“Well she’s just been found dead in her Woollahra apartment. Apparently she took a bit of a beating before she died. Bovis and I are still at Kings Cross station and heard about it from the LAC Detectives here who have gone off to check it out.”
“Shit,” said Nelson taking the information in. “Anyone see anything?”
“Yeah, a neighbour saw a guy running from the apartment block.”
“Got a description?”
”Yeah, he had brown skin, shaved head and was of solid build.”
“Torres,” Nelson said under his breath.
“What did you say? I didn’t catch that?”
“Ahh, nothing. It’s nothing.”
As Nelson continued to quiz Robards for further information the man from the double parked car came out of the building. He scanned the street as he walked towards his car carrying a small suitcase. As he passed underneath a street lamp, Nelson’s heart skipped a beat as he recognised the face. It was Manuel Torres.
“Look Pete, I’ve got to go. I’ll talk to you soon. Give me a call if anything new comes in about Nolan.” He snapped his phone shut. He considered asking Robards to provide backup for him but decided against it for the time being. He felt bad about leaving Robards out of the picture but wanted to follow the lead through to the end without having to explain or justify his actions to anyone else. It was something he would have to do alone.
Manuel Torres jumped in his car and drove off, accelerating hard. Nelson sprinted back to his car, pulled out from the curb with his headlights off and followed at a discrete distance.
Chapter 47
Nelson followed the battered looking Commodore as it made its way northward through the city, crossed the Harbour bridge and wound its way along the Pacific Highway. Nelson found it difficult to conceal his presence because Manuel Torres had pulled over three times during the journey. As Nelson drove past the stationery vehicle on the first time Manuel had stopped, he looked into its lit cabin and had seen that Manuel appeared to be looking at something on his lap. After the third stop, Nelson realised that he was probably checking his progress on a street directory on his lap.
It piqued Nelson’s curiosity even more and during the course of the journey he thought hard about where Manuel might be going and how it fitted with the case. A small seed of an idea began to germinate in his mind and grew with confidence after every passing kilometre. When Manuel turned off the Pacific Highway Nelson knew where he was going and was reasonably certain he knew why.
After almost thirty minutes of driving, Manuel parked his car outside a Roseville apartment block and made his way inside.
Nelson switched off his engine and glided to the curb fifty metres behind Manuel’s Commodore. He again considered calling for backup, this time from the nearest Local Area Command, but decided against it for the time being as he didn’t want the outcome to be hijacked by the wailing sirens of a couple of squad cars filled with energetic and nervous young Constables. He checked his weapon, got out of his car and headed into the apartment block.
Nelson entered the lobby with gun drawn. He tried to quieten his beating heart which pounded heavily in his ears and throat. He looked up through the dim central staircase and thought he could hear faint voices filtering down to him from above. Moving quickly yet cautiously he went up the stairs, bypassing the silent first floor and making his way to the second. He could almost make out the voices now.
He crept down the short corridor, honing in on the raised male voice. The door to apartment ten was ajar by about forty centimetres and light spilled out into the hallway from within. The frame of the door had been shattered and broken shards of wood lay on the floor.
A door opened behind Nelson and he swung around instantly, ready to retaliate against the surprise attack. Within a split second of pulling the trigger he realised that it was just an old woman, a nosey neighbour, with incredibly lousy timing or a euthanasia wish. He lowered his weapon, showed her his badge, urged her to silence, frantically waved her back inside her apartment and was relieved to find that his heart was still beating within his chest cavity. Taking a few deep breaths which had no effect, he sidled quietly and smoothly along the wall until he was just outside apartment number ten. He focused his hearing on the enraged voice within.
“Do you think I’m completely stupid Kylie? I know what you been doing. You set me up.” The words were bitterly spat out, the tone was menacing and hard edged.
“C’mon baby it’s not like that. I didn’t do anything. I didn’t tell anyone anything. I helped you, remember?” she replied, her honeyed voice, calm and soothing. “I gave you someone to take the fall for you so you’d be safe. He’s already been arrested for it.”
Manuel Torres looked into her sea green eyes, searching for a hint of a lie and saw nothing. He wondered if he was making a terrible mistake in accusing her and that maybe someone else could have known about the murder and taken the photographs. She had been so good to him, so good for him. He shook his head in an effort to clear it and pressed his hands against the growing pain in his temples. He looked away to block out the sight of her and give his mind time to think. His resolve to exact revenge had been diluted by her convincing words and thoughts rushed through his mind, confusing him. And yet, it had to be her, there was no-one else. He looked back to her and noticed her eyes quickly dart back to him. For the briefest of moments he had seen something in her face before it had been wiped clean to be replaced by a different look. What was it? Fear? Anxiousness? What had she been looking at?
He looked toward where he imagined her eyes had been focussed and his eyes fell upon an eight by ten framed photo on the television set. It was a photo of Kylie draped warmly over another man. The inference of intimacy was unmistakable.
Kylie saw his eyes go to it and quietly cursed. She looked longingly toward the open door but didn’t highly rate her chances of escaping through it, at least not intact.
“That’s just an old photo. Someone from the distant past,” she said, hoping to placate him. It was to no avail. Manuel’s confusion and doubts evaporated.
“You’re a fucking liar,” he shouted. The force of the accusation made her flinch involuntarily. He raised the gun and gestured at her. “You played me bitch.”
“No, no baby I didn’t,” she said, knowing her control over him was gone. Her control over herself was barely in check, as panic clamoured at the edges of her consciousness, searching for a way in.
“Where are the fucking photos?” he snarled. “Give them to me now or so help me I’ll blow your fucking head off.” He pointed the gun straight at her head and Kylie stared at the dull burnished metal of the weapon, transfixed, unable to speak. She thought she had the strength to be calm in any situation, but as she looked down the barrel of his gun, the remainder of her facade receded away like an outgoing tide, leaving her naked and alone.
“Where are they?” he shouted again.
“Ok, ok. Please don’t hurt me,” she begged, as legitimate tears began to roll down her cheeks. “I’m so sorry, it wasn’t meant to be like this.” She reached into her bag on the floor and removed a large yellow envelope which she passed to him and then backed away slowly.
Nelson stood outside the door, waiting, listening, fascinated by the conversation within, slotting each sentence neatly into the case as they were spoken. Through the gap in the door he could see Manuel Torres standing, gun in one hand and envelope in the other. Nelson guessed that the contents of the envelope was all that he needed to ensure Craig Thoms escaped a wrongful murder conviction and yet despite witnessing the scene of impending doom play out before him he was uncertain of his next move and remained rooted to the spot as competing priorities and agendas decayed his resolve.