A familiar figure came into the view. It was Munro returning from the cashier with a betting receipt in his hand.

  ‘Race 3. Randwick. Box Trifecta. Next holiday paid for.’

  Mahoney smiled as they shook hands. ‘Is that so, Tim? Nothing like a sure thing.’

  ‘Exactly.’ He held up the paper square. ‘Probably nothing like it. Anyway, good to see you. Busy times I gather?’

  ‘Absolutely. I need a break from it. Can I get you a drink?’

  ‘I’m fine. In a round with Hendo.’ He gestured to a man hunched over a table with a pencil in his hand making a series of tiny dashes on a card.

  ‘Righto. See you in a sec.’ Mahoney edged his way through the throng to the beer taps. Autumn Racing Carnival in Sydney certainly brought a crowd to any pub with betting facilities. As his schooner of Pale Ale was poured, Mahoney glanced left to a wall of screens. Race meetings in Sydney, Brisbane, Adelaide and Perth were displayed with the fields for each upcoming race. Perched on stools at the communal tables were numerous heads poring over the form in the newspaper lift-outs. A few were watching the TV screen above him which was showing the current race nearing its finish. A couple of shouts went up as an outsider careered away from the pack to win by three lengths. Someone was going to cash in.

  Back with Munro, he was introduced to Paul Henderson. Hen­derson had a light smattering of capillaries visible on his cheeks but otherwise looked in fine fettle. Munro, as always, appeared as fit as a mallee bull. The trio agreed to contribute to a pot from which a series of trifecta bets could be made. Each chose a name hoping that they’d snare the first three in whichever race they nominated, usually the favourite, a solid runner and a medium to long odds runner—not all that scientific, but just maybe it could work.

  As the afternoon wore on, Mahoney relaxed into proceedings. He caught up with Munro’s news on his new position with the Drugs Squad and chatted amiably to Henderson about a cruise the recent retiree had been on; he’d returned the day before from ten days from Hobart to Melbourne, Sydney and across to New Zealand. Aside from the spectacular scenery of the South Island, Henderson’s strongest impression was the amiability of the North Americans who made up the majority of the guests on the cruise. Well-travelled, well-off and great company.

  Eventually Mahoney asked what Henderson had done for a quid.

  ‘Public Service. I started straight after school in the Lands Department and pretty much stayed there. I started off in the Titles section and finished in National Parks. It sounds dry, but life in DPIPWE wasn’t so bad.’

  DPIPWE: Department of Primary Industry, Parks, Water and Environment. When you said it aloud, ‘De-pip-wee’, it was a silly acronym. Still, it was all work that needed to be done, although the Public Service didn’t have a reputation for being a hive of activity. Mahoney never voiced this; he was also a public servant after all.

  ‘How long since you pulled up stumps?’

  ‘Just over a year. I reached that stage of life where the clock’s on fast-forward.’ He raised his eyebrows and drank a mouthful of lager. ‘At least I’m here, above ground that is. A few of the intake I started with didn’t see the distance. Here’s a funny thing. One of them, who died from cancer a few years back, had the same name as your person of interest.’

  ‘Gerard Ogden?’

  ‘Yeah. Couldn’t be him obviously.’

  ‘How did he die again?’

  ‘It started with malignant melanomas. He had red hair and very fair skin, and the cancer worked its way into his abdomen. He was a goner from that point.’

  ‘How long ago?’

  ‘About five years, I’d reckon.’

  Mahoney nodded and then stared at the screen for the last race in Sydney. Names. There were so many names for horses; coming up with fresh ones must be an industry in itself.

  Mahoney had released the name Gerard Ogden and received precious little response. Dunstan had found practically zero from an online search, and he was fastidious. What if their Gerard Ogden didn’t exist?

  Mahoney jumped off his stool and headed over to the bar. A blonde woman with glasses called Janelle came over, holding up a glass. ‘Another Pale Ale?’

  ‘Um, no, but I don’t suppose you’ve got a current phone book.’

