The sunbaker, p.21
The Sunbaker, page 21
Chapter Forty
Jack was halfway through Brenda’s fried eggs, bacon, mushrooms and the most exquisite pork sausage when his phone pinged. It was Begley.
Apparently there’s news. Presser 10 a.m. Bruns cop shop.
Jack read it to the others, then his phone pinged again.
You’re still blacklisted. Proud of you.
Jack looked up at Caitlin. ‘Want to come?’
‘Defo.’
‘What about me?’ said Brenda. ‘Marilyn would never say no to a press conference.’
Half an hour later, after Brenda had applied red lipstick and put on her wig, they stood on the lawn in front of the police station, Marilyn’s red stilettos sinking slowly into the grass. There were even more journalists than at Petra Novak’s previous press conference, in spite of word spreading that her last all-too-brief presser was a complete waste of time. But they were hardly going to stay away – the equation was simple: more bodies equals more journos. As they waited, the occasional stormtrooper strutted in and out of the station, their black SUVs abandoned every which way – none of them at the designated forty-five-degree angle.
Novak was fifteen minutes late when she emerged from the front door of the station, by which time the journalists were growing impatient. Once more she was impeccably dressed in her trademark outfit: white collared shirt and black pants suit. Jack wondered if she ever changed her outfit, then mentally withdrew the criticism on remembering he was still wearing the same clothes from the previous day.
Novak saved an especially hostile glare for Jack, no doubt for again gatecrashing her presser uninvited. Then she noticed Brenda in her Marilyn Monroe outfit. ‘Are you an accredited member of the press, ma’am?’
‘She’s with me,’ said Caitlin.
‘And you are?’
‘With the Hollywood Reporter.’
Novak appeared to mull her options, then shook her head slowly before reciting her pre-prepared speech. ‘Thank you for attending. I won’t take up much of your time. My name is Petra Novak, from New South Wales Police Public Relations. Five days ago, a body was found at a residential address here in Brunswick Heads. That man was Michael Brown, a lawyer based in this region. Two days ago, another body was found at the same address. Police believe the murders are linked.’
No shit, Sherlock, thought Jack.
‘The second victim was the TV personality Christian Moreau.’
There were exclamations of shock as well as looks of surprise exchanged among the press pack.
Novak continued, ‘His family have asked for privacy in their time of grief.’
Jack put up his hand, but Novak ignored him.
‘A twenty-three-year-old local man from Byron Bay has been arrested this morning in connection with the murder of Mr Moreau. Police believe both killings were targeted and are confident that, following this arrest, residents do not need to have any further concerns for their safety.’
Jack was surprised they’d made an arrest. It had seemed the stormtroopers had spent most of the investigation barking up the wrong trees, and Begley had said nothing about them closing in on anyone. Jack again raised his hand and Novak continued to ignore him, instead pointing to someone else.
‘Ian from Northern FM. What is the name of the suspect?’
‘That isn’t being released at this time.’
‘Was he known to the victims?’
‘I am unable to provide that information.’
Jack raised his hand, to no avail.
The ABC journalist raised her hand.
‘Yes, Callee?’
‘Is the man you arrested also suspected of the murder of the first victim, Michael Brown?’
Novak’s hands began fidgeting. ‘No comment.’
The journalist continued, ‘If you believe the risk to local residents is over, and you’ve only arrested one person, you must think he was responsible for both murders.’
‘I don’t wish to go into detail, but currently his involvement is believed to be confined to the murder of Mr Moreau.’
Jack lowered his hand then whispered in Marilyn’s ear; her hand shot up.
‘Ms Monroe, Hollywood Reporter. I’m a big fan of Cluedo. And Agatha Christie. Do you read Agatha Christie, dear?’
Novak looked momentarily confused. ‘No. Is she on Twitter?’
‘You should, dear. And all your friends inside the police station. As you say, if there is no longer any danger to our local residents, the only logical conclusion is that the man you have arrested killed both people, or Mr Moreau murdered Mr Brown. I’m favouring option two.’
