Grant Hackett was up against the great Kieren Perkins in the fifteen hundred metre freestyle final, an event that we Aussies considered our birthright. Susie O’Neill and Ian Thorpe had already won gold but as a nation we were nowhere near sated. Like the conquistadors of old we craved more gold. From time to time you hear about other ‘sport-loving’ countries. Really? I just laugh. Okay, maybe in Sydney where multinational millionaires suck crayfish off their fingers while staring across at the Opera House, the need for sporting glory is a softer pang, but that’s the only place in this wide brown land. Melbourne footy teams can pull more people to training in finals week than most English Premier League teams get to a match. Heather McKay pretty much never lost a squash game from the time of the first Queen Elizabeth till when the current one became a grandmother. For Babe Ruth to have been as dominant a player as Bradman, he would have had to hit around two hundred homers a year. The greatest tragedy in Australia wasn’t being born into poverty but into a family that followed North Sydney Bears or St Kilda. What I’m saying is, this was a big deal: two great Aussie swimmers and only one could win gold. Natasha settled in beside me on the sofa. The guys trooped out to their blocks. And suddenly I was hit with this thought: was he watching this too? Right now. In a family lounge room or a pub with beer flowing, or in an apartment reeking of unaired bedclothes and pizza. Of course I had no clue whether the abductions were the work of one or more people but one was easier to picture.
I’d been on the case a week now and every minute I felt further away from any end point. George Tacich had given me nine disks in all, each one crammed with information. There was one disk for each of the girls, every aspect of their lives broken down into headings and subheadings, just like I’d done for Caitlin. There was a disk which covered those who lived or worked in the main Claremont commercial block, a disk relating to all cases of sexual assault solved or unsolved going back eight years, a disk relating to tips – hundreds and hundreds of them – the good people of Perth suggesting everybody from star footballers to fictional TV characters. Two disks were dedicated to people who knew or were known to have come into contact with two or more of the girls. The last disk was the summary disk. The one that narrowed the focus to what they hoped would be manageable proportions and included all reliable witness statements. This was the disk with the critical time lines as well as the main persons of interest. The only thing I had not been afforded by George was direct interview transcripts. So what I had was extensive. That was the good part. But the task ahead made Hannibal’s Alps seem like sugar cubes. I felt exhausted before I started, and when I did start I felt overwhelmed. I had crammed the lives of all these people into a sack and been dragging it with me from dawn till the early hours. Tonight, for an hour, I got to place it on the floor and snuggle into Natasha.
Hackett jumped out early and we waited for Perkins to apply pressure. It never happened. Thirty laps of the pool, Grant Hackett wrote his name in history, Perkins the bridesmaid. Natasha had made us a stir-fry. I gobbled it down.
‘You’re not going to call ahead?’
The way she asked made it sound like it was stupid not to.
‘No.’
‘They’re all going to think you’re the guy. You’ll creep people out.’
‘An old guy like me at Autostrada.’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s why I want you to come.’
‘An old guy with a mother reeking of breast milk?’
‘It would be an improvement.’
She’d tried to get her mother to mind Grace but it was Sue’s bootscooting night.
‘What are you hoping to find?’ She scooped up my empty plate before I could think of seconds.
‘I have no idea. I just want to see the place, get the feel.’
The doormen at The Sheaf looked me up and down. I was wearing my best sports coat, Country Road slacks and a decent shirt. A year earlier when business was booming they would have advised me to look elsewhere. Eventually the tall Tongan nodded and I stepped into the pub, a classic old-timer with a ’90s makeover, the pub I mean, though the description was as apt for me. It was still quite crowded, most eighteen to twenty-five, a dozen up to early thirties. My only peers were a couple of well-dressed guys and their wives who’d been to dinner or a show and popped in to make use of the babysitter’s last half-hour. In this main room a female DJ was pumping out poppy music. I had no idea whether it was current. The last stuff I’d listened to in this mode was Bananarama. I liked them. They had a sense of humour. A lot of people were dancing, an ecstasy and water crowd, I guessed. I ordered a Heineken off a barman. Early thirties, he might just remember vinyl.
‘Wasn’t there a band here?’ I had to shout.
‘Thursdays and Sunday Sessions. Used to have a band early on Saturday but not any more.’
