Chapter Forty-four

Begley sat at his desk, fuming. He swivelled from side to side in his chair. He played with his stapler. He hit the stapler’s head over and over, spewing spent staples over his desk. He stood up, paced back and forth, then sat and swivelled some more.

He’d never met either of the homicide detectives Maguire and Duffy, but he’d heard of them. Everyone had. The two detectives had, allegedly, the lowest homicide clearance rate in the whole state. They were officially the worst detectives in the force, at least they would be if those participating in station gossip could bestow such an award. What worried Begley was why, after twenty years of not solving homicides, they hadn’t been demoted to highway patrol or, better still, the bomb squad. He wondered whether they were the detectives you had to have if you didn’t want a murder solved. So why were they being flown up here? Begley smelled a rat. He didn’t know which species of rat, but he was determined to find out.

His desk phone rang, and he yanked the handset from its cradle. It was Anderson at reception. ‘Detective Sergeant Matthew Maguire and Detective Graham Duffy have arrived, sir.’

‘Send them through. And then make them both a cup of coffee.’

‘No problem, sir.’

‘And make sure you put some of your body fluids in the cups. You can decide which.’

‘Sir?’

Begley slammed down the phone. He took some deep breaths to calm himself, as he’d been trained to do by the psychologist. He’d seen her so often they were on first-name terms – at least until he’d yelled at her during their last session. Anger management had featured in nine of his last twenty annual performance reviews. He reminded himself that number would have been a whole lot higher if the flat-bottomed bureaucrats had thought to introduce performance reviews in the nineties. He promised himself he’d keep a clean sheet for the one remaining review before he retired. He would be polite and cooperative. He took some deep breaths before pounding the stapler a few more times with his fist.

The detectives knocked on the door and Begley beckoned them in. Before he met them, Begley would have bet big money they were corrupt. But there was not a Rolex to be seen, not even cheap knock-offs, just cheap. And their suits had deep wrinkles radiating from their groins, having spent aeons crushed between arse and chair, or arse and police car. So, either they weren’t corrupt, or they were very good at being corrupt.

The older one, Maguire, had a greyish complexion that matched the colour of his suit so closely they blended into each other. But his short-cropped hair was dyed black, ‘bottle-black’ as Begley liked to call it, and so dark it was like staring into a hole. The younger detective stood rigidly upright, all arms and legs, his long narrow head shaved bald. Neither of them smiled.

The older one stretched out a hand. ‘Detective Sergeant Matthew Maguire. Matty.’

Begley arranged his face into the best smile he could muster, took Maguire’s hand and crushed it. ‘Inspector Begley.’ He sure as hell wasn’t going to be on first-name terms. He held the handshake just long enough to avoid being hit with Maguire’s free hand. Duffy introduced himself and Begley shook his hand with an insipid, limp grip. That would mess with their heads during their tearoom debrief. Begley motioned them to sit, and he felt a warm glow when he spotted Maguire surreptitiously stretching the fingers of his right hand.

Begley reclined into his chair, smiling. ‘Have you been to Byron before?’

They both shook their heads.

Begley leaned forward and stared at each of them in turn, his smile gone. In a low menacing voice he said, ‘And what the fuck are you two doing here now?’

The two detectives glanced at each other before Duffy said, ‘There’s been a murder.’

Begley feigned surprise. ‘Oh, has there? Has there?’

There was a knock at the door. Anderson entered and placed a steaming mug of coffee in front of each of the detectives. Snot. He’d hoped Anderson had chosen snot.

Begley continued. ‘Gentlemen, you insult my intelligence. Actually, no, you insult your own. The question was not why we have homicide detectives here, but rather what the fuck you two homicide detectives in particular, are doing here?’

Begley heard a commotion at the door.

‘Because I sent them,’ said a strangely familiar voice. Assistant Commissioner Terry Mitchell strode into the room.

Begley jumped to his feet, and the two detectives smiled for the first time.

‘At ease, Inspector.’

But Begley remained standing. Fuck, he thought, hoping at least they wouldn’t send him back to the same psychologist.

The assistant commissioner continued. ‘I see you’ve met two of our finest detectives.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Begley, trying to sound normal through gritted teeth.

‘I wasn’t sure the local detectives were up to it, they only have a few murders a year on their patch, so I flew in Maguire and Duffy. I want the best. I want a result. In fact the Minister for Police wants a result. I’m sure you know this is his electorate.’

‘Very good, sir.’

‘And I’m expecting full cooperation.’

‘Yes, sir. Of course. Who will they be reporting to, sir?’

‘The officer in charge of the case, as usual. I believe that is currently you?’

Begley nodded, relieved. He’d be able to keep an eye on the useless wankers.

‘Well, I’ll be taking over,’ said Mitchell. ‘I’ll also be taking over your office.’

‘Of course, sir.’

The assistant commissioner picked up a photo of Begley’s wife from the desk and stared at it before handing it to Begley. ‘You’ve ten minutes to clear out anything you want, then we’d like a briefing on the case. And if you wouldn’t mind making me a coffee, a flat white would do nicely.’