Hart drew his head back and frowned. He hadn’t seen this level of antagonism in a witness for a while. He wanted to give the prick a serve but noted his colleague was patient.
Black remained impassive. ‘Why suspect him?’
‘Twenty-four hours ago he threatened us both. It’s now on my conscience that I did nothing. Didn’t even tell Derk, never mind you buggers. The bastard was raving mad. I dismissed it. Not the first time he’s threatened our lives.’
‘Okay. We’ll look into that. I’ll be round to your office to take a full statement later this morning.’
Thomas vomited at the door of his car before driving back to the office and sending Jenny home for the day.
****
Everywhere Black looked around the apartment he saw the sad detritus of a lonely and mismanaged life. From bedroom to kitchen, laundry to bathroom, the place was a picture of disorder, dirt and damage. Small dents, missing paint, holes in walls, spills on the carpet and cracked furniture. Rubbish accumulating and lids left off cleaning materials. The fridge and pantry were pristine compared with the rest of the place. But when Black looked at the huge body on the floor, he realised these assets were Donaldson’s raison d’être.
A photographer in uniform recorded the entire scene, including various angles from within the apartment, the body and the scene outside the apartment door. While Black wandered around he asked Hart to help him look for clues that connected Donaldson to Apsley.
‘Anything that doesn’t seem right, Bazza?’
Hart frowned. ‘That Thomas – what a grumpy cunt. You shoulda put the prick in his place, Blackie.’
Black gave a look that said Thomas was nothing in the aggro stakes. ‘He’s got a bit of a rep for being a nut job. Remember, the attempted rape case we lost the other day?’
Hart nodded. ‘His daughter’s.’
‘Down to him. Tried to take control. Something about him, Bazza. He’s got a shitty business history but somehow he’s flown under our radar before now.’
Black noticed an opened brown envelope on top of the kitchen fridge. A nod to Hart, who’d already slipped on the latex. Hart pulled out the images.
‘Jesus,’ said Black. ‘Apsley?’
‘Jack Dench,’ said Hart. ‘Read this.’ Hart held the note in front of Black so he didn’t have to touch it. ‘Twenty bloody grand. Serious trade.’
‘And the fat man double-crossing his partner,’ added Hart, eyes wide.
‘Looks that way. We’ll have a look at Donaldson’s and Dench’s bank accounts but I’m guessing we won’t find this transaction. These perverts are more devious than that. Let’s get it all examined.’ When Black saw that one of the two uniforms was about to open up the fingerprint kit he called out, ‘Hang fire with the prints for a sec, guys.’
‘Do you smell anything odd here, Bazza?’
‘About Thomas or Donaldson?’
‘Well yeah, but I meant literally. That stink we were greeted with the other day has disappeared. Been replaced with something else I can’t place.’
‘Yeah, I know. Me missus uses it. It’s that carpet deodoriser stuff. Pongy, eh? Doesn’t last long, though.’
‘Know how long?’
‘A few hours.’
Black moved his arm around the internal tip site. ‘Do we reckon the big guy was into vacuuming just before he died?’ He wandered into the laundry, Hart following. Their attention focused on the empty bag that once held rubber gloves. ‘See them anywhere, Bazza? I’ll look in the kitchen.’
No one could find the gloves. ‘Looking around this place, I’m surprised there’re any cleaning materials. Old Derek wasn’t the type to keep the plastic wrapping and get rid of the gloves. We’ll take that and check it for prints,’ said Black.
‘Okay, guys, let’s get this carpet thing sorted before we dust for prints. Bazza, you get the forensic experts in. Till then we’ll stay clear of the body till after the doc’s been and gone. Also get the IT guys here to get that.’ Black nodded in the direction of the computer. ‘Bazza, I’ll talk to the Flying Fuck. She’ll put a team together but for the moment, you’re in charge of the scene.’
Hart frowned in response.
‘What?’ asked Black, looking surprised.
‘You know what I think about her.’
