the end of each day.

An hour later he was standing on the veranda of the two-storey Edwardian place that housed the Jacobs family, along with forty or so homeless men every night. He leant on the bell for the second time, impatient to get inside and out of the chill air. Despite the warmth of the day, the night was promising to be a cold one. He glanced heavenwards. A canvas of stars twinkled back at him. Clear skies meant the temperature would plummet and there’d be frost on the grass in the morning.

He was on the point of ringing again when he heard footsteps approaching. The lock rattled and the wooden door swung open, then Mrs Jacobs peered through the screen door. Her face folded into a scowl when she saw who it was.

‘Detective, you’re later than I expected.’ Her hands came to rest firmly on her hips, completing the overall look of displeasure.

‘Hello, Mrs Jacobs. Sorry. I stopped for a shower to wash off the dump residue. Where would you like your urn?’

‘Through to the kitchen. You know the way.’ She stood to one side to let him in.

He walked along the corridor, throwing a look at the cupboard under the stairs as he went past. The door was closed and the lock fastened.

‘He’s not in there, if that’s what you’re thinking,’ Mrs Jacobs said.

Dave couldn’t come up with anything to say that wouldn’t irritate her further so he buttoned his lips. He pushed his way into the kitchen, relieved to feel a rush of warm air as he did so.

She gestured at the table. ‘Over there will do for now. Sit down. I’ll put the kettle on.’

‘Thank you.’

While Mrs Jacobs bustled around at the stove, Dave looked around the room, his eyes coming to rest on the timber dresser. Nothing had changed since he was here last.

Mrs Jacobs finished filling a large old-fashioned tin kettle, put it on the gas hob and plopped into the chair opposite him with a groan.

‘Are you all right?’ Dave asked. She was dressed simply in a blue cardigan and navy pants. Her grey hair was pulled back into a tight bun, and her face was devoid of any make-up. There were deep lines around her eyes and bags under them.

‘My arthritis has been playing up. I’m finding it harder and harder to run this place on my own.’

Dave felt a wave of sympathy for the old woman. It must have been hard for her all these years without a husband to help her. What a schmuck to leave her to deal with the aftermath of his brutality. ‘Does Jonathan help you?’

‘After a fashion.’ She gave him a tired smile.

‘You need a partner.’

‘I do, but you didn’t come here to talk about my arthritis or my business model.’

‘Since I’m here I was hoping I might be able to show some photos to your guests to see if anyone recognises them. We’ve identified two of the victims now.’

The woman stared at him for a few moments contemplating his request. Dave smiled his best smile, hoping like hell she was still receptive to a bit of charm. She finally gave a loud sigh and threw her hands in the air.

‘If you must. They don’t much like talking to anyone in authority. I don’t know that you’ll get much. Who is it you’ve identified?’

‘The first two sets of remains belonged to a Len Crowley and a Thomas Simpson.’

‘I can’t say I recognise either name. We’ve got a few Lens that come and go. I don’t know their surnames. He could be one of them.’

‘Crowley was living with his daughter. He was in the early stages of dementia. The daughter came home and found he’d made a run for it.’

‘No sign until you found his remains?’

‘That’s right.’ Dave pushed a photo of Crowley across the table.

Mrs Jacobs picked it up with hands that were rock steady. She shook her head. ‘I don’t remember him. If he wasn’t used to being on the streets, anything could have happened to him. It’s pretty tough out there for someone who’s used to living soft.’

‘Yeah, well, it seems it did happen. He was killed, and that’s not the worst of it.’

‘Why, what happened?’

‘We think there might be one or more people out there who are targeting the homeless. It’s possible that the killers are homeless too.’

‘How awful!’

‘This is the second victim.’

Dave passed the photo of Thomas Simpson across the table. Mrs Jacobs studied the photo before pushing it back and shaking her head.

‘No, sorry, I don’t know him either.’

‘He wasn’t exactly homeless. He lived in a unit. His neighbours said he was showing some signs of erratic behaviour and confusion. Seems that one day he just walked out of his apartment and didn’t come back.’

‘Dementia is a terrible thing. To think that someone took advantage of such a vulnerable person is just horrible. Did you know that over a third of people who go missing in Australia are suffering from dementia?’

