Kendall was all business. ‘Yes, Sir. What about the wife identifying the body?’

  ‘I’ll check with Doctor J and McLeod. Early this evening I’d say, with an autopsy first thing tomorrow. Ask her to be available later on today. And contact Family Support to have an officer on standby.’ He looked from one face to the other. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Initial briefing?’ asked Gibson.

  ‘Eight o’clock tomorrow morning. There’s still a lot to be extracted here … well, at least I hope there is.’

  Kendall and Gibson walked to her vehicle, a new Ford Focus pur­chased as a gift to herself to celebrate her promotion. She beeped the doors unlocked and they got in. Gibson ran a hand over the upholstery and breathed deeply.

  ‘Got to love that new car smell. And it’s in my colour as well.’

  Kate shot him a quick look as she pressed the ignition button. He looked very comfortable sitting there. ‘Yeah, it’s called techno-orange. Suits you.’

  ‘Thanks, Sarge. Nice little motor …’

  She hoped he wouldn’t finish the sentence with ‘for a female’ and, thankfully, he didn’t. She loathed those smug assumptions that skirted misogyny. Now her work partner, Tim Munro, had transferred she would have to spend more time with Gibson. The young man was surprisingly sharp. He looked to the world like a jovial lad, but Kate suspected there was more going on upstairs than he let on.

  Munro would be missed, no doubt about it. The flagged reorgan­isation of Tasmania Police had fallen over. A cash-strapped public sector couldn’t countenance another shuffling of resources. Her boss’s rise to rank of Commander was on indefinite hold. If Munro was to advance, it would have to be in another section of the force. So he’d taken an Acting Inspector role in the Drugs Squad operating out of the Clarence station. The hotshot in the passenger seat was now confirmed in the vacant position of Detective Constable, and he was champing at the bit. Kate was charged with directly supervising his progress. As long as he kept a hold on the jokes, it shouldn’t be that onerous.

  She eased the car down the hill and turned left onto Spitfarm Road, the only route in and out of Opossum Bay holiday retreat. Gibson pointed across the dashboard to the row of beach houses fronting onto the lower reaches of the River Derwent.

  ‘A few spanking places there.’

  No argument there. Only forty minutes by road to Hobart but, thanks to geography, a totally separate space.

  ‘I’d imagine it would be a pocket of hot property these days,’ Kate commented.

  ‘Too right. Silly money just for an old fibro shack as long as it’s on the beachfront. Even the block where we’ve just been would have cost a packet. Wonder why he built there.’

  ‘The view, bit more privacy, wanted to have their own place from scratch …’

  ‘I get all that. But his family residence is at Osborne Esplanade. By the looks of it they’re in one of those beaut weatherboard bungalows just across the street from the beach. It’s a getaway in itself. Why does he need another one?’

  ‘Maybe he’s got a jet-ski and commutes on it sometimes.’

  It was hardly a feasible suggestion, seeing as the BMW was in the man’s drive, and she chided herself momentarily. There was no need to manufacture ideas to impress her new sidekick. He’d come up with plenty of his own and she should be filtering them. It wasn’t a competition.

  If he thought she was being flippant, he didn’t reveal it.

  ‘If I got on one now, I’d be there in ten minutes. Dead quick. As it is we get to do a gigantic loop. Oh well, it is what it is. Got any decent music?’

  

  It turned out that the radio was superfluous as Gibson chatted the whole way. He talked about growing up in Launceston (‘great time’) and his first couple of years in uniform (‘fair bit of drudgery, to be honest’). Given Kate didn’t like talking that much when driving, it was a reasonable diversion—a welcome distraction from the apprehension she was experiencing. This would be her first time doing ‘the knock’: part of the job that even the seasoned officers dreaded. Fronting up to a stranger’s house to deliver the very worst news.

  Kate angled the car into a parking bay opposite number twenty-three. The house was as Gibson had predicted, except grander. On top of the original ground level a second storey had been constructed, with large windows at both ends: a vista south to Storm Bay and north to Mount Wellington. From street level it appeared to be one open-plan space. They could see a woman sitting in a lounge chair through the front glass pane as they approached the picket gate.