Novak’s jaw dropped, her eyes wide with surprise.
‘She’s very good, Agatha Christie,’ said Marilyn. ‘You should start with The Murder of Roger Ackroyd – probably her best.’
Novak slowly regained her composure, and then lost it again. She turned to Jack and her finger resumed its now trademark pointing. Through her clenched jaw, she mumbled, ‘Don’t you even think about publishing that – it’s just wild speculation.’
Jack raised his hand. He was tired of making such slow progress on the story. Time to stir things up.
Novak barked at him, ‘What?’
‘Was Mr Brown an official employee of the New South Wales Police, or was he more of a private consultant? I mean, how did he get paid, for example? Did he receive payslips? Or was it cash?’
The other journalists all stared at Jack, trying to absorb what he’d said, and sensing an even bigger story.
Novak’s eyes were now wide with horror rather than surprise. Her breathing became very rapid and she sucked in bigger and bigger breaths. Her pointer finger was back, but only vaguely waving in Jack’s direction before she became unsteady on her feet and, a few seconds later, still hyperventilating, her legs turned to jelly and she folded onto the grass.
Marilyn kicked off her stilettos and sprang into action as the crowd gathered around. She kneeled by Novak’s side, checked her pulse, then rotated her head to the side. Marilyn ordered Jack to raise Novak’s legs and for Caitlin to call an ambulance. Marilyn held the woman’s hand.
‘She’ll be fine in a minute or two.’
Jack raised a questioning eyebrow.
‘I was a nurse,’ said Marilyn. ‘Before I became a movie star.’
She was right – Novak did slowly come around over a few minutes, all the while looking a ghoulish grey. When she started regaining consciousness, Jack lowered her legs and backed away, leaving Caitlin and Marilyn with her. When Novak had sufficiently recovered, they supported her as she walked unsteadily inside.
The journalists descended on Jack as a pack, but when it was clear he wasn’t going to divulge any information about Michael Brown’s involvement with the police, they departed to file their stories about the death of the celebrity chef, Christian Moreau. The only journalists remaining were from the TV network that broadcast Moreau’s cooking programs – they were busy on their phones, presumably informing their masters that the headline star of one of their prime-time shows was dead.
Caitlin joined Jack on the footpath. ‘So, women are throwing themselves at your feet now. Or was it a case of preferring to be unconscious rather than talk to you?’
Jack laughed. ‘She might want to reconsider her career choice. Aren’t comms officers supposed to remain calm at all times, and lie proficiently?’
Two of the stormtroopers pushed their way out of the police station and ambled towards their car, each radiating an aura of menace. Their dark glasses were fixed on Jack as they approached. The beefiest of them gave Jack an ‘accidental’ shoulder nudge as he passed. They disappeared inside one of their tinted black SUVs, but it didn’t drive off.
A police car pulled up to the kerb and sounded a horn. The window lowered and Kowalski beckoned them over.
‘Begley thought you might like a lift back to your car in Byron,’ he said.
They settled in and Kowalski drove off.
‘Do you feel like you’re missing something, Jack?’ Caitlin asked from the front seat.
‘Like what?’
‘Handcuffs.’
Jack laughed.
‘Don’t tempt me,’ said Kowalski.
‘Go on,’ said Caitlin. ‘I’ll mind the key.’
Just before they reached the motorway, an ambulance sped past in the other direction, lights flashing.
‘Why are you really driving us?’ asked Jack. ‘The police service doesn’t usually provide a taxi service.’
‘I have some info for you, from Begley.’
‘And …?’
‘First, I’m aware Begley asked you to help out, Jack, but are you sure you want to do this? Begley told me Brown was an illegal informant for the Harriers. What you’re doing is not without risk – the Harriers don’t always play nice.’
‘But we can’t let the Harriers get away with it,’ said Jack.