‘Christ, Bazza, you’re more paranoid about the brass than I am.’
Chapter 20
The Flying Fuck, as most of the CIB called her, with respect, was Black’s immediate boss, Detective Inspector Fiona Tuck. She was well aware of her nickname, acquired when she made detective sergeant five years ago, heading up the West Coast CIB. ‘I don’t give a flying fuck for your excuses’ was a signature line for staff and crims alike.
Black’s view of his direct report was more favourable than Bazza’s. His sidekick had failed his sergeant’s exams a couple of times but he’d been an accurate judge of character. All he’d say about Tuck was that he suspected her of speaking with forked tongue.
Black hadn’t seen that duplicity. He thought of Tuck as a Jack Russell terrier, energetic, colourful and smart. She pushed boundaries on the minimum permitted height for a female police officer. Typically, her peroxide blonde hair was loose on her shoulders. Her friendly face and warm smile, added to her diminutive stature, belied her hard-nosed attitude to crims. Aloof and thoughtful, she was often seen absent-mindedly twirling a lock of hair around a finger.
Tuck confirmed Black as head of the Donaldson investigation, including media liaison when required. They decided both Thomas and Dench would be treated as witnesses but that status could change quickly, depending on the post mortem and forensics.
Black assigned detectives to carry out background checks of Donaldson and other associates, including the location and interviews of any known family. Hart could continue with his OC scene role and Detective Josslyn Ward would interview potential witnesses in the apartment block and the immediate vicinity.
Uniform would be called in if the numbers of witnesses required it. Black would also need to assign someone to coordinate job sheets, computer records and maintain the inquiry file, and someone to be the key link with the various forensics.
Tuck told Black that, subject to forensics and pathology, the team might need to be scaled back within seventy-two hours and allocated to other work. He was to keep a close eye on overtime. That instruction reflected the pressure she was under from her district commander, a man who was becoming harder to respect by the day.
Back in his own office, Black looked down onto Hereford Street. It was a mellow, windless, Indian summer day – a break from the easterlies. He’d had enough of polystyrene cups filled with brown factory floor sweepings. He decided to head out for a real coffee.
He saw colleagues on the street and civilians lazing on the grassy river bank sipping cold drinks and eating food from bags, some choosing shade, others enjoying the sun. For a moment he envied the ducks their freedom as they water-skiied in to land on the Avon.
Hatred born of jealousy or infidelity could drive any of the three financiers to kill another. Forensics implicated Donaldson in Apsley’s death. But what was his motive? Two old poofs falling out, resulting in Donaldson killing Apsley and then committing suicide in remorse? Taking out a porn trade competitor?
While waiting for his coffee order, he removed his glasses, huffed on the lenses and wiped them on his blue and white striped tie. The more he thought about a connection between the two men, the less likely autoeroticism seemed relevant.
Black returned to a phone message from Thomas asking when CIB would be bothered to take his complaint about Dench’s threat. ‘Is my own death necessary before you take action?’ Arrogant prick. As if this was his only investigation. When he rang the T & D office, he was told that the boss was out for about half an hour. Jenny would take a message or he could call Thomas on his mobile.
Before he ended the call Black also established that Dench hadn’t called
the office any time Jenny was there within the last few days. Nor had she heard Thomas mention threats to his or Donaldson’s life until after he rang to tell her the tragic news. Access to their new mobile phone numbers was restricted to the partners’ family and friends, though sometimes a few favoured clients were allowed them too.
At midday Cadveron provided preliminary results for Donaldson. Thomas arrived at 2.30 PM, accompanied by Toby Latham. Although Black welcomed the visit, he suspected the out of the blue appearance was typical of Thomas and his need to control the agenda, any agenda. He demanded Dench be charged with threatening to kill. ‘My lawyer will help you get it right.’