  ‘He must trust you, Sarge. Break a leg.’

  Whatever Gibson’s intentions were, it was not a remark that quelled her nerves.

  They headed up a flagstone path bordered by trimmed rose bushes. The woman must have seen them because the front door was answered moments after Gibson pressed the bell. The female who opened the door had subtly tinted blonde hair combed back from a tanned face, deep blue eyes and a clearly distinguishable jaw line. About five and a half foot in the old scale, she was dressed in a summer frock and barefoot on the pine floorboards.

  ‘Mrs Hellyer?’

  ‘Yes, I’m Sophie Hellyer.’ Calm and not lacking in confidence.

  ‘I’m DS Kendall and this is DC Gibson.’ Both officers flashed their ID cards. ‘May we speak to you please?’

  Something in the carefully modulated tone alerted the woman.

  ‘You’ll need to come in, won’t you? Is one of the children in trouble?’

  ‘Not that we know of. It’s another matter.’ Kendall glanced around. ‘Is there somewhere we could sit?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Come in.’

  Sophie Hellyer led them down a hallway as Gibson closed the door. He caught up just as they entered the kitchen which overlooked the backyard. It was a stunning space: appliances along the left wall and a polished concrete-topped island facing the dining area. Aside from the sharp grey of the fridge and stove top, the dominant colour was white. It made the space seem that much larger. From the oak dining table the eye was led out to a manicured garden with raised vegetable beds and luxuriant settings of flowers.

  ‘I’m the green thumb. That’s my testing space. I’ve a business designing sustainable gardens and it all starts here.’

  Sophie clicked the kettle on as Kate hovered nearby and Gibson sauntered over to the glass sliding door.

  ‘I’m sorry. Automatic reflex to get some coffee going.’ She placed her hands flat on the smooth bench. ‘It looks like you need to tell me something.’

  Kate swallowed. ‘Mrs Hellyer, do you have a property at Marsh Lane in Opossum Bay?’

  ‘Yes. It’s Scott’s project. That’s my husband. Has it been burgled?’

  ‘No.’ But you won’t be wanting to go there in a hurry. ‘Was your husband intending to be there this weekend?’

  ‘Not that I know of. He told me he was off to Bridport to host a corporate golf weekend.’

  Did he? Softly, softly.

  ‘I’m sorry to tell you that was probably not the case. A body we have strong reason to believe is your husband was discovered this morning at your property.’ How to put this? ‘I’m afraid he looks to have been the victim of a violent attack.’

  ‘He’s dead?’

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry.’

  Kate moved round the end of the kitchen island in case the wife collapsed. Sophie Hellyer remained upright, but her fingers clawed at the sparkling surface.

  ‘I think I’ll skip coffee. Can you help me to a seat at the table?’ She looked at Gibson. ‘There’s a decanter of brandy and glasses upstairs. Would you bring them down please?’

  He nodded and started off. The two women sat at the head of the dining table.

  ‘I’m sorry. How do you mean violent? What happened?’

  ‘I’ll get to that. Perhaps if you have a drink first.’

  Gibson returned with the glassware and alcohol. He placed them on the table before retreating to take up the coffee preparation.

  ‘I don’t suppose you can join me? On duty and everything.’

  Kate smiled as Sophie poured a large measure into a crystal tumbler.

  ‘Best not. But I think you could do with one.’

  Sophie took a small sip and then pushed the glass away.

  ‘Actually, I think I would prefer coffee after all. Strong.’

  Gibson nodded, holding up a cafetiere and spooning in the ground coffee.

  He’s not bad, thought Kendall. Instinctively knows his role. Now time to play hers.

  ‘You mentioned the children. Are they away somewhere?’

  ‘Hardly children now. Tilly is twenty and studying in Queensland. Simon’s eighteen and on a gap year in Scotland. He’s working as a green keeper somewhere near St Andrews. Sounded like he was having a ball last time we chatted.’

  ‘Right. Well, as I said, it’s your husband that we need to talk about.’

