Читать книгу Payback - Harvey Cleggett - Страница 6

Less than twenty-six hours after the brutal execution style slaying in which the victim was found hung, with hands bound and wearing a bullet hole above his right eye, the first golden rays of dawn appeared at 4.50 a.m. as predicted by the TV weatherman. Within minutes warming sunlight washed over the ranch style home, illuminating the slate grey roof. Wide inviting verandas surrounded the homestead with wrought iron bench seats positioned to escape the chill winter winds and scorching summer sun.

Manicured lawns abutted the house on all sides. A tennis court with basketball ring and backboard was located to the east of the homestead. Hidden behind a line of adjoining pine trees were the forest green concrete walls of a squash court.

Continuing north through the property towards the driveway entrance, past the pergola, flying fox, children’s swings and sand pit were further landscaped grounds, culminating in a purpose built lake fifty metres across. Complete with jetty, waterfall and island, the lake formed a sanctuary for birdlife and multiple species of frogs. Dark green buffalo grass grew from the water’s edge, cascading up over the lake’s bank, merging into the lush lawn covering the surrounding expanse of land.

Set on the property line was a brick and bluestone fence, complete with four gate posts, displaying two engraved brass plates with the words ‘Ballard Estate’. A bluestone bordered gravel driveway curved in a giant serpentine S one hundred and thirty metres down to the house; the driveway separating the lake on the left from a copse of silver birch, numerous golden Cyprus pine, plus hundreds of native gums on the right. Chelsea Road, which traversed the entire frontage of the property ended in a court.

At 5 a.m., ten minutes after the first glimmer of daylight, the Bose clock radio sprang to life in the master bedroom announcing the 1278 AM news. Detective Inspector Michael Ballard blinked several times to clear his vision, then, glaring at the alarm, stretched his 186 centimetre frame long and hard in the king-size bed. The bedclothes enveloped him in a seductive cocoon of warmth, causing him to flirt with the notion of hitting the snooze button; he resisted the temptation.

The broadcast went on to remind him of the macabre murder of a factory owner, the reason why he had set the alarm so early on what should have been his day off. He felt his pulse quicken as he anticipated the adrenalin charged hunt for the vicious killer or killers, appreciating just how close he had come to losing forever the privilege of participating in these crucial investigations.

He reflected back to his forty-fifth birthday, having spent twenty-five years with the state police, the last fifteen in Homicide. He recalled handing in his resignation, then, within hours, numerous senior management and long time friends challenging him on the wisdom of his decision. In the following days members of his family had questioned his judgement, knowing his intense love for the job.

Recently divorced for a second time and recognising a midlife crisis was a factor in the decision, he had argued that successful property investments throughout his adult life, along with a substantial inheritance meant now was the time to explore other opportunities and experiences. Deep in his heart he feared leaving the force may be a huge mistake; it had become his second family. Once experienced, the camaraderie was intoxicating, almost impossible to walk away from.

During weeks of deliberation in which he had taken leave, the two combatants of reason had raged within him. On the one hand was the powerful allure of peaceful, idyllic days spent on the estate, free to do whatever he chose. Opposing this was the immense satisfaction derived from bringing justice to victims of major crime, while utilising his many investigative talents developed over decades. Throughout this mental conflict he had recognised the day was fast approaching when a younger detective would and should take his place, but that time had not yet arrived.

As a consequence, six years after submitting his resignation he remained in the job, in Homicide, at the same rank. However, there was one significant compromise. He now worked four day weeks unless a challenging case came to light. This was a concession granted in recognition of his years of service, including his ongoing mentoring role to junior members; an activity he enjoyed and excelled at.

The discovery of a factory owner’s body in Lalor, strung from a noose inside his own business premises proved to be one of those challenging cases Ballard had jumped at. The news broadcast failed to add anything of significance to the original announcement, however, due to the gruesome circumstances the story was still considered news worthy. He reflected on the sad reality that human suffering contributed more and more to the grist of everyday media coverage.

