On The Job Read online

  ‘I cut them up with the hedge trimmer.’

  Shit, you’d think he was talking about cutting a sandwich.

  ‘It didn’t work very well through here.’ Denton indicated his torso. ‘So I used the circular saw. Put the stuff in the wheelie bin. Problem solved.’

  A red-hot poker burned from Sturt’s gut to throat. How could Denton be so blasé about the killings? She looked away from the sociopath to her mate, Connolly, whose face was a collage of emotions that the seasoned copper normally kept guarded. Sturt dared not glance at Reeve. She suspended the interview. If she stayed in the room for a second longer she might stuff everything up by assaulting the heartless bastard.

  As the detectives entered Sturt’s office, Connolly fisted the air. ‘We’ve got him.’

  Sturt couldn’t match his joy and judging by Reeve’s pale face, neither could she. ‘Yep. Now we just have to tell the family and find the remains at the tip.’

  ‘Thanks, boss,’ Reeve said. ‘I really needed that visual.’

  Connolly slumped onto the visitor’s sofa and held his head in his hands.

  ‘Danny Burns will be shattered,’ Sturt blurted out.

  ‘He will,’ Reeve agreed. ‘I believed him when he said he hadn’t planned on having a baby, but after he came around to the idea, he couldn’t wait to start a new life with Jennifer and the kids.’

  ‘We all did.’

  Connolly said, ‘Thought he confirmed that Heidi wasn’t his daughter?’

  ‘He did. But Denton obviously has doubts, doesn’t he?’ Reeve managed a half-smile.

  ‘Poor Shawn,’ Sturt muttered. The little boy had been at the forefront of her mind since Denton had calmly described the dismemberment of Jennifer and Heidi. What a horrific legacy.

  She pushed back from her desk and rose. ‘Okay, shall we get this over with? Finish off the interview and charge him.’

  Connolly opened the door, but Reeve remained seated.

  ‘You don’t think it seems too easy?’

  Sturt glared at her. ‘Nothing about this case is easy.’

  ‘This guy’s a pathological liar, right?’

  The absolute exhaustion of yesterday returned and Sturt had to lean on her desk.

  ‘He has no heart or conscience and seems to enjoy playing games.’ Reeve chewed her lip.

  Sturt tilted her head, intrigued.

  ‘He went all shifty with his eyes when I asked if he’d suffocated Heidi.’

  She was right.

  ‘I’m not convinced the game’s over.’

  Horror and wonder hit Sturt. She and Connolly gaped at the younger detective.

  ‘You think Heidi’s alive?’

  ‘Holy shit,’ Connolly exclaimed.

  Sturt started for the door.

  Reeve stopped her. ‘He won’t tell us. He’s the game master. He wanted to tell us about Jennifer. He let us think he’d killed his daughter, too. But I reckon his ultimate plan –’

  Sturt finished for her, ‘Is to let Heidi die while we figure it all out.’

  The fatigue and hopelessness dissolved. Here was a chance to help the shattered family that meant a million times more than a conviction and prison sentence. She imagined little Heidi as she’d been in the photo with her mum and brother: happy and healthy.

  ‘Jude, you deserve my job.’

  Reeve grinned.

  Sturt hadn’t seen her do that for a while, but chuckled as she added, ‘When I retire.’ She plugged an internal number into the phone. ‘Dinkerton. Can you get whoever’s available into the briefing room in thirty? Good.’

  Within two hours, they’d charged and remanded Denton, hoping they could downgrade one of the murder counts to kidnap, unlawful imprisonment and/or attempted murder when they found Heidi. They’d mounted a massive search at the tip that serviced Denton’s neighbourhood thanks to recruits from the academy and as many uniformed officers that could be spared. The Lockes and Danny Burns were en route to St Kilda Road for further interview. Several Homicide detectives were meeting with associates of Martin Denton, friends of his wife and their neighbours. And Reeve continued to troll through the records because so far it appeared that their suspect had no blood kin, apart from Shawn, and no one who called him a mate, despite his superficial charm.

  Sturt told the team to keep digging. Someone held the key to where Denton would’ve secreted his daughter. She barked orders, demanded updates and made tight notations on a whiteboard. She paced through the office, tearing at the steel wool that had replaced a head of black hair thanks to the job.

