That’s what I’m doing now. Leaving my footprint. People won’t overlook it, that’s for sure.

  The detectives arrived half an hour before the designated start of the memorial service. Mahoney’s feeling was that a large number of mourners would attend. Looking at that morning’s paper and copies from the preceding three days, he saw that the initial announcement of Scott Hellyer’s death had been posted on the Monday with details of the funeral placed in the following day’s edition. On the Tuesday there were also quite a number of bereavement notices from extended family and friends, including a joint expression of sadness from the Cheungs—the DI could only wonder how the dynamics in that relationship were playing out. By Wednesday the stream had become a torrent, with expressions of sympathy filling almost four columns of the classifieds section: business associates, hospitality groups, sports clubs and old friends. The picture showed a man who was widely known and well regarded. Mahoney’s revised impression was that Hellyer, despite some arrogance, was a figure who would be much missed by his community. Yet someone hated him enough to kill him.

  Kendall found a parking spot at the bottom end of Wignall Street. As they crossed Letitia Street the funeral centre came into view from behind a row of oak trees. Constructed as the original Hobart High School a century before, its architecture illustrated the changed nature of schools. Then, when not many continued their studies beyond their early teens, it had been the principal secondary school for the city. Over the next few decades other institutes and high schools were established but this remained the elite institution.

  They walked up the steps and through the large sandstone arch of the official entrance. Off to the side of this grand centrepiece were some gaudy annexes, but nothing could dull the sense of grandeur once you were in the entrance hall. The current custodians, a funeral company, could not have selected a more suitable venue for services of the dead. Although secular in nature, it was a space that automatically made you consider your place in the greater scheme of things. The vaulted ceiling and generous proportions made the enormous room feel like a small cathedral.

  Aside from a few Turnbull employees they were the first ones there. Kate turned to her boss. ‘This must have been an imposing venue for school assemblies.’

  ‘I’d imagine so. My uncle came here. He was pretty bright. This was all before the baby boom changed schooling in Hobart.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘With successive increases in population after the war and changes to the Education Act, more high schools had to be built. If you drive around the suburbs, you’ll see the evidence of two waves of prosperity. In 1961 at least five new high schools opened their doors. It’s why Clarence High looks just like Taroona High. Then again, in another burst of building in the early seventies, you get Rokeby and Kingston. It was a boom in almost every respect.’

  ‘What happened to this place?’

  ‘It became a matriculation college for a while, senior secondary students only. Then it became hopelessly outdated and they moved to the site at Mount Nelson. Nobody knew what to do with the main building until this firm got their inspired idea. Mind you, I’m not sure how I’d feel turning up to a service for an old friend in the very room I had to sit through addresses by the Headmaster.’

  ‘At least it would inspire memories.’

  ‘That it would.’

  Two men in dark suits wheeled the teak coffin up the aisle to the front of the room. When it was in positon by a lectern, Mahoney stared at the gleaming bronze handles. There were whole days now when he didn’t think of his deceased parents; he told himself he was too busy. An old mate of his recently told him that, as he drove to work every day, he said a quiet prayer to his father up in the celestial sphere. It didn’t strike Mahoney as a mawkish thing to do, but rather a simple and heartfelt act of respect and gratitude. After all, where were you if your parents hadn’t brought you into the world?

  He took Kendall by the arm and guided her to a row of chairs. ‘Kate, we need to alter our approach. I think we’re being a bit … desperate.’

  She nodded. ‘And possibly intruding on the grief of his family?’

  ‘Yep. As well as everyone else who turns up today. We have a duty to find the murderer alright. But at what cost to dignity? I’m not saying we shouldn’t be ruthless if we have to be, but this seems a step too far.’

  ‘She did offer.’

  ‘You’re right, but it doesn’t mean we are compelled to accept. Hers isn’t such a bad idea, but I can’t help feeling we’ll be trammelling over the mores of this memorial. There’s a time and place to hunt the killer down, and this isn’t it.’

