Liz’s legs were cramping from standing still in front of the whiteboard for so long. Might have been ten minutes or an hour, but since the last update was added, she’d forced her tired brain to make connections and now her body was protesting.
Too much driving, too much sitting in a car, too much running.
And very little to show for it all.
‘Coffee?’ Terry appeared from nowhere and pushed a cup into her hands. ‘What are you thinking?’
‘That I’d like more sleep. And a vacation, boss.’
He chuckled. ‘You and me both.’
The coffee cup warmed fingers she’d not noticed were cold. Terry had bought it from a café instead of making the crap they usually tolerated, and it was good.
She remembered his question. ‘There’s a connection between Malcolm Hardy and PickerPack… but what the hell is it?’ Her finger stabbed the photograph of Abel and Roscoe on the pier. ‘These two aren’t friends. Friends don’t behave that way so who has a hold over who?’
‘What do we know about Farrelly? Beyond what we’ve previously discussed.’
He’s a sleazy little shit?
‘Nothing comes up. No odd history or police record.’
‘Then look again, Liz. Do a deep dive into the life and times of Abel Farrelly. Pete should be back on board soon so put him onto to it if you want.’
‘Nah. I’m really curious. The other thing is where did Farrelly and Pickering meet? What is really going on in that warehouse? What do we know about Pickering?’
‘I can help with the last question.’
Both swung around. Vince was inside the door, folder under an arm and his eyes devouring the information on the whiteboard. Terry put his hand up to turn it.
‘Wait a sec, mate.’ Vince closed in. ‘I have some new information and letting me take a quick look at what you’ve got might help. You know I have good instincts.’
‘Ten seconds.’
Terry stepped out of the way and took a sip of his coffee.
Vince closed in on the board, a hand hovering just inches from the photos and words. It was his way of focusing on the pieces, at least, he’d told Liz that more than once. He paused at the image of Farrelly and Roscoe and moved on to a shadowy image of the van.
‘Who heads up the uniforms these days?’
‘Why?’
He turned his back on the whiteboard and gazed at Liz. ‘Susie’s neighbour saw a black van in the street the night of the crash. It was parked in a nearby driveway and followed their car when they left. Mrs Rionetti gave this information to whoever asked her about the break in. Now, either they didn’t think it was important enough to pass on, or you know about it and have done nothing.’
‘We didn’t know, Vince. But I will tell you—that van there? It is at the garage now and is likely the vehicle involved in the crash.’
His shoulders dropped as if releasing long-held tension. ‘Where was it found?’
‘Dumped up north. It was stolen.’
‘Who owns it?’
Terry must have decided they’d done enough sharing. ‘You said you could help with Pickering’s background.’
With a slight smile to acknowledge he was being shut out of any more details about the van, Vince nodded. ‘Bradley didn’t set out to own a business. He had grand plans for his life, but university wasn’t kind to him and he failed his final exams. Instead of doing another year and taking another go, he married Carla, who had money behind her. She comes from a decent family. Hard working. Self-made. And when her parents retired and moved to warmer weather, they gifted her the warehouse.’
‘She owns it?’ Liz asked. She hadn’t seen that coming.
‘She gave it to her husband. Carla was on her way to being an executive in a major company when she ruffled feathers by daring to call out workplace harassment. By then, Bradley was so involved in building up his tiny empire that she was left out in the cold.’
Still don’t like her. Less now if anything for not standing up for herself.
These unkind thoughts bothered Liz and she put it to the back of her mind. ‘Vince, you said Pickering failed his tertiary studies. Do you know what they were?’
‘You don’t? He had dreams of becoming a barrister, eventually. He studied law.’
Her eyes flew to Terry’s, and she could imagine his thoughts were the same as hers. Was it possible Pickering knew Roscoe despite protesting he didn’t? Was Farrelly acting as a go between and if so, why?
‘That’s helpful, Vince. How is Melanie?’ Terry asked.
‘Good. She’s at Lyndall’s house today to let me cover some ground without her. Hoping she won’t come home with another kitten.’ He opened the folder. ‘I found an envelope in one of David’s jackets when I was emptying the closet. He just bought a business.’
‘What?’ Liz took the letter he offered and scanned it. ‘Was he leaving PickerPack?’
‘Looks it. But Pickering has said nothing about it, just that he wants to buy David’s share in his business and be done with it. My gut says he has no idea… or only found out recently,’ Vince said. ‘I also found about ten thousand in cash in the safe.’
‘You got into the safe?’
She’d not seen a report on the fingerprints.
He grinned. ‘I may have lied a bit.’
Terry muffled a laugh.
‘What else was in there?’ Liz asked. ‘That envelope?’
Vince glanced at the large and fat yellow envelope with no writing. ‘Haven’t opened it yet. What do I do with the cash? What if it is illegally sourced?’ He held out a wad of notes. ‘All hundreds by the look of them and new.’
After putting down his coffee, Terry located an evidence bag and opened it for Vince to drop the money into. ‘Leave it with me. Best to check it’s not sus. Do you reckon he’d keep that amount on hand?’
‘No idea. But Melanie’s school fees haven’t been paid this year and David gave the principal some sob story about his business going under. More likely he was pouring everything into buying himself and family a new life. And he’d been talking to Susie last year about moving further out onto a bigger block of land.’
‘Speaking of land, don’t you have a cow to milk or something?’ Pete tossed keys onto his desk then perched on the corner, arms crossed.
