A few minutes later Gibson ascended the stairwell and joined his boss. ‘Two skinny caps on their way.’

  They sat in two enormous chairs which had been nudged around so they faced away from the rest of the mezzanine.

  Mahoney pointed out to the south. ‘One of my favourite vantage points in a city full of them. And a good place to catch our breath.’

  ‘Not bad at all, and doing a good trade by the looks of it. Downstairs is full.’ The chatter of the patrons drifted up through the atrium space. ‘I came here for a film last week but didn’t realise this was out the back. Good design.’

  Mahoney hooked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘The owner has a snug office over there, behind us. He’s probably in there now working on his next means of squeezing every last drop of value out of the space. There’s even a rooftop cinema. He’s a shrewd bugger.’

  A young brunette delivered the drinks and left with the metal number holder. Gibson held off while sweeteners were stirred in and then asked why they were taking a breather.

  ‘Two reasons. Firstly, I’m conducting a professional development session and we’re then having a strategy update.’ Mahoney scooped some froth into his mouth and sat back. ‘Number one. Your performance. Very good.’

  ‘But …?’

  ‘No buts. B+, bearing in mind you’re in the formative stage of your investigative career. Any mistakes you’ve made have been down to a lack of experience. You can hardly criticise someone without years of experience for not having it. Like a lot in life, you can’t be taught some things. You have to go through them to understand what’s going on.’

  ‘A catch 22 of the profession, as you’d say.’

  ‘Exactly. Mistakes are inevitable. When you make them, do your level best not to repeat them. Learn from them for the future. Next, hasten slowly. In a way, that’s what we’re doing here. With what we’ve learned, if we rush helter-skelter after this Ogden, we could stuff it up. We need to get our ducks lined up. That also applies to your career.’ Mahoney caught Gibson’s eye and held the gaze. ‘Your trajectory in the force is upwards, there’s no doubt about it. That is not due to naked ambition or desire for rank, in my opinion. It’s because you believe you can do a better job than most. Over time that will prove to be the case. Attitude and aptitude. Both big ticks. But I guess there is a “but”. There is no fast-track in Tassie. Kendall went to Sergeant quickly once she was in our squad, but she had ten years in, and there are plenty of other officers who reckon it was still too quick—not me, but it’s a conservative force. From recruitment to retirement, for the bulk of our colleagues anyway, is roughly a forty-year period. The modest pay structure and the pension scheme dictate that many are in for the long haul. There might be the odd time-server but most want to do the job. Maybe not with great zeal, but they’re conscientious.’

  ‘Aside from natural attrition and redundancies, there’s not a huge amount of upward movement?’

  ‘Pretty much. There are opportunities that you can grasp, but they won’t happen as quickly as you might like. What to do? Again, hasten slowly. You’re not arrogant so working with those less capable shouldn’t be a problem. It will be frustrating to remain at the same rank as someone like Herrick for a couple of years, but I can assure you that when the openings appear, it will be you going up.’

  Gibson said nothing for a while, just stared over the rooftops to the Domain. Was it bitter disappointment?

  ‘Don’t worry, Sir. You’ve hit the nail on the head. As you said, it’s early days so the chance to hoover up the experience is there. Sound fair?’

  ‘Sure. I’m good with that.’

  Mahoney gave a slight nod of relief. Management involved some grey areas, but it looked like this wasn’t going to be an issue. On with the case.

  ‘So, what would you do now with the fresh material we have?’

  ‘Given the theme of our tutorial, I’m buggered if I know.’ Gibson smiled. ‘Seriously, I’d include the photofit Eather’s doing with your wrestling friend in a portfolio of images and show it to potential witnesses.’ He counted them off on his fingers. ‘The post office lady, the bank ladies, Boxhall, the shop couple at Opossum Bay. Maybe put it up on our social media platforms and in the paper—unless you don’t want to alert Ogden to what we know. Then perhaps we should keep it close to our chest.’

  ‘Yes, good. Then?’

