Tropic of Death Page 6

  ‘So you agree with their analysis?’

  ‘Essentially, yes. But the context of the research base bothers me. It seems to me they’ve ignored it - possibly because, like you, they’ve been told to. And that’s not good police work. That’s political.’ She looked at him pensively. ‘By the way, do you know a research scientist called Dr Konrad Steinberg?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about Professor Audrey Zillman?’

  Jarrett shook his head. ‘Never heard of her. Not surprising though. The only contact I’ve had with people from the base is official meetings on local security or civic receptions. And that’s more than enough. As for trying to question any of the civilian workers there, forget it. They’re included in the get lost advice.’

  ‘Well, that might have to change. But first things first. I need to start mapping out everything you’ve got so far.’

  ‘You can do that at the station. I’ll take you there now,’ said Jarrett. ‘There’s more in the files than I emailed. A lot of useless paperwork in my opinion, but you’re free to go through it. I’ve assigned you an office and a car, a Falcon. Steel blue. It’s got a couple of dents and a few k on the clock but a souped-up engine under the bonnet.’

  ‘Steel blue?’

  ‘Yeah, it’ll match your eyes.’ He grinned. ‘I’m told profilers need peace and quiet to concentrate so I’ve sorted out some office space where you won’t be disturbed. Part of the old watch-house.’

  ‘Not in the cells, I hope.’

  ‘Nah,’ chuckled Jarrett. ‘More like an antique bondage chamber.’

  12

  The drive to the police station took them along the coast road towards the heart of the town. Jarrett travelled at a leisurely pace, an arm resting on the wheel as he pointed out significant landmarks. ‘Rafferty’s.’ He gestured at an Irish theme bar. ‘Always good for a few arrests. The kids can’t cope with the Guinness.’

  As the road curved down to the seafront they cruised past caravan parks and a marina. A couple of hundred yachts drifted at moorings that fanned out from boat ramps and a clubhouse with wooden decking.

  ‘The sailing club,’ said Jarrett. ‘Our social centre.’

  ‘You a member?’

  ‘Damn right. Perfect for catching boats, beers and blondes -

  ah, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘It’s also the place for live entertainment.’ He nodded at a marquee on the club’s lawns opposite an outdoor stage rigged with microphones and banks of speakers. ‘Great venue for rock concerts.’

  ‘Like who?’

  ‘The best was a Billy Thorpe gig, complete with thunder-storm.’

  ‘Sounds risky.’

  ‘It was. He broke off, saying he was in danger of having his arse nailed to the stage by lightning. But when it stopped he came back on and played till midnight.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘About a year before he died. What a voice - “Over the Rainbow” - blew the audience away.’

  They passed a beachside development with a lagoon for toddlers then an open-air market on a grassy stretch of foreshore, customers ambling among stalls and hibiscus bushes. Beyond that the road branched towards the harbour alongside a row of burger and fried chicken outlets, an amusement park, a bowling alley, games arcades and cheap-looking bars. Among the potential customers, knots of US sailors strolled along under a range of neon signs. An ice-cream parlour was doing a busy trade with the Americans.

  ‘The rough side of town,’ muttered Jarrett. ‘Rachel Macarthur was murdered down one of the alleys.’

  At a junction by the pier he turned away from the sea and headed into the shopping precinct, marked by a line of palm trees towering above shopfronts, coffee bars and pubs.

  ‘The main street,’ said Jarrett. ‘The council’s tarting it up with tiled pavements and outdoor cafes, but we still get the hoons at night.’

  As the traffic slowed, Rita watched a lazy stream of pedestrians moving around food stalls and beer umbrellas. The universal dress code seemed to be T-shirts, shorts and sandals, with women in straw hats and boys in baseball caps. The avenue of palms ended where the street sloped up a hill through petrol stations, supermarkets and a clutch of backpacker hostels. The police station stood at a crossroads bordering the residential area. From there lines of houses stretched into the distance where steep wooded gullies and the peaks of the rainforest hemmed in the outlying neighbourhoods.