  Then she halted in mid-stride. ‘Connolly! Reeve!’

  They came running.

  ‘Game master, huh?’ Sturt nodded at her female colleague.

  She pulled up a clean whiteboard and waved a blue marker as she talked. ‘The game centres on Jennifer.’ She wrote ‘Jennifer’ in the middle of the board, then drew an offshoot to the right and scribbled notes that corresponded with her verbalised thoughts. ‘Affair with Danny Burns. Equals unborn baby. “Solved” by her death.’ To the left of Jennifer’s name, the inspector slashed a fresh line and scrawled, saying, ‘Heidi. Denton questions if Burns is her father. Even if not, Burns and the Lockes will be destroyed if Heidi dies slowly through the game.’ With a red marker, she circled Danny Burns, then thumped the marker tip against the whiteboard with her next words. ‘Burns is Jennifer’s ex-boyfriend and current lover. And he was going to steal Denton’s wife and family.’

  Sturt studied her colleagues. Reeve listened with her palms sandwiched in a prayer pose. Connolly jammed the knuckles of one hand under his nostrils. A bunch of support staff and detectives had joined their huddle, poised like golf spectators while the favourite took a tricky putt. Sturt’s old wound buzzed, echoing the expectancy.

  ‘If I were game master and wanted to architect the perfect revenge on my cheating wife and her boyfriend, I’d link it to him somehow – maybe to something about their past…because that’s where all the rot began, right?’ Sturt drew a vertical line underneath Burns’s name, terminating in a question mark. ‘We need to know everything about Burns around the time he first dated Jennifer. Why did they break up?’

  Reeve answered, ‘He failed her ultimatum to cut back his boozing, which he admitted used to screw his headspace and make him a brawler.’

  ‘Okay, he seems to be most open with you, Reeve, so he’s yours when he arrives,’ Sturt checked her watch, ‘which should be in approximately five minutes. Find out about anywhere special to them as a couple in those early days –’

  ‘Because that’s where he’s hidden Heidi,’ Connolly said.

  ‘I think so. Yeah. I really do.’

  They prepared questions for Burns and Jennifer’s parents, while they awaited their respective arrivals. Everyone in the squad room perked up when the receptionist announced that Burns was downstairs.

  Reeve escorted him into the witness room. It was less austere than the interview room, yet more formal than one of the offices or the briefing room. On the downside, it didn’t have a one-way mirror or microphone, so Connolly and Sturt waited impatiently in the latter’s office.

  ‘It’s taking too long.’

  Connolly rolled his eyes. ‘Settle.’ Then he went to meet the Lockes, leaving Sturt alone and frustrated.

  Frustration turned to panic. They’d had Martin Denton in custody since lunchtime. God knows how long it’d been since the man had checked on Heidi, given her food and water. Was it this morning? Yesterday? Last week?

  Are we too late?

  Sturt pictured the little girl. As before the image fuzzed into the child’s lifeless body and she shook her head to clear her mind.

  We can’t be.

  Reeve burst into her office, beaming so broadly that Sturt knew she’d discovered something. She wanted to hug her.

  ‘His grandpa’s property.’ Reeve’s staccato speech conveyed urgency, maybe excitement too. ‘There’s an old cottage that used to be the main house. It became rundown �
� the family abandoned it and built a bigger one. Denton found out that Jennifer and Danny used to meet there—at the old place—to make out. Rickety these days…but still standing.’

  ‘Where exactly?’ Sturt plucked up her phone, ready to rally the locals.

  ‘Shepparton.’ Reeve drew a breath and managed, ‘About a kilometre from where Jennifer’s parents used to live, which is not far from her sister’s place.’

  She dictated the address and a few minutes later Sturt relayed it down the line to the local station. As much as she’d love to be there if—when—they found Heidi, the two-hour commute from Melbourne could cost the girl her life.

  Then there was nothing to do but wait. The tension in the squad room was palpable. People snapped instead of speaking. They snatched up phones on the first ring and slammed them down after they’d cursorily dealt with the unwanted call. Sturt’s stomach churned and burned. She couldn’t eat or drink. One of the team came in with a hot dog and the smell nearly made her throw up. Reeve and Connolly didn’t seem to fare better.