  She put down the glass and glanced over her shoulder. ‘I should have one. Let me check.’ She disappeared and then returned holding a think A4-sized paperback. ‘This do?’

  ‘Yes, thanks.’ Mahoney took it with him to a quiet spot in the corner. He flicked through the pages and ran a finger down the Os. He looked hard at the page, but there was no ‘Ogden G’ there—very few Ogdens at all, in fact. Perhaps their guy didn’t have a landline; he certainly didn’t have an address they could find. But what if Gerard Ogden no longer existed at all?

  On Sunday, Mahoney nosed the car into his underground parking space at headquarters. It was a day in the incident room for him, but the previous day’s R&R, along with the emergence of a few new ideas, had invigorated him.

  As he walked through reception, the duty officer was returning a set of car keys to a man in a panda suit. It was doubtful the sheepish looking guy had envisaged spending the night in station accommodation. Not stopping to gauge whether it had been drink driving or disorderly behaviour, Mahoney jogged up the stairs to the CIB suite and went straight over to the case board. It was time to take a considered look at proceedings and add some material.

  He drew up an office chair and sat facing the jottings and crime scene photos. First off, he scanned slowly from left to right to get an overview. Remembering that he thought best when jotting things down, he dragged over a small table and grabbed a pad and pen from his office.

  Forensics analysis for both murders was complete, as were the autopsy reports. The interview transcripts from all potential witnesses were up-to-date. But where were they in the investigation? In some respects well advanced, particularly the forensics material. Mike Kitchener must have cajoled a few colleagues to work late on Friday. They had a match—not to any person they could trace, but a couple of prints at Opossum Bay were a direct match for a hand print at Patricia Heath’s home. Elimination prints had been assessed so, unless some random stranger had recently been in both houses, they had solid proof it was the same perpetrator at both locations.

  Rigorous checks of the white van and the blue Mazda revealed skin particles and bits of hair, and there was a used tissue in the latter. Again, once the DNA analysis had come through, the FSST confirmed a direct match between human traces in both vehicles. There were no hits on the database, but they’d already assumed the murderer didn’t have a record. The good news was that when they chased a suspect down, they would be able to conclusively prove he was at those places.

  But chasing somebody down was the problem—the who. All through the week Mahoney had been grappling with the why as the squad discovered the how. But at the pub yesterday a chance comment had generated a hunch. What if their man had taken on the identity of someone deceased? It was a method used for decades by people intending to camouflage their identity. Sometimes all it took was a stroll through the cemetery looking for gravestones, particularly those of infants as it was easier if the identity you were assuming hadn’t had much time on earth to leave a footprint.

  Mahoney had a name, and it was not a common name in local circles. The first task in the morning for DC Dunstan would be to trawl the electoral roll, government databases and anywhere else in the online world for traces of any other Gerard Ogden. Nobody by that name was in the current phone book, but that was not necessarily a clincher with so many folks ditching their landline and purely using a mobile phone these days. But if they could find a listing for Gerard Ogden, public servant, who died five or six years ago, then that really would help.

  Mahoney sat back in his chair and contemplated the ceiling. What was the reason behind using an unusual name? Why not choose a name with high frequency in the community? Anonymity in the crowd could be a plus, but there would be more chance of encountering someone else with the same name and a ‘chances of that’ conversation would be remembered—bit of risk there.

  A thought hit him. Did the identity even have to be of a person who’s dead? Of course not. The Oates scenario, with the purchase of the Mazda and the PO mailbox, demonstrated that. Mahoney shook his head and sighed. He could kick himself he was so frustrated.

  He drew a line on the page and started listed pros and cons—the old ways were best. The disadvantages of assuming the ID of a living person were that you had to somehow steal a piece of proof (Oates’s driver’s licence), be reasonably sure they wouldn’t miss it immediately (Oates was away sailing for ten days) and hope you wouldn’t be recognised as an imposter (‘Hey ‘you’re not the Gary Oates from the Rotary Club, are you? He lives down our way.’) So, even though their perpetrator had done just that, it was a hugely risky tactic. It had worked for him, but only just.