  ‘Here we are,’ said Jarrett, pulling over.

  The original part of the building was a two-storey structure made of local stone.

  ‘The watch-house,’ said Jarrett with a smile as they got out.

  ‘Nineteenth century. Probably haunted.’

  ‘Too bad I’m just a profiler,’ said Rita. ‘And not an exorcist.’

  The modern offices and cells were housed in a brick addition.

  Jarrett took her through the main entrance, past rooms crowded with desks and filing cabinets, introducing her to uniformed officers as they went. In the office of his crime investigation branch she met two of his detective constables. They were young, tanned and impressed by both her appearance and what she represented.

  ‘I’ve always wanted to see profiling in action,’ said one of them as he shook her hand. ‘Assessing the criminal mind. All that weird insight stuff.’

  ‘I appreciate your enthusiasm,’ said Rita, ‘but it’s not voodoo.’

  ‘Will you give us some tips?’ asked the other. ‘Show us the basics?’

  ‘Shut up,’ Jarrett told them. ‘You’re like a pair of spaniels.’

  As he ushered her out along a corridor to the room that would be her office, she couldn’t help laughing.

  It didn’t take Rita long to settle into her new workplace, even though it felt more like a time-warped gallery than an office.

  While day-to-day police work was conducted in the modern block, the old watch-house was used mostly for storage and administrative purposes. The sandstone building retained much of its nineteenth-century fabric along with a faint musty odour. With its high ceilings, plaster cornices and creaking wooden staircase, the structure evoked echoes of a bygone age. No wonder people felt it was haunted, thought Rita.

  The ground floor housed a community relations bureau, an accounts unit and a records section extending to the Victorian cells at the rear, now crammed with filing cabinets. The first floor was used as a repository for spare equipment and a store for logbooks and registers from the distant past. There was also a colonial-era exhibit room, the area assigned to Rita for as long as she required it. Because of its heritage value the watch-house had been listed by the National Trust and the local historical society maintained the exhibit room as a small museum, library and occasional lecture venue. As well as attracting academic interest it was good PR for the police, although Jarrett had declared it off-limits to history buffs for the duration of Rita’s stay.

  She approved of the choice. It suited her needs, providing both plenty of space to spread out case material and a quiet setting to think in. Even the antique fixtures, the source of Jarrett’s bondage chamber reference, were somehow conducive to a profiling mind-set. As she paced around the room, psyching herself up for the investigation, she observed her new surroundings with a mixture of amusement and curiosity.

  The three internal walls were lined with glass cases displaying artefacts and documents preserved from the days of imperial rule. The items included batons, caps, holsters and pouches, together with reward posters for the capture of bushrangers and newspaper articles about the frontier war between white settlers and Aborigines. Wall mountings above the cases held rows of leg irons, chains and handcuffs alongside a collection of swords and pistols. A series of tinted lithographs hung from a picture rail, while a heavy oil painting was suspended from the chimney-breast in the corner. The gilt-framed canvas, dark with age and dated 1870 , depicted a dozen men, white and black, armed with carbines. It was titled The Hunting Part
y. There was something intimidating about the group’s pose and as Rita peered at it she found the image distinctly sinister. Below it the fireplace was virtually in mint condition, with an iron filigree surround and glazed tiles. She wondered how much it had actually been used in the past hundred years.

  The external wall was dominated by bookcases on either side of a double-sash window. The shelves were filled with leather-bound volumes. The view outside, which a century ago would have looked down the hill over the town to the sea, was completely obscured by a backpacker hostel, its peeling paintwork and rusting fire escapes looming over an alley. The laneway below was cluttered with rubbish bins and parked cars. A patchwork of graffiti and posters littered the hostel’s lower wall.