Tossing aside the bed clothes he stood tall, stretched his lean frame one more time before pulling on shorts and Tshirt. Grabbing a towel from the adjacent en-suite, he padded barefoot along the tiled hallway which ran the centre of the house, noting that despite it being the end of spring there was still a crisp chill in the air, the cold ceramic tiles underfoot reminding him of this fact.

At the far end of the corridor he entered the sports room. This was part of an extension which had an adjoining self-contained Bed and Breakfast and been built soon after he submitted his resignation.

Even though he had made the decision to remain with the police force, the B&B felt like an alternative lifestyle that he would one day pursue as a part-time business. He smiled as he pictured himself greeting his future guests: carrying their suitcases, instructing them in the use of the electronic equipment, how to obtain the best results in the gym and all the while engaging in small talk as he signed them through the register.

Ballard pulled the sports room door shut then flicked on the down lights. The room was large; twelve metres by eight and aptly named. One third of the floor contained a full complement of gymnasium equipment positioned on protective rubber matting.

Against one wall was a Meili massage chair. A forty-two inch flat screen TV was secured on the far wall, viewable from any piece of equipment in the room. Against the right hand wall, located alongside the BodyCraft strength training tower was a Canadian cedar, infrared heated, three person sauna, complete with radio.

Located in the centre of the room was a three quarter sized pool table with down lights positioned to ensure no area of the table’s surface was in shadow. Mounted on the wall nearby were the pool cues, chalks and rack.

The remaining area of the sports room contained a table tennis and air-hockey table. Both used extensively whenever Ballard had family and friends over. It filled him with immense pleasure to see the room hosting up to ten people at a time, alternatively sweating over exercise equipment or in the sauna, enjoying a massage in the chair, playing eight-ball or snooker, pretending to be Olympic standard table tennis players, or shouting as they battled each other at the air-hockey table. The cumulative noise in the room was often deafening, but he enjoyed every moment of it.

Twenty minutes later, lungs heaving with exertion, convinced his daily routine maintained his cardio fitness, he flicked off the lights and strolled back along the hallway, the towel draped around his neck, absorbing the sweat beading on his face and chest.

As he passed the first bedroom to his right he stopped, grasping the door handle to see whether it was locked. Discovering it wasn’t he entered, creeping to the side of the bed. Lying under the bedclothes, her blonde hair splayed chaotically over the pillow was a woman in her late thirties; a cream woollen blanket and black satin sheet bunched snugly under her chin. Her rhythmic breathing was peaceful with the faint trace of a whistle as she exhaled.

He stood looking down at the figure, a wry smile touching the corners of his mouth, softening his otherwise stern features. Taking care not to wake her he reached down, gripping the side of the mattress before jerking upwards in one swift motion.

The sleeping body of Kathryn Ballard, his younger sister, tumbled along with her bedding into an undignified heap onto the floor. He ran for the door before her shriek of disbelief developed into something more physical.

While satisfied his actions were justified as a result of a previous prank in which she had set his alarm clock for 2 a.m., he resigned himself to the fact her retribution would be swift and devious. This was the game they played whenever she came to visit.

On average her stays at ‘the farm’ as she referred to it, were for several days once or twice a year. However, with the divorce from her husband of three years now final, Ballard noticed the visits were becoming more frequent; this despite having her own two bedroom unit in Ivanhoe and enjoying a successful and financially rewarding career as a physiotherapist.

He made a mental note to sit down and talk over her issues, offering what support he could. He gave thanks there were no children, despite knowing it was her long held desire to be a mother.

After tossing his towel in the laundry he entered the combined kitchen, dining and lounge area. This was the principal living and entertainment hub of the house. It was a large room segregated into the three areas, designed to complement Ballard’s need for practicality, while still remaining inviting and comfortable.

A rustic timber eight seat dining table ran lengthways along the middle of the room, an island bench separated the kitchen from the dining area. At the opposite end, cloth covered sofas and armchairs surrounded an open fireplace, complete with a heavy wooden mantel displaying two ornamental kerosene lamps. The lamps a nostalgic reminder of his early years on his parents’ farm in South Australia, incredibly without electricity until his tenth birthday. Above the mantel was a large wooden framed mirror; to the left of the fireplace, tucked against the wall, an upright Steinway piano dominated the area.

