Smash and Grab Towing Services. I found them in one of the ramshackle back streets of the Bloomfield industrial zone. The flamboyant sign at the entrance read: SMASH AND GRAB – ANYWHERE, ANYTIME. There was a brick office out front and a gravel yard in which half-a-dozen trucks were parked out back. In the centre of the block was an open-gable metal shed containing more vehicles and equipment.
Flinders was a quick learner. He waited patiently in his seat while I went into the property. I came across an unholy trinity of men standing around conversing in the forecourt of the shed. Two of them were in outdoor work wear, with an air of high-vis and low tolerance about them. The third was wearing a black winter jacket and jeans. He was obviously in charge: you could tell from the raucous energy of the laughter that shot up from the group like water from a depth charge when he cracked a joke. I hoped it wasn’t about me.
‘Morning gents,’ I said as I approached. ‘I’m looking for Edward Kursk.’
‘That’d be me,’ said the joker. ‘Neddy will do.’
He was in his late thirties, strongly built, with a ginger beard and buzz-cut, a head like a rocky outcrop and brickbat hands.
When I identified myself and asked if he was Jeremiah’s brother he put his hands in his pockets and told the others to make themselves scarce. They headed in the direction of the trucks. One of them, a stringy fellow who looked like Maggie Thatcher in drag, glanced back at me with an expression of bleak malevolence.
‘I take it you’re not here about a tow job?’ asked Kursk. The humour that preceded my arrival had vanished.
‘Do you know a man named Raph Cambric?’
‘Nope,’ he said without pausing for thought.
‘What about Nash Rankin?’
He stared at me for a moment and sniffed the air. It was rich with diesel and grease and a hint of distant abattoir. I thanked the lord I hadn’t come here in high summer.
‘He was at your brother’s trial,’ I added.
He locked his shoulders. His chin jutted forward, his feet followed suit. ‘Always comes back to that with you lot, doesn’t it?’
‘I don’t know why that should surprise you. The things he did . . .’
The ginger buzz bristled.
‘He did – not me.’
Thoughts of fruit never falling far from the tree shot through my brain. Fortunately they had the sense to stay there. There was something deeply discomfiting about this guy. The way he instinctively moved towards me at the mention of his brother. The flare in his eyes, the fists in his pockets.
The gravel was rough and spiky under boot, blue metal aggregate with dirty rainbows in its oil stains. I felt suddenly vulnerable, standing out there on the bare ground, alone, unarmed in civilian clothes and car, talking to a serial killer’s brother. Wondering if he were one too. I looked around. Nobody else in sight. There was a scabbed and battered rottweiler in a cage, barbed wire on top of the cyclone fence. This was no place for the weak or the tender-hearted.
What the hell. I’ve never thought of myself as weak or tenderhearted. Generally I just charge in with my eyes open and my fists closed, hoping a few of my blows will connect and that I won’t cop too many in return. I’ve got away with it so far.
‘Mind telling me where you were last Tuesday night, Mr Kursk?’
‘The night of the storm?’ He told me he and his crews were flat out that night, with breakdowns, smashes and flooded vehicles all over the region. They were still playing catch-up. I asked what time he got home that night, and he said it wasn’t until dawn the next day.
‘Can anybody vouch for that?’ I asked.
A quick shake of the head. ‘I live alone.’ That didn’t surprise me. You could almost see the trail of damaged women and cringing dogs stretching out behind him.
One of the trucks rattled out through the gate, kicked up an arc of mud. The rottweiler slavered and snarled at me through the mesh walls of its cage.
I turned back to Kursk. ‘You keep in touch with Jeremiah?’
He narrowed his gaze and chewed on something, possibly a piece of tungsten.
‘We’re family. You stick by each other.’
The rotty picked up the vibe, let fly with a volley of frustrated barks.
‘What’s this all about?’ asked Kursk. ‘Who is this Rankin? Not that I care – I’ve got nothing to hide.’
‘You know his name. I presume you attended Jeremiah’s trial.’
Something dawned in his eyes. ‘He was the local arsehole who went poking round the yard while Jem wasn’t looking? Trespassing, breaking and entering. Jem always swore that shit was planted.’
‘Lot of shit to plant,’ I countered. By the time Forensics had finished, the van had given them the material evidence – a blood-stained button, a set of prints from one missing woman, some hair from another – that formed the basis of the case against Kursk.
A pathetic little ray of sunshine struggled through the clouds, thought better of it and went away.
‘Have you been up to the Windmarks recently?’ I asked.
Kursk glanced at the vehicles remaining in the yard.
‘Depends what you mean by recent. We go anywhere we’re paid to. But I spend most of my time behind a desk these days.’
There was a clangour of hammer on metal from the shed. The rotty scratched at the gate and tore at the lock with its incisors. I took a closer look at the lock, a little concerned about its flimsiness.
‘How long have you had this business?’ I asked.
‘Ten years.’
‘So you were running it when your brother was on his spree.’
He took his hands out of his pockets and shot a hostile glance my way.
‘I don’t like the tone of that question.’
I stepped away, beyond his immediate reach. Maybe I should change tack. I wasn’t winning any friends round here. ‘Mind if I have a look around?’ I asked politely.
He crossed his arms and spat onto the ground.
‘I’ll take that as a no,’ I said.
‘Take it any way you like, but unless you got a search warrant, you can piss off. I’ve got work to do.’
He turned and headed for the office, his big boots crunching through the gravel.
I took his advice and pissed off – at least as far as the car, where I sat for a few minutes thinking. The most troubling part of the conversation was when he’d said that in his world, you stuck by your family. Did that include when they were killing people?
‘What do you reckon?’ I asked Flinders as we drove away. He wasn’t saying much, but five minutes into the drive, as I was turning onto the highway, he emitted a low growl. I glanced into the rear-view mirror. It was busy back there. Trucks, cars, utes of every description, motorbikes, B-doubles. And white delivery vans – oh so many white delivery vans. They were the worker bees of the nation’s economy.
But nothing out of the ordinary did I spot. Nobody lingering too close, no unwarranted changes of pace, no surreptitious eyes sliding in my direction.
If there was somebody on my tail, they were a damned sight better at this business than I was.
In a few minutes I came to a roadside cafe. I pulled into the parking lot and sat there, watching and waiting. Something had set my antennae twitching. Was I being followed, or was it just the afterglow of Neddy Kursk’s winning personality?
I studied the passing traffic for a full five minutes.
Nothing.
Settle down, I told myself. You won’t get anywhere if you go jumping at shadows. I tied Flinders up outside the cafe then went in and ordered a burger. I took a seat by the window, where I could keep an eye on the dog and the car park. The diner was buzzing; maybe twenty people came in while I was there and most of the seats were taken at any one time. When I’d finished the meal, I ordered a coffee and studied my notes on the case. The coffee was weak and watery and the notes weren’t much better.
Time to start on a mind map?
Nope. Too early. I’d been in situations like this before. I have a tendency to overthink, to get bogged down in possibilities and potential, overlook the obvious. What I needed was more detailed information. Hard facts. All I could do was push on, accumulate, sift and sieve. Keep talking to people, look into dark corners.
If there was somebody on my tail, I’d spring them sooner or later.