Читать книгу Flush - Jane Clifton - Страница 10

Archie lurked in the shadows, staring at the video feed from Interview Room 2. No change. Okay, he thought, so the bastard wasn't going to move. He was going to sit up straight in his chair and stare into space. Well, he could keep up that caper for as long as he liked. Archie had caught the act before, and he had the patience of a stonefish. Kransky could assume the lotus-position and disappear up his own clacker, if that's what turned him on, but Archie would nail him in the end. Guilty as charged, your honour.

Hopefully a quick chat to his shrink would put the sealer on it. The Polish prick was going down for it. No question.

Number 6, Lanark Apartments had been crawling with incriminating evidence: prints, DNA, her blood, his blood, her hair. Not that the bastard had much of his own to contribute. Not from his head anyway. A number one, buzz-cut did nothing to pretty up his ugly chops. As for the rest of his body? A wall-to-wall shagpile, according to Morecroft.

What was a bloke like Kransky doing with a piece of work like the victim? Archie imagined it was something the poor cow asked herself every day. Until it was too late. He exchanged a casual word with the duty sergeant about suicide watch then ambled back to the squad room to collect Davey. Carmen MacBride had summoned him to the morgue for a chat about the victim. He'd tried to put her off but she was so insistent that his curiosity was piqued. He caved in to her request on the proviso that it wouldn't take forever. The day was getting longer by the minute. So much for mulching, and saving the hydrangeas.

It wasn't far from police headquarters to the institute and, bearing in mind his doctor's continual doom-and-glooming about the dire consequences of a chronic lack of exercise, Archie decided they would walk.

Davey was waiting for him by the lift, shouting into his mobile phone. `Hello! Hello! You're dropping out!'

He caught sight of Archie and stuffed the phone into his pocket.

`Telstra,' he muttered. `Hopeless.'

Less than halfway along Sturt Street Archie realised his decision to walk had been ill-considered. The air-conditioning had obviously numbed his memory of how hot it was outside. Davey set a cracking pace and strode along chain-smoking, seemingly unaffected by the smouldering afternoon heat. Staggering through the door of the institute, Archie gulped down a chilled sigh of relief and mopped his dripping, liver-spotted forehead with the back of his sleeve.

They shuffled in to Carmen MacBride's office to find the doctor seated not at her desk but on it, legs swinging, red Birkenstock clogs resting on the carpet a good twenty centimetres below her bare feet.

`Hello, Archie,' she sang out in her rich Glaswegian lilt that almost added an extra syllable to his name. `How're y'doin' pal?'

`Carmen,' he exclaimed. `Always a pleasure.'

`Well, I wouldn't go so far as all that Arch,' she said with a grin.

Anyone seeing dumpy, middle-aged Carmen MacBride on the street would be surprised to discover what it was she did for a living. She favoured clothes of the brightest, most eccentric combinations that were at odds with the sombre nature of her work. On this warm February evening Carmen sported a baggy t-shirt covered in beaded elephants, over tie-dyed culottes. A crocheted, string bag-like construction did its best to keep her mop of steely grey curls in check. During autopsies she liked to have music playing in the background. Georgie Fame mostly, sometimes Vince Jones or Donnie Hathaway.

She eased her ample buttocks off the desk, and slid into the clogs.

`Are you okay, Archie? You look like death warmed up,' she said with a cackle. `And I should know.'

`Bloody hot out there,' Archie grumbled.

`Now then,' she said, handing two folders across the desk. `Have a wee skim through my preliminary report.'

Archie took his glasses case from his breast pocket and Davey reached for a pencil.

`So, time of death Wednesday, Feb 2 between two and four a.m.?' Davey asked.

`Aye. But she was a long time on the way to it,' said Carmen taking another sip.

`Death by suffocation,' Archie said. `You guessed right. As usual'

`Ligature mark on the side of the neck but no bruising to the throat,' the doctor continued. `Most likely a plastic bag over the head. Whoever did this was having some kind of party with her, for sure.'

