Читать книгу Flush - Jane Clifton - Страница 8

`Bullshit!' Decca exclaimed. `I was sure you were going to tell me he'd tried to kill himself!'

`As a matter of fact—' Volker's voice was lost in a crackle of static.

`You're breaking up,' she said. `Text me which number you're at.'

She snapped the phone shut and exhaled heavily. Tiny puffs of cloud shifted and the sun bore down like a death ray. Decca took off her leather jacket and tramped towards the entrance of Erskine House.

Oleg Kransky had murdered his wife? No way, she told herself. He was a troubled character, no doubt about it, and he was a passionate man, but he was no murderer. His last visit had been bizarre. Decca's receptionist had gone on an errand, leaving the front door temporarily unattended. Oleg had shown up without an appointment. Dressed in suit and tie but unshaven as usual, he had barged into Decca's office carrying a bunch of flowers in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other, and suggested they go to a motel together.

Decca hadn't thought he was drunk but when she reached out her arm to indicate he should take a seat he'd swept her towards him and waltzed her around the room, singing at the top of his voice. She remembered feeling calm enough to note his beautiful singing voice. Around and around the room they twirled, until Oleg had faltered and began to sob uncontrollably. He'd thrust her away from him and backed himself against a wall as the wine bottle slipped from his hand and smashed on to a tiled section of the floor. The bunch of flowers — were they red carnations? — scattered as they fell.

Decca had cautiously returned to her side of the desk, waiting for him to calm himself before she spoke. He continued singing softly. Singing made him feel better, he told her. He sang a little song about his wife, Inga, then disappeared out the door with neither explanation nor apology.

He'd never come back.

Decca dumped her bags and threw open the balcony windows, before stretching out full length on the bed. That was the only drawback to long-distance motorcycle travel, she reflected, as the muscles around her lanky bones unwound. There was not much shifting about in your seat to be had. It was necessary to maintain the same position for hours on end — knees bent, arms stretched forwards, spine scrunched.

Her mobile alerted her to a text from Volker. She plucked a mineral water from the mini-bar and, catching sight of herself in the large mirror, pulled her long, blond hair free of its ponytail and ruffled sweaty fronds around her forehead. A shower was what she needed but she flopped on to one of the couches and punched in Volker's number.

`Volker Danehart.'

The voice of her ex-husband, so familiar and so loaded, flooded Decca's system with a dozen different chemical responses. A few short years ago they had been the two halves of one perfect whole. Or so she had thought.

`It's me,' she said.

`So it is,' he said. `Where are you again?'

`Tell me about Oleg.'

`Nothing more to add, really,' he said. `He's murdered his wife, he's under arrest, and after they took him to hospital they found your…'

`Why was he taken to hospital?'

`Interestingly enough, for precisely what you said not ten minutes ago. He tried to kill himself.'

`So, it was a murder-suicide thing?'

`That's what the police think.'

`What does Oleg say?'

`Well, that's just it, you see,' Volker said. `Your Mr Sausage isn't saying anything. Hasn't said a word since he was revived in ICU.'

`Okay,' Davey said. `There was no ID on the victim. No distinguishing marks, other than a few small scars. No moles, birthmarks, tats, piercings and no jewellery — but we were still able to circulate a reasonable description. Early thirties, Caucasian, approximately 170 centimetres, slim build but…' Davey hesitated.

`What?' Archie was impatient.

`Slim but, you know…?' He cupped his hands to his chest.

`Big tits?' Archie asked.

There were stifled chuckles all round.

`Yes,' Davey replied, relieved. `Wasn't sure how to put that in the report.'

`So, what did you say?'

`I used the word `voluptuous', boss.'

`Big word,' Archie said suppressing a smile. `Go on.'

`Where was I? Oh, yeah, shoulder-length hair dyed red, eyes green. Anyway, bingo, we got a match almost immediately with a Missing Person Report registered about two weeks ago at Prahran local CIB. The report was tendered by one Oleg Kransky of Flat 6, Lanark Apartments, Nile Street, Prahran.'

