At seventeen he was skipper of the under nineteen state team. The old man had a real spring in his step the day that was announced. By then I’d given competitive sport away. The booming serve that had won matches in my early teens became less effective as the other kids grew taller and got better at returning balls. After I turned fourteen I couldn’t make a semi-final. I kept playing the northern tournaments for a while but I was never going anywhere in real terms.

  At the end of school I scored a job in the Lands Department and moved to Hobart. Stayed with rellies in Melville Street for a year or so. Spoke to the folks by phone on Sunday nights to get the old off-peak rates. Most of the time it was to be told about Adrian’s progress. Then I got my own flat in New Town. Bedroom, kitchenette-cum-living room and bathroom-cum-laundry. The day it settled, I rang home. My mother was in bits. She couldn’t talk to me at all. She left the old man to tell me. At cricket training Adrian had been felled by a cricket ball. Some clown tinkered with the bowling machine. Instead of getting a full length medium pace stock ball, a bouncer had reared up at pace and clocked him in the temple. Out for the count and never revived. On his third day as an adult.

  It was as if I wasn’t even at the funeral. I sat in the front row with my parents but wasn’t given any part to play. Barely a word passed between us. The cricket coach did the eulogy and teammates read the prayers. And that set a pattern for the coming years. In my family home, Christmas was cancelled. Mum and Dad said they were taking their caravan to Ulverstone for the break and ‘just wanted some quiet time.’ No invitation so I let it slide. I’d ring from time to time but it was clear their lives were closing down. Post-Adrian was one long era of atrophy.

  When the old man died of heart failure a decade ago, Mum gave up. She didn’t want any visits. When we spoke—infrequently—all she talked about was stuff she’d heard on the radio: shock jock crap from the mainland. She went to the shops and that was about it. There was some cat she’d acquired. Lights on but no-one home.

  Last year a lawyer called to inform me of her death, and to tell me the bulk of the estate was going elsewhere. So I got the tin-pot car. Such is life … and death.

  The next night I was watching some Pommy TV show and this woman started going on about what life’s all about. She said, ‘You commit to all this activity and in the end it probably counts for bugger all.’ Right then, I thought, she’s onto something. It really got me thinking. What about all those poor buggers who slave away for stuff and never get recognition, while the high-flyers soar onwards and upwards? Who’s going to do something for those who could only look up?

  Kendall and Mahoney were sitting in his office. ‘Right. As you heard, Launceston CIB are going to do their best. DI Briggs said they’re in a peaceful spell. Bit of rough stuff after hours in the shopping mall, but not a great deal on their plate. Briggsy reckons he can get most of it done for us.’

  ‘That’s still a fair chunk, delving that far back with three names.’

  ‘I thought so too. He says it’s doable so I’m not going to argue the toss with a man who’s doing us a big favour.’

  ‘Agreed. Let’s hope this chap coming in can be as amenable.’

  Mahoney held up a set of crossed fingers. There was a knock on the door and Geason stuck his head in. ‘Visitor for you, Sir.’

  ‘Let him in, Matt.’ Geason stood aside for Paul Henderson, the retired cruise enthusiast Mahoney had met at the pub.

  The two officers stood and Mahoney extended a hand. ‘Paul, thanks for agreeing to this. This is DS Kate Kendall.’

  ‘No problem. A friend of Munro’s and all that.’ He took the proffered chair. ‘Your man who collected me from reception is full of beans.’

  ‘I’ll say, although he’s usually quite taciturn. You got any idea, Kate?’

  ‘He sold his house on the weekend. Three bedroom brick cottage in West Hobart he’s had for fifteen years. Jackpot in our current market.’

  ‘Little wonder then.’ Mahoney turned to Henderson. ‘Paul, our chat on Saturday afternoon may be very fortuitous.’

  ‘What, the Ogden stuff?’

  ‘Exactly. I don’t need to bore you with all the background but, suffice to say, the name Gerard Ogden has loomed large in our current investigation.’

