THE STATION HOUSE IS dead. A few stray CIB detectives, asleep on their feet, talking about an armed robbery overnight. Number Six. Not a bank, this time, but the ocean-front house of a jeweller. A dawn raid, unknown takings. Two casualties: a husband and wife. The husband was dead on arrival, the wife now lay in the ICU at Southport General. It’s the same crew, according to the boys.
Everyone is assigned and mobilised.
Everyone.
The Robbery Squad dragging in bodies and overtime.
But Bruno doesn’t get the call.
He’s still in the sin bin.
Bruno drives back to the O’Grady house and takes another walk through. SIB is finished with the crime scene and the place is empty, just a collection of sharp echoes and the debris of evidence collection. Bruno pulls a stool across the kitchen and plants himself at the bench like he lives there. He uses the family’s phone to chase the O’Grady travel agent, but the number rings without answer. Next, he puts a call through to Main Roads and waits on the line for a make and model for all vehicles belonging to the family. They confirm the dusty black BMW in the garage and provide a lead on the missing vehicle: a five-door, dark blue Holden Commodore registered to Samson O’Grady. He notes down the plates.
Wondering what else to do, he turns to a dark green garbage bag on the bench. It’s full of mail. Some of it is from around the house, the rest is from the creek—ink smudges and wrinkled paper. Bruno starts sorting. Plenty of junk to start: Boys Town prize home brochures, golf club solicitations, bullshit about a local park. There’s a bit of mail for the son, Samson. His school alumni newsletter. A flyer from the local radio station. There’s a book about gardening sent in a brown paper package. Bruno keeps at it, opening everything: utilities bills coming due. Marina board correspondence. An overdue account with a financial planner. There’s a second invoice for a motor shop service on the missing car. Then there are Phillip O’Grady’s porn catalogues. Housed in plain white envelopes, the stuff looks high-end. Pages and pages of glossy smut magazine covers. Lots of eight-millimetre film reels for sale, and even a page of VCR tapes. It’s vanilla X-rated stuff. Lots of fake tits and big hair.
Bruno opens his notebook, writes perv on a blank page, then makes a note to recheck the house inventory for film-screening equipment. He continues sorting. Two wedding invites. Someone’s fiftieth birthday shindig. A postcard from someone called Lisa, sent two months back, Welcome to Niagara Falls. Bruno opens a dozen window-faced letters from the local council and various coastal businesses before coming to an envelope containing a handwritten note. We’ve located several irregularities with your checking account. Please call us on your return. The note is pinned to the front of a bank ledger of some sort, dated weeks back. Various numbers and dates on the ledger are marked in red biro. The letterhead reads, Alfred Simmons, Deputy Manager, South Beach Building Society.
‘Now we’re talking,’ says Bruno. And he’s just about to do away with the whole process when he finds one more letter in the bag, something slimy and stuck to the bottom with Christ-knows-what. It reads: Australian Customs and Notification of Seizure. He scans the rest. Looks like ol’ Phil has had one of his mail-order fancies confiscated at the border.
Bruno underlines perv in the notebook.