Bradley stared at the screen of his laptop. He’d read the same sentence twenty times and didn’t remember a word. His back hurt from sitting in the same spot for half an hour without moving. Being here, in his office in the warehouse, was just an excuse to take a break from Carla’s outpouring of emotion. He loved her to the moon and back but since the car accident she was either crying or drinking. Sometimes both. And he got it. She’d never experienced a loss like Susie and grieving took time and all that, but he just needed his own space for a bit.
‘Boss?’
‘Mother of…’ Bradley almost jumped out of his seat. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
‘Warehouse is normally deserted on Sundays. Thought I’d keep working on the container fit-out.’
Tall and bony with white, short-cropped hair, Abel Farrelly was Bradley’s foreman. More than that, really. He oversaw the employees and ensured a smooth running of the floor and didn’t mind the odd side job if Bradley had something extra for him. Like working on a shipping container to prepare for special freight.
Pushing his chair back, Bradley stood and stretched. ‘Do you need a hand?’
‘Thanks. No. You look busy, anyway.’
‘Not really. Might head off though.’
‘I’ll lock up when I leave.’ Abel turned to go.
‘That reminds me. The gate was open.’
Abel spun back. ‘What? The place was broken into?’
‘Warehouse was still locked.’
‘Yeah, but did you check the padlock on the gate?’
Abel disappeared and with a sigh, Bradley followed him across the semi dark warehouse floor to the side entry. By the time Bradley caught up, Abel was holding the heavy chain in one hand and the padlock in the other.
‘Bolt cutters,’ Abel said in disgust.
‘Didn’t even notice.’
‘There’s enough chain for me to secure it tonight. Tomorrow I’ll find a more permanent solution.’ Abel stared at Bradley. ‘How did you not see that?’
Bradley gazed up the driveway to his car, now joined by a flatbed ute. Abel rotated between it and the van. ‘Lot on my mind. Where’s the van?’
‘Don’t you have it?’ Abel dropped the chain into a coil near the side of the gate. ‘Figured you’d taken it home when I saw your car here.’
‘Nobody else has borrowed it? Please tell me nobody had access to the keys?’
Without waiting for an answer, Bradley stormed back inside. This was a joke. Where the hell was his van? There were spare, emergency keys for everything in the safe in his office. He tapped in the code and opened it. All were there. Along with a bundle of cash and a handgun.
‘Have you got your personal set, boss?’ Abel had followed him in and was staring into the safe.
Bradley closed it with a click. ‘On the desk. Yours?’
Abel reached into a pocket and pulled a few sets out. ‘Yeah. Van is on this one.’
‘You report it. I’m going home.’ Bradley closed his laptop.
‘Sure. Have you heard from Duncan Chandler lately? Like, since David died?’ Abel leaned against the door frame. ‘There’s an opportunity going to waste.’
About to snap at Abel that there was more to life than facilitating the transport of cheap toys, Bradley bit his lip. It wasn’t Abel’s fault. An arrangement with the man dubbed a ‘discount toy king’ would change all their lives. Pity David hadn’t lived to benefit from it.
He picked up his keys and wallet. ‘Tell you what. You take care of that container and talk to the police. I’ll reach out to Duncan. Oh, and maybe lock the container up before you let any cops in?’
In a police underground compound, David’s mangled car rested awkwardly on a raised tray. The front was smashed in, and the roof crushed from the middle of the car forward.
‘How did you survive, Melanie?’ Liz murmured.
‘The little girl? Mystery to me too.’ Jim Joyce carried a folder from an office to one side of the compound. ‘Been half-expecting one of you to visit.’
‘One of us?’
Jim crossed his arms. ‘Terry. You. Someone who still cares for Vince.’
‘He’s a good man. Was a good cop.’
‘Never believed anything else, Lizzie.’
They both turned to contemplate the wreck.
The front—more on the driver’s side—of the car had borne the full brunt of the impact with the tree, air bags deployed but no match for the force of the crash. In comparison the back seat was barely damaged.
At least Melanie survived.
‘I can’t tell you much,’ Jim said.
‘Can’t? Or haven’t started?’
‘The latter. Only had a quick look but there are questions. I’m trying to push it up the line to get to sooner.’
‘Vince is seeing something sinister where it possibly doesn’t exist.’ Liz gazed at the passenger side with its door missing. ‘Oh, Susie. Shit.’
‘It was quick.’
‘What has been confirmed?’ Liz asked, tearing her eyes from the car.
‘All the road measurements are done. They were travelling at seventy-eight kilometres an hour in an eighty zone. No traffic about that we can find. Certainly none that stopped to help. Something made David leave his lane.’
‘A dog on the road?’
Jim shook his head and opened the folder. ‘Be one hell of a big dog.’ He went through a series of photographs from the scene, stopping on one with clear tyre tracks and police markers.
‘If it was something like a stray animal or some obstacle in the middle of the road, David would have applied his brakes while in his lane. And when the tyre grip failed, and the car skidded to the other side of the road, there’d be more evidence of heavy braking.’ He traced the tyre tracks in the photo. ‘In this case, the car moved to the other side of the road, the wrong side of the road but at the same speed. No brakes until presumably David was losing control of the car.’
Liz looked more closely at the photo. ‘He was driving into oncoming traffic?’
‘The car was on a trajectory toward the shoulder of the opposite side. Doubt he’d been in the wrong lane for more than a few seconds when he braked.’
The next photo was a close up of Susie in the wreck and Liz recoiled.