  Henderson looked taken aback. ‘But he’s …’

  ‘Dead. I know. He went out on sick leave six or so years back, was granted early retirement on health grounds and succumbed to terminal cancer just under five years ago.’

  ‘That’s about right. How can poor old Oyman concern you?’

  Kendall chipped in. ‘Oyman?’

  ‘Oggy, Oggy, Oggy, Oy, Oy, Oy. A bit of a chant we used to perform when he got his round in at the Social Club. Juvenile, but that’s the atmosphere at Friday drinks, isn’t it. The name Oyman just stuck.’

  ‘Sounds like a good guy.’

  ‘He was. It’s a cliché but he was salt of the earth. He barely put a step out of line as far as I could tell.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it. What we should have made clearer is that it’s not the man but the name that’s become a lightning conductor. His was quite a rare name in Hobart.’

  ‘That it was.’ A smile spread across Henderson’s face. ‘His folks were ten pound Poms. He was born here but there was a big streak of Lancashire right through him. We’d do the chant and he’d come right back with “There’s only one Gerry Ogden, one Gerry Ogden.” You get the drift. Anyway, there really was. He was the only one in the phone book.’

  ‘As I discovered,’ said Mahoney. ‘What Kate and I think has occurred is that somebody is utilising that fact to cause trouble. I’ll be more specific. It’s highly possible our chief suspect stole Gerard Ogden’s identity.’

  ‘How? Oyman didn’t do much online. Apart from banking stuff, I think.’

  Kendall leaned forward. ‘If you know the particulars of a person’s life, it’s not overly difficult. The hundred point check which various institutions put you through can be massaged. For example, a driver’s licence. When a person dies, letting Service Tasmania know isn’t a top priority for the family or estate lawyer. A conniving individual could go into a branch a year or so later, claim they’ve lost their plastic card and organise a replacement that has a fresh photo of the new person on it.’

  Henderson frowned. ‘But wouldn’t you need supporting stuff?’

  ‘Other documents to make it up to a hundred points of course, but not all the verification documents have photo ID. Birth certificate, for instance. You could cobble together the points without a photo. One thing we do, a lot, is call out for information. The lawyer who dealt with Mr Ogden’s affairs did all the right things. She settled the estate, probate was granted and the inheritance instructions were dealt with.’

  Mahoney tapped some sheets on his desk. ‘All proceeds from his estate were directed to charity. He had no living relatives and his wife pre-deceased him. No kids. Staff from the firm saw to the asset sale, including the house, and all was above board. We spoke to the clerk who was responsible for sorting out the house and contents. He remembered it well because he found it a bit odd at the time. A few things you’d expect to find weren’t there, like a desk drawer or an expanding file of the sort most of us keep vital documents in.’

  ‘Some bugger lifted it, then.’

  ‘Precisely. Hence the possibility of identity theft. We’re hoping you might have some idea of who did that.’

  There was agitation in Henderson’s voice. ‘Not me for a start. Do you think I could …’

  ‘No, no, no. You’re about the last person we’d consider. If you were a suspect, we’d be talking downstairs. I’m sorry, I put that query badly. Let’s go back. Was there anybody at DPIPWE or in Ogden’s circle of acquaintances who could have had that sort of access. Someone who knew his address, for instance.’

  The red in Henderson’s cheeks faded and he breathed more slowly. He gazed out of the office window and a soft chorus of song came from his lips. ‘Brother Michael, Brother Michael, Brother Michael, we love you. You got the beers in, you got the beers in and we’re drinking now till two.’ Sadness and resignation drained some colour from his face as he turned slowly back to the Detective Inspector. ‘I’m assuming you have a list of employees?’

  ‘Not quite. But we do have a series of names that need some work.’

  ‘Does Michael Fowler appear on it?’

  It certainly does, thought Mahoney, remaining deadpan; not only was it on the catalogue of redundancies taken in the past five years, but it was also one of the three names he’d emailed north to Briggs. ‘I’ll check when we’re done.’ He made a show of writing it down. ‘Why him in particular?’