I sipped, felt eyes on me. I drank half my beer, checking out the place. The abductor couldn’t be drunk and gesturing like this young guy fresh out of private school I was looking at right now. Too much precision required. He might be talking with mates but not really engaged, all the time watching. I caught a young woman looking at me from the side of the room. The guy with her wasn’t quite right. Not western suburbs enough somehow, not relaxed like he was on his own turf. He had the clothes but this wasn’t his scene. My guess: George Tacich’s undercover crew. I took myself up the old wooden staircase, had to turn sideways as two young women squeezed back down. The phantom I was seeking might have done this, felt a little charge as the girls squeezed past, followed them with his eyes, told them in his mind he’d be arranging a little more one-on-one time later. The top floor was more of the same, music, dancing, a smaller bar. Darker though, easier for him to glide through and watch.
George Tacich and his task force had narrowed the field considerably. They’d examined the lives of all three young women across virtually the same areas I had split Caitlin’s life into: School, Church, Work/Uni, Entertainment and so on. They had also looked in detail through phone records of the girls and their families. The points where two of the girls intersected on something were many: Royal Perth Yacht Club, St Brigid’s Church, Highway One Motor Mechanics, and so on. Emily and Jessica had attended the same ballet school when in primary school, Emily and Caitlin had both at some point held holiday jobs at The Grove Shopping Centre in Cottesloe. Jessica and Caitlin had both spent holidays as younger women grooming horses at the Claremont Showground. Jessica and Emily both had pictures on their walls from the same picture framer in Mosman Park. The Scanlans and O’Gradys had once used the same reticulation firm. There were hundreds of these points of intersection. Fortunately the areas where all three of them intersected were much less, though still substantial. The one the press had focussed on was they had all at one time or another been students of St Therese’s, a high-end Catholic all-girl school, which had been a convent run by nuns until lay staff gradually took over in the 1970s. That they had once been students there should have led to some other lines of investigation, and indeed the obvious ones were covered – teachers, fellow students, non-academic school staff who were common to the girls. All the same, some things had been missed or at least weren’t covered in the summary. How did they get to school? Did they all catch the bus, were they dropped by parents, or did they ride or walk? This was the kind of detail I’d been noting as I combed the disks all week. If they all rode the same bus maybe some psycho rode the same bus, year in and out, to his job. As I had nowhere near enough resources I hoped the police had winnowed out the chaff, saving the good stuff for the summary disk. Here I was focussed on two simple areas: was there anybody who all the girls trusted sufficiently to get close?; and, what similarities had there been in the girls’ movements on the days they disappeared?
Looking at the second question first, there was a striking similarity between Caitlin and Emily: both had spent Saturday afternoon drinking at the OBH with friends, both had finished around 5.00, then gone home to get ready for a night out. Once in Claremont, both first had drinks at The Sheaf before moving on to Autostrada. Emily had left the club at 1.48 Sunday morning saying she was going to get a taxi. A taxi had arrived at the rank at about 1.53 but there was no sign of her. One witness reported seeing a young woman fitting her description very close to 1.50 standing at the rank. She thought she saw the young woman start towards Stirling Highway a hundred metres or so south down the hill. This was common practice because often it was quicker to find a taxi cruising past on the highway than at the rank. The police had put out public requests for anybody in the area at the time to come forward. Nobody else had presented to say they were the young woman the witness had seen. No passing drivers – and several had contacted police – reported seeing a young woman near the intersection of Bay View Terrace and Stirling Highway around that time. If it was Emily at that rank, she had vanished between 1.50 and 1.53. A note in the file cautioned however that the witness may be out on her time line by as much as twelve minutes.
Unlike the other girls, who had gone missing after a Saturday night out, Jessica had disappeared late Friday night, early Saturday morning. She had not gone to the OBH beforehand but had been in the city where she worked for a stockbroking firm. She had caught the bus to Claremont where she had joined her friends for an Italian meal. When they left she’d dropped in to the adjacent Sheaf alone and had stayed at the pub drinking and chatting with acquaintances. The last confirmed conversation was 12.20. Then she’d pulled up stumps and left without advising anyone. Why Jessica would do this being quite cognisant of the abductions – her dinner companions had said it had been touched on that very night in their conversations – was in itself a mystery. Alcohol can give a false sense of security and, while by no means drunk, she’d had two wines over dinner and another at the pub. I was yet to be convinced that was enough for her to drop her guard. Unlike Autostrada, The Sheaf had no video surveillance on the doorway, something I found unbelievable after what had already happened. The doormen had been busy with patrons entering and exiting and, though she was very attractive and wore distinctive jewellery, they couldn’t give confirmation of when she left. Three witnesses claimed to have seen Jessica walking towards Stirling Highway just past St Quentin Avenue on The Sheaf side of Bay View Terrace. This would be where she would go for a taxi.
