Ten minutes before the lights went up, Mahoney checked his options with the Commissioner as they stood huddled in the corridor outside the briefing room. She was dressed in full parade uniform and looked imposing—precisely the desired effect.

  ‘Do we release the name?’ Mahoney asked.

  ‘Ogden? Yes.’

  There was little argument there. ‘What about Oates?’

  ‘As in the misuse of his licence for nefarious purposes?’

  ‘Yes. I’m inclined not to, but it could help.’

  ‘Why are you inclined not to?’

  ‘My thinking is that it refracts the focus, possibly slurs the man’s reputation and gives away that we’re onto the Longley hide-out.’

  Baker pulled her jacket straight. ‘Yes, leave him out of it. He’s been very co-operative, has he not?’

  Oates had certainly been helpful—justifiably angry but certainly willing to assist. Mentioning the link would add insult to injury.

  The dilemma now was how much laundry to air in public. If only they could work undercover as a secret service and close in on their prey like a phalanx of stealth bombers, but Mahoney put that ‘if’ in his mental waste basket. The initial media appeal had borne fruit. Besides, the press conference was obligatory; the public had a genuine right to know. Didn’t the police have a duty to serve and protect?

  Mahoney followed Baker into the media room, allowing himself a sideways glance at the scrum. It was a full house. He assured himself that he knew how to play the hand they’d been dealt. Sitting on their cards and letting the killer dictate play was no longer an option. They must bet aggressively; it was ultimately winner takes all.

  There was a short hiatus as sound and lighting levels were checked before the Commissioner opened proceedings.

  ‘Ladies and Gentelmen, we are calling on the co-operation of the citizens of Greater Hobart for assistance. In the past week two brutal murders have been perpetrated in this region. I want to assure you that all the resources of your police force are being devoted to apprehending the person responsible for these diabolical acts.’

  As she continued with an outline of the case, Mahoney was quietly staggered by her analysis. Her faculty for mastering the breadth and depth of the investigation was impressive. At this rate, he would barely have to contribute anything. Five minutes later the questions started being fired. The opening shot was from a familiar figure, although Mahoney noticed that Paul Hicks now wore silver-framed glasses which made him look more like an academic than a journalist from the local paper.

  ‘Inspector Mahoney, are you hunting a spree killer?’

  It was the obvious question, so it was best to deal with it early.

  ‘We believe it may have been the same person responsible for both atrocities. I baulk at the term “spree killer” not so much because it generates hysteria but because it isn’t emblematic of these particular deaths.’

  ‘That sounds like just the sort of response a seasoned officer would give while attempting to maintain calm.’

  Hicks was canny; that’s exactly what it was. ‘Without wishing to underplay any threat, I must make it clear that there is not a maniac on the loose in our community. The person we are seeking is highly unlikely to engage in sporadic killings in an attempt to make a statement.’

  Hicks broke in. ‘I’m not suggesting this is akin to Martyn Bryant and the Port Arthur massacre. So, rather than considering a mass murderer, are you instead accepting you have a serial killer?’

  Someone had done his homework; it was exactly what Cortese’s profiling suggested.

  ‘The short answer is yes. Given the killings were in separate locations over a period of time, then that would be a reasonably accurate assessment.’

  Hicks must have felt he’d prised the door open. ‘So, it is a serial killer then? You appear reluctant to admit the very real danger on our doorstep.’

  Here was the rub: how to avoid alarming people while honestly acknowledge what they were dealing with, and how to communicate to the perpetrator that they possessed strong leads without causing him to panic.

  ‘Your questions are astute, and very much the ones we are asking ourselves. But can I just make a point regarding terminology? With what we would term a “serial killer” there is often a sexual motivation in the mutilation of the corpse which is not apparent in these two murders. Furthermore, our initial profiling suggests there is a connection between the culprit and the victim. Serial killers tend to be more random in their selection of targets.’

  The rest of the pack seemed content to let Hicks dictate proceeedings. With the manner of a bright pupil grilling an authority, the journalist continued.

  ‘Then you admit the killer knew his victims?’

  ‘Or knew of them. We believe the killer selected the victims not because of who they were but because they fitted into his schema of wanting to achieve a certain goal. What that goal is precisely may not become known until an arrest is made.’ Mahoney sat forward in his chair; he wanted to give the impression of sharing vital information. ‘And an arrest will be made.’

  The time for guardedness was over. ‘The person we are pursuing is a Mr Gerard Ogden. We have strong reason to believe he was in the immediate vicinity when both attacks occurred. If anybody has any knowledge as to his current or recent whereabouts, they should contact the police immediately. Please do not approach him or alert him in any way. We have recent images of Ogden, but it is possible he is altering his appearance regularly. Please do not feel you are wasting resources if you merely think you’ve seen a man who looks like this. Contact the police immediately. If you have had any dealings or interaction with Ogden in the recent past, contact us. It is a matter of great urgency.’

  The direct appeal seemed to put a stopper in Hicks’s bottle, and nobody else took up the reins. Mahoney glanced at his superior; her look assured him that enough had been said. It was time to go and track their man.

