Wayne’s sigh came through the line as a hiss. ‘I don’t understand Baggly’s attitude at all. If it’s the press he’s worried about, he’s just going to get himself into deeper shit.’

‘I’m hoping De Vakey will help me show Baggly the light. If not I’ll have to go higher up the food chain. There are just too many similarities between the Royce murder and the KP killings to ignore a connection.’

‘I’m glad to be able to leave the politics to you.’

‘Thanks.’ Monty sighed and rubbed his forehead. ‘How about Angus and the taxis?’

‘Nothing yet. No trace on the roofies and no chloroform listed as stolen.’

‘I want someone on the police personnel records. De Vakey seems to think a disgruntled ex-cop might be behind this. Check out all the dismissals over, say, the last five years.’

‘Well, I suppose there’s no harm giving it a go. See you in the morning, yeah?’ But Wayne didn’t put the phone down; there was something else on his mind. ‘Umm, Mont.’

‘Mm?’

A beat. ‘Did you know Tye Davis is in town?’

Monty said nothing. A pulse began to throb in his temple. He put his fingers to it and tried to soothe it away. So what if Tye Davis was back in town? There was no reason why he wouldn’t return to the city. But it was strange how Tye’s name had sprung to mind when he was reading about the KP murders, and stranger still how Wayne should bring him up at this stage in their conversation.

‘I think he might be out to make trouble for Stevie. He mentioned something about the kid. After custody, I reckon,’ Wayne said.

Monty felt the blood drain from his face. Almost overwhelmed with dizziness he slumped against the wall. ‘That can’t happen,’ he said to himself. Or thought he had.

‘What was that? Are you okay?’ Wayne asked.

‘Yeah, I’m just tired.’ Monty rubbed his face. ‘I want Tye on top of your list of disgruntled cops. Check him out, find out where he was when Linda Royce was murdered.’

‘Surely you don’t think—’

‘Just do it.’

When Monty replaced the receiver his head was swimming.

Back on the sofa he took a large slug of juice. He had to put his feelings aside, be objective about this, look at nothing but the facts of the case and not let his judgement be tainted with the odour of Tye Davis.

Rohypnol and chloroform had been found in Linda Royce’s system, but only Rohypnol had been found in the prostitutes, most likely dissolved in an alcoholic drink. This made sense. The prostitutes were willing participants, to a degree. The offender would have had no problem getting them to share a drink with him—maybe it was while they were sitting on the bench in the park. The date rape drug wasn’t as common then as it was now and the girls may not have been so wary.

Linda Royce, though, had not been picking up tricks in a park; she had not been such an easy target. He must have knocked her out with chloroform in the street first before taking her away to his secluded spot and making her drink the drugged cocktail.

He opened his notebook and began to jot down the similarities between the two old cases. Once he had these listed, he would compare them to the Linda Royce case. His finger traced a snake through the condensation on the beer glass as he organised his thoughts. Under the heading ‘similarities’ he wrote:

Bodies found in same location

Same profession of victims

Same drugs in their systems

Violation and posing of victims after death

All had long hair, hacked off

No jewellery

No DNA evidence except for questionable hairs on first victim

No evidence of sexual intercourse

Under ‘differences’ he listed:

Kitty Bonilla semi naked

Lorna Dunn totally naked

Kitty Bonilla small, dark hair, part Aboriginal

Lorna Dunn tall, red hair, Caucasian

He needed another cigarette, but the thought of having to reach for one and light up was suddenly too much of an effort. Concentrate. Physically the women were at opposite ends of the colour spectrum. Adding the blond Linda Royce to the pot only increased his confusion. Was this the killer’s intent? Was it all part of the game De Vakey had explained to Stevie?

He wrote: Blue Commodore seen at the first crime site. Didn’t Wayne just mention a blue Commodore in the Royce case? He would return to that tomorrow. For the moment he wanted to keep the old and the new cases separate.

Back to the KP murders: No sign of a VW at either site.

He looked back at the beer. His tongue flicked at his bottom lip. Back to his notebook, things to follow up:

Peter Sbresni

Unnamed prostitute

Check database for missing documents

Monty’s hand grazed the cool of the beer glass once more. He ran his finger around its edge, straining to hear the answers it might sing.

friday

10

A scene that is staged for the police or for any other unfortunate person who might come across the body is often the result of the killer’s perverse desire to entertain.

De Vakey, The Pursuit of Evil

Stevie was asleep when she got the phone call. She didn’t have time to drop Izzy at her mother’s, nor did Dot have time to change. Three minutes after Stevie’s frantic plea, Dot was on the doorstep in her dressing-gown and slippers and Stevie was hurrying out to the Commodore, no more than a blurry outline in the grey dawn light.

She picked Angus up on the way and they raced in the unmarked to the latest crime scene, their flashing blue light scorching through the early morning commuters like an oxy-torch through steel plate. Taking her eyes off the road for a moment, she risked a glance at Angus, his string of expletives indicating he still hadn’t got through to Monty. She felt herself tense, her knuckles becoming white marbles on the steering wheel.

‘Last try,’ Angus said, punching at the phone’s redial button.

About to express her concern, he held up his hand to silence her and drawled into the phone, ‘Monty, another body’s been found. It’s in the bedding department of Hartley-Mac’s. We’re on our way, meet you there.’ He replaced his phone in his jacket pocket and sucked in his cheeks, making his thin face almost skeletal. ‘Sounds like he had a hard night.’

Stevie frowned, looked left and right, then sped through a red light causing pedestrians to jump back as if the car was shooting sparks. Soon they were at the Hay Street Mall, their senses assaulted by chaotic images. Yellow crime-scene tape sealed off the entrance and police cars were parked askew, lights flashing. Delivery vans honked, irate shopkeepers argued with uniformed police. A news van excreted cable. Lights were mounted, microphones plugged. An early morning news anchorwoman began to preen in the van’s side mirror. More journos arrived.

Stevie and Angus stepped into the fray to their siren’s dying wheeze.

‘Keep them well back,’ she said to a young constable they hurried past.

‘Any sign of a break in?’ Angus asked the cop guarding the double shop doors as they both flicked ID.

‘None so far, Sir.’

‘Who was first on the scene?’ Stevie spoke over her shoulder as she headed for the lift.