Hindsight (9781921997211) (7 page)

Ed looked at Phil. Phil responded with a slight shrug. He followed Sorenson along the corridor to her office. She opened the door and waved him inside. Seated with her back to them was a young woman. She stood up and turned around as they entered. With a jolt, Ed recognised her as the young woman who'd been having lunch at the café in Jewel Bay the day before. Her intense eyes locked with his again.

‘Detective Dyson, I'd like you to meet Cass Lehman. Miss Lehman is the daughter of one of my dearest friends. She lives in Jewel Bay and she thinks she might be able to assist you with your enquiries.'

There was an edge in Sorenson's voice that told Ed there was more to it. He switched on his most charming smile.

‘Miss Lehman, pleased to meet you. We'd be very grateful for any assistance.' He shook her hand and glanced over at Sorenson.

‘Perhaps you can take Miss Lehman into a private interview room and she can fill you in.'

‘OK, I'll grab Phil.'

‘No, I think only you for the minute.'

He paused, trying to work out what the hell was going on. ‘OK, right this way, Miss Lehman.'

The woman, who'd said nothing but a murmured hello up until this point, followed him down the passageway to one of their two interview rooms. He opened the door for her and scanned her face as she passed him. She looked nervous. Ed pulled out a chair for her on one side of the melamine table and sat down opposite her.

‘So, Miss Lehman, what do you know about Janet Hodgson?'

‘Call me Cass. Janet Hodgson, was that her name? I don't know anything about her.'

‘Right, so, did you see or hear something that might help us find who killed her?'

‘Um, no, not yet.'

Ed leant back. ‘Not yet? So how exactly do you think you can help us?'

Cass took a deep breath. ‘I see things.' She winced.

‘You see things?'

‘I have a special ability. When I visit a place where someone died violently I experience their death.'

‘Uh huh.' Ed was already imagining what Phil would say if she was in the room. He could understand why Sorenson had wanted him to handle this. It was only the knowledge that this was the daughter of one of Sorenson's ‘dearest friends' that stopped him from dismissing her as a crank and marching her out of the station. ‘And how will that help us exactly?'

‘I see and feel what the person felt while they were dying. It's like an imprint of their death. For a few minutes it's like I'm the one who died.'

‘So …?' He let the question hang.

‘I want to visit the place she died and see if she saw the man who attacked her. I might be able to give you a description.'

Ed sat there staring at her. Sorenson had to be kidding.

‘If you'll just excuse me for a minute I'll go and fill my partner in. Would you like a coffee while you wait?'

‘No thanks, Mr Dyson.'

‘Call me Ed. Mr Dyson was my father. It makes me feel ancient.'

He gave her a quick smile and ducked out of the room. It dropped from his face as soon as the door shut behind him. He strode back down the passageway to Sorenson's office. Giving only a cursory rap he barged in.

‘Before you say anything, Detective Dyson, this is not open for debate. If Cass Lehman says she thinks she can help, she means it. I won't have you belittling her or refusing her assistance.'

‘But —'

‘No buts. You will take her to the crime scene and let her see what she can see. As a matter of fact I'll come with you.'

‘But Phil —'

‘You can tell Phil what's happening and tell her she's on strict orders to mind her manners.'

‘She's not going to like it.'

‘Exactly, which is why I want you to be the one to work with Cass. Besides, she asked for you.'

‘Why? Do you really think she's legit? She saw us in the Jewel Bay Café yesterday, you know. She could be a voyeur.'

‘Cass is no voyeur. She might be a bit strange, as are the rest of her family, but they're good people and they don't offer assistance lightly. Go and brief Phil. We leave in fifteen minutes.' She turned back to her computer, dismissing him.

And that was that.

As the four of them approached the squad car, Cass turned to him and asked, ‘Has anyone died in this car?'

The question floored him. Phil snorted and answered her before Ed had a chance.

‘We're not in the habit of bumping people off in the back of police cars.'

Cass flushed crimson. ‘No, I just thought …'

Sorenson's eyes burned into Phil. ‘It's all right, Cass, the car is less than a year old and no one has died in it.'

The trip took place in uncomfortable silence. Ed could feel Phil's barely contained annoyance. Cass and Sorenson were in the back and he regarded the young woman in his rear-view mirror every so often. She'd said very little since they'd left the station. She was clearly nervous and he wondered if she was having second thoughts.

Her long curly blonde hair was parted simply in the middle. She wore no make-up. Her face was a classic oval with a high brow. Her hazel eyes were definitely her best feature. She wasn't exactly plain but she had an aloof, distant kind of beauty.

Still, there was something about her. He'd barely looked at other women since Susan disappeared. He'd been too busy wallowing in misery and self-recrimination, until now.