  Kendall glanced towards the entrance. ‘There’s McLeod now. I’ll let him know.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  As she went across to their colleague, Mahoney took out his handkerchief and wiped his nose. He’d started second-guessing himself. Was he being sentimental? Was this decision an impulsive feeling or a considered thought? By the time Kendall returned, he’d settled on the latter. They were doing the right thing. Respect was due and being there as observers was sufficient. He cocked his head toward the departing McLeod.

  ‘Was he okay with that?’

  ‘Yes. Turns out he couldn’t have done it anyway. There’s been a nasty accident on Clare Street near the Catholic school and he has to get over there and do the photos. Your moral quandary was solved anyway.’

  ‘Never hurts to examine what you’re doing. At least we haven’t wasted his time. Let’s take a seat before it fills up.’

  Very soon all the chairs were occupied and, by the time the celebrant welcomed the mourners, there were plenty of people standing at the rear. Mahoney guessed there were around two hundred in the main room and another fifty or so in the room behind, straining to see the front.

  The ceremony was dignified but not maudlin. Hellyer’s daughter, Maggie, gave the eulogy. Undistracted by the sadness she must be feeling, her conglomeration of memories was delivered with fondness and a touch of wit. Their marriage may have been over, but Sophie Hellyer could be proud of their efforts if the maturity of their daughter was any guide.

  Mahoney never felt comfortable at funerals. It was the only time he really worried about his own mortality, and it opened the stopgap on a flood of memories. He concentrated on keeping it together—it wasn’t even as if he’d known the deceased—but his stolidness went out the window with the concluding phase of the service. A PowerPoint display of images from Hellyer’s life was on the screen, accompanied by one of Mahoney’s all-time favourite songs, ‘For a short time’. The Weddo’s ballad of the untimely death of a young woman always took him to a deep place, which was why he rarely played it—just too powerful. Tears pricked his eyes, but he wiped them away roughly as he turned his head to the side. It wasn’t his time to show emotion. As he watched the pallbearers carrying the coffin out to the waiting hearse, another emotion surfaced: anger. What right did anybody have to put their ego above the life of another? They would have to catch the bastard who did this. There really was no other option.

  

  Little was said in the car as they returned to headquarters. Mahoney was mulling over strands of the case in his head, while Kendall drove as assuredly as she did everything in life.

  Once inside the incident room Mahoney made a beeline for Dunstan. ‘Andrew, any luck with the van?’

  The burly constable looked up from his screen. ‘Some. Even without rego plates there are ways of tracking it. Donna Givens from Forensics phoned through what they had on the vehicle ID and dashboard. The odometer reading was a tick over 73,000 kilometres and the vehicle number was intact so that helps a fair bit.’

  ‘Really?’ Mahoney knew how to start his car and where to get it serviced, but not a whole lot more.

  ‘Yeah, for sure. Motor traders have had to clean up their act the past few years. Details on a vehicle in a commercial yard are subject to spot checks by the Trading Authority, so the car yards keep proper records. Still a few shonky trades, but mostly it’s legit.’

  ‘So how does that help us?’

  ‘Geason and I did a database search, and hit pay dirt in Argyle Street. Johnny Morrison at Vroom Motors sold that van back in October. The right make and model, and the correct vehicle number. At the time of sale the odometer reading was in the low seventies.’

  So, not a lot of usage since. That fitted with a vehicle used sparingly for a few day trips here and there. Mahoney felt they were getting closer.

  ‘It was a cash sale. Bloke by the name of Gerard Ogden wanted a vehicle to move some furniture about. Morrison said it was a good deal for him. He offloaded the van at the full whack, no haggling. Easy money, he reckoned. This Ogden guy said he’d inherited a car from his mum and it didn’t suit him so he wanted a quick sale. Probably why he accepted the sod all that Morrison offered. That side of the paperwork fitted. Ogden then said he’d noticed the Ford Transit in the yard and he wanted that. It was a done deal.’

  Mahoney stood vertical. Was it another false start, or were they off on the trail? He glanced behind him, saw Gibson at his desk, and made a snap decision. He took the printout from Dunstan. ‘Lovely work, Constable.’