  ‘After Oyman’s wife died ten years ago they became very close. Michael helped him through a stiff patch. They joined a walking club together and went to the local soccer to see some club or other most weekends—Metro Claremont I think it was.’ He rubbed his hand across the stubble on his jaw . ‘Anyway, they were pretty tight. Confirmed bachelors without the innuendo. Gerard would sing “Brother Michael” at the Sundowners and, when he got poorly, it was Michael who sorted stuff out for him. After Oyman passed away, Fowler lost interest in the social side of things and pretty soon in turning up to work. A round of redundancies came at a good time for him. He got out and nobody I know has seen him since.’ Henderson looked Mahoney in the eye. ‘Do you think he could be this maniac?’

  ‘We’re looking at lots of options. This Michael Fowler is probably just someone we need to talk to.’

  Like hell. Inside Mahoney felt the heat rising. ‘I would ask you to keep this chat confidential. Never good to frighten the horses.’

  ‘Don’t fret. I wouldn’t know where to find him.’

  Neither would we, thought Mahoney, but now at least we are tackling a real name. ‘There’s just one more thing you can do for us if you have time.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Sergeant Kendall is going to show you a series of identikit pictures. If you do recognise anybody, that will help us.’

  ‘And if I do, I’ll keep that under my hat?’

  ‘Yes, absolutely. Thanks again.’

  

  Mahoney had decided a decent cup of coffee wouldn’t go astray, so he took himself out of the building and across the intersection to Artisan Coffee. He had already arranged to meet Signor Cortese and as he entered the café he spied him sitting at a table abutting the red brick wall.

  ‘Bonjourno, Inspector. What a lovely space.’ He held up a miniature white cup. ‘Expresso par excellence. Good choice.’

  ‘I hoped you’d appreciate it. Not quite Brunswick Street, but kind of close.’

  ‘Mmm, Melbourne. I never imagined I’d contemplate this, but a move here is beginning to seem possible.’

  ‘It’s going well with Doctor Pitney then?’

  Cortese was taken aback, then his features relaxed into a smile. ‘But of course. You are the detective. I shall have to admit there is a connection. Madeleine is certainly a compelling attraction, and her adopted city has much to offer. Aside from working on the report, I have been playing the tourist. A cottage in North Hobart puts most of my favourite things within walking distance.’ He asked for a water as Mahoney’s drink was delivered to their table.

  Stirring in a half-teaspoon of sugar, Mahoney asked, ‘So a move may be on the cards?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. I have been much amused by complaints in your paper about city traffic, which is very small beer compared to Melbourne. People spend hours in their cars for what used to be a straightforward commute. Still, we are not here to plan my future. I’m assuming from your demeanour that there is progress.’

  ‘There certainly is. Well, we think so. Your modelling indicated the perpetrator to be middle-aged, reasonably well-educated and outwardly calm. Correct?’

  ‘Succinct but a sound precis.’

  ‘It’s the first characteristic that interests me. The person we now have as our prime suspect is recently retired, so he has the requisite time to plan and enact this scheme. We think he has committed some form of identity theft to cover himself as he goes about his preparation. And his particular way of doing this is slightly old school.’

  ‘Not a disciple of cyberspace?’

  ‘I don’t think so, which helps us.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Well if he purloined the documents and ID cards in that manner, he would be much harder to trace for a start. It could be anyone, anywhere, doing it. One of my colleagues ran me through the process and it’s mind-boggling. Passports, medical insurance cards, licences … all at your fingertips if you’ve purchased the software.’

  ‘I understand. It is a different world. But you believe your suspect is more traditional in approach. Therefore, it needs to be someone with particular access to material.’

  ‘Got it in one. Of course we have plenty of other clues guiding us here. The guts of it is that we’ve identified a man who has the right birthplace, background, age and working capacity to be our guy. DS Kendall is drawing together a dossier of bullet points as we speak. Would you be able to pop into the office to run your eye over it?’

  ‘Of course. I’m at your disposal.’