  Her guts plummeted when her mobile rang. She pulled it out and answered. ‘Rose Sturt, Homicide Squad.’

  ‘Sergeant Tomms, Shepparton.’ Without further ado, the bloke added, ‘We found her.’

  His tone gave away nothing and Sturt held her breath.

  Tomms said, ‘Heidi’s alive! She’s off to hospital, but she’ll be okay.’

  ‘She’s alive!’ Sturt echoed and whooped.

  The room erupted. A good day in their office was nailing a killer. Today, they’d also helped save a life.

  Connolly scooped up Reeve and swung her around. She laughed and accepted high-fives from the team. Workmates slapped Sturt’s back while she spoke to Tomms. Half her brain stayed in the moment. The other half saw three-year-old Heidi break into an infectious grin and flourish a double thumbs-up.

  The Job V

  Move to the country to run a one-cop station

  Goodbye rat race

  hello the good life

  at least for a while

  It’ll be all about community

  handling things not ordinarily part of a copper’s domain

  Getting to know each and every character in town

  not just the troublesome few

  Better for the family

  clean air, outdoorsy, safe streets, more time together

  Because crime is soft—slow—in the country

  So they say

  Silk Versus Sierra

  Winner of the Scarlet Stiletto Awards 2013 Best Investigative Prize First published in ‘Scarlet Stiletto: The Fifth Cut – 2013’

  ‘Shit,’ she cursed when her hip vibrated. ‘Not now.’

  Nearly all the 450 permanent residents in town had her mobile number—and hubby Steve’s, too—but they never rang on Wednesdays simply to chat. Barb’s rest days were no-fly zones except in emergencies, doubly so during karaoke every second week.

  She took the call outside. A minute later, she rushed in.

  ‘Babysitter?’

  ‘Work.’

  Steve screwed up his nose. ‘Take the car. I’ll grab a lift if you don’t make it back.’

  ‘Wait up for me.’ Barb kissed him full-lipped. ‘We’re definitely having our nookie while the kids are at Sal’s.’

  ‘You betcha, babe.’

  She drove away feeling a cocktail of emotion. A dash of disappointment at missing karaoke and the chance to defend her title of Loch Sport Gumboot-throwing Champion later—if anyone was dumb enough to take her on—topped with apprehension, excitement and curiosity.

  By the time she had raced home to don her uniform, switched the family sedan for the marked four-wheel drive and finally nosed the truck down Seacombe Road, eight or nine precious minutes were lost. Compared to a forty-to-sixty-minute response time from other available units, this was speedy. Still, she chafed at the delay.

  She trusted her information implicitly. Not much went past certain characters in this town. In fact, the same old fella who’d called in tonight’s warehouse alarm had been her first customer here in Loch Sport. Her transfer came through quicker than the sale of their house in Mitcham, so she’d torn herself away from Steve and the kids—only three girls back then—amid a gratifying amount of tears from them, and bucketloads of her own, travelled half-way across the state with one suitcase and a few boxes, and started their family’s sea change alone. She’d been unpacking and answered a rap at the door.

  A short, leathered bloke with baby’s fluff hair stared at her.

  ‘Len Brown,’ he announced. ‘Just to let you know, this is the police house you’ve broken into. The police’re on their way.’

  She’d barked out a surprised laugh and asked him to cancel his call. He did, after she’d proved she actually was their new Officer-in-Charge – aka their only police officer in town.

  Now, based on Len’s call, she knew an alarm was going silently crazy. Whether it proved to be a non-event or break-in, she’d ascertain in roughly one minute. As it’d already cost her the chance to sing Billy Idol’s White Wedding, she somewhat hoped for the latter.

  Barb slowed after the golf course and pulled right onto Progress Road. The truck’s tyres scrunched on sand blown from the road verge. The town’s industrial estate consisted of two handfuls of large blocks bound by high cyclone wire fences, a deterrent against ’roos rather than burglars. Several properties were perpetually for sale, as was about a third of the town. Between faded ‘For Sale’ signs, vacant land and junk strewn across the yards of tin sheds just as neglected, the street wore an abandoned appearance. And set among all this were a few structures that Barb suspected acted as registered addresses for dodgy companies.