  From the window’s base came the wheeze and rattle of an air-conditioning unit, one of the few modern accessories in the room. Others were a computer desk, swivel chair, a seminar table where Rita laid out the case notes and a whiteboard to which she blu-tacked photos of the victims. As she stood in front of them, trying to draw some insight into the killer’s mind, she began to see something contrived among the graphic images. The crime signature was plain to see: death by nail gun followed by decapitation. But one series of shots was more compelling than the rest. Rachel Macarthur’s head on a spike, placed there for maximum attention, appeared to be an emphatic statement as much as a psychotic gesture. So what exactly was the killer’s message, and why did the impaled head seem oddly recognisable? The notion bothered her, though she couldn’t quite grasp an association.

  With a sigh Rita strolled back to the display cases, gazing distractedly at the collection of vintage handbills and broadsheets.

  As she stood there, arms folded, her eyes fell on a front page from 1867. It carried a report on justice meted out to a bushranger under the headline: homicidal outlaw executed . Somehow it was apposite. And then it clicked. The killing of Rachel Macarthur bore the hallmarks of an execution. Even the positioning of the head, transfixed and elevated for public show, reflected the traditional fate reserved for traitors.

  Such a possibility was consistent with a political theme or motive for the murder. It would make the setting - the confrontation between protesters and defence officials - extremely relevant.

  More ominously, it could also explain why such a line of inquiry was obstructed by officers at Whitley Sands. And there was something else. Rita was privy to additional information that justified investigating the research base - the warning delivered to Byron by Konrad Steinberg. If Dr Steinberg was right about ‘fascist thugs’ in charge of security, the implication was deeply disturbing.

  It gave Rachel’s death a clear context and made identifying the first anonymous victim, the man in the mud, even more imperative.

  The next move was obvious. Rita strode over to her desk, picked up her mobile and called the number Byron had given her.

  It was answered with a curt, ‘Yes?’

  ‘Dr Steinberg?’ Rita asked.

  ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘My name’s Rita Van Hassel,’ she replied. ‘Detective Sergeant Van Hassel. I’m a criminal profiler with the Victoria Police but I’ve been seconded to Whitley for the investigation into the beheadings.’

  ‘How did you get my number?’ he demanded.

  ‘From Professor Byron Huxley.’

  ‘Byron?’

  ‘He and I are -‘ she searched for the appropriate words - ‘very close. We’ve been together for some time now. Before I came up here he repeated your comments about the research base.’

  ‘That’s regrettable,’ said Steinberg. ‘When did you arrive in Whitley?’

  ‘Today.’

  ‘Then I’ve got some advice for you. Make your excuses and go. Leave as soon as you can.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because of what I told Byron - it’s worse than I thought.’

  ‘Even so, I’ve got a job to do, questions to ask.’

  ‘Well, don’t believe anything you hear from the military and don’t trust the local police. They’re all in it together.’

  ‘The police? With all due respect, that sounds extreme.’

  ‘So is the war on terror and its contempt for the law. You’re investigating the results.’

  ‘If I understand you correctly,’ she said slowly, ‘you’re talking about two murders.’

  ‘There’s a prevailing force here that’s extremely dangerous.’

  ‘Can you be more specific?’

  ‘Not over the phone, no.’

  ‘Fine. Let’s meet.’

  ‘That’s unwise - for both of us.’

  ‘Dr Steinberg, I intend to talk to you and I’d rather do it discreetly.’

  ‘In other words, with or without my cooperation.’ He sighed.

  ‘Are you at Whitley Sands right now?’

  ‘Yes, but I’ll be in town mid afternoon. Dental appointment.’

  ‘Nothing serious, I hope.’

  ‘Minor repair work, since you ask. I lost a gold filling. The appointment’s at three thirty. I can meet you at three.’

  ‘Tell me where.’

  ‘It’ll have to be somewhere noisy and public. Surveillance here is total.’ He paused for a moment. ‘There’s a pub, the Steamboat, in the centre of town. Find a table near the brass bell. If you’re not there I’ll wait no more than ten minutes.’

  ‘How will I recognise you?’

  ‘Check my website. And you?’

  ‘Okay: I’m thirty, medium height, fair hair, blue eyes.’ That sounded too much like a police description so she added, ‘And for what it’s worth, Byron calls me his blonde Nederlander.’

  ‘Lucky Byron.’