And then she too had vanished.
The area at the time had quite a volume of pedestrian traffic. It was earlier than when Caitlin or Emily had left Autostrada, more people were heading to and fro. Bay View Terrace itself was well lit, additional lighting having been provided by the council since Caitlin’s disappearance. Maybe these were contributing factors and Jessica had felt safe. Tacich had two people in Autostrada and two circulating the area on foot but none of them had made visual contact with Jessica, although they had been able to confirm seeing two of the witnesses who claimed to have seen her. One theory was that she had encountered her abductor at The Sheaf, maybe an acquaintance, they’d chatted and then she’d left, either with him or having arranged to be picked up by him. Everybody felt it had to be somebody who did not stand out. The police had run background checks on the proprietors, staff and cleaners of all the businesses in the block between Leura Avenue to the east and Stirling Road to the west. Bay View Terrace bisected this area. There were not many residential dwellings in the block but they doorknocked and checked those too. They also doorknocked and checked the businesses and dwellings on the river side of Stirling Highway. They had a couple of minor hits but in both cases the persons had credible alibis.
I left The Sheaf just as Jessica had done, at 12.20, feeling the eyes of Tacich’s undercover people on me. Glancing up as I left the venue, I saw the telltale dome of a surveillance camera. Too late for Jessica but it might identify the abductor if he was crazy or bold enough to try again. I crossed the road to Autostrada. The girls and guys hanging near the doorway smoking looked at me like I had to be guilty of something. Again there was no queue. The door bitch checked me out. She was about thirty and didn’t recoil. She took my money, the bouncer stamped me and I stepped into fluoro and pumping music, guessing this would have been pretty much how it would have been for Caitlin, only busier. It was still maybe a little early but the place was only half full. The main dance floor was right up front but there was an adjoining side bar where it was less frenetic, though still viable only for shouted conversations. This time there was nobody around my age. I made my way to this bar and ordered a Pernod and lemonade. Like the upstairs bar of The Sheaf, the whole place provided plenty of darkness and shadows for somebody to observe.
Two major persons of interest had been identified by George as having potentially been in contact with all three young women. Ian Bontillo was the drama teacher at St Therese’s and had taught all three young women. In his early thirties, he lived alone in a flat in Swanbourne not five minutes’ drive from the area and had no solid alibi. Bontillo claimed to have not been in The Sheaf or Autostrada on any of the nights in question, though he had occasionally drunk at The Sheaf and OBH. Nothing weird there, they were virtually his locals and it would have been more suspicious if he denied it. He was alibied by his sister for the Caitlin disappearance. She said he had been at her place for an Australia Day weekend party up until nearly 3.00 am. Bontillo admitted having spoken to Emily since she had left school – they’d bumped into one another a couple of times around the Claremont shops – but not within six months of her disappearance. Tacich had liked the look of Bontillo as a suspect even though the teacher had attempted to lessen interest in himself by stating he was gay. Inquiries had confirmed this but opinions commissioned by psychiatrists stated this was no leave pass for Bontillo. Indeed, he could still have deep-seated misogynist feelings. Tacich’s notes on Bontillo were: ‘smart, organised, trusted, lives nearby’. This however had not been enough for a search warrant although Bontillo had invited police into his flat when they had called after Jessica’s disappearance.
The Pernod was gone and I wasn’t prepared to fork out for another. The money for my fee had arrived but I had better things to spend it on. It was too dark in here to spy George’s people but I was sure they would be here, probably alerted to me by The Sheaf crowd. The place was gradually filling but not even close to being crowded. From what I could see this was still very much a venue where clumps of kids who knew one another hung together, had a drink, maybe danced. You were going to have to be part of the scene, friend of a friend, to get together with somebody you didn’t already know. Forty minutes was enough for me. I bailed before 1.00 am.
It was chilly now, though you could still get by with a short-sleeved shirt. The breeze had picked up, blowing in from the ocean across the open spaces of Claremont Oval on the other side of the railway tracks, where I’d gone to battle wearing blue and white against the Tigers under the reign of Graham Moss. There’d been many a great game played there in my day, the likes of Doug Green, Ken Judge and Tony Buhagiar up against Moss and the Krakouer brothers. I’d even booted three goals myself – albeit half an hour before the main game in the reserves. Reserves was always trailing at my heels like a faithful dog. No matter how fast I ran towards the bright lights of league, it would rarely let me get away. If I did give it the slip, it would soon pull me back. I think the most league games I played in a row were nine.