  Number seven, LS Mining, was one of those on her fishy list. Its silent blue alarm flashed through the darkness. But Barb’s eyes were drawn to the steel-grey Commodore on the driveway. Parked at an angle, bonnet to the street, both front doors ajar. It struck her as odd that they’d taken time to reverse in. Or maybe they’d driven out of the shed?

  Her mind shifted.

  Which first? Check the building or car?

  Instinct told her the car. Coppers don’t like to enter dark warehouses. Too many mock shootouts at the academy were probably to blame. Besides, the car was closer and might hold the culprits who had set off the alarm.

  Barb left the red-and-blue strobes on and took her keys as she exited the truck. Some jokers had taken her vehicle for a spin the one time she’d chanced leaving the keys in the ignition. No harm done on that occasion, except to her pride, but she’d never repeat the mistake.

  She extracted the Maglite from her belt and shone it over the vehicle. With boots barely making a sound in the black sand dubbed ‘soil’, she approached. The sedan’s interior light illuminated what appeared to be an empty cabin.

  She reached the car, confirmed front and back seats were vacant.

  Barb’s heartbeat moderated a smidgeon.

  Towards the rear quarter on the driver’s side she noted a large ding with red paint transfer and a shattered tail light.

  She arced the torch as she walked along the passenger side and caught sight of a Transformer toy on the ground about half a metre away. Barb squatted next to it. The Bumblebee autobot looked chewed and knocked about; a twin for her five-year-old Ange’s, except for its decapitation. Transformers survive tough love, so it must’ve taken something like an adult’s weight to break it.

  Still thinking about the toy, she took in sticky smears on the passenger door trim and crumbs scattered over the seat.

  Definite kid territory.

  Her stomach flipped. Where was the kid now? Ange would never abandon one of her beloved toys, squashed or not. What’d prevented the kid from rescuing the autobot?

  Barb touched the bonnet. Hot. She snatched away her palm.

  Another quarter-circle and she swept the torch over the cockpit again, although from the driver’s side. The cupholders in the centre console contained a half-empty bag o
f jelly snakes and Audrey Hepburn sunglasses.

  She leaned in to examine dried splotches on the charcoal carpet, then squinted at a stain on the grey leather seat.

  Blood?

  She straightened. Should she find the boot release and search the storage space? Or skip to the warehouse to ascertain what had happened there and if her car occupants were inside?

  A screech made her head rip sideways towards the end of the street, which terminated at the tip entrance. She saw a car fishtail and skew into a fence, caving in ten metres of chain-link wire.

  The car shot past so close to the Commodore that the driver’s door rocked on its hinges and Barb’s shirt flapped against her flank.

  Immediately, she retrieved her truck, took pursuit and called in the chase.

  ‘…in pursuit of red Audi. Euro plate. Victor. Sierra. Lima. Kilo. One. One.’

  Barb swiped at sweat that blurred her eyes as she gave D24 particulars of her location.

  ‘Also run a plate-check on an abandoned Commodore. Both are connected with my potential burg at Progress Road. Sierra. Tango. Yankee. Three. Three. Eight.’

  All police vehicles were kitted out for officers to run their own checks but Barb couldn’t manage that and a high-speed chase along the Seacombe roadway. The sole road out of town was fairly straight but too rugged for this type of speed. The truck jumped as it hit potholes and Barb gripped the wheel harder.

  ‘…update speed please.’

  She glimpsed the speedo. ‘140.’

  Meanwhile, the Audi increased its lead.

  Barb compressed the accelerator. Her pulse galloped. The truck was no sports car and she strained to manage it at 165 clicks.

  She sent up a silent prayer. Please God, don’t let a ’roo jump out in front of me.

  ‘ETA on backup?’

  ‘No available units in your vicinity. Minimum fifty-five minutes…’

  She hissed out a sigh. No surprise. I’m on my own.

  A crackle interrupted her thoughts, then: ‘…road conditions and current speed?’

  ‘Clear, dry, just me and the suspect vehicle…’