ON THE ROAD around Meadowbank, Riley watched as a low-slung purple ute barrelled up in the rear-view mirror and slewed past in a super-charged whine.
‘Fucking drongo.’ She was tempted to hit the siren on the unmarked Calais, pull the prick over and cuff him on the ground.
Beside her in the passenger seat Priya Patel sat silently.
‘Where you from anyway?’ Riley said.
‘Taree.’
Riley glanced over before she could stop herself, the cop bullshit reflex.
‘My parents are from Ahmedabad,’ Patel said.
Ahmedabad to Taree—and a lifetime of explaining yourself to dumb-fucks. Riley heard it in the kid’s voice. She thought about apologising, but it’d be just more dumb-fuck words. Patel was smart and she’d be tough: brown-skinned girls didn’t make detective at Parramatta every day. And O’Neil rated her. After the briefing he’d sidled up and asked Riley to accompany Patel out to look at the missing gardener’s flat. ‘Pump up her tyres a bit,’ he’d said.
‘That was good work this morning,’ Riley said. ‘On point of entry.’
‘Thanks. But I was too passive on the gardener?’
Riley blew air. ‘Did O’Neil say that?’
‘No. But I heard him speak when I was at the academy. He came and gave a talk in Goulburn. There was a whole bit on being passive.’
Passive policing, right near the top of O’Neil’s list of pet hates. ‘Did he mention concrete thinking?’
‘The dead hand of concrete thinking, I think that’s how he put it.’ Patel’s phone pinged. ‘Forensics are done,’ she said. ‘Uniforms say Spratt’s waiting at the flat.’
‘Alright. So, Lynch,’ Riley said. ‘Names come up early in a case like this. Don’t wait—that’s passive. You have to move on them.’
She swung into the school, past the checkpoint and through the intersection where she’d sat with Bowman. The road curved up to the right, between the maintenance shed and the laundry. Spratt was waiting next to a white Hilux. Riley pulled over and got out, and Patel followed.
‘I just been talkin’ to your journo,’ Spratt said.
Riley felt Patel’s interest. ‘Don’t have a journo,’ she said.
‘Well, you told me he was comin’. That’s why I gave him the time of day.’
Fuck, the man could talk. Two uniforms sat in a patrol car up the road. ‘No sign of Mr Lynch?’ she said.
‘Fraid not.’
‘Is that unusual?’
‘Unusual?’ He turned the word. ‘Hard to know what’s usual with Kev.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Flamin’ mongrel Irishman for a start.’
She didn’t react. It would only encourage him. She counted: this was her fourth conversation with Spratt.
‘Look, he’s a loose bit of gear.’ Spratt flicked sweat from his brow with a forefinger. ‘Operates, like, outside society. No phone, no missus, no kids. Keeps to himself, not much to say.’
Probably couldn’t get a word in. ‘So it’s not odd that you can’t find him now?’ Riley said.
‘Not really.’ Spratt’s face furrowed. ‘But I haven’t actually looked for him. I mean, it’s Saturday. I saw him yesterday. He hasn’t missed a shift.’
Lynch reported to Spratt. In his statement, Spratt had said he’d seen the gardener throughout the week but had been unable to recall exact times. Spratt had attended a medical appointment in Parramatta, confirmed by his doctor, on Wednesday afternoon.
‘Lynch worked Wednesday,’ Riley said, ‘but you didn’t see him—at least after lunch?’
Spratt nodded.
‘Did he knock off early yesterday?’
‘Don’t reckon. Might have racked off at two instead of three. Friday arvo.’
‘Cops were crawling all over the place and a young girl dead,’ Riley said. ‘Just another Friday arvo.’
‘Take your point.’
She scanned the block of flats, single-storey and backing onto bush, dead grass on either side of the path. ‘How many people live here?’
‘There’s sixteen flats. Workers come and go.’
She turned to Patel, taking two packets of gloves from her back pocket. ‘Let’s have a look.’
The communal entrance was open. In the corridor, Spratt pulled out a key and unlocked a door to the sour smell of stale sweat.
Spratt and his keys. ‘Been meaning to ask,’ she said. ‘When did you last have the boat out?’
His upper body shied and she pretended not to notice.
‘A week or so?’ he said. ‘Before Christmas anyway.’
‘Where do you put it in?’
‘Kissing Point. Depends.’
Kissing Point was three bays from Gladesville. At Spratt’s house, she’d noted the boat had a GPS plotter on the helm. It’d store his trips, waypoints, dates. She indicated Lynch’s doorway. ‘You happy to wait?’
‘No worries. Get some fresh air.’
The stained lime-green carpet from the hallway had crept in and colonised the flat. The place was dank, even against the dry heat of the westerlies. The blinds were down and Riley elbowed on a light against the gloom. It was tiny—a sitting room with an alcove kitchen and a bedroom with an ensuite. Empties everywhere: brown longnecks, a five-litre cask of red, a bottle of Tullamore Dew.
‘Ouch,’ Riley said. ‘The grape and the grain.’
Patel moved to a desk and opened drawers. There were screws and washers, nuts and bolts, hose fittings. No bills, no forms, no letters, no papers.
In the kitchen was a kettle, a microwave, a two-burner electric hotplate, a saucepan. A mug in the sink, a dirty glass on the bench, a can of tuna in a cupboard. Two-minute noodles, tea bags, sugar. VB in a bar fridge.
Riley went into the bedroom. Soiled green work clothes in a pile. Nothing in the pockets. There were no shoes anywhere. He probably only had one pair. The bed was unmade, white sheets grey with grime. She felt the mattress, put it on its side, felt underneath. A small TV stood on a chest of drawers at the end of the bed. She rifled through the drawers, checked for false bottoms.
No computer, no pictures. She picked up a copy of The Mirror. Friday’s edition. Thrown together late with coverage of the killing, but the body not yet identified. She leafed through it—nothing had been clipped.
In the bathroom, there was toothpaste but no toothbrush. No hairbrush or comb—bagged by forensics. Heartburn tablets, a cracked cake of yellow soap.
Patel came to the doorway and leant on the jamb.
‘Zero?’ Riley said.
‘Zip.’