  

  Back in his office, Mahoney took a moment. Was there anything aside from the case that required his attention? He opened the desk diary in which he catalogued his personal engagements. It was Friday now and in capital letters across the weekend section he’d written ‘SUSAN / LAUNCESTON’. What for? Then he recalled they were both meant to be attending a golden wedding anniversary party for her parents. Fifty years! How did a couple manage that? He would be rapt if he and Susan could clock up just five years without turmoil. There had been discussions of late about Mahoney moving in with her and renting out his apartment. He’d be sure to get good money for a dwelling in South Hobart, and it wasn’t as if he needed his own bolthole to escape to these days. The compulsion to have his own space was diminishing, and they would hardly be on top of each other in her home in the hills. When this case was concluded, he’d do it—when this case was finally over. If and when. To ensure it was the latter he would have to skip this trip north.

  ‘Honey, how are you?’

  ‘Peachy. All packed and ready to go. What time suits you for pick-up?’

  Bugger. ‘Umm, it’s going to be …’

  ‘I’m kidding. I hardly expect you to drop everything and come up. Nor does Mum, particularly now.’

  Phew. ‘Right, thank you. This is one of those times we’ve talked about. Thank God it’s not always like this.’

  ‘Absolutely. You’ll get there. Don’t worry.’

  ‘Easier said than done. Why did you say “particularly now” about your mum?’

  ‘They know Mr and Mrs Whittey. Very well, in fact. They were meant to be coming to the party tomorrow night. They may not be coming now, understandably.’

  The parents of the second victim—small world. ‘Poor things. So they were informed earlier today and your Mum already knows?’

  ‘Yes. Actually she’s gone round to their place in Newstead. You know, the old school way. In times of bereavement, family and friends rally round to visit with cake and coffee, and try to keep the spirits up.’

  Mahoney knew exactly what she was talking about. He had experienced that upon his own parents passing away. Talk of happy times to buoy the survivors through to the finality of the burial, phone calls, sympathy cards in the post … a generation that followed form because it was fitting. The new generation set up memorial pages on social media. Not really the same, but you had to assume the emotions were genuine. The whole drawing down of the blinds was ancient history by now.

  ‘John, are you still there?’

  ‘Yes, sorry. Caught in a memory. I don’t suppose you know if Mr and Mrs Whittey are coming down here?’

  ‘I don’t think just yet. What I gathered from mum is that Patricia’s husband’s folks will take care of the children down there for now. Her parents will travel in a few days’ time. As you can imagine, they’re very upset.’

  ‘Of course.’ He paused to choose his words. ‘Did you know Patricia Whittey well?’

  ‘Growing up, I’d heard of her. I was at Grammar and she went to Oakburn, but you tend to meet up at parties as you get older. We weren’t family friends then. The olds became very chummy in retirement. Probus, golf club, all that type of stuff. Of course, most people up here knew of her. In a city this size, everyone takes pride in someone who does that well in sport.’

  ‘I can imagine. Did you know she was down here?’

  ‘No. We weren’t close and, to be honest, I never heard much about her after her swimming success. We moved in different circles.’

  ‘Okay. And just to continue our interrogation a touch further …’

  A laugh came down the line. ‘Oh, John, don’t be so self-conscious. Ask away.’

  ‘Other children in the family? Any idea?’

  ‘A brother, I think. I never knew him back then. Is it important?’

  Families did seem to be at the heart of things, but Mahoney was reluctant to draw his partner into his sleuthing.

  ‘No, not really. You know how it is. Backgrounding a victim is part of the whole scheme. If anything obvious jumps out, let me know, but I’d rather you have a grand time with your family. I’m sorry I can’t make it. Give them my best.’

  ‘I shall. And you know us journalists are always good listeners. I’ll see you late on Sunday, I hope.’

  ‘Yes, that should be fine. Go safely.’

  ‘I will. Bye, honey.’

  As he replaced the receiver, a knock sounded on his door.

  ‘Come in.’

  Gibson entered. ‘Got a few minutes, boss?’

  ‘For you, several. I was just talking to Susan about your hometown. Do you remember Patricia Whittey growing up?’

  ‘Oh yeah. They called her Fish, not for drinking but because she was a great swimmer. She was years ahead of me at school, but I remember she was the talk of the town.’

  ‘Did you know any of the family?’

  ‘Nah. Launceston’s not exactly huge, but it’s not a village either.’

  ‘Fair enough. So what brings you bounding in?’

  Gibson held up an iPad. ‘Bit of a hunch. Social media. You’ve heard of it?’

  The DI held his sides. ‘Oh, the wit. Yes, I think so. I don’t bother with social media myself, but I think I’ve heard of it. Please enlighten this old Luddite.’

  ‘Well, let’s just say I wanted to search for particulars on somebody from a distance. I go online and, for some people, I can find all sorts of stuff there.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘For Patricia Heath, there’s a massive amount: date of birth, education, family members, friends, interests, and pretty much everything she’s been doing or has planned, had planned, including the lunch she missed the day she was murdered and what all her family members were doing that day.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘For sure. It can be like a diary that you share with the world.’