  A bolt of realisation finally hit her.

  ‘He’s been murdered, hasn’t he? How?’

  You don’t want to know.

  ‘It was a violent attack. I’m unable to divulge all the details, but we don’t think it was a robbery gone wrong. He was stabbed and died from the loss of blood. The manner of it suggests it was premeditated.’

  Gibson brought the coffee, sugar, milk and mugs over, and sat down to Kendall’s left. Sophie Hellyer turned a mug in her fingers for a while. She looked up at Kendall.

  ‘I don’t know what I’m meant to feel. We’ve separated. After we dropped the children at the airport, January long weekend, he moved out. He went to an apartment in Salamanca Square. It hadn’t been very good for some time, but we stayed together until Simon finished school. That done, there was no reason for Scott to stay. We’ve been living separate lives for about a year.’

  ‘But he still let you know what he was up to? Like his movements at the weekends.’

  ‘Not really. I have no interest in Opossum Bay so I don’t visit there. Last week I bumped into him at Barcelona wine bar. He was drinking with Kevin Cheung. I said hello and he mentioned he was away up north this weekend. Strange. I must have got the days wrong.’

  Although Sophie Hellyer appeared strangely composed, it probably didn’t amount to anything untoward. The death certainly seemed news to her, and the symptoms of shock would come later. For now, the simple processing of facts was keeping her together. The phone calls to her children would be stressful.

  ‘I appreciate this is hard. Did your husband have any enemies? Anyone who might want to harm him?’

  ‘The phone book is in the third drawer down,’ she replied. She ran a hand through her hair. ‘Sorry. That’s not fair. He was well liked in plenty of circles. But the zip on his pants wasn’t just for using the toilet. There might be a husband or two who wouldn’t be that keen on him.’

  So, the way he had lived may indeed account for how he died.

  The start of the working week. Various members of the Serious Crimes Squad were at their desks with takeaway coffees; rare was the person who came in without one. The old tearoom was going the way of the photocopy annexe: obsolete. Technology was transforming police work. Gibson had demonstrated that fact yesterday with a few taps on his mobile phone, but Kendall had also underscored the perennial value of speaking to people face-to-face. Some things change, some stay the same.

  Mahoney clicked the electronic smartboard on and checked the cable connection to his laptop. All good to go. As he called the team together, he noticed anew the absence of Tim Munro, and wondered how he would fare without his favourite hard nut. He was going to miss him, but he would never have prevented Munro’s transfer to the Clarence Station; it was a good move for the officer and for the force. DS Kendall brought different strengths—more cerebral—and he couldn’t overlook Gibson’s sheer enthusiasm. He was like a young football recruit who, having marked time in the reserves, immediately shone when promoted. One to watch, in a good way. Change and continuity.

  A few officers carried chairs to the front of the room; those with desks near the smartboard stayed in place. All appeared alert and ready for the race, which had to be a sprint—the weekend’s discovery of the execution dictated that. That was the catch 22 of detective work, especially a homicide. You had to be methodical or clues could be missed. The chain of evidence had to be secured, all the bases covered. But this had to be done at a blistering pace. During the ‘hot phase’ chances had to be grasped. The chilling reality in this case was that the perpetrator may have further plans.

  Mahoney was familiar with the paradox of calm urgency. It was always asking a lot, but the investigators had to assume the mindset of a Formula One driver: to win a turbo-charged contest going as slowly as possible, to stay grounded amid the mayhem.

  Mahoney tapped the arrow key on the smartboard and an image of the Opossum Bay house appeared. He addressed the officers

  ‘I shan’t say ‘good morning’ because it isn’t one. It’s a hell of a morning because at this location yesterday a foul murder was discovered. We’ve had some doozies over the past few years but this one is particularly ugly. We must be on our game. If you haven’t already, cancel your normal life for the rest of the week.’ He cocked a thumb at the screen. ‘What happened in that dwelling is horrific, and the onus is on us to sort this out as soon as possible.’

