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I approached him and reminded myself that he wasn’t the enemy, just a man whose hard-bitten face wore the blood, guts, and trauma borne from a career in the force. Pain flared in my groin, as it had for months, and I readjusted my jeans.
The suit noticed.
A slew of red spots speckled his forehead and ran down the bridge of his misshapen nose like confetti.
‘Morning, sir,’ he said. His voice lacked tonality and didn’t travel. ‘My name is Detective Constable Mike Ivers of the Sydney homicide squad. We’re making inquiries regarding a suspected homicide and hope you can answer a few questions.’
‘Of course, Detective Constable.’
He flipped open a leather-bound folio, clicked a pen, and asked my name and phone number. I provided the details and handed him one of my cheap business cards, which he scrutinised for a minute, then clipped into his folio. ‘I understand you asked security to grant you access to the room where the victim was found?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘Can you tell me why?’
I took a moment to get my thoughts together. ‘Please don’t take this the wrong way. I’m not averse to helping you in any way, but I’m in a fix. I can’t disclose anything.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m investigating a related matter, and my client requested utmost confidentiality. I need to think about my reputation. My entire livelihood depends on it. I trust you understand that.’
Ivers shifted his feet. ‘I understand, but there’s a deceased woman upstairs and we need to find the individual responsible. I trust you understand that.’
I copped the moral argument on the chin and nodded.
He said, ‘Are you related to the victim in any way, sir?’
‘No.’
‘Are we likely to find, during the course of our investigation, any association you may have, or have had, with the victim? You don’t need to provide details. You can merely acknowledge a response at this time—either yes or no.’
‘No, you won’t find any association between me and the victim.’
‘Did you interact with the victim last night between 7 and 11PM?’
‘No.’
‘Did you enter the room, sir?’
I hesitated.
Ivers cleared his throat and stared at a spot six feet behind my head.
I nodded. ‘Yes, I did.’
He raised his eyebrows and made a ‘huh’ sound. He clicked his pen and made a note in the folio. ‘Did you touch anything or move anything in the room, sir?’
‘No, I didn’t touch anything. I felt for a pulse. That’s all.’
He made another ‘huh’ sound and scribbled another note. ‘How did you check for a pulse?’
‘With my two right index fingers against the left side of her neck.’
He nodded. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr....’ He flipped the folio at ninety degrees and squinted. ‘Kowalski. I may need to consult with you at a future time. It’s possible we’ll need your fingerprints to clear you and assist the investigation. It’s merely a procedure.’
He snapped a card from the folio and held it out to me between two yellowed fingers. ‘If you could contact Sydney Police Station on that number and make an appointment to come in within the next two days, I’d appreciate it.’
I took the card and slid it in the back compartment of my wallet. ‘I understand its early days, but is there any way of knowing what time the victim was murdered?’
He shook his head. ‘At a guess, within the last twelve hours.’
‘I know this is a stretch, me being a lowly private investigator you don’t know from a bar of soap, but is there any chance in hell of telling me her name? I swear I won’t release it until the matter’s made public.’
‘Not a chance.’
He snapped the folio closed, then saluted with it. ‘Be seeing you.’ He turned on his heel and re-joined the now tired-looking security guard.
I left the building as a mass of grey cloud covered the sun, and a frigid gust of wind carrying the threat of an early winter cut through my tee shirt. Back in the darkness of the parking station, I dug out a flask from the tray of my ute and swallowed three good slugs of scotch. My guts protested as I thought things over.
The murder in Tamsin’s dorm room couldn’t be a coincidence. What were the odds of signing onto a missing person’s case the very night the roommate of the person I’m looking for is murdered? Was my involvement the catalyst for the murder, or was I being paranoid? I faced the very real and daunting prospect of telling Jeff Lyons, multi-millionaire media magnate, that his daughter could be either kidnapped, or dead.