They pulled up at Stuart Lane and Cass got out of the car. Ed walked up beside her.

‘How do you want to do this?'

‘Just show me where.'

He walked her to the start of the lane and pointed to the doorway.

‘Is that where she actually died?'

‘Maybe, we think she was walking from this end of the lane towards the doorway when he attacked her.'

‘I need to retrace her steps.'

The look she gave him was so fraught he had to stop himself from reaching out and grabbing her arm to stop her.

‘It's better if you wait here,' she said. She started to walk slowly down the lane. About twenty metres along she froze. Her back arched and she grabbed at her throat. Her knees buckled beneath her and she fell to the ground.

Ed ran over to her. Her eyes were open, staring. She didn't seem to be breathing. He started to panic and then suddenly she took a gasping breath and her eyes fluttered and focused on him. As his presence registered she shuddered and squeezed her eyes shut, tears seeping out from under her lids. He helped her to stand up.

Sorenson and Phil joined them and they stood there looking at Cass.

‘What did you see?' Ed asked.

‘Nothing, I didn't see anything …'

His disappointment was unmistakable. He turned away.

‘But I heard what he said. He said she was so much easier than the last one, and then he laughed.'

CHAPTER

7

He sat in his car a short distance up the road from Stuart Lane, within sight of the local police station. He'd been sitting there for nearly eight hours. The rage that had swept over him the day before had passed now, replaced by an intense, burning need to fix things.

Yesterday had been a disaster. Only once before had he come so close to being caught. He still couldn't work out what'd gone wrong. It should've been foolproof. He couldn't believe that someone had actually seen him. He was going to have to find Old Mick — he couldn't leave witnesses.

Stupid old bastard, he thought. Why the hell did he have to go and report it? Why couldn't he just shut his mouth, then the police would have been none the wiser, he would have the girl and Ginny would be happy.

She was hardly speaking to him at all today. He needed to fix things. He couldn't stand it when she was angry with him.

When he'd turned up with the van to collect the girl early yesterday morning he'd known straight away that something was wrong. There was a police detour set up and he'd had to go down Main Street instead of Jetty Street. As he drove slowly past Stuart Lane he could see that both ends were sealed off with police tape. Down the far end there was a cluster of police cars and other vehicles and small groups of people standing around talking.

He felt nauseous. Cold sweat had broken out under his arms and he'd nearly rammed into a car on the side of the road. That would have been catastrophic. Imagine getting caught because he crashed his van. He'd driven straight out of town, taken the van back to work and swapped it for his car.

When he'd returned to Jewel Bay, he'd been determined to find out what had happened and to work out what to do. He was worried the drugs would wear off and the woman would talk. Had she seen him? He didn't think so. How was he going to get to her? Was she in hospital? Did she have a police guard?

In the end he'd decided to go where he could listen to the local gossip. He'd pulled up outside of a café on Main Street and looked inside. It was barely 9.30 but the place was packed, full of people with their heads close together, relishing the drama.

He ordered coffee and found himself a table. Not long after, three people sat at the table next to him and started the conversation he was waiting for.

‘It can happen anywhere.'

‘But not here, surely. Jewel Bay isn't the sort of place where girls are found murdered,' said one of the women, shaking her head so vigorously that her body jiggled like a blancmange.

‘Killed and stuffed into a crate, according to Mrs McCredie,' said another woman. She wasn't doing a very good job of disguising her enjoyment at being the one in the know.

‘Does she know how she was killed?' asked the first woman.

‘No, apparently the police haven't told anyone yet.'

There was a pause as their food was delivered.

‘Did Mrs McCredie say how they found her?' their male companion asked between mouthfuls of bacon and eggs.

‘She said someone anonymously called the police. Apparently Tess's boy was in here earlier. He was the first officer on the scene. Poor lad, and him only qualified for a few months. Anyway, he told Mrs McCredie that he thought it was Old Mick McKenzie that had called it in. Said he couldn't be sure but asked her to let him know if she heard anything about Mick's whereabouts,' the second woman said, licking her lips.

‘Old Mick? How would he have known anything?' the man asked.

‘Apparently he saw it happen.' This last titbit was delivered with relish, between bites of liberally buttered toast.

‘Really? I hope the police have better evidence than that. Mick couldn't remember his own mother from one day to the next,' the man scoffed.

‘Don't be so hard, he called it in, didn't he?'

‘Yeah, and then he bolted I bet, straight down the neck of the next bottle. We won't see him around these parts again any time soon,' the man said, turning his attention to slathering marmalade on toast.

The eavesdropper tuned out. He'd heard everything he needed to know. Murdered? The drugs shouldn't have killed her. He never wanted them dead. They needed to be alive when he got them home.

