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  At ten o’clock, Mahoney was in the same position, hunched over the scrapbooks. Susan had bade him goodnight a little while earlier; he’d briefly thought about joining her, but he was wired. Scrolling through the back pages of other people’s lives was interesting enough, but the tie-in to the Hellyer death was a compelling reason to continue. Before opening the first book that would contain Susan’s tennis exploits, 1985, he’d revisited the crime scene at Opossum Bay in his head: the welts on Hellyer’s skin, the new tennis balls. That pummelling must have taken accuracy and power. The pathology report indicated a strike rate of around sixty per cent. Federesque.

  As he trawled through the pages, it was hard to skip over all the other snippets and articles that made up this very personal social history, but he had to focus. It turned out Scott Hellyer had competed in the age group above Susan so most of his junior record was there. He too had played all through high school as a state representative and usually made it to at least the semi-finals. Mahoney scanned the typescript looking for names that figured regularly. A part of his analytical brain told him this could just be busywork, but his passionate mind overrode that easily. Digging into the past was what this particular case demanded.

  By midnight he was done. He’d filled a dozen pages of his pad with names, disjointed flow diagrams and jottings. He’d taken a series of photos with his phone to be downloaded the next morning at the office. Was it all worth much? He wasn’t absolutely sure, but a couple of names and articles did stand out. Whether it stood up or not was a matter for the scrutiny of his colleagues in a few hours’ time.

  ‘Everyone here?’ Mahoney signalled the start of the briefing. Of course they were. A position in the Serious Crimes Squad was not taken lightly; an officer couldn’t simply opt in. You applied, underwent an appraisal process and, upon acceptance, worked double-time to complete the six month probation period. This standard had been encouraged by Commissioner Baker in response to frustration that a few officers were in cruise mode; they’d been weeded out and the others survived. It didn’t always mean the elite remained: Herrick, for example. He had appeared very keen initially, but recognition that it took much more than an eight-hour shift to do the job was obviously just dawning on him. Mahoney had already decided that Herrick would be better off in the Traffic Division. He would probably love a motorbike and leathers.

  Standing to the right of the display board, Mahoney pointed to a sheet of A4 paper stuck to the upper corner with a large black question mark inked on it.

  ‘First question for you all: good weekend?’ Before the nods could even materialise, he continued, ‘As they say in those US courtroom dramas: asked and answered. You all look fresh, although I know a couple of you put in some hours. Much appreciated. It won’t surprise you, after reading your updated files, that I did as well. It may have been time well spent. Let’s see. We’ll use my question mark here as a focus, and the first of the W questions is why. Why choose these two specific victims? Kate.’

  Kendall stood and walked to the photos of Scott Hellyer and Patricia Heath. She turned to face her colleagues. ‘As far as we can ascertain, neither victim knew the other. We’ve talked to family, friends, business contacts, the lot. Being Tasmania they possibly, probably, knew of each other. And, before you ask, no they weren’t related.’ There were a few smiles around the group. ‘From talking to the boss this morning it seems quite probable that each would recognise the other’s name from sports circles. They both grew up in Launceston. They attended different schools and there was a few years difference in ages, but both were good—very good—at their respective sporting endeavours: Hellyer tennis and Heath swimming. So, in a small city they would have heard of each other. We can’t see a connection here in Hobart, but it’s their backgrounds that irrefutably link them. They were both brought up with advantages not available to most. Not wealthy families, but very comfortable by local standards. Private schools, nice suburb, you know the drill. Both were nurtured and encouraged to do their best. They were both the standout sibling in their families thanks to their sporting prowess. Patricia Heath’s brother didn’t set the world alight but, by all accounts, he is happy with his lot. There’s no hint of resentment as far as we know.’

  Mahoney nodded. ‘I’d say so. A trusted source, namely my partner, spoke to him on the weekend. He leads a content and blameless life, with not a flicker of angst regarding his sister. Our colleagues up in the nor’-west discreetly checked and he was at his place of employment on Thursday, so certainly not a suspect.’

