He regarded her through eyes the colour of single malt. ‘Thanks. I must look better than I feel. Where is she?’

She pointed towards the body with her thumb and watched Monty as he wove his way through the bedroom and bathroom accessories. She met Angus’s look of disappointed concern with one of her own.

Angus let out his breath. ‘I’m going to check on SOCO, then head back to Central. You’d better go fill Monty in on what little we know.’

She joined Monty as he leaned over the body. He was silently taking in the shaved head and the strange serenity of the painted face.

‘We’ve sent the shop and floor managers back to Central for further questioning. So far we haven’t a clue how our guy got in with the body. He disabled the monitored alarm by cutting the external telephone wire. Anyone could have located it if they’d known what they were looking for, then again I guess there’s always the chance it was an inside job...’

Monty’s hand flew to his mouth and he recoiled from the body with a look of anguish.

‘What’s wrong?’ Stevie asked as he began to lurch his way towards the toilets at the other end of the floor. The ladies’ room was closest; there was no time for etiquette. She followed him in as he staggered into the nearest stall.

She waited on the other side of the stall door, trying to block out the sound of his retching and became aware of an incongruous odour. The typical public washroom smells of soap and disinfectant were overlaid by the rising lead of the early morning commute and the tang of coffee from a nearby cafe. A cool breeze on her cheek made her turn her head to its source and it was then that she saw the gaping rectangular hole where the windowpane should have been. The glass itself was leaning against the wall as if carefully placed there by a glazier. She hurried over to the window ledge and peered into the alleyway below. Startled, she did a double take. Only a short distance above the ground, attached to a system of ropes and pulleys that ran the length of the building, dangled a window cleaner’s trolley.

The retching sounds from the stall had stopped and she yelled to Monty to come and look. Getting no answer she turned to find him sitting against the wall with his knees drawn up to his chest and his head bowed. When he made no response she put a hand on his shoulder and squatted to his level.

‘I think you should go home, you’re not well,’ she said, returning to earth after the brief high of her discovery. He drew a breath then let it out with a shudder, keeping his big hands clenched into tight fists at his side.

‘Can’t work this,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t you know who it is?’

Stevie was astonished. Shaved and covered in paint, the woman’s own mother could be excused for not recognising her.

Stevie frowned. ‘Who?’

Monty’s voice was barely audible. ‘Michelle.’

11

Increased activity is a sign of the unsub’s steadily deteriorating mental state.

De Vakey, The Pursuit of Evil

Monty headed through the incident room to his office. On the last count, twenty suburban detectives had been seconded to help the SCS with their enquiries. A woman he didn’t know was writing extra notes on a whiteboard with a squeaking marker pen. On the pin-up board next to her a new set of grisly crime scene photographs had been added. Unable to face them he turned away and met the eyes of another stranger. This was going to be one helluva day.

Monty had hoped to slip into his office unnoticed, but Barry Snow raised his head from some notes he’d been examining with two of the new detectives. ‘Kettle’s just boiled, Mont. Do you want a cuppa?’

The offer of a cup of tea: the same futile attempt at comfort he’d employed himself only a short time ago at the house of Michelle’s parents.

‘No thanks, Barry.’ He could make coffee and tea in his office, but he appreciated the gesture all the same. ‘I’ve got some things to sort out. I’m not to be disturbed unless it’s an emergency.’

Monty closed his door against the din, took his phone off the hook and went into his small bathroom. After splashing his face with water he helped himself to a couple of Panadol from the bathroom cupboard. It seemed that the freight train running through the middle of his head had derailed, landing in a mangled heap of screaming metal and hissing steam. The pills hit his stomach with a sickening burn and he prayed they would stay put long enough to work their magic.

Sitting at his desk with his head resting in his hands he tried to reassemble the events of last night. He remembered dinner with Stevie then coming home, excited to finally have the KP notes in his possession. He remembered going through the files, noting the similarities and incongruities of the investigation, the missing pages of Harper’s alibi, the nameless prostitute. And then there was the phone call from Wayne. He saw himself looking at the beer in the glass. Next was the incessant ring of Angus’s early morning call.

He’d awoken to papers and beer cans strewn all over the floor, the crystal pilsner glass lying empty on its side. The place smelled like a brewery, yet he could not even recall the guilty satisfaction of that first sip. Dammit all—why did it have to be now that his willpower failed him? But it could have been worse, he supposed, he’d only counted six tins on the floor. Hell, six tins and he felt like this? In his day he could have drunk a carton and only been mildly affected the next morning.

Then a sickening thought hit. In his haste to leave he hadn’t had time to clear up the mess. Not only had he left the beer cans all over the place, but the KP murder notes too—and his cleaning lady was due in today—shit!

He grabbed his keys and phone and made a mad dash through the incident room.

Barry held up his hand to stop his progress. ‘Hang on, Monty. I’ve just got a call from upstairs. Super wants to see you.’

The super was the last thing Monty felt he could deal with right now. ‘Tell him you just missed me. I won’t be long. I’ve just got to go home for a sec.’

The ten-minute drive to his flat seemed to last a lifetime; if his cleaner caught a glimpse of those autopsy photos she’d have a coronary, to say nothing of her reaction to his fall from grace.

He was fumbling for his key at the top of his steps when a man’s voice called out from the parking area, ‘Inspector McGuire?’

Monty looked down from the threshold of his flat. Two men were heading for the concrete steps. He waved down to them.

‘Wait where you are please, Sir,’ one of the men called up.

They had cop stamped all over them. The older man was in a cheap suit, probably off the same rack as most of Monty’s; the younger man wore jeans and a leather jacket.

‘We tried to catch you at Central. They said you’d gone home.’ Older cop was puffing up the stairs. He had an unhealthy pallor and small eyes, the kind of face you’d expect to see on the wrong side of the bars. There wasn’t much room for the three of them on the front porch, less when both men stepped forward. Monty got the distinct impression they were trying to edge him away from his front door.

He didn’t budge. ‘And you are?’ he asked.

‘I’m DS Keyes and this is DC Thrummel, Sir,’ the older cop said, unsmiling.

Monty squinted at their ID. He recognised their names but not their faces and his brain refused to clarify the association. ‘Claremont?’ he read from their IDs.

‘That’s right, Sir,’ Keyes said. ‘We were hoping you’d accompany us back to Central. Superintendent Baggly asked us to escort you personally. There are some things he’d like to talk to you about.’

‘I’m not working the Birkby case. I suggest you call up DS Wong.’ Monty pushed his way to his door and reached for his key. Thrummel grabbed his arm.