‘Caught Hardy yet?’ Vince countered. ‘Or is the body count gonna keep rising on your watch?’
Pete was straight onto his feet and Terry held up a hand.
‘Enough already, you two. Vince, I’ll let you know about the money.’
Vince glanced at the whiteboard, then at Liz. ‘Melanie did a new drawing of you.’
‘Tell her I’ll come and see it soon.’ She couldn’t help smiling. But the minute Vince was out of the room the smile faded and she glared at Pete. ‘Pull that crap anymore and I’ll ditch you, mate.’
Pete’s eyebrows almost touched his hairline. ‘Rather have that dinosaur back? Be my guest.’
Yes. Yes, I’d have Vince as my partner again in a heartbeat. But I’m stuck with you.
‘Just saying… lay off him.’
Terry was ignoring them both and Liz joined him at the whiteboard and touched the image of the van. ‘He doesn’t know it belongs to Pickering,’ she said.
‘Which brings me to my question, Liz. Was it stolen, or did Pickering… or one of his associates, use it to run David Weaver off the road?’
As annoying as McNamara was, he’d arrived at a good time. Vince had no intention of opening the envelope around anyone else and only carried it into the station to keep it safe. It was probably nothing of importance but might contain personal stuff best kept from other people’s eyes.
Next stop would be Lygon Street. Again, he used the GPS. Although he knew all of these routes, he had a reason for navigating them today. Later, he’d download the data of all the trips and analyse them. Something hadn’t sat right with him for days about where the crash occurred and there had to be an answer somewhere beyond assurances that everyone was in the place they were meant to be.
The whiteboard at the station had been interesting. Informative. And confusing.
Back in his time as a sergeant—in charge of a large unit of often young officers—he’d dissected info boards more times than he cared to remember. There was an order to them. A way of connecting details visually or with a few words which trumped written reports or verbal discussions.
Marion used to say he had a talent for seeing beyond the obvious. He’d believed her then and trusted his instincts. Often, a picture would correlate with a report, or a witness statement, and he’d be the first to see a pattern. Or the only one to see it.
Which is why I knew there was a gunman at the top of the stairs at the march that day.
He had to slow down. The speedo said he was ten kilometres above the limit.
‘God sake, Vince. Stay on track. Focus on the issues at hand.’
The property owned by Roscoe had something sinister about it. A sprawling parcel of land in the back of nowhere was ideal to hide criminals. Was that where the van was dumped? On Roscoe’s land?
The look between Lizzie and Terry hadn’t gone unnoticed. His backstory of Pickering had filled in some blanks—possibly made a connection clear. They thought Pickering and Roscoe knew each other and why wouldn’t they? Abel Farrelly in that photo on the board, deep in discussion with the lawyer, proved there had to be more than a chance meeting late at night on Altona Beach.
For the first time in a long time, he wished he still carried a badge.
Lygon Street was impossible to park on this early in the day, so Vince left the car in a side street and walked to Spironi’s. The ‘closed’ sign was turned and he checked the time. A bit too early for lunch service although there were signs the chefs were there. He crossed to the other side, letting trams and cars pass before weaving across to get a coffee at a café. From a window seat he’d see any staff arrive. And because he had no idea which one had overheard the argument, he’d stay there until he spoke to every one of them.
The staff at Spironi’s were less than helpful but Vince admired their solidarity in repeating the same answers to his questions.
‘Do you remember Susie Weaver and her family?’
Yes.
‘Did you witness an argument between David and Bradley?’
No.
‘Did you notice anything out of the ordinary?’
No.
‘Was Melanie upset at any stage?’
No idea.
Customers were beginning to come in and a waiter with the tag of ‘Mike’ on his apron was agitated by Vince’s presence. ‘If you’re not going to have a table and order then you need to leave, sir.’
‘If I do that, will you be honest with me?’
‘Are you police?’ Mike asked, waving his arm at one of the other staff to attend a couple who stood inside the door. ‘I’ve already told them nothing happened.’
‘Someone told my ex-partner that another member of the staff here overheard a heated discussion that night. Are you either of those people she spoke to?’
Mike’s face hardened. ‘Please leave, sir.’
‘I’ll use your restroom first.’
‘That is for customers only.’
‘I’ve eaten here in the past. Gotta count for something.’
With a shake of his head, Mike walked away.
Vince used the restroom and waited inside the door. The ladies room was next to this so if Melanie had been in there, she might have overheard her father having words with Pickering if they were close by.
He stepped into the hallway. The lights weren’t on and even if they were he doubted it would add much to the dingy space which only had two bare lightbulbs for the entire length. To his left and around the corner was the dining area. Diagonally across was the door to the kitchen, complete with raised voices and banging pots. Right was the exit. If he’d wanted to argue with someone, away from curious ears, he’d have been between here and the exit. Vince positioned himself there.
Had someone come out of the kitchen, they’d see him.
Same with the restrooms.
‘What did you stumble into, Melly?’ He murmured.
Voices approached from the dining area, and he let himself out through the exit, stopping so his eyes could adjust to the relative brightness outside. He was in a narrow alley made smaller by dumpsters and a row of cars parked behind each other. And leaning against the wall, a young man wearing the Spironi’s apron had his eyes down concentrating on a game on his phone.
He spoke without looking up. ‘Has he gone, Mike?’
Vince made it all the way to him before answering. ‘Has he left the restaurant? Yup. I’d like a word, son.’