  ‘Sophie Hellyer told us a bit about Scott’s sister, and I spoke to her by phone after the funeral,’ added Kendall. ‘She acknowledged that her younger brother had been something of a golden child at home. However, it was water off a duck’s back. She just wanted to study hard and get out of Tasmania. She had no interest in sport but academically she was very able, and she’s forged an excellent career in public service.’ She held out her arms as if weighing two pieces of fruit. ‘So, that’s a slightly longwinded explanation of why the siblings aren’t suspects. But it does help us see that the victims were of a general type: generously nurtured so they could shine in their teens before going on to have successful lives as adults. The boss will expand.’

  Mahoney breathed deeply. ‘The report from our profiler, Cortese, is invaluable in showing a way into the methodology of our perpetrator. Plus, it’s very revealing in terms of delineating why these victims were chosen. Our man is a boiler of seething resentment, one of those people who continually think “what if?”. “What if I’d done that? What if I’d had those opportunities?” Following, probably decades of cultivating his private poison tree, he now thinks “What if I do this? What if I recalibrate the injustice of my life by bringing down a few of those who were born luckier than me? What if I can topple these false gods and, in the process, demonstrate the cunning strength that should have seen me lauded by society?” Cortese’s contention, in a nutshell, is that we’re chasing a contemporary of our victims who has flown under the radar for most of his life. No publicity in the papers, no remarkable achievements, no celebration of his deeds. Also, markedly different to the victims in that his upbringing was not particularly nurturing. Cortese’s educated guess is that this guy was the other one. The sibling who felt neglected because a brother or sister was afforded more attention. He took the bus to any activity he did while the parents went to watch the other child doing stuff. Unlike the siblings of our victims, he harbours bitter resentment: an emotion that now drives his daring strategy. He is a man with a plan.’

  Mahoney walked back to his question mark. ‘In general terms, we know why these victims were selected and why he murdered them. Of course this could all be gobbledegook, but the psychology of the case does make sense. So, how does the headshrinker stuff help us, bearing in mind there must be a few people who fit into this category? We take this information and we correlate it with the concrete material we do have. The forensic evidence is detailed. It doesn’t give us a match to any database we can access, but that does mean any trial should be a slam-dunk. We’ve got that going for us. At present, he’s almost certainly enjoying putting us through the hoops and revelling in how clever he’s been, but the unnerving fact is that the murderer may eventually want to be caught. Obviously we need to ensure that happens before the tally increases.’ Mahoney dropped his gaze to a desk at the front. ‘DC Gibson, your go.’

  Gibson tapped his keyboard and the smartboard lit up with a screenshot of Patricia Heath’s Facebook profile. ‘The short version is that our second victim was no shrinking violet. Like a lot of people, she was perfectly happy to put her whole life on display. If you wanted to track her, this is a very efficient hands-off means of doing so. Plenty of people, including strangers, could see it. Sergeant Dobosz and I went through her list of friends and the profiles of anybody who liked her posts. Nobody leapt off the page as being likely, and it’s doubtful the killer would leave that sort of trace.’ He waved the cursor across the screen image. ‘All this shows us is that anybody could have co-ordinated her murder by studying her page. It won’t assist us in finding who.’

  Another click of his mouse brought up a fresh screenshot. ‘Scott Hellyer also had a Facebook profile but he tended not to post material as much. However, he did utilise another platform a great deal. This is his LinkedIn profile page. On Facebook you can type in a name and, depending on their settings, anonymously view their stuff. With LinkedIn, a record of who viewed your profile shows up. It’s the preferred form of social media for those in business and ideal for Hellyer given his roles in marketing and the golf course development. You want people you don’t know checking you out because they could become useful contacts. Fortunately for us, Hellyer paid extra for the Premium package. Even more fortunately, his username and password were in his desk diary at Tiger Brewing. I logged in and, as expected, he had loads of contacts and a fair few people had viewed his profile. Of these, seven did not take the next step of becoming a contact. Sergeant Dobosz is looking much more closely at them this morning. Assuming our guy wanted to know more about Hellyer’s dealings, this is one way to do it. The good thing for us is that he either didn’t know or didn’t care that a record of the viewing was catalogued, probably the latter but the crucial thing is it exists.’