`What about the cigarette burns?' Archie asked.

`Upper body mostly.'

`Any indication of rape or sexual assault?'

`No evidence of semen or bruising. This was a slow methodical beating that went too far, I'd say,' Carmen said. `There are marks on her wrists and ankles that indicate they were bound with rope. She was tied to a chair, and that's where she expired. The pooling of blood post-mortem indicates that she was left in that position for some time.'

Both men continued to read while Carmen drank her water and absent-mindedly wound a curl around her finger.

`Okay!' Davey flashed a look at Archie. `Breast implants.'

`Oh, aye,' Carmen said. `Whoppers! And this was a woman who started out in life looking like Pamela Anderson.'

Both men buried their noses further into the paperwork.

`It's a mystery to me the way some women will slice themselves into shape, like so many pieces of KFC. That's not all she had done, by the way,' Carmen continued. `Her lips were pumped with collagen and she was a regular botox abuser. The green eyes were contact lenses — prescription. Her eyes were naturally blue.'

`The complete Barbie doll,' Archie said. `Still, she didn't deserve to die like this.'

`She was going to die anyway,' Carmen said.

`Aren't we all,' Archie replied wearily.

`True, true, Arch. But she was going to die sooner than any of us, unless there's something neither of you are telling me.'

The two men stopped reading and looked across at her.

`That was what I wanted to explain,' Carmen said. `The victim was in the terminal stage of ovarian cancer. I'd say she had less than three months to live.'

`Jesus,' Archie hissed.

`In no way did it directly contribute to her death,' Carmen said. `She doesn't appear to have been taking medication or have undergone any chemotherapy or radiotherapy, but I thought it might be worth noting.'

`Weird,' Davey said. `I mean, apart from the fatal attack, she looks in good nick.'

`Unfortunately, that's how this bugger works, Detective Sergeant. Ovarian is one of the most deadly cancers because it's often asymptomatic. Or the symptoms are not unlike symptoms a woman might have for any number of other reasons. Bloating, fatigue, backache, mood swings — there isn't a woman alive who isn't suffering from one or all of those symptoms at any one time of her life.'

`Could she have known she had it?' Davey asked.

`It's possible. One of the other symptoms is amenorrhea.'

`What's that when it's at home?'

`That's rather the point, Arch — it's not at home. Amenorrhea means an absence of menstruation. Now, it may be that this woman had missed a few periods and suspected a rather more cheery prospect. It's a common mistake with this disease. Especially at her age. And, if the missing periods were accompanied by some of the other symptoms I mentioned — the bloating, fatigue, etcetera — even the canniest of GPs could have missed it.'

`The only way we'll be able to find out for sure is from medical records,' Archie said with a sigh, `and until that piece of garbage, her husband, quits his Marcel-bloody-Marceau impersonation we're not going to be getting much help.'

`But,' Davey said, `does it really make any difference?'

`What?' Archie asked.

`Whether she knew or not?'

`Course it bloody matters!' Archie snapped. `If this bird thought she was pregnant, Davey, who would be the first person she'd tell?'

`Her husband, right?' Davey shifted in his chair.

`Maybe,' Archie said. `In the usual scheme of things, yes. What could be more joyful information to deliver than, "Guess what, darl? We've got a little bubba on the way!" I mean both the victim and the perp are young enough, they're married, they live in a halfway decent place — what could possibly go wrong?'

Archie looked at both members of his audience.

`Well, for a start, hubby might not want a kid, Davey. A child might be the last thing on his shopping list. He might not think he could afford one. He might like his life just the way it is, thank you very much, with his well-endowed gorgeous young wife.'

`But he wouldn't kill her just because of that, would he?' Davey asked. `Wouldn't he be more likely to tell her to get rid of the thing? I mean, it's the twenty-first century, boss, all you have to do is pop a pill or spend a couple of hours at a clinic. No mess, no fuss, no drama.'

