Stumped!
A Bondi Detective mystery
By David Stephenson
CHAPTER ONE
Joe Charnock was always being woken by dead bodies. Not without good reason. The corpse was the number one occupational hazard for a murder detective. However, Bondi's chief inspector – Joe to those who knew him – especially loathed being disturbed by his mobile phone. On this particular morning, it was followed by the shrill ring of his landline telephone, and then by his alarm clock.
This joyless triple whammy thundered through his head at 5.51am. God, it felt early. Joe had a bedroom at the back of his house, a Twenties red-brick bungalow of uninspiring character, but which was shaded by a sumptuous jacaranda tree at the front. This was the property's redeeming feature. He assumed the house was probably built years ago by a couple of Kiwi builders who had come over on the latest tide and knocked it up in a few weeks before heading down to the surf. For this was Bondi Beach, the jewel in the crown of Australian surfing life. In the Twenties, it was no doubt a terribly nice place with immaculately cream-suited types going about their business very politely. Now, it was chaotic whirlpool of crime, immigrants, backpackers, surfers and chancers, all wanting to make a buck in the prosperous sea air. Australia was booming, and Bondi was a staging post for many on their way to driving a truck at an open-cut mine for 200k a year.
Joe hadn’t quite got to where he was going. He was 55, widowed and loved to hate Bondi. He was also too fat, too drunk mostly, didn’t do any exercise and couldn’t stop watching sport on TV. He was addicted to it, like most of the country. But Joe was caring less and less about what people thought of him. He hadn’t for years, which was the nice thing about reaching a so-called respectable age. What he saw ahead of him now was a sizeable retirement cheque, a passport out of backpackers’ land and a pretty retirement cottage on the east coast of Tasmania, where the Poms gravitate. He didn’t even mind that. Deep down, he felt he was something of an Anglophile.
His mobile rang again.
“What?!” he blurted.
“Boss? Is that you boss?”
It was Detective Constable Jimmy Cook from the Bondi Police Station, Joe’s partner in the detective unit, “the plain clothes' boys”.
“Yes. What?”
“We've got a stiff, mate. Bad one.”
“Oh, Christ. Where is it?”
“Up with the posh lot. Vaucluse.”
“Well, makes a change.”
“Pick you up.”
It was mid-October in Bondi. Jimmy was doing the driving, as he mostly did, and they sped up Dover Heights Road with the beach, and the new dawn, at their backs. It was muggy, a bit airless and destined to be uncomfortable, even for mid-spring. Joe grimaced slightly as the car swayed around the sharp bends on the concrete-paved road. He could feel the annoying clunk of the tyres on the joins between slabs. It was just after 6.30am, and he’d had no real breakfast.
“Shit, Jimmy!” said Joe. “Easy on the pedal.”
Joe was wearing his favourite tan suit, an outfit only Les Patterson could love. Jimmy gestured at the takeaway coffee on the dash, in a holder. Joe obligingly took a glug.
Dover Heights and Vaucluse were cheek-by-jowl at the top of a spit of land facing out to the Tasman Sea. It couldn’t be more spectacular. You could almost touch the North Island of New Zealand from here. Joe didn’t care much for views to be honest. From where he was sitting, he’d had little sleep, no breakfast, couldn’t stop thinking about his bed and now had a moderate hangover washed down only with a swig of a latte.
“You watch all that Hockeyroos match, did ya?” asked Jimmy.
Joe mumbled in the affirmative.
“You gotta stop watching women’s hockey, boss. You’ll be hanging around school netball matches next!”
Jimmy was quick with a line, especially at the boss's expense.
“Only if you tell you them, detective constable.”
Jimmy and Joe got on perfectly well. Probably friendlier than either of them would ever have acknowledged. It was typical Aussie mate ship, but with dead bodies and murderers thrown in for good measure.
Within moments they came to a stop, in the middle of well-heeled Vaucluse. Gone were the reddish-brown brick flats, giving way to multi-coloured, Mediterranean-style rendered houses. People were doing very nicely here. The police tape was already out, around the house of the victim.
No one was saying very much at the crime scene. They're quiet, busy places.
Cook and Charnock slipped on the fetching forensic white suits.
“Bloody things,” muttered Joe.
“Where?” he asked the constable.
“Round the back, sir.”
“Who is it?”
“Some cricketer, sir.”
“In this house? That is some cricketer.”
Joe and Jimmy headed down the gravel drive of the cream two-storey house. Impressive.
Not bad, thought Joe. They went through a side gate and into the back garden, which appeared to lead to the cliff edge, where there was a summer house. He didn’t like cliffs at all.
“God, boss. Someone was doing well.”
They walked into the kitchen through large floor-to-ceiling doors, which were cantilevered. Beyond a breakfast bar, Joe could glimpse the top of a body. He prepared himself, holding his breath for some reason. Two pathology guys were doing their stuff.
As Jimmy and Joe moved further into the kitchen, there was a strange, stale smell.
“Err...” said Jimmy.
“You’ve come across a dead body before?”
“Yes, sir.”