  Mahoney lifted himself up from the chair he’d taken. ‘Good, David. Soon as, let us know.’ He held up that day’s newspaper. ‘From new media to old. In times past, before some of you were even a glint in the milkman’s eye, most people read these things. And they used to contain proportionally more local material than they do now. Thanks again to my trusted source, I have a pretty comprehensive record of Scott Hellyer’s junior tennis career, and it got me thinking. We know our guy can belt a ball. You could say he possesses a lethal serve. What if he too had been a junior player? It’s more tenuous than some of our leads, but it could establish a closer tie between killer and victim. My general hypothesis now is that our target was also brought up in Launceston, and knew of both Hellyer and Heath, or Whittey as she was called then, at that time. I’ve made up a long list of names of male players from half a decade of tournaments. There are a few that might be good bets.’ He replaced the newspaper on a desk. ‘The other slightly redundant piece of print is the phone book. I won’t bore you with the genesis of this one, but suffice to say, I’ve established there is no Gerard Ogden in the current time. DC Dunstan has discovered more. Andrew.’

  Dunstan remained in his swivel chair at the side of the room; his large frame meant everyone could clearly see his face. ‘Righto. Gerard Ogden is an unusual name. I did a search of the electoral roll and it turns out there’s only been one of them alive in Tassie in the past fifty years. As the boss found out at the weekend, that chap has been dead for five years last September. He was formerly a clerk at DPIPWE. Somebody has grabbed the name for this scheme, knowing there’s almost zero chance of tracing him. That’s it, Sir.’

  ‘Well not quite. Andrew has also gone through the Public Service Gazettes for the past decade. Can you tell us about that?’

  ‘Oh yeah, sure. All public service positions vacant, promotions and resignations are gazetted each fortnight, and I’ve got a longish list of people who have retired or taken redundancy from DPIPWE in the last five years. Being a public servant fits with the Cortese profiling.’

  ‘Indeed it does. This is all much ado for one little thing, but if we get a real name we can work with, it’s gold. If a Venn diagram of sorts can whittle these long lists down to a couple of names, then we’re on to something.’ Mahoney paused briefly to scan the incident board. ‘Any questions?’

  Geason surprised everybody—including possibly himself—by asking, ‘How are we for photofit images of our guy?’

  After a nod from Mahoney, Kendall answered. ‘As of Friday we think he may have dyed his head hair a shade of auburn. Our last known sighting of him is the health retreat at Longley. We showed the images we have to the proprietors and they felt certain the one based on the Vroom Motors purchase was the closet in terms of facial structure. But they noted three differences: eye colour, hair colour and clean-shaven. All easy enough to alter with tinted cosmetic contact lenses, hair dye and a shave. Forensics from the bathroom in the chalet reveal plenty of dye rinsed down the drains. The owners remembered brown eyes, darkish hair but not black, and a neatly shaved face. That is from when he checked in on the Saturday using Hellyer’s card as a security deposit. They didn’t see him at all after that. It’s the sort of place where you’re left to your own devices if that’s what you want. The husband saw what he thinks was the Mazda come back early on Thursday afternoon. He didn’t see the driver but assumed it was the guy. That location tallies with the speeding infringement that put us in that area in the first place. Presumably, upon his return, he did the dye job on his thatch. He used “Autumnal Hue” so his hair would have gone a reddish-brown.’ She cupped her hair and smiled. ‘I went to an unorthodox source on Saturday myself. The salon was quiet, so the owner sat with me while my foils were on and gave me a mini tutorial on applying colour from the bottle. Essentially, the message was this: somebody is doing damage to his hair and, more importantly for us, could be doing a scrappy job. Self-administered is never quite the same as professional, and a swift succession of changes makes it look more amateurish each time.’

