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Death's stench hung in the air and assailed Brianna's nose as she slipped under the police tape. It was blood; stale blood. And no matter how often she saw it, Brianna never got used to it.
This time, the murder was in a car park accessible via a narrow entrance between the tavern and the abandoned TAB. The hotel and three other businesses used it for their employees' cars. And having only one entrance, any breeze that entered didn't blow the stench away.
The second thing Brianna spotted, besides the civilians gawking from the verandah, was Detective Gifford strutting around like a leather-covered peacock in his shiny jacket. Polished to a shine, his boots reflected to a shine. Brianna reckoned Gifford did that to spy up women's skirts with the reflection.
Sergeant Hohenhaus noticed Brianna first and hurried to her. Brianna handed him her coffee before he uttered a word.
"Thanks, Detective," he said. "You're the -"
"I know. I won't want it, anyway, right?"
"It's putrid down there," he confirmed, waving a waft from his nostrils. "Like a bloody abattoir."
Brianna wondered if Hohenhaus meant the death stench or Gifford. She couldn't help grinning at that, and Gifford mistook her smile as a greeting.
"Cogan!" Gifford's tone dripped with excitement as he strutted with his arms pumping and chest puffed. "This guy's getting cockier, I reckon. Check this out."
Brianna took in the scene. Besides the darkening blood stains, she noticed the killer had ripped the body open again. She couldn't help wondering. Was this man a fan of Jack the Ripper? The real Ripper would have died a long time ago. But he lived in London. Would he escaped from England to Australia and sired murderous children?
A flash popped nearby. Brianna glanced in its direction and spied something else.
"Is that what I think it is?" Brianna pointed at something hanging nearby.
Gifford looked where Brianna pointed and ducked under the stairs for a closer inspection. It looked paper-thin, curled up with diamond-shaped patterns along its length. "It looks like a snake's skin," he exclaimed, his voice filled with surprise. "Spring must be closer than I figured if they're coming out now." He poked it with its foot to stretch and open it. "That's a big skin! The snake must be as big and thick as -"
Brianna gathered it must have been a large snake, but she didn't want to hear or think of Gifford comparing it to himself or hinting at his own anatomy. Thick as his head, she could agree with, but that was it.
Gifford waited for the police photographer to finish her task before stepping closer to scrutinise the body. "It's the same MO as the other one," he commented. "Just like the others last month too."
Brianna noted wounds on the victim's wrists, red and rubbed raw. "Rope burns," she murmured, looking around her. "I don't see any rope around here."
Gifford snorted, with a knowing smirk that crossed his face. "They're job-related injuries."
Brianna cocked an eyebrow and reached for the victim's handbag. It looked good, but it was cheap.
"She was a hooker," Gifford explained. "Worked in the Valley and doubled sometimes as a stripper at Gilroy's. You can't tell, but she was a real looker too. Fine piece of -"
"A regular there, were you?" Brianna muttered under her breath as she found the victim's wallet and searched for ID.
Although a sexist idiot, Gifford was right. The girl had been an attractive sort.
The ID photo showed her with blond hair, but now it was a crimson red. Patches, untouched by the pooled blood, shone in the sunlight. But the victim's address was in an older neighbourhood where she didn't expect the girl to live.
"It's got to be the same killer as the past couple of months," Gifford said, loud enough for everyone to hear. "But we all thought your boyfriend helped catch him. I guess Ramsey's not the psychic he's cracked up to be, huh?"
Brianna ignored the urge to punch Gifford in the throat. But she wouldn't let it go either. She stood up to face Gifford. "You still haven't given me those case notes, have you?"
Gifford's face reddened, and his stance tightened up like he was ready to lash out. He chomped hard on the gum in his mouth. "You'll get them today."
"Good. I look forward to that." Brianna narrowed her eyes, picking out Gifford's five weak spots where she'd like to strike the arrogant tosser. Gifford was the first to look away by turning to face the dead girl.
"Whoever the killer is," he said around his gum. "This guy hated her... or he loved doing it."
***
An hour later, Brianna stepped out of her car and surveyed the block of units before her. Delta, the victim, used to live in one, according to her identification. Brianna never associated this neighbourhood with exotic dancers or prostitutes. From her experience, they lived in lower income areas, unless they did well for business. This was an area associated with young families and older retirees. Known as a quiet living area and safe place, it was a block from the suburb's shopping centre with a school nearby.
After locking her car, Brianna walked along the cement path lined by garden beds filled with burgeoning blooms. The body corporate ensured a good gardener tended them and the strips of grass well. The sounds of playing children floated to her ears, and the air smelled clean. What a lovely neighbourhood.
Brianna stopped at the door and paused upon seeing the intercom system for each unit. A camera peered at her from above the door. Rent here would be higher than she expected someone like Delta could afford.
Brianna pressed unit 12's intercom button. Delta's unit, according to her identification. The buzzing speaker cut the hair. All other sounds ceased as though listening. Brianna waited. Perhaps Delta had a room-mate who could be home?
"Can I help you?" The voice from behind startled her.
