Monty looked down from the threshold of his flat. Two men were heading for the concrete steps. He waved down to them.
‘Wait where you are please, Sir,’ one of the men called up.
They had cop stamped all over them. The older man was in a cheap suit, probably off the same rack as most of Monty’s; the younger man wore jeans and a leather jacket.
‘We tried to catch you at Central. They said you’d gone home.’ Older cop was puffing up the stairs. He had an unhealthy pallor and small eyes, the kind of face you’d expect to see on the wrong side of the bars. There wasn’t much room for the three of them on the front porch, less when both men stepped forward. Monty got the distinct impression they were trying to edge him away from his front door.
He didn’t budge. ‘And you are?’ he asked.
‘I’m DS Keyes and this is DC Thrummel, Sir,’ the older cop said, unsmiling.
Monty squinted at their ID. He recognised their names but not their faces and his brain refused to clarify the association. ‘Claremont?’ he read from their IDs.
‘That’s right, Sir,’ Keyes said. ‘We were hoping you’d accompany us back to Central. Superintendent Baggly asked us to escort you personally. There are some things he’d like to talk to you about.’
‘I’m not working the Birkby case. I suggest you call up DS Wong.’ Monty pushed his way to his door and reached for his key. Thrummel grabbed his arm.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing? Get your hands off me, Constable.’
Thrummel must have caught the pre-explosive set to Monty’s jaw. He dropped his arm and glanced at Keyes who gave him an imperceptible nod. Both detectives took a step forward and pinned him against the door. Monty was still feeling queasy, muddle-headed. This isn’t happening, he thought, he was being paranoid; it must be the aftermath of last night’s drinking binge. Then Thrummel, with a disturbing look in his eyes, put his heel on the bridge of Monty’s foot and began to lean. Sensitive nerve endings shot sparks of pain up his leg, which even the most rabid of paranoiacs could not have imagined. The pressure increased when he tried to extract himself.
Movement from the door of the next flat caught his eye. He saw his neighbour peering out of her door on their shared front porch.
‘Is everything all right, Montgomery?’ Mrs Nash asked. She was a perceptive old bird, always knew what everyone in the complex was up to.
The weight on Monty’s foot eased and the cessation of pain brought with it the ugly reality of his situation.
Keyes gave her a smile. ‘We’re old friends of Monty’s, Ma’am, just fooling around. I hope we haven’t disturbed you.’
Mrs Nash raised her eyebrows and shook her head. ‘Then I suggest you go and expend some of your energy at the oval. Some of the people in these flats work nights. I’m sure they don’t appreciate the disturbance.’
Mrs Nash was a retired schoolteacher. If Monty hadn’t already known he would have picked it from the inflection in her voice. There was no point getting her involved in his troubles.
He gave Keyes a cheesy smile. ‘I’ve got a footy in my car. C’mon me old pal, me old mate, me old codger. Let’s go have a kick.’ He placed his arm around the older detective’s shoulder and squeezed the bull neck with mock affection. The sergeant gave a small but satisfying gasp.
***
In the interview room, Monty felt the uneasy stares of several pairs of eyes. Seated on plastic chairs around the table were Superintendent Baggly, Angus Wong and a thin man with receding hair whom Monty had never met before. Baggly introduced him as Ian Stern from the Police Union. They weren’t mucking around. Whatever this was about it was serious.
Angus indicated the seat opposite him. He sat down, and Keyes and Thrummel took the seats on either side of him. Angus caught his eye and opened his palms as if to say that things were beyond his control.
Baggly cleared his throat. ‘I’d like to point out, Monty, that this is an unofficial meeting, off the record, no tape or video.’ He nodded to the dormant machines on the shelf to illustrate his point.
Monty found himself having trouble focusing on what Baggly was saying.
‘We merely need to get the ball rolling for the pending enquiry,’ Baggly said. ‘You will have ample time to organise representation. Mr Stern is here as a matter of protocol. We feel his presence from the very start of the investigation will be in your best interest.’
‘The union is willing to contribute a sizeable sum should a lawyer be required,’ Stern said.
Baggly gave Monty a benevolent smile.
Monty opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by Baggly’s raised hand. ‘You are going to be asked some questions Monty, which, for the sake of your career, you are urged to answer truthfully. Your answers at this stage will not be admissible in a court of law. If and when these proceedings are advanced, you need only answer under legal advice.’
Baggly turned to Stern, seeking verification. Stern’s nod implied that he felt everything so far was above board.
Monty’s mouth felt dry and gritty. ‘Can someone tell me what this is all about?’ He tried to keep his tone devoid of any hostility, but it was hard given that the methods and means of his summons were still sitting on either side of him.
Baggly, bless him, sensed his discomfort. ‘You two know what you have to do. Off you go now,’ he said.
The detectives rose. Keyes said to Monty. ‘We’d like to search your flat, Sir. Is it necessary for us to get a warrant?’
‘No, go ahead,’ Monty said. He’d speculated that these disciplinary measures had something to do with his tardiness at the morning’s crime scene. Now he realised it was much worse. He threw Thrummel his keys and tried to sound nonchalant. ‘There are some files there, I was reading them last night. I don’t want them left around for my cleaner to see. You may as well bring them back with you.’
Thrummel nodded.
‘Get the ball rolling, Sergeant Wong,’ Baggly said.
Angus waited for Keyes and Thrummel to leave the room before reaching into his jacket pocket. His tone was as gentle as ever when he asked, ‘Do you recognise this?’ He slid a plastic evidence bag across the table.
Monty’s tongue seemed to have stitched itself to the roof of his mouth. Cold pricks of perspiration started to bead on his forehead and he swiped at them with the back of his sleeve. Picking up the plastic bag he turned it around in his fingers and met Angus’s concerned gaze.
‘It’s my watch. Where did you find it? I left it on my desk at Central.’
‘It was clasped in Michelle Birkby’s hand,’ said Angus. ‘Your name’s engraved on the back.’
‘My watch,’ Monty said again to no one in particular. Different scenarios swirled through his head in ragged spirals. ‘It’s a plant,’ he said at last, ‘like the commissioner’s hair on Linda Royce.’
Baggly said, ‘Of course it is, but...’
Monty’s confusion turned to anger. He thumped the table with his fists and leapt to his feet. ‘What do you mean, “but”?’
Baggly said, ‘Sit down please, Inspector.’
‘Fuck you!’
‘Inspector McGuire!’
‘Monty,’ Angus spoke with the soft voice of reason. ‘This isn’t helping you at all. Sit down. You know as well as I do that these questions have to be asked. You’re upset about Michelle, we all are. Now let’s get down to the questioning so we can all get out of here as soon as possible.’
Baggly sniffed, ‘I’m putting that outburst down to grief. I won’t be so understanding next time.’
Monty sat down and folded his arms like a petulant child.