‘No, I didn’t know that,’ Dave said.

‘What about the remains you found today? Have you identified any of them?’

‘Too early for the DNA results to be in yet.’

The kettle shrilled and she stood up to make a pot of tea. Dave watched her, trying to work out if she was genuinely feeling upset. She wasn’t showing a lot of emotion, but then again, she was used
to dealing with desperate people every day of her life. That was bound to have desensitised her to tragedy.

‘Being homeless and the victim of violence is about as awful as it gets, which is why I want to show these photos around, see if anyone knows them.’

‘Of course. Do you think the victims might have known each other and their killer?’

Dave pressed his lips together considering how much to tell her. If he was going to talk to her guests it would need to be on her say so. If he approached them without her blessing, they probably wouldn’t talk to him.

‘We’ve found nine sets of remains. The six we found today plus the three sets we found previously.’

‘How do nine people go missing just like that?’ Mrs Jacobs said.

‘I don’t know. It might not be nine victims. We’re still trying to work out if the remains are all from separate victims. What we do have is CCTV footage of someone dumping what might be one of the sets of remains. The bag and the location appear to be right.’

‘So you have a description of your suspect?’ Mrs Jacobs sat forwards eagerly, her eyes boring into him.

‘Possibly. We’ve got a couple of leads. We got a partial licence plate for an old Toyota Hilux. Do you know anyone who drives one of those?’

‘Not around these parts. All Mercedes, BMWs and 4WDs around here.’ She swished the teapot around and poured them both a cup, pushing milk and sugar in his direction.

‘Anyone you’ve come across who you think would be capable of something like this?’

She looked down into her cup, thinking. ‘Most of the men I deal with don’t own cars. A very small number do — they sleep in them until the weather gets too cold. I might not know if they were doing that, though. I doubt they’d want to spend the petrol money to drive all the way to McLaren Vale to dump a body. It’s a long way from here.’

‘It is. We think the killer wanted to dump the remains somewhere remote from the murder scene. We’re also not convinced the McLaren Vale dump is the only disposal site. There might be more.’

She shook her head and peered at him over her teacup. The shadows cast by the pendant light made it impossible for Dave to read the expression in her eyes.

‘We also found some DNA under the nails of one of the victims.’

‘DNA?’ She sat forwards. ‘Did you get a match?’

‘Yes. It’s for another homeless man.’ He passed the photo of Mark Saunders across the table. ‘Do you know him?’

She picked up the photo and studied it.

‘No, can’t say I do.’

‘We need to find him.’

‘You do need my help, don’t you? Finish your tea and I’ll take you through to the common room. Most of the men will be in there playing cards, reading or watching television at this time of night. I’ll introduce you and you can show them your pictures.’

Dave slurped his tea. ‘Thank you. That would be very helpful.’

The half hour that followed was an exercise in futility. Mrs Jacobs took Dave through to the common room, a large room furnished with tables and chairs, couches and a couple of TVs. Around thirty men were in there, some chatting quietly, others staring at the TVs or playing cards or chess. The atmosphere was relaxed. All of the furniture was old and worn, and the curtains looked like relics from the fifties. But the room was comfortable and warm.

The murmuring of voices halted as Mrs Jacobs walked in.

‘Gentlemen, this is Detective Reynolds. He’s here because some men like yourselves have been murdered and he’s trying to work out who might be responsible. He wants to show you some pictures to see if you recognise any of the people. I hope you’ll cooperate.’

There was an extended silence. Her words seemed to hang in the air while everyone digested them, then the murmuring started up again, louder than before, like a swarm of wasps.

‘I’ll leave you to it, Detective. Come and find me in the kitchen when you’re finished.’

Dave looked around the room. He decided to begin with a group of six men playing cards around a small table. He grabbed a chair, pulled it over to them and sat down.

‘My name’s Dave Reynolds.’ He waited to see if any of them would introduce themselves. They didn’t. He pulled out the three photos and placed them on the table. ‘We found the bodies of
two of these men in a dump out at McLaren Vale. The third is someone who might have seen one of them just before he died. I’d appreciate it if you’d take a look at these pictures and tell me if you’ve ever seen any of these men.’