  Mahoney thought about the times at which things could have gone awry. Performing the crucial postal admin task on a busy day had been very shrewd, but even then it could have unravelled if the worker at Sandy Bay Post Office had known the real Gary Oates. Whoever they were chasing had balls—a capacity to take risks without any semblance of panic. The checking was a tad more perfunctory at the car yards, but the move was still pretty gutsy.

  Therefore, adopting an identity with which the chance of recognition was more unlikely would be much safer, particularly if that identity needed to be used over a period of time. You didn’t need to be an experienced criminal profiler to ascertain that this master plan hadn’t materialised over the space of a few days; the actual strategy must have taken months to devise and the mindset sparking it years to gestate. With only what the police knew thus far, it indicated a long period of careful planning.

  Where to now? On a fresh sheet of paper Mahoney wrote some reminders: Dunstan to check the Ogden identity trail, Gibson to continue looking at the social media activity of the two victims. Geason could reliably be given the task of bringing the physical evidence findings together. Kendall had already volunteered to collate and scrutinise witness statements; her calm demeanour would enable her to thoroughly cross-reference the information and pick out any inconsistencies or useful threads.

  And what about the boss man? His hunch still nagged him. Perhaps unearthing more about the former Gerard Ogden would help. He was convinced the name hadn’t been chosen at random, so their man must have known enough about the deceased’s circumstances to select just that identity. But how on earth did he know that?

  

  Mahoney spent the next few hours sorting through paperwork that had accumulated in his ‘actions pending’ tray. As much as he wished so much material wouldn’t find its way to his desk, he knew this case wasn’t the only work his division continued to be responsible for. Much of it he simply needed to read, before initialling the front cover and passing it on to colleagues. Other ongoing issues in the field, such as a spate of assaults in the North Hobart restaurant strip, were being dealt with by Sergeant Wagin. It was mainly mindless violence—but quite unlike the mindful violence that was his main priority.

  All that done, he updated the incident board in preparation for the briefing tomorrow morning. He stepped back and made a final sweeping gaze of what they had. Progress? Just maybe. His phone beeped in his jacket pocket. When he flipped it open he was surprised to see the time, late afternoon already, and relived to see who the text was from: Susan.

  ‘Darling, arrived home. Chances of seeing you are …?’

  Mahoney smiled and jabbed a reply.

  ‘Very very good. Be there by 5.’

  Lights off and out the door. Not such a bad day all told.

  

  ‘How did the festivities go?’ Mahoney asked as he poured two moderate glasses of pinot noir.

  ‘Pretty well considering the sad news the Whitteys are dealing with. They did attend the party in the end, but they were understandably quiet.’

  Susan reached across the bench and took one of the crystal glasses.

  ‘I’m surprised they felt up to it. I don’t suppose you chatted to them?’

  ‘No, it seemed a bit inappropriate.’ She sipped her drink and sighed in appreciation. ‘Oh, it’s good to be home. The road building on the highway makes for a disjointed trip.’ She took another slightly larger gulp and pointed an index finger at her partner. ‘Mind you, I did have a good old chat with the elder sibling.’

  ‘As in Patricia Heath’s brother?’

  ‘Yes. Phillip’s his name. I hadn’t seen him for many years. Admittedly this was a brief re-acquaintanceship, so to speak, but I’d have to say he came across as remarkably well-adjusted.’

  ‘In what sort of way?’

  Susan frowned. ‘Well, he had a pretty balanced view of life and seemed content with his lot. He left school at seventeen, joined the bank and he hasn’t left. He’s the manager of the Burnie branch of Westpac. One wife, three kids. We had a little chat about how being a branch manager wasn’t quite as impressive as it was back in the day.’

  ‘You don’t get the substantial house to start with.’

  ‘Exactly. Still, he seemed fine with it all. It’s a solid career that has given him time and money to provide well for his family. They used the preferential borrowing terms to invest in a few properties, the kids are at a good school and they enjoy idyllic holidays at their shack on the coast.’