Davey had risen to his feet and was patting the pocket with the telltale, cigarette pack-shaped bulge. Archie looked at him, then over at Carmen who had gone quiet and appeared to be counting the holes in the air-conditioning vent.

`Sure, Davey, sure,' he said. `But what if the thing wasn't his?'

The question hung in the air.

`That's something that can really piss a bloke off, wouldn't you say?'

Archie and Davey locked eyes briefly. Davey was the first to blink.

`Let's go back to the cancer,' he said, taking out the pack of cigarettes and palming them from one hand to another.

`Excuse me,' Carmen sang out. `Would you boys mind terribly if we just skedaddled along to the end of my report, then you can do all the theorising you like. I'm away to dinner with my pal Angie. We're having a paella at the Robbie Burns over in Collingwood and I don't want to be late.'

`Sure, Carmen, my apologies,' Archie said, resisting the urge to ask why Spanish tucker would be served in a Scottish pub. `Can you tell us any more about where the murder might have taken place?'

`Well, as I understand it,' Carmen said, `in spite of the wealth of incriminating evidence found in the suspect's flat, there is no evidence that the murder took place there.'

`So far,' Archie said.

`From the number of scratches and abrasions to the body,' Carmen continued, `the state of the plastic bag and the fact that the bag was still more or less snagged in the branches of a log, I would say that she was carried along the river during the storm we had on Thursday morning. The most likely explanation is that she was buried, or partially buried, somewhere near the banks of the Maribyrnong. The ferocity of the storm and the unusual amount of rain would have been sufficient to dislodge her.'

`That's a bugger,' Archie said, almost to himself. `Widens the crime scene considerably and by now most of the evidence will have washed away.'

`Isn't it mostly industrial around there?' Davey asked.

`Where we found her, yes, Davey, but there's a fair bit of parkland all along that stretch of the river too. Wasteland really. "Wetlands" the greenies call it,' Archie snorted. `Well and truly wet this week, of all weeks. We'll have to widen the search area. Probably a waste of time but something may turn up.'

`Boys!' Carmen bleated, pointing up at the clock. `It's getting on for six fifteen! Shoo!'

The two men rose from their seats and moved towards the door.

`Thanks for all that, Carmen,' Archie said.

`Oh, one more thing,' she sang out as they reached the door. `In the Missing Person Report that tipped you off, by what name was the victim listed?'

`Inga Kransky,' Davey said.

`Which would be her married name?'

`But the driver's licence and credit cards found in her handbag at the flat are held in the name of Inga Kristensen,' Carmen continued. `Are we assuming that's her maiden name?'

`Yeah,' Davey nodded. `Why?'

`Inga Kristensen? Sounds like a Swedish name doesn't it? Danish perhaps?' Carmen mused. `Boys, forensic anthropology's not my field but, cosmetic engineering aside, her face didn't look very Scandinavian to me. What was left of it.'

At six thirty Decca was back at Erskine House, bathed, changed and sorting through a basketful of remote controls. The Herald Sun carried a paragraph noting the discovery of a woman's body in the Footscray area, suspicious circumstances and a man `assisting police with their enquiries'. Footscray was on the other side of town from where Oleg lived, if Decca remembered correctly. If they weren't found together why did the police imagine it was a murder-suicide scenario? There had to be another explanation.

Then again, Footscray… She would have to check her notes, but Decca had a sudden bad feeling the company Oleg had been working for was based a stone's throw from Footscray, in Ascot Vale.

Her mobile rang.

`Hello,' she said. `Yes, Detective Sergeant, I can hear you fine now.'

`Apologies, once again, for interrupting your weekend Mrs Brand,' Davey said.

`That's okay,' she said, seeing no point in being rude or picking him up on her marital status. `You're ringing about Oleg Kransky?'

`That is correct, yes. Mr Kransky's wife was found dead on Friday morning.'

`And you think he murdered her,' Decca said.

`At the moment Mr Kransky is assisting us with some information.' Davey chose his words carefully. `Mr Danehart has probably informed you that when we undertook a search of Mr Kransky's flat we found an appointment card of yours amongst his belongings.'