But his complaint was sunk by the pathologist’s torpedoes. Thomas had no explanation for the blood in Donaldson’s body gathering in his lower limbs. Time of death was sometime in the previous evening. Nor could he explain the lack of blood pooling where Donaldson’s body had been in contact with the floor. Latham objected to the questions as being irrelevant to his client’s complaint. Black was undeterred.
Thomas couldn’t explain, either, why the colour of the ligature mark was more consistent with hanging for several hours rather than a quick manual strangulation. No, he didn’t know that after a death from hanging, the pressure of the ligature would cause the mark to change over time, including leaving rope indentations found by the pathologist. Thomas denied knowing where the rope was. He didn’t know where the missing cleaning gloves were and didn’t believe he’d been in Derek’s laundry. He’d have no need to go in there.
Thomas repeated his claim that Dench had threatened him on his mobile sometime in the last three days before he found his mate. He told Black he was sure it was the mobile and not the office land line. When confronted with Jenny’s statement about the recently changed mobile numbers, he had no explanation for how Dench had the new number. Three hours after his arrival, Thomas left Black on police bail to attend court the following afternoon charged with attempting to pervert the course of justice.
****
Black called his team together and asked what else they had. After talking to Cadveron, Hart had been to the hospital where he’d spoken to Donaldson’s doctor. He raised the issue of why a body might have puncture marks in the skin without showing any toxicology. ‘The doc had also been an anaesthetist. He said we might like to consider some bloody drug – don’t ask me to pronounce it. It’s got fifteen bloody letters. He said we could just call it “sux”. Said it was most likely to be this sux ’cause it’s very hard to detect. Fast acting and disappears quickly from the body. Said he’d make a statement if we needed.’
Black explained that he was starting to like Thomas for something more sinister than the impulsive act for which he’d just been arrested and bailed. The pathologist had confirmed there was a puncture mark in Donaldson’s neck in the same place as on Apsley. Black asked Hart to organise a search warrant for the Thomas property. ‘We need to be looking for this sux stuff or whatever else looks suspicious, including needles etc. Look out for porn, magazine articles involving unusual deaths, ropes or other ligatures. We’ll get his computer and phone records. And Bazza, we need to organise a simultaneous search of his office and home.’
Chapter 21
A quick survey of the room registered a nondescript grey carpet, a full bookcase on one wall and framed diplomas and degrees opposite. Two chairs were positioned either side of a low, chrome-framed, glass-topped coffee table. Sasha suspected it was there for aesthetic reasons, to create a nominal boundary.
Over the therapist’s right shoulder Sasha could see a garden bordered by a tall hedge and trees that were getting ready to hibernate. The occasional orange leaf fluttered to the ground.
She turned her attention to Margie North. Her face was framed by thick, shoulder-length brown hair, though Sasha noticed a new show of silver appearing at the roots when the therapist leant forward. Grey-green eyes behind square glasses. Sasha thought her conservatively dressed in her dark brown suit. A large clock behind Sasha made it unnecessary for the therapist to look at a watch.
The immediate focus was what Sasha thought about when she was awake in the early hours of the morning. Then they moved on to childhood memories, parental and teacher expectations and daily life, university and professional work. Although Sasha had made it clear when making the appointment that it wasn’t just insomnia that worried her, she made light work of these questions. All short answers. She wanted to cut to the chase. Home life without her father, her strong bond with Mac, an emotionally distant mother who constantly expected very high standards, standards associated with the family name – Margie North traversed all these. They discussed Sasha’s baby being adopted and arguments with Natalie over her career choice.
‘You mentioned to me on the phone your feelings of being fraudulent. How do you arrive at that description?’ Each word was carefully enunciated in a warm tone.
‘For a long time I haven’t believed myself as competent as others seem to,’ Sasha admitted. ‘It goes back to school and right through university. When I got A’s in law, I felt as though there’d been some mistake - that somehow I kept getting lucky. And not helped by my mother, as I’ve said. I remember one specific paper on torts. I was sure I’d botched it. When it came through as an A, I said to a friend that the tutor must have been away with the fairies when she marked it.’