‘Sorry.’ Jim snapped the folder shut.
She took a deep breath to force the image away. The shock away. ‘Are you saying something forced David onto the other side of the road?’
Jim shrugged. ‘Let us keep working. The report will be upstairs in the next twenty-four hours.’
Liz knew what Jim really meant. There was more to it than a driver who might have had a bit too much to drink and had forgotten which side of the road he was on.
Her next stop was back in the station. She had a meeting soon with Pete and Terry, but first hurried into Missing Persons to find Meg. The forensic analyst was working on two laptops—a hand on either —and flicked a glance Liz’s way with a ‘Nope. I’ll take a look later. When I can.’
Liz had rarely seen the young woman without a device, or two. She was a workaholic and exceptional at what she did. Terry had brought her up to speed about the break-in at Susie’s house, but she shouldn’t have expected an answer, or even a start, when it came to the deleted message.
‘Thank you.’ She left Meg in peace and made her way back to Homicide.
It was still circumstantial. Dependent upon Vince’s accuracy. Until somebody came up with some evidence, it would remain a theory from a wounded party. On the surface the crash was a tragedy caused by an icy road and possibly a driver over the alcohol limit. That was speculation until the coroner’s report came in. But it was also far too common in car accident drivers who’d spent the evening at a restaurant.
And David liked his wine.
She pushed the elevator button and leaned against the wall as she waited.
There’d been a party at Vince’s place. Goodness knows how many years ago… twelve? Susie had just finished university. It was her birthday and somehow she’d talked her reclusive father into letting her host a get together. She’d chosen the music, the food, and most of the guests. The party was set up outside and Vince had hired a marquee and even outdoor toilets. The food was vegan and served by one of Susie’s friends who’d gone into catering. And it was exceptional.
But two men had ended up in the cottage kitchen cooking themselves frozen hamburger patties to add to their meals. Vince, and David, who’d seemed like a kid back then. Not really a kid, but Susie’s age and obviously in love with her. He and Vince had hung out a bit that night, from what Liz could recall. She’d thought it strategic on both their parts as each tried to work out the other. They’d started drinking different wines until a bit too ‘happy’ and Susie got annoyed with them both.
The elevator doors opened. It was full. She waved it on, then went in search of stairs. Better for her cardio anyway.
Pete was in Terry’s office when she tapped.
‘Grab a seat, Liz. Any luck with Accident Investigation?’ Terry asked.
‘Too soon to tell.’
‘Because there’s nothing to tell,’ Pete said. ‘Driver couldn’t cope with icy conditions and lost control. Simple.’
Rather than give him the satisfaction of debating the point, Liz looked at Terry. ‘It is all over the news that we have blown the chance to catch Malcolm Hardy. What do we do to prove them wrong?’
Terry grimaced. ‘I’m going into a meeting soon to discuss this. Hardy isn’t out there on his own. He’s got enough friends to hide until it hots up for him too much, which is our job to make happen. I’d like you both to start visiting his top ten or so known contacts again. Rattle some cages. Make the suggestion that anyone caught with him will go down hard… unless they play nice and help.’
Pete cracked his knuckles with a wide grin.
‘Keep me in the loop.’ Terry glanced at his watch. ‘I’m going. Do you have an updated list of Hardy’s contacts?’
‘Know them off by heart.’ Pete stood. ‘Almost friendly enough to exchange Christmas cards.’
The Christmas cards would have to wait. After only one stop—a dead end—Terry had called and told them to go home. A briefing was set for first thing tomorrow and he wanted everyone fresh. Pete had jumped at the chance and got Liz to drop him off near a tram stop in Carlton after he arranged a last-minute date.
Hunger and opportunity saw Liz seated at a table in Spironi’s just before eight.
The table was for two and tucked against the window. Despite the cold outside, the footpath was busy enough. All the way along the restaurant precinct of Lygon Street, potential diners were regaled by spruikers competing for customers.
She played with the stem of a glass of red wine, her eyes moving from table to table. She was the only single diner. There were one or two couples, but the rest were parties of four to eight. White aproned servers wound between chairs with large trays of food. The smell of tomatoes and bread and herbs made her stomach rumble.
Her server—a forty-something man with a ready smile—brought her gnocchi and placed it in front of her with a flourish.
‘Thank you… Mike?’ she read the embroidered top pocket of his apron.
‘My pleasure. Would you care for another glass of wine?’
‘No, but thanks. I wondered if you work on Fridays?’
Mike gave her a wary look. Liz flashed her badge.
‘Oh. Officer. I’m one of the owners. Any particular Friday?’
‘Last one. Do you remember a group of two couples and a young girl?’
His face dropped. ‘The Weavers and Pickerings. Here most weeks. Terrible what happened. Not what you expect.’
Never was.
‘Did you notice anything out of the ordinary?’
‘I only seated them. Marco was their waiter but he’s off tonight. Did you want me to leave a message?’
‘Not necessary. I can always swing by if I need to.’
‘I do remember Marco saying the men—Mr Pickering and Mr Weaver—were arguing. Up near the back door, past the restrooms.’
‘Did he hear what it was about?’
‘Better to ask him.’
‘By any chance are there cameras in that part of the building?’
‘Afraid not.’
‘Thanks, Mike.’
What were they arguing about? And had anyone else overheard it?
Something was out of kilter. Two friends arguing the same night one of them received a cryptic message. Warning or threat? Either way, she needed to find out.