  A variety of acknowledgements came from the floor: nods, verbal assents, a ‘righto’. They were all here because they wanted a job that was way beyond ordinary. Coppers that ran on adrenalin in order to get a result. It beat pushing a pen.

  ‘Good. Sergeant Geason is taking the notes so, for the moment, you need to sit and listen. Any questions, jump in. I don’t want any flashes of insight disappearing.’ He tapped the arrow again to show Hellyer’s smiling profile picture. ‘Our victim. Scott Hellyer, forty-seven years of age. Employed as Director of Marketing at Tiger Brewing. Quite a high level job with a healthy salary package. Bit of a go-getter with his own business on the side: Newcrest Nominees, which is the development company behind the proposed golf links at South Arm. That probably explains why the property on the previous slide was built at Opossum Bay. Ten minutes by car, tops. This is a successful man with a high profile in our local business community. He’ll have supporters but also, perhaps, a few enemies. Certainly one.’

  Mahoney fixed his gaze on a burly officer by the window.

  ‘DC Dunstan, you do the background checks on the finances of the golf course development. Usual thing: irregularities, who else is in on the deal … right?’

  Dunstan nodded.

  ‘OK, good. Mr Hellyer had been separated from his wife for a couple of months. She stayed in the family home at Kingston. The two children are grown up, both out of the state. Hellyer had moved into a rented apartment in Salamanca Square. The property at Opossum Bay is in the company structure. According to his wife, she’s never even visited it. DS Kendall’s initial impression is that she’s probably not a suspect. Is that a fair reading?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. Unless she’s a sublime actress. She wasn’t distraught by the news initially but, after it sunk in, she had a tough time of it. I spoke to the Family Liason Officer who stayed at her Kingston property last night. After we left her, she had a difficult night and breaking the news to her offspring really shook her up. She’s moved on from the marriage but it’s still going to be a rough period for the family. I didn’t get much sense of hostility towards her ex, and it looks like she had nothing to gain from his death. No life insurance policy and no transfer of assets now he’s gone. He ceded the Kingston property, mortgage-free, back in January. Anything else he has is locked into Newcrest Nominees. She wasn’t indifferent to his fate. She appears to have nothing to gain from his death. The worst thing for her is that the children have lost their father.’

  Mahoney’s finger hovered by the board. ‘Now, she also told Kendall that her spouse was not one to let the chance of extra-marital activity pass him by. Not to speak ill of the dead but he was, apparently, something of a womaniser. Given what I’m about to show you, I would suggest there’s definitely an element of revenge in the manner of his death.’

  Mahoney pressed the black arrow and a few eyes went out on stalks as the next shot of Hellyer appeared.

  ‘DS Geason, the forensic findings should come to you this morning. Do your usual stuff.’ The DS nodded his understanding. ‘A savage thrust with a sharp blade to the left groin severed the artery. From there, death was very quick. The weapon was sitting in the pool of blood by his left leg. No transference, alas. What is obviously catching your attention is what happened prior to that action, and I share your amazement. It is a carefully orchestrated attack. Tennis balls were pelted at Hellyer pre-mortem. Done with such force that his right eyeball was wrecked.’

  ‘Boris Becker is back.’

  ‘Thank you for the black humour, Constable Herrick. Doc Johnson confirmed that to cause tissue damage like that, the balls were propelled at great speed, much faster than a throw. We’re looking for someone with a powerful serve. Unfortunately, no racquet or any implement was found at the site.’ Mahoney pointed to the space behind the battered torso. ‘The killer gave himself time. The blanket suspended from the rafter effectively caught the balls and stopped them ricocheting noisily around the room. All carefully planned and executed.’

  Gibson held up his hand and received a nod from his boss.

  ‘That planning must have involved some form of site inspection. Were there sightings of any strangers in the area? Somebody may have noticed something.’

  ‘Yes, good point. There’s a keen intelligence revealed by all this. Whoever did this prepared diligently and gave himself sufficient time. Toxicology should confirm what you’ve already assumed. Hellyer must have been drugged. This is way beyond some adaptation of a bondage ritual. No matter what sort of sex the victim preferred, he’d hardly sign up for this.’