  ‘A lot of legwork this one. Take it around the other local bank branches. Ogden paid twelve grand in cash for the van. That’s a fair whack. Unless he had it in a shoebox, he had to get it from somewhere. Cash machines have a limit on withdrawals so he either used ATMs over a period of time or he got it in one go over the counter.’

  ‘Or he’s got a number of accounts with different banks and visited a few. This guy covers his tracks. The reason we’ve got a lead on the van is due to a tiny oversight that almost nobody would have picked up. So my guess is he’s a multiple account holder and he spread out the withdrawals.’

  ‘Can Sergeant Dobosz get a line on that?’

  Mahoney laughed. ‘There is very little Dicky Dobosz can’t do in that realm. He’s worked minor miracles in tracing a money trail before. Assuming the accounts are in the name of Gerard Ogden, that is.

  ‘He probably thought he was safe to do that, working on the assumption we’d never find out because we wouldn’t trace the van.’

  ‘That’s a fair call. Next?’

  Gibson bit his bottom lip. ‘Get to Service Tasmania and check the car registration info and the licence details. Possibly dead ends, but you never know.’

  ‘The devil’s in the detail. Right, let’s get back. Time to hasten.’

  Back to the smartboard, not to start over but to kickstart the next phase. A briefing had been called for five o’clock and, as an incentive, Mahoney included the promise that all could be out the door by six o’clock at the latest. The only absentee was Constable Herrick; for this particular update, he was of more use to his football club at training than he was at HQ.

  Mahoney stood to the side of the screen, reknotting his tie as if physically recomposing himself to address the troops. A little thing like that could subtly reinforce the impression that the senior investigating officer was presenting a professional front. It was vital, a few days in, to maintain momentum.

  ‘As I promised, short and sweet. We have made some breakthroughs and I want your input as to where we go in the next twenty-four hours. I’ll start with a quick rehash. The first item is the van. DC Dunstan must take credit here … again. Ringing around to council car parks bore fruit. A Ford Transit van, likely to have been the one used by the perpetrator, was tracked down. Traces on the external panels were found by Forensics. The next jigsaw piece was getting lucky on the firm that produced the Electric Eric stencils. We then tracked down the payment and delivery details for the sticker signs. As you’ve hopefully noticed from reading the progress log, whoever did this was determined to leave as small a trail as possible. The email exchange with Stencilset, the cash payment at the bank, and the use of a stolen licence to register a post office box, all indicate a desire to avoid being traced. They also represent two other things. One, the collection of incidents cohere with the theory it was a single scheme. By luck and graft we have recognised a distinct trail. Second, this is the work of a devious and meticulous mind, completely in sync with the act of the murder. The method used to offload the van was damned clever. Nonetheless, and I sincerely hope our villain doesn’t realise this, there was one small identifier in the van. The second vehicle ID number led us to the relatively recent purchase of said van. So, well ahead of the killer’s intentions, we have an identity to go with the scheme.’

  Mahoney tapped the keyboard on his computer tablet and three photo images appeared on the screen. ‘Gerard Ogden. All three images have been assembled from witnesses interviewed today. Their veracity is in ascending order. Furthest from me is the recollection of the teller at the Westpac branch. By her own admission, it was very vague as she can’t really recall the transaction. We can all but ignore that one. Next is from the lady at the Post Office. She can recall the interaction, but it was a brief one a couple of months ago. Hers is an improvement but not that much. Our suspect had a beard at that time, which I’m assuming he doesn’t usually. If you’re thinking this is all getting convoluted, you’re right. It is. All done deliberately by our guy. This third image is our best bet. Not because it’s the most recent—it isn’t—but owing to the fact the witness sat with our man for over half an hour. This is based on a car yard interaction, and the witness is reliable. Like a gambler, he makes a living out of reading people’s faces. Morrison sold him the van and looked very carefully at the driver’s licence used for ID. So it is him. This is Gerard Ogden’s face. We aren’t meant to know this, obviously. The bank and post office were calculated risks. He got away with the bank, and nearly got away with the post box, leaving no traceable identification.’