Brianna turned her head, seeing an older woman standing there with plastic grocery bags in her hands. They looked heavy, and Brianna stood to the side so she could pass. "I'm looking for Delta Brown," Brianna said, adding an upward lilt to her words to make it sound like a question.
"Delta?" The woman paused a moment, her hand poised to press button 11. "She should be at home now. Hasn't she answered?"
Brianna shook her head. "I'm not looking for her so much as I'm looking for any family of hers. She's had an accident."
The woman removed her hat, adorned with a single flower she had picked from the garden, adjusted it, and placed it back on her head. "Oh," she said. "An accident?" She looked stuck for words.
"So I'm looking for her family. Do you know if they're home?" Brianna repeated her question.
"Who are you?" The lady peered at her from behind her thick glasses. Something about her movements and gazes distracted Brianna's attention for the briefest moment. Then it passed.
Brianna showed the woman her badge. "Detective-Sergeant Brianna Cogan from Statton CBD Police. I would appreciate any help you provide." She waited a beat as the woman hesitated. "Can you tell me?"
The woman shook her head, a thoughtful light in her eyes. "No, Delta doesn't live with family. She does live with a friend, but she's not home now. Is Delta okay?"
Brianna pondered her reply. Such news was for next-of-kin's ears, but something about the woman hinted she might have been closer to Delta than she said. "It's not good. Do you have her friend's contact? I need to contact next-of-kin."
The lady's mouth formed an O of surprise, which she covered with her mouth. "Oh! that doesn't sound good, does it? Do you have a card I can pass with a message?"
Something tickled across Brianna's scalp when she noticed the woman's eyes shift. Did they change shape? She was uncertain, but the pupils appeared almost diamond-shaped. Brianna stepped back. "No." She shook her head. "What time do you expect her housemate to return?"
The woman offered a faint smile. "After work, dear. You can come back then."
Brianna checked her watch. It was still the middle of the day. She would check on other things before returning. But the notion nagged her intuition. The old woman knew something, probably even lied about Delta. On the surface, she appeared fine apart from the nosiness. But something else niggled at Brianna's mind.
Brianna glanced over her shoulder as she crossed the street to her car. The old woman was inside the building, watching from behind the tinted glass door. It might be anything; old people are naturally nosy, but what was she hiding?
***
Meanwhile, Tyrone wanted to be anywhere but his uncle Craig's place. Thoughts popped in his head, crowding his mind with conflict. With a bulky backpack slung over his shoulder, he listened for a moment. Satisfied the coast was clear, he tiptoed towards the front door. He jumped at the sound of Emily clearing her throat behind him.
"Tyrone! Where are you going, Mister?"
"Out," he replied, turning to see the spirit standing with her arms crossed and tapping an annoyed foot. Emily's gaze burrowed into his and he lowered his eyes. Tyrone hated fighting with Emily. "I have to get out of here."
Emily's forehead softened, but she remained stern. "Out? Away? More like you're running away from your problems."
The teenager shook his head. "I need to think. Uncle Craig has it stuck in his head that I have to finish school. Just because he can carry on as though nothing happened to Deb, he thinks I should too." Tyrone crinkled his eyes to hold back a tear. "What would he know?"
At that moment, Turner appeared, his large coat's collar raised around his ears. He floated past Emily and stood between her and Tyrone. "Would yew lay off da boy, Emily? Sometimes a geezer needs space, a place ter fink and-"
Emily's eyes flashed sparks as she turned to face Turner whose face dropped when cutlery and jewellery clattered to the foyer's tiled floor. Emily, Turner and Tyrone all looked towards Turner's feet at the pile that fell from Turner's pockets. "You don't need silverware if you're roughing it, lads," Emily reminded Turner. "And Mr Turner..." Emily pointed her finger into Turner's astral chest and pressed again for each word she spoke. "I respect men's thinking space, but I don't respect men who teach boys to run from their problems."
Turner grunted, grabbed Emily's wrists in his broad hands and held them fast. "Blimey! Runnin' away? That's not what i' is. Don't yew forget where I came from an' what 'appened after I died. Horace Turner ain't a runner, but I understand lads well. It's only been a little over a 'undred years. Nuff said, yeah?"
Emily, who had pulled her hands away, snorted. "Mr Turner, all you know about lads involved teaching them to rob and steal from a young age. When I first met you, you -"
"Gawdon Bennet! When we first met, yew was workin' wiv what secret society, da same as I was," Turner boomed. "And I still am. Okay?"
Emily's mouth hung open, her words stopping as she measured Turner's words. She paused. "You're-" Turner winked at Emily with a slight nod. "Really?"
"Now," Turner said while Emily digested his words. "Excuse us, Hairy Knees, so we can go camping. We 'ave work ter do. Nuff said, yeah?"
Emily stood there, still shocked, as Turner led Tyrone out the door. Turner's words floated back from outside, explaining that Hairy Knees means Please; he hadn't been rude to "the old busy body". But Emily ignored the words as their voices faded into the distance. At last, she about-faced and headed back to the living room where she rearranged items and muttered to herself.
"The poor lad." She shook her head, tutting to the air. "Having a guardian spirit like Turner. What is the universe thinking?"