  Mahoney walked over to Kendall’s desk. ‘Kate, I’m going to take Gibson with me for a bit. Have to visit a car yard. Could you look over the report from Cortese and give me your perspective.’

  With a straight face Kendall said, ‘I thought I mentioned my concerns about inherent sexism in the job. Take a male for the stuff about cars and leave me to give a female perspective on the profiler’s dossier.’

  Mahoney stammered something inaudible. Before he could come back with a proper reply, she smiled. ‘Just kidding, Sir. You were so intense after the service, that I thought a leg-pull might help.’

  His shoulders relaxed. ‘Oh, right. Yep, I was a bit affected by this morning. So, you’re fine with this?’

  ‘Of course. I overheard what Dunstan said. David’s the obvious choice seeing as he’s been working with the identikit artist this morning.’

  ‘Of course.’ That hadn’t occurred to Mahoney but it was a good point. ‘We’ll see you in a while.’

  He called across to Gibson. ‘David, we’re off out. Bring the laptop with the images from Eather.’

  In Mahoney’s car the DI passed Gibson the printout. ‘Read this so you’re up to speed when we get there.’ They set off up Argyle Street to the car strip, and a few minutes later stopped outside Vroom Motors. As they entered the compact showroom, Mahoney’s face lit up. Just short of the lone desk he dropped into a crouch with his hands out in front.

  ‘Skeeter, get ready!’

  The wiry man behind the desk raised his head in alarm, then broke into a wide smile.

  ‘Honeybear, you’re going down!’

  He leaped out of his chair and grappled the detective while Gibson looked on in astonishment. Had he strayed into a random schoolyard? The grapple became a handshake and Mahoney gestured to his colleague to join them.

  ‘Johnny, this is one of my up-and-comers, Detective Constable Gibson. David, meet Johnny Morrison.’ Gibson shook his hand but still looked confused as they took chairs by the desk. Morrison resumed his perch; he was too big for a jockey, but the man was lithe. He had sandy hair and pointed ears. If you wanted to buy a car from a bloke who looked like a fox, he was your man.

  Morrison was still grinning. ‘Constable, you looked concerned before.’

  ‘Just trying to get a handle on the nicknames, I suppose.’

  ‘That’s easy. At high school we had a wrestling club. Not really a club, more a piss-take of the stuff on TV. I’m Morrison, Moz, Mosquito, Skeeter. The lean, annoying one. Your boss was the gentle enforcer so instead of Grizzly he was Honeybear. Plenty of others in on it, including the mighty Difalco twins who were shaving by grade eight. That was quite early in the seventies. Great fun.’

  Mahoney nodded. ‘We must catch up. The Ocean Child is only a few blocks away from here. One Friday soon? Anyway, first a police matter.’

  Mahoney placed the printout on the desk. ‘We’re after a driver who did some business here.’

  ‘The Ogden fella. I won’t ask what he’s done because I don’t want to know. Mind you, I tell that to all the snoozers who walk in here but they tell me anyway. Yesterday, this joker from the Huon started …’

  ‘Ogden.’ Mahoney tapped the sheet. ‘It’s kind of important.’

  ‘Geez, alright. That was one of my quickest deals ever. Either he was in a fair old rush or he’s a complete numpty.’

  ‘I don’t think he’s thick. Tell us what he wanted.’

  ‘Trade-in on an ancient Nissan Pulsar, late nineties model. I had a quick squiz at it and looked pretty good. Put it through the PPSR.’

  Gibson had his notebook out. ‘Sorry, the what?’

  ‘PPSR. Don’t ask what it stands for. It’s a national database that gives you vehicle history. Didn’t give the historical owner but it wasn’t showing up as stolen so I offered him three hundred for it.’ Morrison saw the look on the detectives’ faces. ‘I know, but who’s going to buy a fifteen-year-old Pulsar? I knew he’d take it.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘While I was on the phone just before he came in, he’d been sticking his beak into the Ford van. Not many of those around in the yards so I was pretty sure of a sale. Anyways, we got to talking. He wanted the van bad enough to agree to the stupid price I had on it, and to the peanuts I paid for his old car. He didn’t query any of it. Not my fault if he’s a sucker.’