  Mahoney signalled to the centre of the image with a flat hand. ‘This was a risk. Stealing a vehicle was perhaps too much for him. Maybe he was stingy and wanted the trade-in on the old Pulsar so he went to a used car yard. Who knows? But it’s come unstuck and we know who he is. Tracking him down will be another matter. The transfer of ownership papers were not lodged at the Motor Registry. His last known address was as per his licence, bank details and pretty much everything Sergeant Dobosz could think of to check. It was a terraced house, but it’s now reduced to rubble at a building site. No phone, mobile or landline registered to him. No email address that hasn’t been deactivated. Poof! Gone, just like that. But we don’t think he’s left the state. Since Friday nobody under that name has left by air or sea, and the bank cards haven’t been used in the past week. He’s gone to ground and we need to flush him out. Urgently. Because, as those who read the profiler’s report will know, he is certainly capable of murdering again. Here’s the nub. Do we hit the media with what we’ve got and risk igniting the publicity blaze that could sidetrack the investigation, or do we softly softly catch our monkey? It’s over to you.’

  Geason spoke first: a senior constable who could single-handedly organise a festival, but wasn’t a great lateral thinker, his was a voice rarely heard in this assembly. ‘He’s our guy. I’ve seen convictions with weaker chains of evidence. However, we still don’t have sufficient evidence for this case. I’m not suggesting you’re after an arrest this instant. What I am saying is we don’t want to go public too early. As soon as we proclaim this guy as a person of interest, the witch-hunt will start and that could retard us. Softly, softly maybe.’

  As a mark of respect to the officer, or due to general agreement, no-one put forward the counter argument. Kendall swivelled in her chair. ‘The boss is basically telling us we’ve done well so far. The crime scene gave us nothing much of immediate value forensically, although it was very telling as an insight into a deviant mind. The careful work done since then has led to these advances. Keeping this in-house has two advantages. The first is the absence of distractions from the media. The second is that this perpetrator desperately wants recognition. If we starve him of that and creep up on him, we may be better off.’

  The decision was made.

  Half an hour later Mahoney was still in his office. His tie was loosened and he was hunched over his desk trying to list the next set of strategic actions. The decision not to show their cards was playing over in his mind. It was right to delegate actions to his colleagues, but what about crucial decisions? Shouldn’t he make them? No matter how good the team on game day, it was still the coach who had the final call on tactics.

  Avoiding a media frenzy was all well and good, quite sensible really, but was he letting people’s sensibilities override his one compelling aim: to apprehend the killer? Surely that trumped all other considerations. Displaying respect at the funeral was one thing, but letting considerations of sensitivity have too much sway was altogether another. They had incriminating information. Surely he should use it. But how?

  Making up a list of pros and cons wasn’t really helping; jotting down notes was getting him nowhere. He leaned his head onto his hands and massaged his scalp.

  ‘Watch out for splinters.’ It was Dunstan at the door. ‘Got a second, Sir?’

  ‘Sure, Andrew. Come in.’

  The burly man took a seat. ‘There’s a snag.’

  ‘Tell me about it. I’ve been stuck here trying to unravel this for ages.’

  Dunstan glanced at the pad. ‘It’s to do with the van.’

  ‘Go on.’ It didn’t sound like good news was coming.

  ‘I’ve just been on the phone to a few suburban stations. I had a hunch. Early on Friday afternoon a man called the Kingston station to report the theft of a white Ford Transit Van. He said he’d discovered it missing from where he’d parked it in the Channel Court car park the night before. He’d gone there to do a spot of shopping and when he came out the battery was flat. He didn’t have Roadside Assistance so decided to come back the next day and pick it up.’

  ‘Having renewed with the RACT Assist scheme in the meantime?’

  ‘Yeah, exactly. That’s what he told them at Kingston.’

  ‘What name did he give?’

  ‘John Doe.’

  Sweet Jesus. Someone was taking the piss.