`That's a fair way from Footscray, Davey,' Archie said.

`The further the better if you're getting rid of your wife's body I'd imagine, boss.'

`Would you?' Archie asked, looking up sharply. Homicide didn't suit every copper — hard to get into, hard to get out. Crippling hours, mountains of paperwork and disappointing legal outcomes for what was sometimes brilliant detective work. After close to three decades on the squad Archie could generally pick the ones who were going to hack it. Crockett seemed to possess that neat combination of good instincts plus an innate knowledge of how a bad mind might work. It was early days, however, Archie reminded himself.

`Go on,' he said.

`We telephoned both the landline and the mobile numbers Kransky left at Prahran,' Davey said, `but there was no reply.'

`Voicemail?'

`Not on the landline, boss,' Detective Sergeant Shannon replied. `The mobile had one of those American generic messages.'

Archie shuddered pantomime-style. `Did you leave a message?'

`No,' Shannon said. `Didn't want to alarm him, or alternatively get his hopes up about his wife being found.'

`Very considerate of you, Phil,' Archie said.

`Standard procedure, isn't it?' Davey asked.

Blank expressions all round and Archie said nothing. Davey went back to reading from his notes.

`At approximately 1.30 p.m. on Friday, February 4, Detective Sergeant Nick Shannon and I visited Lanark Apartments. Flat six is located on the western corner of the building, furthest from the street. Knocking on the door brought no response. We assumed he must be at work.'

`Did the MPR have a note of where he worked?' Archie asked.

`No,' Shannon said. `Kransky had just written "casual labourer".'

`Now, there's a perfect description of most of these blokes,' Archie muttered.

`Which blokes?' Davey asked.

`What nationality did you say he was?'

`I didn't, boss,' Davey replied. `But with a surname like Kransky you'd reckon he'd probably be Polish.'

Archie waved the impatient hand again and muttered, `Go on.'

`I was about to leave my card when Shannon decided to have a squiz down the side of the building, to see if Mr Kransky might be out the back.'

`Is there a rear garden?' Archie asked.

`Bricked-in courtyard with a door in the side wall, probably used to take out the bins and that,' Shannon said. `Anyway, it was open, so we walked in.'

`Did you have a warrant?'

`You know we didn't, Arch,' Davey said. `You know all of this!'

`Yes, Davey, I do,' Archie said slowly, nodding. The other members of the team shifted in their seats, tapped pens or studied the carpet. `But it helps to hear it all spoken out loud.' He paused. `Just like it will be in court when we nail this bastard.'

Davey rolled his eyes.

`Humour me,' Archie said with a thin smile.

`Okay,' Davey said. `Detective Sergeant Shannon and I entered the courtyard and took a look through the back window.'

`And what did you see?'

`Not a lot, at first. It looked like someone was lying on the sofa with their head resting on their arm,' Shannon said. `You could tell the place was a mess but.'

`I called out Mr Kransky's name and got no response,' Davey said.

`So you barged in?' Archie asked.

`The back door was open,' Davey said with a sigh. `We entered the premises.'

`Which smelled like shit,' Shannon said with a laugh.

`Yeah,' Davey jumped in `and the bloke on the sofa looked like shit too. He looked dead. He was covered in vomit and it was all over the carpet. There were empty bottles of alcohol within reach of the couch.'

`Beer?' Archie asked. `Spirits?'

`Vodka mostly,' Shannon said. `Few stubbies.'

`Also a bottle of pills later identified as diazepam. There were two left in the bottle and a few on the floor. The label indicated it had contained fifty,' Davey said. `I pulled on gloves and located a weak pulse. Shannon called an ambulance.'

`Was the man dressed?'

`He was wearing brown trousers and a yellow shirt,' Davey said. `The shirt was torn in several places and there were some stains which looked like blood around the neck and chest area.'

`She'd put up a fight,' Archie murmured.

`We're still waiting to see whether the blood was his or not,' Shannon said.

`There is little doubt, however,' Davey said, `that the bloodstained woman's clothing and the blue vinyl handbag we found next to the couch belonged to the victim.'