‘Wait on. Monty was at work with us yesterday morning. He couldn’t have grabbed her.’
‘Of course he didn’t grab her,’ Wayne said, ashamed the idea had even crossed his mind. ‘But we can assume she was abducted soon after leaving this place, and probably from the gym car park.’
Barry’s phone rang. His face lit up as he listened for a moment. He closed his phone after a succinct reply and waggled his eyebrows. ‘That was Sophie Preston. She’s just remembered something and says she needs to speak with me.’
***
Wayne sat in the unmarked, waiting for Barry’s return. He busied himself reading his notes and making a summary of what they’d learned so far about Michelle Birkby’s last movements. Michelle was seen having breakfast with a creepy looking white-haired bloke who sounded like the albino cleaner from Central. On top of that, Wayne had seen him in Monty’s office the night before—who would be in a better position to steal the watch?
But Michelle didn’t leave the cafe with the albino—another man had followed her out. The murderer could have been either man or someone else entirely who’d been waiting by her car to abduct her.
SOCO had towed the car back to Central while he and Barry had been at the cafe. Wayne spoke briefly on the phone to the officer in charge and was told that the car was found locked. They were conducting tests on it now, but would probably not have any results until the morning.
He phoned Angus with their latest findings. Officers were dispatched to haul in the cleaner, Martin Sparrow, for questioning.
Barry announced his return with a blast of cold air. He was panting as if he’d just run a four-minute mile.
‘So? What took you?’ Wayne said, refusing to react to Barry’s obvious excitement.
Barry grinned and buffed his nails on his jacket sleeve. ‘She invited me clubbing.’
‘Christ, is that what all this was about?’
‘No, almost as good, though. She suddenly remembered seeing a guy leaving the gym at about the same time as Michelle, and it wasn’t our albino mate.’ He clapped his hands. ‘This is a hot one, yes sirree.’
‘Does this mystery man have a name?’
Barry put his hand into his pocket for his notebook and pointed to their list of yesterday’s early morning clients. He tapped at a name. ‘Frank Dixon.’
Wayne’s heart skipped a beat. ‘Do we have a photo ID?’
‘No. It’s a bummer, most gyms insist on photo IDs these days, but not this one. He’s youngish, tallish and has dark hair. That’s all she can remember about him. He doesn’t come in very often. We do have an address though: 35 Atwell Gardens.’
Wayne started the car. ‘Occupation?’
‘Police officer.’
14
The MO is the dynamic feature of the crime and can change from case to case. The signature on the other hand is static and driven by uncontrollable compulsions.
De Vakey, The Pursuit of Evil
Stevie and De Vakey found Monty in his flat, trying without success to put the back on his elderly TV, spitting out a different swearword with each ineffectual turn of the screwdriver. But the TV was the least of his problems, Stevie thought as she and De Vakey gazed around the trashed flat, speechless. It would take more than a few screws to fix this mess up.
Every kitchen door hung open, the contents of the cupboards scattered by clumsy searching hands. Food from the fridge had been spread over the kitchen bench. The eggs had smashed on the floor to join a pool of milk and a creeping tide of water from the open freezer. Still unable to speak, Stevie moved to shut the freezer door before pushing some of the packaged food away from the flood. Picking up an empty cereal box she reached for the bin to discover it missing from its alcove. She found it in the bathroom, the stinking contents tipped into the bath.
‘Who the hell did this?’ She said as she returned to the men in the lounge room, stepping across Monty’s slashed mattress that was lying on the floor where it had been dumped.
Among the jumbled books from the shelves, a patch of carpet glistened with shattered glass and waterweed. She stooped to examine the inert goldfish.
‘DOA,’ Monty said without looking up, apparently still intent on fixing the TV. ‘Keyes and Thrummel said the flat was like this when they arrived. They accused me of doing it to destroy evidence. That Thrummel’s bloody crazy—wired as a bloody time bomb. Keyes was practically holding him back by a chain.’
Stevie rose with the fish cradled in her hand. Her eyes met De Vakey’s in silent communication. She felt hollow and empty. When she did speak, her words rattled in the heavy silence.
‘Those thugs can’t be allowed to get away with this. Did you report them?’
Monty put down the screwdriver and rocked back on his heels. ‘I’ve had a gutful of red tape, the correct fucking procedure—what’s the point of reporting them? I can’t prove they trashed the flat and even if I did Baggly would probably just sweep it under the carpet to avoid an enquiry. I’ll handle this my own way. I broke Keyes’ nose, that’s a start.’ He shook his head before saying, almost to himself, ‘I suppose I should be grateful he didn’t plant anything to link me to Michelle’s death.’ Then in a louder voice he said, ‘I asked them to collect the KP files for me, but they said they couldn’t find them.’
Stevie drew a sharp breath, coming to a standstill on her way to the bathroom with the fish.
Monty continued, ‘I arrived when they were finishing up. When I ever so politely asked about them, they said they’d never seen them. Apparently I am now being accused of negligent loss.’
‘What about your cleaning lady? Could she have tidied them away?’
Monty waved his arms around the room. ‘Yeah, sure looks like she’s been, doesn’t it?’ He dropped the sarcasm. ‘There was a message from her on my answering machine, calling to cancel because she’s got the flu.’
Stevie turned to gauge De Vakey’s reaction. He shrugged. ‘Monty’s read the files, he can give us the relevant information.’ He put a hand to each temple as if he was in pain. ‘But let’s just clear this mess up first. I can’t think straight in chaos.’
Stevie flushed the fish down the toilet and De Vakey picked up Monty’s Italian apron and tied it on. After righting the sofa he began to gather up the scattered cushions, apparently unaware of the life-size ‘David’ clinging to his middle. Too despondent to comment, Stevie grabbed a mop and bucket and hit the bathroom.
Monty’s kitchen phone rang after they’d been cleaning for about ten minutes and Wayne filled Stevie in on the latest developments: Michelle’s car in the gym’s car park and her sighting in the cafe. The promising lead from the receptionist at the gym had turned into a dead end, though interesting in another way. Wayne and Barry had traced the address on Frank Dixon’s membership card to a video store in a street just off the highway. After that it came as no surprise to hear there was no record of a Frank Dixon on police personnel files. On another tack, a couple of officers had called at Martin Sparrow’s house and been told by his mother that he was out for the day. One of the cops had parked in the street outside and was now waiting for him to return.
Stevie relayed the information to Monty in his bedroom. He’d flipped the mattress cut side down and was remaking his bed.
‘Frank Dixon,’ Monty repeated the name. ‘Another of his games.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You remember, Dixon of Dock Green —that TV show about the London bobby?’
‘Oh yes, “Evenin’ all”.’
Monty almost smiled. He went on to say that the notion of Martin Sparrow as a serial killer was ridiculous, but conceded that the cleaner’s meeting with Michelle did need investigating. When Stevie pointed out he could have been the one who stole Monty’s watch, he reluctantly agreed it was a possibility.
As for his gym membership, he told Stevie he’d stopped going to the gym several months previously after literally bumping into Michelle on the stairs. As his visits had to be on record somewhere, there was no way that Monty’s gym membership could be used as evidence against him.
Stevie breathed out a sigh of relief and dropped the subject.
***