Kowalski nodded, then said, ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you. They’re following us now.’
Jack glanced through the rear window. The black SUV was two cars back. ‘It could just be a coincidence.’
‘Maybe.’
‘What’s Begley’s news?’
‘Moreau was electrocuted. The forensic pathologist in Newcastle, Professor Henderson, took a lot of samples for DNA analysis, especially those places where the wires had been attached to his limbs. There was no direct match for the DNA on the national database, so they checked for a familial match.’
‘And they found one?’
‘Only by chance. When Michael Brown’s body was found, he was unidentified and so his DNA was run through the database in case he was on there. The DNA retrieved from Moreau’s body was a familial match with Michael Brown’s DNA, which hadn’t yet been deleted from the database.’
‘Jesus,’ said Jack. ‘Moreau was killed by someone related to Michael Brown.’
‘Who?’ said Caitlin.
Kowalski caught Jack’s eyes in the rear-vision mirror. ‘Michael Brown’s son, Grantley. They arrested him this morning. It seems it was a revenge killing.’
There was a shocked silence while they both digested the information.
Jack wasn’t happy; there were so many things that didn’t add up.
‘Could they have made a mistake?’
‘They’ll know soon enough when Grantley’s DNA is compared with that taken from Moreau’s body. But it has to be him – they don’t think Michael Brown has any other living relatives.’
‘But according to the locals, the same, or a similar white van, was used by the person who killed both men. And how did Grantley Brown find out Moreau had killed his father, when the police had no idea?’
‘He was tipped off.’ Kowalski retrieved a folder from beside his seat and handed it to Caitlin. ‘They found this in his ute.’
Caitlin opened the folder and read the letter before handing it to Jack.
‘It was posted to his home,’ said Kowalski. ‘No return address of course.’
Jack read the letter. It was brief and to the point.
The man who killed your father is at Repentance Creek Spiritual Retreat. Christian Moreau.
And that was it. Typed. Unsigned.
‘Which is pretty convincing,’ said Kowalski. ‘DNA evidence on the body, he had a motive and the means. He’s an electrician.’
‘I don’t like it,’ said Jack.
‘Why?’ asked Caitlin.
‘It means there’s a fourth person out there, one who knows that Moreau killed Brown. Why would that person tip off Grantley Brown and not the police? And why would they think Grantley might kill Moreau in revenge when any normal person receiving a letter like that would just take it to the police?’
Caitlin said, ‘Maybe it was the Harriers themselves that tipped off Grantley.’
The black SUV was still two cars behind when Kowalski took the highway exit ramp towards Byron Bay.
‘From all accounts the son can be a pretty incendiary character,’ said Kowalski. ‘And he and his father were very close. His mother died when he was young. When Grantley finished his apprenticeship in Sydney and got a job up here as a sparky, Michael Brown left a mega-successful law practice to be closer to his son.’
‘Have the stormtroopers interviewed Grantley?’
‘If by stormtroopers you mean the Harriers, yes. The tearoom talk is that he confessed to everything.’
‘Really?’
‘Apparently he was a bit of a bad boy in the past. When he was a juvenile.’
‘Does he have a criminal record?’
‘I’m told he has no convictions, but I haven’t looked myself to see if there are any cautions. I can’t look without it being tracked, and I’m sure the Harriers are watching everything.’
Jack was uneasy. It seemed all too neat, especially for the Harriers. Being outed for using a criminal defence barrister as an illegal informant was an existential threat to them and yet their problem was solved by Moreau killing their man. But there was no apparent motive for Moreau to do so. And who was the mystery person who sent Grantley the letter tipping him off that Moreau had killed his father? They were missing something.
‘Can you let me know where Grantley Brown lives?’ asked Jack. ‘I want to check it out.’
‘If Begley is happy about it, I’ll text it to you.’
‘Is Begley ever happy about anything?’ asked Jack.