  ‘I’ll be wearing a white top and denim skirt.’

  ‘Now it’s essential,’ said Steinberg, ‘that you tell your colleagues nothing about me. I can’t overemphasise the risk. Remember what I said.’

  ‘Yes, I get the message. Don’t trust the military or the local cops.’

  As she ended the call a voice came from behind her.

  ‘That sounds seditious.’

  She turned abruptly to find herself being observed by a senior police officer in uniform. He was standing in the open doorway, an equivocal smile on his face.

  ‘So you’re the profiler,’ he said, walking into the room and closing the door behind him with a proprietary flick. ‘I’m the man in charge of the “local cops”, Inspector Derek Bryce. Who were you speaking to?’

  Rita had to think quickly, wondering just how much Bryce had overheard.

  ‘Someone my partner wanted me to look up, a local academic,’

  she responded with a half-truth, deciding to respect Steinberg’s request for secrecy. ‘You can ignore my comments - I’m just humouring them both.’

  ‘Your partner’s name is Byron?’

  ‘Yes. He’s a computer scientist. And I won’t let any social calls distract me from the investigation, which from a profiling point of view is intriguing. Though I must admit this room has distracted me a bit.’

  Her swift change of subject seemed to have worked.

  ‘I hope it’s suitable for you,’ said Bryce.

  ‘It’s excellent,’ she said. ‘And I’ve got much more space here than in my office in Melbourne.’

  ‘Good,’ said Bryce, moving forward and shaking her hand at last. ‘I’m glad we’ve got you on deck, Van Hassel. Any light you can shed will be welcome.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  She wasn’t sure if Steinberg’s warning had alerted her to an undertone in Bryce’s manner, or if she was simply imagining it.

  But there was something that made her wary. Bryce was broad-faced and smooth-skinned with wavy hair and an expression that was hard to read. While a smile played around his lips, there was something less friendly in his eyes.

  ‘Has Jarrett told you anything about the history of the old watch-house?’ he asked.

  ‘Not really, other than that people think it’s haunted.’

  ‘I don’t me
an to spook you,’ Bryce went on, strolling across to peer at the crime photos she’d arranged, ‘but it’s supposed to be this very room, in fact.’

  ‘So who’s the ghost?’

  ‘A predecessor of ours,’ he said with a low chuckle. ‘A law officer with an unenviable reputation - Sergeant Kenneth Logan. He was in charge of half a dozen mounted and foot troopers here about a hundred and forty years ago. This room was his office.’

  Rita glanced around with renewed interest.

  ‘Why unenviable?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s all here. Have a browse when you’ve got time to kill,’

  answered Bryce. ‘Reports, documents, even Sergeant Logan’s journal. Fascinating stuff. Of course it’s easy to condemn him now, but I’ve often wondered how I would have acted in his circumstances.’

  ‘What circumstances?’

  ‘The “war on savages”.’ Bryce moved across to the seminar table, scanning the case material she’d placed in neat rows. ‘You may not know much about the early history of Queensland - a lot of people don’t. It was written in blood.’

  ‘You’re referring to the time of the first white settlers.’

  ‘Yes, and the violence in the nineteenth century was worse here than in any other state.’ Bryce turned to her, arms folded.

  ‘The Indigenous people resisted what they saw as an invasion of their land by perpetrating the occasional massacre. The colonists responded on a scale that we’d now consider genocide. Around two thousand whites were killed in the frontier wars and at least ten thousand Aborigines.’

  ‘And Sergeant Logan’s role?’

  ‘After a dozen Europeans were killed upriver, the big landowner here, Squatter Brodie, demanded mass reprisals. Under his leadership, Sergeant Logan helped organise and inflict indiscriminate killings. And over here,’ continued Bryce, moving across the room, ‘you can see both men in their pose of retribution, accompanied by their armed henchmen.’ Rita followed him to where he was pointing at the oil painting above the fireplace. ‘The bearded man in the centre is Squatter Josiah Brodie, the man to his right is Sergeant Logan.’

  ‘So the hunting party hunted people?’ said Rita.