The perimeter wall was glass to shin height and overlooked the lawn and the one hundred and eighty degree panoramic view across Jackson’s gorge. Red Hill to the left, together with Mounts Aitkin and Gisborne, all inactive volcanos, completed the vista. He never tired of the seasonal views, whether they were fog filled winter mornings, dazzling cumulus lightning shows, majestic sunsets or shimmering summer days.

It was this view that had convinced him to build his home here, knowing the Crown land of the gorge would never be developed. It helped that the closest homes on the far side of the gully were over two kilometres away

His stomach rumbled as he shook his favourite breakfast cereal into a bowl, adding ground linseed, almonds and sunflower seeds, a handful of sultanas plus a pinch of cinnamon, topping the concoction with a drizzle of honey. He splashed the lactose and gluten free milk into the bowl before greedily devouring the mixture while standing at the sink.

Half way through breakfast his attention was drawn to a fox strolling across the lawn outside the lounge room window. Oblivious to its surroundings, its large plumed orange and red tail flicked lazily as it continued its graceful movement past the veranda. Ballard was reminded yet again of the proximity of his home to nature and how the rural setting formed an emotional link to his childhood roots.

The two hundred and eighty metre boundary to the left of the property was bordered by a continuous line of mature pine trees, ensuring total privacy from his adjoining neighbour. To the right of the estate a one hundred hectare paddock supported sheep and cattle and was owned by Sam Devlin, now retired.

It was Sam’s thirty sheep and new born lambs that were grazing in the lower section of the Ballard’s property, saving him the effort of having to mow. Finding a pen, he jotted a note to himself to ring Sam later in the day to warn him of the fox.

After washing the dishes, he shaved and showered, finishing with a burst of ice cold water. As he towelled himself dry, steam evaporated from the mirror, progressively revealing his naked body from the waist up; he noted with satisfaction he was still defying the onslaught of middle age.

Inspecting his face he discovered a drop of blood forming on his upper lip. Muttering under his breath he tore off a piece of tissue and doubling it, moistened it with cold water before pressing it momentarily over the cut.

Stepping into the walk-in robe he selected a white shirt, mauve tie and a grey pinstriped, double breasted Armani silk wool blend suit. He had lost count of the times he had been challenged by his work colleagues for his attire, but he knew there was no malice, despite their often envious glances.

He assumed today would be predominantly spent in the office, bringing himself up to speed with the homicide. Furthermore, tonight was to be a special occasion, one he had been looking forward to for what seemed a lifetime.

After slipping into military polished, black leather lace up brogues, he inspected himself in the full length mirror, noting that while his face resembled that of Sting, his body was taller, more muscled and he hoped, due to his punishing exercise regime, fitter. With a smile he reflected he was fortunate to have more hair than the singer, although much less money in the bank.

Picking up his watch, mobile phone, wallet and police identification from the bedside table, he headed into the hallway. Snatching his briefcase from the study he re-entered the kitchen, collecting his sandwiches from the refrigerator. Scribbling a hasty note for his sister, he flicked on the electric floor heating before striding purposefully to the garage.

His latest acquisition and one that continued to generate immense pleasure was a black 6.1 litre Chrysler 300 SRT8. Activating keyless entry he slid into the black leather bucket seat, pressing the remote for the garage door before firing the motor.

The 425 horsepower monster roared to life. Smiling with satisfaction he allowed the engine to warm before flicking the transmission into ‘Drive’. The Chrysler rolled smoothly out of the garage, tyres crunching on the loose gravel. The garage door locked behind him and at the top of the driveway he swung right into Chelsea Road.

Looking back across the lake to the house he felt a warm glow of accomplishment, having transformed the property from a barren, weed infested paddock to its current picturesque state. He now enjoyed a home and lifestyle that rewarded him daily. Despite this there was one vital element still missing; the right partner whom he could love and protect with all the intensity and passion he was capable of.