Decca made a noise of assent.

`We were wondering whether we might be able to have a chat with you about Mr Kransky.'

`Tricky, I'm afraid, Detective Sergeant. Patient confidentiality.'

`Yes, yes, of course,' Davey said. `Did Mr Danehart mention that Mr Kransky is refusing to speak to anyone at the moment? Not even to his lawyer. And this is making progress very difficult.'

`I was told he spent some time in hospital after a failed drug overdose,' Decca said, dropping Volker right in it. `Are you sure he's well enough to answer any questions?'

`Well, Mrs Brand, on the surface, yes, he seems fully recovered and obviously would not have been released by the hospital if that were not so, but, speaking off the record, you may be right. Which is why we're appealing to you, Mrs Brand. I mean, we obviously don't want him to place himself in a prejudicial position if he's not in a fit state. Like the caution says, if it were later proved that he was in an unfit state, then anything he said to us now would be inadmissible as evidence. We could bring in a police psychiatrist to assess him but we felt that because of your prior relationship with Mr Kransky it might be useful to talk to you first and get a few clues.'

`Hmm, Decca sighed. Her mind was racing. `Oleg stopped coming to see me last July, Detective Sergeant. That's a long time in the scheme of these things. I can tell you one thing for sure, however: there is no way Oleg Kransky could have killed his wife.'

`You seem very sure of this,' Davey said. `Why?'

Good question, Decca thought as she strode to the minibar.

`Because he loved her,' she said.

Then the line dropped out.

`Did you hear they found Inga?' Nancy blew out a long stream of smoke. There were a few customers in the bar but the music was still low enough for conversation.

`Where?' Rhiannon asked, placing her handbag on the stool.

`Footscray. By the river.' Nancy took another pull on the cigarette then swung her heavy-lidded gaze towards Rhiannon. `Dead.'

Rhiannon's skinny hands gripped the back of the barstool. A tiny cry escaped her lips.

`Ga-ree!' Nancy yelled to the barman. `Voddie!'

`Who told you?' whispered Rhiannon. A stream of mascara was beginning to pool below each eye.

`Jordy saw it on the morning news.' Nancy's voice spluttered and choked like a dirty carburettor. `God, he loves all those bloody news shows! He's got, like, four TV channels going at the one time, plus Foxtel. Doesn't miss a trick, I swear. Ta, Gaz.'

She slid the shot glass towards Rhiannon.

`Siddown for fuck's sake, Ree. Here.' She handed her a crumpled tissue. `Wipe. Blubbing's bad for business.'

Rhiannon eased her tiny frame up on to the barstool and downed the vodka in one gulp.

`Another one?' Nancy asked. Rhiannon nodded. `Ga-ree!'

Nancy held up two fingers.

`I knew something was gonna happen. I just knew it.'

`Ah, she was a crazy, fucking bitch,' Nancy said. `Been on the game for like, too long, anyway. If someone else hadn't killed her Jordy would've.'

She let forth a high-pitched laugh.

`He couldn't get rid of her! Only kept her on because he like, felt sorry for her. Jee-zuss! She was, like, thirty or something!'

`She was going to quit really soon,' Rhiannon said, sipping the second vodka more slowly. `She was so happy lately, you know?'

`Yeah, so, cry me a river, she's well quit now.' Nancy scooped her breasts up until they threatened to tumble over the lip of her skin-tight lycra top. She flashed a one hundred megawatt smile at two men who had just arrived.

`Did Jordy say what happened?' Rhiannon asked.

`Nah. He's like freaking out the dogs are gonna come and start poking their noses around, you know. If they like, find out where she worked and that.'

`Well, they will, won't they?'

`No way. Her mad fucking old man's been arrested. He thought she was like, a hotel manager at the Hyatt or some crap.' Nancy laced her fingers over fleshy lips in a flurry of long, scarlet talons, and honked with laughter.

`Like, as if!'