  ‘Very nice.’

  Kendall caught Mahoney’s tone. ‘He wasn’t parading stuff. I’m just condensing a long conversation and that’s the gist of what we chatted about. It was a nice diversion from dwelling on his sister’s death and his parents’ dismay. He seemed a really nice guy actually.’

  Mahoney nodded. ‘Point taken. I look too hard between the lines. It’s a peril of the job. Sorry.’ He kissed her on the forehead. ‘It’s good to see you.’

  ‘And you too, darling.’

  They sat down at the dining table with a pizza in the oven—the lazy option but neither cared. ‘So, Detective Susan Hart, is there anything else to report?’

  ‘No, Sir. Phillip Whittey is genuinely distraught over his sister’s fate and he never so much as hinted at begrudging her the success and fame she enjoyed.’

  ‘Excellent report, Detective. Good work all round. But I’m afraid I am going to have to stand you down for the remainder of this investigation.’

  Susan played her role and looked suitably disappointed. ‘That’s a pity. And I’d been doing such good research. You won’t need the tennis stuff then.’

  ‘What tennis stuff?’

  ‘After your cute request to see my old tennis frocks last Monday, I got to thinking about those days. As I was staying at Mum and Dad’s place, so I conducted an archival search.’

  ‘Your mum’s a hoarder?’

  ‘You could say that. Actually, quite extreme. I went down into their basement and my pre-adult life was there: report cards and books from school, dolls and toys, and a stack of scrapbooks piled high in the corner.’

  ‘No dresses?’

  ‘They’d be a little small for me now. Anyway, if you don’t want to know what I found, we needn’t worry.’

  ‘Sorry, being silly. What was it?’

  ‘The scrap books. Big A3-sized things with thirty-two pages each. One for each year from the early seventies through to the mid-nineties.’

  Mahoney did the maths. ‘Covering the period from when you were an infant until you started your career in journalism? Approx­imately.’

  ‘That’s about it. In each one, in chronological order, she stuck in party invitations, event flyers, and any newspaper clippings about us—or anything our family was even tenuously linked to. I found them early on Saturday morning while looking for some old photos and ended up stuck down there for a few hours. I was transfixed.’ She smiled at her partner. ‘And I suppose you’re wondering how all that might help your case?’

  ‘Just a bit.’

  ‘It comes back to the tennis. Each year there were five major junior tournaments: Burnie, Devonport, Launceston and two in Hobart. I played all of them, from under twelve through to under nineteen. For each of those seven years, Mum had clippings showing the draw and results from every day of every tournament.’

  ‘And because you were really good and usually got through to the finals, the clippings were extensive?’

  ‘Yes.’ She stared at Mahoney as if waiting for the penny to drop.

  As it did, Mahoney nearly leaped up. ‘Brilliant! So, you’re there, and so is Scott Hellyer … and maybe the name of somebody else who had a booming serve.’

  ‘I acknowledge it’s out there as a lead, but you never know.’

  Mahoney tapped the table enthusiastically. ‘No, not at all. This case is all about history. It’s what’s driving our killer. Stuff that happened way back when is a huge factor in this guy’s life. He’s carried some sort of baggage for years, decades. And now, for him, it’s retribution time. Have you brought them back?’

  ‘Of course. They’re in the boot. Would you like me to get them?’

  ‘Please.’ He stood. ‘I’ll cut up the pizza.’

  Susan went out to her carport while Mahoney busied himself in the kitchen. After two trips there were four stacks of bulging scrapbooks: mostly green covers with thickish internal pages which were yellowing at the edges. The longish day in the office meant nothing now that the glimmer of a fresh lead was there.

  After a slice of pizza, Susan gave up on pursuing any other topic of conversation. She picked up her plate and glass and moved to the door. ‘I’ll let you get started. I can catch up on last night’s Agatha Raisin. The years are on the cover of each book, okay?’

  It was perfect. As much as he too liked a bit of amateur sleuthing amongst the cosy Cotswalds cottages, he was dying to go back through the time tunnel.