Detective Inspector Brent Wiles had not changed a jot since the last time Roxy had seen him. He was still sharply dressed; his Italian suit out of place in the laid-back Tweed Heads pub, and his goatee was so perfectly clipped, from a distance it looked like it had been sketched on with a black marker pen. When he stepped through the front door, various faces turned to stare at him, but he seemed not to notice, simply glanced around nonchalantly, then, spotting Gilda and Roxy at a side table, strode across as though he had all the time in the world. He was a cool customer, Roxy decided, and it must be a great trick when dealing with nervous criminals.
It was now Friday night and the hotel was bursting with noisy patrons, mostly blue-collar boozers and shaggy old guys. The jukebox was belting out a Midnight Oil track, and several patrons were whooping at a football match being broadcast on one of the three television sets buzzing above their heads. It felt a million miles from the Byron hinterland and Gilda couldn’t have been happier.
“Much better this way,” she told Roxy. “No locals around to eavesdrop, and too noisy even if they were.”
The two women had chosen a table just behind the billiard table, and were already working their way through their second glass of red wine (as cheap and rough as the pub) when Wiles walked up.
“Gilda Maltin, you didn’t waste any time getting up here,” he said, his whole face lighting up as he took both her hands in his.
“You remember Roxy Parker?” Gilda said. “From the—”
“Gordon Reilly case, yes I do.” He reached across the table and shook Roxy’s hand. “You get around.”
Gilda laughed. “That’s our Roxy, always in the right place at the wrong time.”
“I’ll just grab a beer. Would you ladies like another wine?”
They shuddered in unison. “It’s like paint stripper,” said Gilda. “We’d better ease up or we’ll pay for it tomorrow.”
After Wiles had fetched himself a schooner of lager and the three of them had placed orders behind the counter they got down to business.
Wiles said, “You decided to dig deeper into that drowning death then?” Gilda nodded and he asked, “First impressions?”
“There’s something a little off but I can’t quite get my head around it yet.” Now he nodded. “I haven’t got long, though, so I have to get cracking tomorrow. How about you? How long do you think the Jed Moody case will take?”
He glanced across to Roxy and back to her. “You know I can’t say much in front of a civilian, Gilda, especially a civilian who also happens to be a witness.”
“Of course, Brent. I wasn’t—”
He held a large palm up, his expression softened. “I just have to talk in generals, that’s all. I’m getting Vonnie from FSG up first thing in the morning.”
“The big guns, then.” She turned to Roxy. “Vonnie works for the Forensic Services Group. They’re the state specialists in fingerprints, DNA, that kind of thing. Vonnie’s one of the best.”
“She is the best,” Wiles said before scowling. “They made a mess of it. Moved the body too damn fast—didn’t even get a photographer in, would you believe? And at least one of the attending officers put his paw prints everywhere. There’s no clear time line for the DNA evidence. It’s a shambles.” He smiled, unperturbed. “But we’ll sort it out. You able to lend a hand or will the other matter hold you up?”
“I’d love to help you. It depends what I find and whether Houlihan wants me to pursue it. If not, I’ll see if I can hang around, help out.”
He paused as the waitress brought their meals over then said, “That’d be good. Quick’s not a bad bloke, but I’m not sure how useful he’s going to be. Before you called I was trying to organise a meal with him, wanted to get up to speed, but he wasn’t having it. Said something about needing a surf, would you believe.” Wiles’s frown suggested what he thought of that. “It’s the beginning of a murder investigation. You’d expect a little more dedication at this point.”
“Quick by name, not be nature?” Gilda said, and Wiles shrugged without replying.
Roxy felt heartened by all of this. Wiles was being diplomatic, but it was clear he hadn’t the least amount of faith in the local commander, and it justified Sam’s so-called “hysteria”. Despite what the likes of Govinda and Houghton claimed, Sam had been right all along. Whether Sunny had drowned accidentally or not, it was obvious that the investigating officer had not done his job. He was lazy and disengaged, Wiles had practically said as much.
No wonder Sam was such an angry man.
Roxy debated then whether to tell Wiles of the close relationship she had witnessed between Annika Moody and Detective Quick but decided to hold her tongue for now. Perhaps she had over read the situation; perhaps Quick was just a touchy-feely kind of guy, a rare sympathetic cop. In any case, she could tell that Wiles was not much of a gossip, probably preferred to work with cold, hard facts, so she kept that to herself and thrust a hot chip into her mouth instead.
Later, though, as she perched on the windowsill in Gilda’s room back at Bindi’s, watching her friend prepare for bed, she realised that most of the night had been free of “shop talk” and she hadn’t learnt any more than she already knew. She blamed herself for that.
“I should have opted out. Should have left you guys to mull over the details in privacy.”
Gilda disagreed. “It’s still early days. Wiles only just got here, and you heard the man. Quick’s been about as useful as a dinghy in the desert. He wouldn’t have that much more to tell me.” She placed some moisturiser in her palms. “Once they get Vonnie up and start sifting through the evidence, they’ll know more. I’ll have a chat with him on my own then.” She massaged the cream up and down her arms. “You know, the public always thinks murder investigations happen at lightning speed, and I guess on TV they do. But most of the time they take weeks and weeks to unfold, sometimes months and years, especially if you’re dealing with DNA. Wiles hasn’t even interviewed the witnesses yet.”
“I’m on the list for tomorrow, remember? He wants to see me at the Moody house first thing.”
“You okay with that?”
“It’s not like I haven’t been grilled by wily Wiles before.”
“Oh, he’s all right. A fair cop, I reckon. Bloody great spunk, too. Pity he’s married. All the good ones are.” She sighed dreamily. “How about those eyes of his?”
Roxy laughed. Like Quick, Wiles had startling blue eyes, another attribute that likely helped when grilling nervous suspects.
“Just tell him everything you told me,” Gilda continued, “about the conversation you overheard inside the house with Annika and that mystery man. Oh, and the animosity that Alistair Avery seems to have with the guy.”
“Isn’t that just gossip? I get the feeling he’s not much of a gossip queen.”
“He’s not, but that’s for him to decide. Give him all the info you have and let the cards fall where they may.”
“And what if they fall at the feet of poor Sam?”
Gilda stopped massaging her arms and stared hard at her friend. “Then poor Sam will deserve everything he gets.”
“I know, but—”
“Listen, Roxy, this is really important. Sam may have worked his charm on you, but Wiles is a professional and will see through all of that. If he did this thing, if he zapped the life out of one of Australia’s biggest rock stars to avenge his sister’s death, then Wiles will hold him accountable. And so he should. Cute dog or no cute dog.”
Roxy shrugged, pretended like she didn’t care, when the very thought of Sam Forrest being taken into custody again made her insides do an unsettling somersault.