The Terrace wasn’t exactly deserted but it wasn’t humming, and people moved the way they do when trying to reach a connecting flight, quick of stride and focussed. Every woman I saw was in company. I set out south towards Stirling Highway just as I had during the day the week before. When Emily had left Autostrada there had been a truck parked opposite at The Sheaf. Loading out the band’s gear had been Gavan ‘Party Pig’ Partigan, the second main POI for the task force. Partigan was the last person who claimed to have seen Emily and as such he had to be looked at anyway. The fact he was actually at his truck made him doubly interesting. Okay, in theory he would have had to get her into the truck without being seen and then subdue her, but it was right there on the spot. The same went for Caitlin although Partigan made no claim of having seen her, saying he was busy inside packing up band equipment. But without a camera on The Sheaf, no exact time line could be established. Nobody in The Sheaf could be found who would verify he was there the entire time. In fact some people remembered not seeing him there after the band finished. Partigan claimed he must have been behind the large speakers – entirely possible. The doormen were off by then so he could have slipped out for a few minutes and come back. On the Friday when Jessica had disappeared, Partigan had been working a walk-in gig in Northbridge. He’d finished by 10.30 pm and there were witnesses placing him at an eatery not long after. He claimed he then returned to the house in Bayswater he shared with his girlfriend and she backed him up, saying he’d arrived back around midnight, but somebody had noted she was a ‘junkie and unreliable, could be lying’.
By now I was standing at the third laneway, just across the road from the taxi rank. I’d observed how people passing had kept to the far kerb away from the short lane. I looked into the lane myself; it was shadowy but not pitch dark, illuminated by the street lights on this side and lighting from the other end in the adjoining carpark. I didn’t shiver but my skin prickled as I entered the space and walked through the ten metres into the adjoining carpark. I knew Tacich had the area under surveillance and wondered if anybody would approach me. There were fewer than twenty cars in the carpark, and almost as many empty spaces, but last October and January, I bet it would have been jammed. Was there enough time for somebody to have snatched Caitlin, dragged her back through this lane and bundled her into a waiting car? I supposed so but she would have had to have been taken by surprise and subdued quickly. Then he would have had to drag her back, get a door open and heave her into the car, confident she could not escape. I was about to head back out when I noted that there was a vehicle parked in the Staff Only bay right next to a rear door of the vet’s. I wondered if somebody might be working there at this hour. After all, there were plenty of free spaces, it seemed unlikely a random would choose that spot. I walked over and saw light under the door. A bell was clearly marked After Hours. There was also an emergency phone number. I rang the bell, looking back at the carpark, thought I spied movement in a Falcon halfway along. I considered ringing the bell again, decided not to, was about to head off when the wooden door opened. A strong, steel grill door remained shut. A woman with a few flecks of grey in her hair stood on the other side. She wore a kind of lab coat, was short and had glasses on a chain hanging down around her neck.
‘You have an emergency?’ she asked suspiciously, eyeing me up and down. Given the circumstances, I didn’t blame her.
‘Not exactly. I’m very sorry to trouble you. My name is Richard Lane. I actually rang a couple of days ago and left a message on your machine.’
This was in fact the truth. One of the headings the task force had not replicated from my breakdown was Pets.
‘You’re working for the O’Gradys?’
‘That’s correct. I’m here tonight just taking a look around. I saw the car … Look if it’s not convenient I can return during the day.’
‘Can I see some ID?’
I fumbled for my wallet, showed her my driver’s licence. That did the trick. She opened the steel door and let me into a room stacked with bags of various pet foods. A small mesh cabinet and the small fridge beside it were both padlocked. Some kind of drugs I guessed. At the doorway to a corridor was a small wooden table with two chairs. The smell of dog and cat was potent. On my right was a sink and above it a small set of shelves where a tin of coffee and tea bags jostled with rows of worming tablets and vitamins. I followed her through into a dim corridor with cages each side, floor to ceiling. I thought I made out cats in some of the higher cages.
‘I’m only in tonight because we have Walter the Weimaraner recovering from a fairly big operation.’ The dog was on bedding in a large cage. The other, lower cages were empty apart from a small white dog who gave a ruff as we passed.
‘It’s alright, Chewbacca. Chewbacca’s boarding with us for a few days.’