  Mahoney avoided the obvious mosquito joke. ‘And the form of payment was …?’

  ‘Cash. But then about sixty per cent of customers use the folding stuff. Even on a twenty grand car, they won’t pay the bank fee for a cheque. Suits me.’ Morrison looked at Gibson and grinned. ‘You’re not with the tax blokes, are you? Anyway, he showed me his driver’s licence and it was sorted.’ His bony fingers flicked through a receipt book. ‘Here you go. Gerard Ogden, 94 Melville Street, Hobart. That help?’

  ‘Phone number by any chance?’

  ‘Nah. That’s all he needs to give me. No finance or warranty arrangement. Pay the cash. See you later.’

  Gibson tapped his pen on the notebook. ‘What about on the vehicle registration form?’

  ‘Same. Name, address of both parties and the handover price. We keep a docket of that and the buyer takes the larger sheet to Service Tasmania to register the purchase and changeover.’

  ‘The onus is on him to get it recorded. It’s out of your hands at that stage.’

  ‘Yeah. It’s meant to be done in the first fourteen days. If it’s not done, they send out reminder notices.’

  A thought shot into Mahoney’s head. ‘Which, if he chose to, he could have ignored easily enough for the period the vehicle was registered for. When’s the van covered to?’

  Morrison glanced at a separate book. ‘Next month, so until then he’s pretty clear. He’s driving a registered vehicle so it’s not illegal. Technically, a bit iffy but not so bad. What makes you think he hasn’t told the Rego Board?’

  ‘Just a hunch. 94 Melville Street has been part of a building site for six months now. The new TAS Mutual offices are replacing a row of terraced houses. This guy’s no numpty.’ Mahoney rubbed his forehead. ‘It makes me wonder why he didn’t scratch the engine number off. Bit of a silly mistake.’

  Gibson leaned in and pointed to the printout. ‘But he did. He’s actually bloody clever.’

  The DI held his hands up. ‘I give up. Cars aren’t my thing. What have I missed?’

  ‘Well, Sir, our guy did scratch out the number on the engine block, that’s the engine number. There’s also a vehicle identification number which is stamped on an ID plate somewhere in the car, which was also gone. But Givens found another somewhere else.’ Mahoney looked searchingly to Morrison for help.

  ‘On the chassis underneath the spare tyre. Reckon that’s the one they found. Varies from make to make. The Mercedes ones are absolute pricks to find. Put that number in the database and the rest of the details pop up. Your bloke at the station did that and then got onto me. Sharp fella.’

  Mahoney sat forward. ‘Is the chassis replica common knowledge?’

  ‘Doubt it. Never been asked by a punter about it. Why would you?’

  ‘Exactly. No point.’ So they had a slight edge; Mahoney doubted the perpetrator could have expected the lead on the van to have occurred so quickly. It was time to try for some recognition. ‘Johnny, I was going to ask you to look at a couple of photos, but I’m going to ask you another favour instead. If I send one of our identikit guys up, can you help come up with a likeness of this Ogden guy? You sat with him for a bit so you’ll have a good idea.’

  ‘No worries. I’m better with names but you’ve got to be good with faces in this game too, reading them and remembering them. I guess mum’s the word.’

  ‘Too right.’ All three stood.

  The men shook hands again. ‘And I’ll get that beer with you soon.’

  ‘Absolutely. I owe you a few for this. Cheers, Johnny.’

  

  Back in the car Mahoney drove up the one-way street into North Hobart, passing five car yards in a couple of blocks. It was a garish section of the city but it made sense for the major car retailers to congregate here. It suited the tyre kickers as well. He ignored the first chance to turn back into town, continuing to the State Cinema car park, where he was in luck; just as they entered, a blue Fiat was reversing out of one of the prized parking spots. Mahoney snapped it up immediately and they took the stairs to the café at the rear of the complex. He gave Gibson a ten dollar note and his coffee order and told his offsider to meet him on the top level.