‘Fair point,’ said Kowalski as he slowed down the car and joined the perennial traffic queue crawling into Byron Bay. He was looking at Jack in the rear-vision mirror again, concern in his face as he said, ‘Be careful Jack. The Harrier Boys will play hard. Don’t be surprised if you get a visit or, worse—’
There was a sickening crunch of metal and Jack was jerked forward hard. Only the seatbelt saved him from smacking into Kowalski’s seat. The police wagon had collided with the car in front after being struck from behind.
The black SUV pulled out and drove past without stopping.
Chapter Forty-one
Caitlin and Jack left Kowalski to sort out his crash. The car he’d hit was a mini people mover packed to the roof with the chattels of a family holiday: bikes, beach balls, even a barbecue. The family were all standing on the side of the road next to their badly dented car, two of the children were crying and the pet terrier was yapping as though it was on crystal meth. The father looked furious, but had little choice but to contain his rage when he saw it was a police officer who’d rear-ended them.
It was a pleasantly warm, still day and Caitlin was enjoying the walk into town with Jack by her side as the honeyeaters sang from the paperbark trees lining the path. They walked close together, and she felt a small frisson of electricity each time their arms touched. She wondered if this was what couples did – stroll together, comfortable in each other’s company. She wished he would take her hand, but when he did so a few minutes later she habitually pulled hers free, then instantly regretted it. She’d have to unlearn those habits of a lifetime, depending on her test result, of course.
Her GP appointment for the test results was this Tuesday. That was only two days away. She shivered at the thought,unable to suppress the terror at potentially being told she had Huntington’s. Then she looked at Jack and felt a wave of excitement, of possibility. If she didn’t have the disease she really could reach out and take his hand. Or drag him off the path into the bush and rip off his clothes. Her footsteps felt lighter, almost as though she was skipping along, but the doubts soon swept back in. Would she ‘know’ how to be in a relationship? She had no experience. What if it didn’t work out? She shook away the negative thoughts. Perhaps she could just be herself. Her five-foot-two self.
Jack interrupted her thoughts, saying, ‘I’m sorry, for … I know you don’t want me to hold your hand. I thought I’d give it one last try. I shouldn’t have …’
She looked at him. ‘I’m sorry too,’ she said, ‘for pulling mine away.’
After a few more paces, Caitlin thought, Fuck it, in a couple of days I might have to push Jack away completely. She was about to take his hand when he took hers again. His grip felt warm and soft. That snuggly blanket feeling wrapped around her again, and they ambled the rest of the way in silence.
Jack’s car was in the police station carpark. It was clean, forensically clean; the CSOs had been thorough. The drive to his apartment was only a few hundred metres, and Jack parked in his usual spot.
Moira sat on a folding chair out front. The latest addition to her comfort was a small radio that sat on the ground beside her, playing what sounded, to Caitlin’s horror, like André Rieu.
Moira waved when she saw them. ‘Coast is clear,’ she said. ‘Just the dumpy one inside.’
‘Moira,’ asked Jack, ‘do you still have that phone I gave you?’
‘Of course.’ She retrieved it from one of the carrier bags on her shopping trolley and handed it to Jack.
‘Thanks, I need to return it.’ He reached into his pocket and removed another phone. ‘But I thought you might like one of your own.’ He handed it to her.
‘Thanks, Jack.’
‘It’s paid up for a year. My number’s in it if you need anything.’
Chapter Forty-two
Upstairs they found Ricky typing furiously on his laptop as white text scrolled rapidly up a black screen. He was startled when Jack said hello and placed a hand on his shoulder.
‘Jacko, mate, you scared the shit out of me.’
‘Are you still trying to hack into the police IT system?’
‘That’s not something I’d like to admit to with a lawyer present.’
‘Jesus, what is it with you two?’ asked Caitlin.
‘If, hypothetically speaking of course, I was through the firewall,’ said Ricky, ‘the code would still be hunting for Brown and Moreau’s stuff.’