  Mahoney didn’t even have a Facebook page. Professional discretion and a desire to remain private had held him back. He acknowledged that the Tasmania Police presence on social media was a step forward in communicating with the public, but didn’t feel the need to venture there himself. Besides, a detective hardly wanted his presence too well known around town, for the very same reason correctional officers assumed dummy names at the prison: you didn’t want aggrieved people knowing where you lived. No-one in the constabulary fancied a visit of retribution in the dead of night.

  ‘And who has access to all this stuff?’

  ‘It depends on your privacy settings, but in Patricia’s case it was pretty much everybody. How about I give you a quick Facebook 101?’

  ‘Fire away.’

  ‘Okay, here goes. You go to Facebook’s site and click here to create a page, you upload a profile photo and fill in the biography section with as much info as you like: birthday, email, phone contact, hometown … get the drift?’

  Mahoney nodded. ‘So far, yes. How do other people see it?’

  ‘There’s a couple of ways. If you’ve designated your page ‘Public’ anybody on Facebook can see it. Otherwise people have to search for your name specifically, or your name is suggested to friends of friends.’

  The young constable was manufacturing an online identity in front of them. He had called himself ‘Billy Lid’ and used a photo stored on the iPad.

  ‘You can also join any of the thousands of groups already established, depending on your interests. For example, you could join this one, Buy/Sell Hobart, and get regular updates on stuff for sale.’

  ‘Slight tangent, but do our guys use this for stolen gear?’

  ‘Yeah, sometimes.’ A disbelieving chuckle. ‘Some thick people try to sell stolen stuff this way. Anyway, back to Billy Lid. At this stage you can share whatever you like, apart from obscene material which would be taken down by Facebook. You can search for contacts you’ve lost touch with, sell products, publicise an event … the works really.’

  ‘Can you go back to that one? I think it said Settings.’

  ‘That’s the crucial one for us. It’s where you control who sees your posts, your friends list and your personal details. You can restrict access to your page or leave it as open slather.’

  ‘Was Patricia Heath an open book?’

  ‘As you can see, she has—had—a plethora of Facebook friends and she was very active ante-mortem. I’m able to access her friends list, contact details, photos, and all her posts which include her comings and goings and those of a lot of her contacts.’

  ‘You might as well put your life on the front page of the paper.’

  ‘You could, but I reckon more people can actually see it this way. Anyway, Snork—sorry, Sergeant Dobosz—and I went through her activity for the past month. Everything she was up to was on there: lunch dates, trips away, the lot.’

  ‘And her family?’

  ‘Same, same. She talks about her family a lot and tags them in her posts: her son’s nights out in Melbourne, daughter’s school expedition, and the husband’s ski trip to Utah. All there for anyone to see. A lot of people restrict these kind of posts to friends. In that case you’d have to send a friend request to her and be accepted, but in this instance there’s no need.’

  Mahoney sat back from the screen and digested it all. ‘It’s a bit like someone gifting you a personal tracker, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yep, an open book.’

  The DI scratched his scalp. ‘A person, any person, could trace her movements, even her intended movements. God almighty, that makes it easier for him.’

  ‘Absolutely. Our guy would know that the rest of the family were away and that she’d probably be at home getting ready for the lunch. He just needed to turn up and do the deed. If she had company, he would have had a cover story ready, making a delivery or doing market research, and left it for another time.’

  ‘Bugger.’ Mahoney’s fist hit the table, jolting the iPad. ‘It’s almost too easy for him. I don’t suppose there’s a way of online tracking him.’

  ‘Two words: snowflake and hell.’

  On Saturday morning Mahoney lay in his bed staring at the ceiling, trying to guess the time from the brightness of the light seeping through a gap in the curtains. He turned to his bedside clock which read 10:37 and gave himself two ticks: one for his guess being in the ballpark and the other for managing a long sleep. The past week had taken a physical toll; being constantly on the go was the only option, but it wearied the bones.

  The whole team had been given the Saturday off; six days in and they needed a breather. It wasn’t so much avoiding the accumulation of overtime as acknowledgement that pushing everyone too hard yielded decreasingly small returns. They were gathering leads all the time, but harnessing the strands into one conclusive rope was proving elusive. It was time for a lay day.

  But what was he to do? Susan was away in Launceston. Perhaps he could make a belated attempt to join her. There may be information to garner there, after all. But she was doing that for him anyway. It was best to be here in case anything broke—no point being three hours away.

  He rolled out of bed, determined to make a substantial dent in the small mountain of domestic drudgery that need attending to. His first task was the joy of cleaning the shower.

  At around lunchtime Mahoney received a text from his former lieutenant, Munro, suggesting a catch-up. It had been a while. Half an hour later he entered the front bar of the Marquis of Hastings Hotel, and the place was humming. Both pool tables had games on the go and the gaming area was chock-a-block. The crowd was mostly middle-aged Anglo-Saxon males, yarning away, sipping beers and laying bets as if punting was going to be outlawed tomorrow. The pub was named after a convict ship from the early nineteenth century. In the room now there must be a few who were descended from the felons transported to Van Diemen’s Land from the old country.