We emerged into the reception area, which was dark until she clicked on the light. She indicated a comfortable sofa and I sat. She wheeled the receptionist’s adjustable chair around for herself.
‘The police have interviewed me. All of us. I wasn’t around on any of those nights so I can’t help. I wish I could.’
‘Are you the only one in the practice?’
‘I have another vet, Gillian, and two nurses who double as receptionists. They each do three days a week. When Caitlin disappeared we were all away, except for Gillian. She and I take it in turns. The police interviewed all of us. Even my cleaner and a master’s student who was doing his thesis.’
‘I’m sorry if the police have already asked you this stuff.’
‘That’s alright. Anything to help them.’
‘You’re Soupy’s vet.’
‘Yes, I’ve been tending darling Soupy for years.’
‘Are the Virtues or Scanlans clients?’
‘No. Neither of those families.’
Which would be why there was no cross-correlation mentioned on the disks.
‘Do you know the O’Gradys socially?’
‘No. I’m originally from south of the river. My daughter went to Penrhos and my son to Wesley.’ South-side private schools. ‘I only know them as clients.’
‘So you haven’t had much to do with Caitlin?’
‘She’d come in with her mum and Soupy. She’s a very sweet girl. I keep hoping.’
We both knew what she meant. Sometimes you just try a shot in the dark.
‘Ian Bontillo, is he a client?’
She shook her head. I dug out a list of names the task force had made of suspects who cross-correlated with at least two of the missing girls.
‘How about any of these people,’ I began reading names. ‘Rick Harvey, Terry Gorman, Simon Glendale, Shane Crossland …’
Instant recognition.
‘I’ve looked after their pets for years. You see them growing up, on and off. His sister, Bekky, she’s settled down. I’ve seen Shane around here, stoned on pot or something else.’
She wasn’t stupid. She knew why I was asking. ‘I’ve never seen him with Caitlin. He was always nice with their dog, though: Mimi, a toy poodle.’
I made a note and read another raft of names. None of them rang a bell. I had a thought.
‘Would it be hard for you to check for me the dates when Soupy’s been in for treatment and when Mimi has been in?’
‘Not with computers.’ She looked at ease firing up the desktop. ‘How is Michelle doing?’
I mumbled the requisite, ‘As good as could be expected.’
She found her client list and scrolled through, first one then the other.
‘May thirteenth, nineteen ninety-eight, Soupy was in for an infected paw and May eighteenth, Mimi was in overnight having put her back out.’
Okay, it wasn’t the exact same day but it was the same week and at least theoretically possible that the paths of Shane Crossland and Caitlin O’Grady could have crossed. I handed her my card and thanked her. I also asked her to keep our discussions confidential.
‘You understand I’m running around shaking every tree I can. I’m going to be looking at a lot of innocent people.’
‘I understand. I won’t be blabbing.’ She saw me out. ‘I don’t like coming here by myself now,’ she confided. ‘Even at my age.’
I was walking back through the carpark trying to follow my own advice and not think about Shane Crossland when a sedan swung in and cut me off.
‘What are you up to, Lane?’
The very friendly DS Collins, alone.
‘Walking the scene. You know the drill. What about you?’
‘Got a report of a dickhead with tags on himself.’
So it was going to be like that.
‘Sorry you wasted your time, Sergeant. And your guy in The Sheaf? He doesn’t fit. He’s too Dianella.’
Collins didn’t answer. He simply swung back out. The car where I’d seen movement was still in place halfway up the carpark. I was betting task force.