  She nodded to Gibson who generated a fresh image on the smartboard. ‘Thanks, David. Mike Eather, our police artist guy … sorry, I forget his title, but you know who I mean. Anyway, he’s taken our best ID and created a series of digital images showing our suspect in various guises.’ She paused to allow Gibson to run through a dozen photos, finishing with the face below a shaved skull.

  ‘Now he’s got alopecia.’ Geason was on fire; somebody had a good break.

  Kendall ignored him. ‘All of these are available for download on your smartphones. Are they going further afield, Sir?’

  ‘Yes, to all members of the force. And if there are no big breaks today, we’ll release the images to the media for evening news bulletins and tomorrow’s papers. Right, thanks Kate.’ Mahoney rubbed a hand across his brow; today had a feeling of progress, and it was time to convince the troops it was genuine. ‘We are more than good enough for this. The leads we’ve got through luck and proper detection are sound. We do our job and the result will come. Matt, keep your buoyant mood and get the database thoroughly up-to-date. You need to process the grunt work of cross-checking purchases of hair product, contact lenses, tennis balls, chloroform, tasers … and anything else you can think of based on the physical evidence. David, you’re co-ordinating the dissemination of those images and getting back to witnesses to confirm we have a decent image of our guy. Grab whoever you need to help you. Dicky Dobosz is pursuing the LinkedIn angle?’

  ‘Yep, hoping to hear from him soon.’

  ‘Okay, that’s social media and ID photos sorted. DS Kendall and I will be talking to the DPIPWE people and I’ll get our Launceston branch to follow up the tennis angle. I think that’s it. Anything else?’

  No hands or comments. ‘Right, get to it. We’ve done the sleuthing. Now we do the detecting.’

  Oh my, they must be busy at Police HQ. Beavering away with their computers. Running ideas past each other. In the office I never came close to managing a section. The hierarchy gave up on encouraging me to take on more responsibility. I was good at my job, but they saw I was happier as a drone. I was left to my corner as I worked my way through a few decades of checking titles, administering policy and, basically, being quietly efficient.

  I wasn’t the spooky anti-social type who freaked people out. I went to the Friday happy hours in the social club and got on well with everybody. I played the role of the nice guy who didn’t seem to have any ambition for the higher levels. In fact, I did have ambition but it was the hotshots who went to university or the good blokes that played football who got a free ride. The deck is always stacked.

  I didn’t hate the work. It suited me. I never experienced Mondayitis. I took my leave when it was due. I let people believe I wasn’t the marrying kind. All up, three and a half decades of steady service. When the brass came knocking with offers of voluntary redundancies a few years back, I didn’t sit on my hands. The death of the Oyman, way too early, had got me thinking. Why hang about? Pension fund was good. Out the door, thank you very much.

  The funny thing is, retirement isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. It would be alright if you’re married with offspring, I suppose. Then you become the designated carer for the grandkids while your children work double-time to pay the mortgage, school fees and credit card debts. Me, I found myself with a lot of time hanging heavy and got to thinking about life. My life. My less than wonderful life.

  Don’t assume it was shit. I was fed, clothed, and educated by my folks. Just not with the same enthusiasm granted to Adrian. He was two years younger and light years ahead in terms of parental affection. Early on he was picked out as a promising cricketer. Didn’t that give the old man a hard on. Adie obviously needed the top of the range Gray Nichols bat, spanking pads and gloves … the whole box and dice. He was sent to all the coaching camps, and driven to training on the other side of town from our suburb of Prospect.

  Prospect, that’s a laugh. Our house had the Bass Highway over the rear fence. Not a view to fire the imagination. Pater worked as a groundsman for the council and the old dear part-time at the local doctors’ surgery. No ambition to further themselves as far as I could tell, so they pinned their hopes on Adrian making the grade. It wasn’t that outlandish to be honest. Two of the country’s best ever batsmen of my generation hail from Launceston, so it wasn’t pie in the sky. And Adrian was good. He had that confidence that stops just short of outright arrogance. Could concentrate for long periods and didn’t flinch when fast bowlers gave him some chin music.