Joe turned to the pathologist, Charlie.
“What have we got?”
“Male, 55 thereabouts, with a large knife in his chest, and what also appears to be cricket stump inserted in his, ah, rectum, sir.”
No one spoke momentarily as this bizarre piece of information was left hanging.
Charlie continued. “No ID on the body but the woman who found him said it was the cricketer Terry Forbes.”
“Forbes?! The top opening bat? Bloody hell. Take a look around Jimmy. No sign of a struggle in here really.”
Joe, now shocked and disgusted, stood over the body in the kitchen. The victim was wearing what you could only describe as indoor leisure wear, a green and gold tracksuit. Patriotic. He was slumped forward over a glass-top table. Blood now covered it, and it had congealed slightly.
It appeared that the weight of the body was somehow supported on the knife, which was holding him over the edge of the table. There was no doubting the positioning of the cricket stump.
“Time of death?”
“Hard to say, sir, but about 24 to 30 hours ago. Something like that.”
“So early hours of the night before then?”
“About then, sir. But can't be sure yet.”
“Can we lift him? I want to see his face.”
“Well...”
“Well, you lot don’t even know who he is. At least I will recognise him.”
The forensic officer lifted the body, revealing the face of the victim. He was smiling.
“Well, it can’t have been all bad,” said Joe.
Joe looked further down the body and caught sight of the knife. “Bloody hell,” he said, placing his hand over his mouth. It turned his empty stomach. He dashed for the back garden.
The forensic officer followed him outside with a glass of water.
“Thanks, mate.”
“Who was he, sir?”
Clearing his throat, he said, “Jesus. Don't you blokes watch sport? Only one of the greatest batsmen of the Seventies. What a tragedy. Just a shock really. He opened the innings in the baggy g
reen, and just had this beautiful style. To see him like that when you’ve also seen him at the SCG. He was the sort of batsmen who you thought would never get out. Must have had a solid average of 65-70. But he would just take the blows on the body. Ball after ball. An Australian Colin Cowdrey. They would thump them down, he would take it on the sweater. No poncy helmets then either. If you got hit on the head you just took the blow, shake yourself about and get on with it. The 'arch defender'. That’s what they used to call him. The 'arch defender'. Now with a cricket stump up his backside. The press are gonna love this.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And he’s smiling. I wonder which came first. The stump or the knife?”
“We should know that tomorrow.”
The forensic officer went back inside.
“Terry Forbes. Can’t believe it. You don’t see someone for 40 years then they turn up dead in front of you. Where has he been?”
Joe walked a few steps beyond the patio. A seagull squawked overhead. Straight ahead was the Tasman Sea. There were neighbours to the left and right. On the right hand side, there was another summer house perched on the edge of the cliff. Nice place. It almost matched the size of the summer house at the bottom of Forbes garden, which alone was about the size of Joe’s house.
Jimmy joined him on the patio.
“Sir?”
“Yes.”
“You alright?”
“Of course. What is it?”
“Just weird. For a bloke who lived alone, it’s the tidiest house I’ve ever walked into. Bloody spotless throughout.”
“Except for that mess in the kitchen.”
“Why alone?”
“That’s what the neighbours say.”
“I found this in the hall table drawer.”
Jimmy passed him what appeared to be a glossy brochure.
“‘Australia versus Pakistan, 2002. Forbes Tours’. Interesting.”
“That’s it?”
“Well, I haven’t gone upstairs yet.”
“2002? What’s that all about?”
A Wpc turned up from inside.
“Sir?”
“Yes.”
“Sir, the woman who found the body is quite upset. Wants to know if she can go home. It’s only next door.”
“Has she got blood on her?”
“No, sir. Why?”
“Nowhere on her?”
“I don’t know. I couldn’t see. I can’t –”
“You don’t know. That’s the issue. Have you just arrived from Goulburn training centre, mate?”
“Yes... no, sir, not really. Four months.”
“Friendly word, constable. Anyone who came near this house in the past 24 hours or the next 24 hours is a suspect. That’s how it works. I’m sure she’s very distressed.”
“She lives with her elderly mother.”
“Okay, let's see. You haven’t left her on her own at the crime scene with all that evidence?”
The trio darted into the kitchen, pushing aside one of the forensics’ team as they headed for the staircase.
“Out of the way!” shouted Joe, as he did his best at taking three stairs at a time.
But Jimmy, more the athlete, sprinted ahead of them. After racing up the stairs, he went straight into the living room in the front of the house. It was deserted. He came back to the landing where he greeted Joe and the Wpc at the top of the stairs.
“She’s gone…”
“What! Are you sure?”
The three dashed into the room.
“Look down there, Jimmy,” said Joe, pointing to a doorway appearing to lead back into house. “Go back outside and see if anyone saw her leave.”
Jimmy ran for the other door, but as he did collided with a woman coming the other way. She was carrying a glass of a water and wearing a dressing gown.
“Shit!” said Jimmy.
The glass was catapulted from the woman’s hand against the door, and on to the carpet.
“Well, that’s no way to greet a lady,” she said calmly.