The therapist gave her a searching look. ‘So you see all your successes in life as down to luck, essentially undeserved?’
‘More or less. I ride through it during the day when I’m in court because that’s like a theatre. It would be difficult for an effective advocate not to be good at role-playing at some level.’
‘And outside the courtroom? You mentioned Mac before. Do you feel fraudulent with him?’
‘Often. But there you go. He’s a father, a mentor, a great friend – he means everything to me. Yet I don’t tell him about this stuff.’ Sasha held her hands out, palms up. ‘What does that say about me except that I’m not a fraud?’
Margie North shot her a quizzical look.
Sasha dropped her eyes. ‘I got close the other day when we were talking about Mum. He’s only got good memories of her before her illness.’ She shook her head. ‘I can’t shatter those.’
The other woman nodded. ‘You’ve given examples of things you’ve done or avoided that many would call highly principled. Do you think that telling the bald truth about your mother, and how you see her, is unprincipled? In some way the wrong thing to do?’
‘I’m not saying I’d never tell Mac. But there’s nothing to be gained by telling him now when he’s in pain about losing her.’
Margie North looked confused. ‘Didn’t you tell me he was in Europe on a mission to find someone?’
Sasha looked horrified. ‘Good God. Not to replace Natalie. That’s business.’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. My point is, are we really talking about his pain or your pain? For all the things you love about him, do you really believe he couldn’t cope with your truth?’
****
Two kilometres away from the room where Sasha sat, a 5.30 PM clearance of a letter box resulted in a bunch of junk mail and an official-looking letter. The recipient recognised the name of the firm that sent it, but not of Toby Latham, the partner specialising in estate law.
‘I expressly record that I want the parasites and leeches Michelle Thomas, my so-called wife, and Christine Thomas, my so-called daughter, to be excluded from receiving any benefit whatsoever from my estate.’
‘I further expressly record that neither Michelle Thomas nor Christine Thomas is to have any use, occupation, income from, or any other benefit whatsoever, of my property at Park Terrace, Christchurch and I direct my trustee to take all steps to evict and restrain from return, any person staying in the said property within seven days of my death.’
The will was signed by Trevor Ivan Thomas on the first of March and witnessed by office staff.
The recipient had three options. The first was to return the letter to the sender, drawing attention to his error. The second was to pass it to Thomas. It was after all, his property. The problem with both the first two options was even if the documents were posted anonymously, some inquiry would unfold about who might be in the know. The recipient had reasons to avoid that. This wasn’t a mistake Thomas would easily forgive. As the will indicated, he wasn’t the type. Anyway, who was to say Thomas himself hadn’t already received his own copy?
The third and chosen option was to destroy it and the envelope it came in. That would remove any embarrassment for all parties concerned. No one would be any the wiser.
Chapter 22
Sasha stared into her glass of water. Margie North waited.
Forcing a smile Sasha said, ‘I can hardly deny I’ve had no pain when I’m sitting in your room, can I?’
‘You might like to consider whether making negative predictions about Mac’s coping ability…’
Sasha interrupted. ‘I’m not predicting he can’t cope with my revelations, it’s just…’ She stopped. ‘It’s something I need to think about some more, I guess.’
The therapist nodded. ‘I sensed before you answered that there’s something you’ve put aside.’
Sasha nodded. ‘Was it that obvious?’
Margie North smiled but said nothing.
‘I haven’t told anyone and, frankly, I hadn’t intended to tell you.’ Sasha took a deep breath. ‘A week ago, I was raped by a High Court judge.’ She unfolded the sorry details.
Margie North spoke softly. ‘I’m curious you believed you shouldn’t tell anyone. It’s not like you could blame yourself in any way.’
‘Easy for you to say.’ Sasha sounded rueful and cross at the same time. ‘I should’ve left the function when Mac went. That would’ve been the smarter thing to do. I’d allowed myself to be distracted with thoughts about being a QC.’