  ‘Good, thank you. We don’t want to be premature. Even when we’ve surer, I don’t want to release this on the public stage.’

  ‘You prefer to quietly ensnare him?’

  ‘Absolutely. This guy is adept at hiding. My fear is that if he knows we’re right on his tail, he may move quickly.’

  ‘And perhaps kill again.’

  ‘Well, yeah. I can’t help feeling that the quick break we got on the van wasn’t something he’d anticipated. Perhaps it forced his hand to accelerate and murder Patricia Heath.’

  Cortese’s hands spread palm down in a dismissive gesture. ‘No. I did say to you at Opossum Bay that he would kill again—that he did so six days later is not your doing. The window of opportunity for the second murder was in line with his meticulous preparation, with her family being away and the strong likelihood she would be alone in her house that morning. The second homicide was not an acceleration but simply a planned step in his campaign.’

  ‘Okay, fair call. I don’t suppose you can predict the pattern. Do you think there’s another shock coming our way? Say, on Wednesday?’

  Cortese smiled ruefully. ‘The number of the beast: six, six, six. And the perfect tennis score of a straight sets win.’

  Mahoney leaned back. ‘You’re right. It’s too much of a stretch. But a third victim is on the cards?’

  ‘Three is the magic number. That is less fanciful.’ Out came Cortese’s e-cigarette; he briefly considered it then replaced it in a jacket pocket as if thinking better of the idea. ‘Have you considered opening a dialogue with this man?’

  Seriously? thought Mahoney. If I could call him, I’d nab him. He reigned his incredulity back in. ‘And how might we do that? Via the media?’

  ‘Yes, and very carefully. You could aim to flatter without seeming to. Do it in a way that hints that the forces of law and order are not coping.’ Cortese signalled for another coffee. ‘Or make a public statement claiming you are reassessing the one-perpetrator theory.’

  Mahoney had an edge to his voice. ‘Yeah right. A public about-face that undermines our reputation.’

  ‘What is your main goal? To enhance your reputation, or to make an arrest as soon as possible, before number three?’

  ‘All right. But how can we do it while still looking like professionals? This guy is smart. Won’t he see through feigned ignorance?’

  ‘It needs to be done subtly, in a way that suggests to him you are chasing your tails. The general public will assume you are making a call-out for information.’ The e-cig came out again and Cortese manipulated it through his fingers, becoming almost trancelike. Mahoney took the opportunity to visit the toilet.

  Back at the table, Cortese had returned to the land of the living. ‘Forget the multiple perpetrator idea. Too much has been released on the lone wolf theory, and he’ll see through the ruse. But do muddy the waters, in a manner that shows you are still searching for meaning in his methods. For example, you could suggest—by your demeanour or the statement—that you are focusing on the violent methodology rather than the psychology.’

  ‘How will that help?’

  ‘This man wants—sorry demands—to be understood as a redeemer. He is repairing the world, correcting history. He is a righteous figure … in his mind anyway. Deliberately overlooking this will perhaps lead him to an attempt at guidance.’

  ‘By writing his mission statement on the wall with his next victim’s blood?’

  ‘Touché, but no. He will endeavour to communicate with you because he wants you to acknowledge him.’

  ‘Would a public appeal from a relative or family member assist?’

  Cortese pursed his lips. ‘Again, no. This figure does not care for the opinion of those he regards as privileged. His mode of behaviour indicates a desire to bring his victims down from a height. He is proclaiming “See how the mighty have fallen”. Despair in the hearts of those affected would not move him. What could catch him is this skewed admission that we are flummoxed by the motivation.’

  Mahoney felt the trip down the odd blind alley could be worth it; this tangent appeared plausible. It wouldn’t rock the boat of public confidence, nor would it alert anyone how much closer they were to a factual identity. It was time for a move. ‘That makes sense. Any chance you could draft something once you’ve read over the new material?’

  ‘Of course. And I won’t charge by the word. Regard it as a complimentary extra. I am as concerned as you about this man. Who would have thought such intrigue would manifest itself in this appealing locale?’