Back home, mother and daughter were both asleep. I fired up the computer and searched for Shane Crossland to refresh my memory. While I’d read through all the disks, in truth, not that much had stuck. I found him under a list headed Access All, Knew Two, No Alibi. Shane Crossland was a twenty-one-year-old labourer, brother of Lucy Crossland, a good friend of Emily Virtue. Shane Crossland had been one of the group of friends who had been drinking with Emily at the OBH on the afternoon of the day she disappeared. Crossland had spent two hours on and off with Emily’s group and playing pool. On the night of Emily’s disappearance, Crossland claimed to have gone back ‘pissed’ to the flat he shared with one James Killeaton, and crashed for the rest of the night. Killeaton himself had left the flat around 9.30 and gone clubbing in the city until the early hours and was unable to confirm whether Crossland had been even in his bed when he’d gotten home. The night Caitlin had disappeared, Crossland admitted to being at Autostrada. He claimed not to know her or to have spoken with her. Cameras showed him leaving thirty minutes before her. Crossland claimed to have gone straight home. His flatmate was staying with a girl that night and couldn’t confirm this. James Killeaton was able to confirm however that on the night Jessica Scanlan had disappeared, Crossland was not at the flat until around 1.30 am. Crossland had witnesses to support his claim he’d gone drinking after work and then into Fremantle to ‘cruise’. He had been able to produce a witness who put him in Fremantle at midnight. That left very little time for him to get to Claremont but it was possible. Crossland claimed to have slept in his car for an hour or so before heading home. It would have been extremely cold in the car and the story was not highly credible. Crossland, I noted, had a conviction for pot possession and had been described as a low-grade dealer. His connection with Jessica was that she had known his older brother Mitchell quite well. They had friends at uni in common. Mitchell had done an Ag. Science course. Jessica had met Shane Crossland in company with his brother at Steve’s Hotel near the uni at least twice, two years earlier. Mitchell Crossland had since completed his degree and was living in Northam.
Trying to tamp down excitement, I sat back and mused on Shane Crossland. He was the right age and he’d been on the spot the day two of the girls disappeared. It was possible he had known Caitlin. The address given was a flat in Mosman Park. I wondered how long he’d been living there. Before that, had he lived at home? I grabbed the White Pages and searched for Crossland. There was a Crossland with a Dalkeith number. I was jumping a little – okay a lot – but if he was living at home and if the house wasn’t too far from Caitlin’s, maybe they did cross one another’s paths, in the park say or on the street. That night in Autostrada, he recognises her. Maybe they have a quick chat. He leaves and waits …
No way would that kind of thing stand up in court. For the barest moment I considered passing on this lead to Tacich. But what compelling info did I have? They shared a vet. Not enough, nowhere near enough. I clicked off the computer and made my way to bed. Natasha was out to it completely. I hugged her and tried to make my mind blank.
I’m guessing a lot of guitar cases in a lot of dressing rooms smelled like Shane Crossland’s 1993 Holden Commodore: sweat and stale pot. Being a cop had a lot of advantages over being private: all those lab technicians you could call on, superannuation. Being private had advantages too. Like you didn’t need a search warrant to be standing in the underground garage of a block of Mosman Park flats at 3.30 am with a torch. I was gloved, of course, and wearing a non-descript cap just in case there was surveillance somewhere. Whatever I might have been expecting to find wasn’t announcing itself. There was a windcheater, turned inside out in a jumble on the back seat, a few CDs in front. Lots of old receipts, parking and shops, just scattered about. I scooped them up, you never know, might find something. I pulled the boot, nothing but a pair of flippers, no obvious blood spatter, gaffer tape, that kind of thing. I’d come prepared, a bottle of luminol acquired from an old Forensic mate. I sprayed evenly, pulled out the ultraviolet light from my bag and switched it on but there was no illumination to tell me blood had been present. Gently, I closed the boot. George Tacich wouldn’t have let me see those names if he didn’t want me checking them out. At least that’s what I told myself.
I’d been surveilling Crossland four nights. During the day I’d checked his bin: baked beans, eggshells, bacon rind, empty beer bottles. I was angry with Shane Crossland. Thanks to him I’d missed watching a great moment in Australian sporting history: Cathy Freeman winning the 400. I’d been tempted to give Crossland a miss that evening, the Monday. I thought of the whole nation cheering, glued to their televisions. The final was on a little after 6.00, so I told myself I could catch the race and then head over to Mosman Park. Heck, I could even sit up at the Mossie Park Bowling Club and watch it there. Crossland’s place was a few streets away and I’d be in place by half-six. But then I thought of the O’Gradys and the giant hole there would have been in that room at that moment. So I made do with listening to the radio as I sat outside Crossland’s flat. He didn’t come out. Just as he hadn’t come out Sunday after heading back from drinks at the Cottesloe around 6.30. The next two nights I’d followed him from his work site to the bottle shop. He’d bought sixpacks, driven back to the flat and not been out until tonight when he’d driven off around 9.00. I’d followed him a few blocks where he’d picked up a mate and they’d cruised over to the headland south of Cottesloe Beach, parked and lit up joints over two hours, drunk a few beers. Then he’d cruised back, dropped his mate and returned to his flat in one of the smaller blocks. I’d given him about an hour to pass out. I moved back to the front of the car, and sprayed the luminol. When I clicked on the ultraviolet, I felt a jolt through my whole body. The car was lit up like a showroom.