Читать книгу Payback - Harvey Cleggett - Страница 8

CHAPTER

3

The Crime Department building was a nineteen storey, unremarkable structure opposite the Melbourne Grammar School. Moves were afoot by the police executive to relocate all staff to a purpose built complex in the city precinct. Neither Ballard nor John figured they need hold their breath on the building’s completion.

Ballard piloted the Chrysler into the underground car park, stopping at the boom gate. “Morning Rob. Any news on the home front?”

The Protective Security Officer shook his head. “Not yet, sir. The doctor will induce tomorrow if nothing happens in the meantime.” He raised the boom, throwing a quick salute.

Ballard smiled back. “Give Sophie my best. I’m betting on a boy.” Easing around the tight corners he expertly manoeuvred the large car into the bay allocated to him, another condition of his remaining in the job.

Once in the lift, John stabbed the eighth floor button; both men stood looking up at the illuminated numbers. Emerging onto the floor they were confronted with a scene which at first appeared to be confused, almost frenetic activity set in an open plan environment. On closer scrutiny it was in fact professional police officers engaged in very specific tasks.

This was the engine-room of homicide investigations: endless checking of criminal histories in the offender database; preparing statements for briefs of evidence with an exacting eye for detail and accuracy to negate the potential of having the charges declared inadmissible in court; examining photographs of crime scenes or suspects and offenders, comparing them against driver licence photos accessed on-line from VicRoads; endless calls to witnesses or confidential sources; pouring over forensic evidence prepared by the laboratory.

This scene reinforced for Ballard why he was still a policeman and he knew it had the same motivation for John. He shook his head, wondering how he could ever have contemplated walking away.

Officers throughout the floor looked up and waved at the two men, then, in the majority refocussed on their specific tasks, several calling out a morning greeting. While John went to discuss progress with his team, Ballard headed for the superintendent’s office. In the process he walked past pinboards containing photos of suspects or known criminals; whyteboards with cryptic messages relating to particular cases; staff rosters and desks scattered with files containing information essential for criminal cases and operational activities. As he neared the office he reflex straightened his tie.

Delwyn Peters, his direct superior, had made Detective Superintendent two years before she was transferred to Homicide. Embracing the male dominated environment she soon proved her effectiveness as an investigator, demonstrating how adept she was at managing strong willed personnel. Any misgivings Ballard felt at the beginning of her tenure soon evaporated, resulting in their working relationship becoming rock solid due to the mutual respect they had for each other.

He gave a cursory tap on the open door. “Top of the morning Delwyn.”

Blue eyes crinkling into a smile as she waved him to an empty chair. “Thanks for coming in on such short notice Michael.”

He shrugged nonchalantly. “Last time I checked you were still paying my wages.”

“Even so, much appreciated.”

Ballard noticed she had cut her steel grey hair into a military style short back and sides. It suited her, but he refrained from commenting.

“This one could blow up in our face Mike.” Ballard’s expression invited clarification. “Some of the reporters are muttering underworld hit. They haven’t put pen to paper yet, but it won’t be long.”

“Could it be?”

“Always possible, but the deceased hasn’t any significant record or criminal links we know of. There’s no intelligence in our database… nothing. Should the press suggest a hit it would spook the public making our job that much harder. We’d be busting a gut to solve a crime while chewing up resources to prove the rumour was false.”

Ballard stroked his chin, reflecting. “How long before this snowballs into a major headline that we’re not moving fast enough?”

“You’re a better judge of these things than I am. A day. Three days at the most. The Chief’s already warned me this needs fixing, one way or the other… and fast.”

Ballard leaned forward in his chair. “Delwyn, I’ll do everything I can to assist. You know how good John is on these cases. I want him to retain the lead, but if I think we’re not adequately resourced, or I see the investigation running out of puff, for whatever reason, he and I will be in here like a shot. We’ll sweat this until something gives, but I have to say it doesn’t feel good.”

He stood to leave then hesitated, smiling ruefully. “Oh, unless the world collapses today, I’d like to be over at Natalie’s by 6 tonight. I’ve an important question to ask her.”

Delwyn sprang to her feet, almost climbing over the desk to wrap him in a huge hug. “Best news I’ve heard all day. I knew you’d get around to it eventually.”

Face colouring, Ballard grinned as he extracted himself, concerned as to how lean she felt. “Yes, I’m going to ask her to the pictures on Saturday.”

Delwyn, feigning annoyance, stabbed her finger at the door. “Off with you and don’t come back until you’ve popped the question.”

Pretending servitude he slunk out of the office, much to the amusement of the younger detectives who didn’t know him well.

Heading over to the weapons’ safe, he signed out his personal issue 15 shot Smith & Wesson, along with a spare clip. While checking the magazine he silently thanked the department for changing from .38 revolvers, despite shuddering to think what gun battle may ever require fifteen rounds. He prayed he would never have to find out. From there he signed for a police vehicle, then, grabbing his day book headed off to find John.

Spotting him with two of his detectives he strolled over, giving him a playful punch on the shoulder. “Ready? I feel a crime scene coming on.”

John looked at the car keys in his hand. “Want to ride shotgun, considering the lift this morning?”

Ballard smiled, aware that returning the favour was not the real motive; the simple fact being John loved to drive. “Sure thing.” He acceded by tossing the keys upwards in front of his partner who plucked them from mid-air, seemingly without looking. One of the detectives whistled in admiration, “Shit hot boss!” What the detectives were unaware of was the number of times John and Ballard had practiced the move until they could do it blindfolded.

Chuckling, John looked across at Ballard, “Good to go Inspector,” throwing him a military salute. Ballard reached forward to shake John’s hand; when John lowered his to accept, Ballard reverted to a return salute. Both men alternated this routine a number of times in rapid succession, their hands never touching. It came to an end with each doubled over in fits of laughter. The junior detectives looked at one another, shaking their heads in amazement, not understanding the bond that existed between the two older men from years of working together on the brutal streets of St Kilda.

Once in the car Ballard fastened his seatbelt then shut his eyes, knowing the three storey decent to street level would be a white knuckle ride, performed with precision, but terrifying nevertheless. “You do realise I’m getting too old for this kind of death wish.” Flicking a sideways glance John chuckled, choosing to misinterpret the statement.

“Bullshit Mike. You wouldn’t miss it for the world. The thrill of the moment. Bringing crooks to justice.” He lowered his voice to a growl, “It’s what keeps us alive.” Gunning the motor he accelerated to the first corner.

As Ballard predicted they made the descent with John in total control, as though he were an extension of the car. Once on the street Ballard opened his eyes and felt his breathing return to normal, realising he had been holding it for most of the descent.

John turned the vehicle in the direction of the CityLink tollway; his face that of a man on a mission. Ballard knew murders of this kind were regarded by him as an affront to a civilised society. Failure to find the ‘Shithead’, as John referred to all criminals, was not an option.