  ‘Why did we only just hear about this?’ Mahoney fought to keep his voice level; it was hardly Dunstan’s fault.

  ‘The officer at Kingston who is responsible for the stolen vehicle database was on leave until today. He came back to a stick-it note on his desk.’

  ‘A stick-it note?’

  ‘The call was picked up by the receptionist at the front desk, a temp finishing off a two week placement. She was about to head to lunch so she jotted it down and left the note on Constable Mitchell’s desk. He returned to work today and put the information in the system this afternoon.’

  ‘Let me guess. There’s been nothing further heard from the caller, and the contact number didn’t produce a response?’

  ‘Yep. He’s a crafty bugger. The temp did ask for the rego details, but the caller said he wasn’t sure because he’d only recently bought the van.’

  ‘This is doing my head in.’ Mahoney breathed deeply and looked at the sheet of jottings. ‘Okay, executive decision. We put out an appeal for information. Radio, television, newspapers and social media. Can you help me do that now? We need find Ogden.’

  ‘Sure. So we’re releasing the photo ID?’

  ‘Yes. We’ve got to. This is starting to spiral away from us. There’s a time to think and there’s a time to do.’

  It had not been a night Mahoney would wish to repeat. Sleep had finally come after midnight but it had been fitful. As she’d drifted off to sleep, Susan had murmured ‘sweet dreams’ to him—if only. Immediately before waking at five o’clock, a familiar dream had come to him: he was trying desperately to get home in time for something important, stuck without clothes and zig-zagging through the streets before anybody saw him.

  How he hated that riff in his subconscious. At one stage last year, he’d finally made an appointment with a counsellor. It went relatively well so he’d made time to see the psychologist once a fortnight. On one visit they’d tackled the area of disturbed sleep, particularly during times of intense workload. Mahoney outlined his pattern of sleep deprivation. The counsellor, looking over the top of half-moon spectacles, had explained it all rather simply. ‘Most of the time your subconscious is a country lane with a few ramblers. You sleep soundly and experience minimal anxiety. But, during a disturbing case, your mind and emotions, particularly controlled anxieties like fear of failure, are in overdrive. Accordingly, when you do sleep your subconscious is more like an autobahn, hence the dreams.’

  Put like that it made perfect sense. On a homicide case his mind was never still. In fact, it was always racing so much that it was unrealistic to expect it to switch off. And the dreams themselves were variations on the idea of self-worth.

  ‘Do you feel that you’ll be revealed as a lesser being? Somehow not worthy of your status? These dreams reflect that. As if you are frightened of being exposed.’

  Mahoney had admitted that was a submerged concern. Running a successful crime squad was obviously a results-oriented job, and doubts about your own capability seemed quite normal. And now here he was in Susan’s kitchen considering just that proposition. Was he up to it? If he cognitively assessed his capacity for the task, was he still good enough? Time marches. Was he keeping up? With mug in hand, he went through to a recliner in the lounge room. Dawn’s tendrils were creeping over the horizon. Intermittedly sipping on his strong coffee, he stared out the window and ran through the case in his head. Blessed with a sound memory he paced out the investigation hour by hour.

  A crime of this sort could not be predicted. Naturally, then, the investigators were reactive. All participants had been on-task from the word go. Kendall, despite her own woes, was as good as ever, Gibson was firing, Dunstan was a rock: incredibly dependable, Forensics were meticulous. Progress had been made—but how much really? Plenty, in truth, but still a long way to go.

  

  Showered and dressed, Mahoney was sitting at the window bench in Ginger Brown: water, latte and a Spanish omelette. Mind already in fourth gear, he was planning the day. The public appeal would generate loads of material, and he had a good team to sift through it all.

  At bang on eight o’clock, Gibson and Kendall entered. Neither required food but coffees were ordered. Mahoney gestured for them to sit either side of him. They formed a tight triangle with their backs to the rest of the café. After a brief explanation of his decision to go public with Ogden’s image, he moved straight into his proposed itinerary. Both his subordinates sat up in order to take notes.