He downed the rest of his coffee and left the café in a daze. One problem was solved but it had been replaced by another, bigger one. Someone had seen him.

That night the murder was reported on the TV news. The Jewel Bay police were appealing for the witness to come forward, and offering a reward. It was perfect. He needed to get to Old Mick first, and so here he was, sitting in his car with a clear view of the police station, watching, waiting and trusting his instinct that Old Mick would be tempted out of hiding.

He shivered. It had been a long and difficult day. He'd rescheduled the two services booked for that afternoon and the families were furious. He pleaded illness but it didn't seem to matter. He could still hear their angry voices in his head. They couldn't understand why there wasn't someone else who could just step in and do it.

The answer was simple: another person would snoop around. They might notice things. Still it wasn't good for business, having to shut up shop and spend the day just sitting here. If Old Mick didn't show up today he would have to come back tomorrow as well and maybe even the day after. That could be difficult. He had five more services booked for the rest of the week: two on Thursday and three on Friday including the two he'd cancelled today and rescheduled. He could imagine their reactions if he cancelled again.

Then there was the other problem. If he sat parked in the street two or three days in a row in the same car people might notice and start asking questions. He couldn't risk using the van with his logo on it.

The street lights flickered on. He looked at his watch — five fifteen. It got dark early at this time of year. He decided to call it quits. Sergeant Johnston had already gone. Only the young constable was left and he would probably go home in the next fifteen minutes. He started the car and looked in the rear-view mirror. A glimpse of someone moving through the gloom in the distance made him tense. He turned the car off and waited.

The figure got closer. Was that him? It could be; it was an older man, dressed in a shabby coat with the collar turned up against the bite in the wind. He wore a hat pulled down over his ears, its colour lost under years of grime and sweat. He shuffled along, casting anxious glances around him. When he reached the entrance to Stuart Lane he stopped and peered around the corner. It had to be Old Mick.

The watcher sank further down in his seat and pulled his cap down over his brow as the old man got closer and finally tottered past the car. He threw the door open, slid out and jogged around onto the footpath.

‘Excuse me?'

The old man turned, fear widening his eyes. ‘Yes?'

‘Fairfield Police.' He flashed a fake badge, confident that it was too dark for the old man to tell the difference. ‘Are you Michael McKenzie?'

The man turned away, looking down the length of the street, trying to decide what to do. ‘Depends who's asking.'

‘The Sergeant has already left for the day. He posted me here to keep an eye out in case Michael McKenzie decided to come in and assist us with our enquiries. If you're Mr McKenzie and you have any information that can assist us they have the reward waiting over at Fairfield Station.'

The old man's demeanour shifted so that his anxiety was tinged with eagerness.

‘I came in to see if I could help, not for the money, like. How did you know it was me that saw it?' He shuffled his feet and rubbed his hands together.

‘The officer who took the call on Tuesday night recognised your voice. Why don't you hop in the car? It's freezing out here. In less than half an hour we'll be in Fairfield, you can give us a quick statement and if the information is useful you can be on your way with your reward.'

Old Mick nodded. He shuffled towards the car. The other man walked back around to the driver's side and got in. Old Mick opened the door and then paused.

‘What did you say your name was again?'

‘Sorry, I'm Detective Richardson.'

It was getting close to five thirty. Any minute the young constable would walk out of the police station and lock up for the night. If that happened the game would be up and he would have to either grab the stupid, old bastard and drag him into the car or drive off and leave Mick standing there. If he drove off that would be it, his chance gone forever. He clenched his teeth and plastered what he hoped was a reassuring smile on his face.

‘I'm new in town. The Chief decided the other two detectives needed some extra help.' He smiled again.

Mick digested this for a few seconds. A sharp gust of wind whistled down the street, ruffling the wispy white tufts of hair that stuck out from under his hat. He shivered. Looking at the friendly face, he climbed inside and shut the door.

The driver pulled out from the gutter, accelerating down the street. He glanced in his rear-view mirror. The door of the police station opened and the constable stepped out. He smiled and sniggered softly. Mick stiffened. His head snapped around and he stared at the driver. His face contorted. He frantically scrabbled for the handle to open the door. It wouldn't budge.

The driver sniggered again. ‘You can't open that door from the inside. Why don't you just relax, Mick, this won't hurt a bit.' And he thrust a needle into the old man's thigh, depressing the plunger.

Mick squealed in pain and fright, his hands grabbing for the syringe. He knocked it to the floor and sat there gasping. Within seconds his movements started to slow. He sat limply, staring straight ahead.

‘Maybe it does hurt a little bit, but not nearly as much as what the next bit will.' He laughed, the sound filling the car and ringing in the ears of Michael McKenzie, who sat there, eyes open and staring at his hands lying useless in his lap.