‘And a tennis hitting wall.’

  ‘Yeah. Bakers Milk did a factory extension years ago and up went a massive brick wall on the boundary of the park. I guess part of the deal for permission was to lay out a concrete space on the ground for people to use. The wall’s one big mural. Quite a few people use it to whack a ball about.’

  ‘There might be loads of places like that around town.’

  ‘Not really. Me and Kristy play a bit during summer, AYC twilight pennant. Been to most of the clubs down here and not many have hit-up walls. Taroona, Lindisfarne, that’s about it. Even if you had the space to practise in a backyard, someone would kick up a stink. Reckon this is how he did it.’

  Given that it beat sitting at a desk, Gibson stood. ‘Let’s you and me go out for a look. Can’t hurt.’

  ‘Sure. I’ll get a vehicle.’

  They drove haltingly through the traffic works dotted along Elizabeth Street. At a T-junction, with the Polish Club on one corner and a grocer on the other, Herrick turned the car left onto a large boulevard. A row of handsome dwellings lined the road for a kilometre until they passed an imposing red-brick hospital on their right.

  ‘I was born there. Good old Calvary.’ They went down a dip and over the crest of a hill before arriving at a small shopping strip. ‘You’re now in Lenah Valley. Aboriginal word for Kangaroo.’

  ‘You know it well?’

  ‘I grew up here. Live here now. Go for another couple of k’s and you’re right in the bush. Tracks up the mountain. Gem of a spot.’

  Gibson had to acknowledge it seemed pretty nice. They headed down through another basin and up a slight rise to an intersection where Herrick turned right. ‘Turnbull Park. Not bad, eh?’

  ‘Yeah, bloody good.’

  Herrick pulled into a parking bay opposite a primary school and pointed back up the hill. ‘We’ve got a unit up in Ruth Drive. Loads of sun and a view of the Organ Pipes.’

  Mount Wellington appeared over the foothills, looming behind the city. They traversed the football oval and came to the milk factory wall. Now they were here, Gibson wondered what he’d hoped would happen. Was he expecting Fowler to saunter up and start belting balls in front of them?

  ‘Well this is kind of useful, but …’

  ‘But why are we here?’

  ‘Umm, yeah.’

  Herrick let out a low growl and started walking down a grassed slope to a metal fence. Gibson followed. They went through a child safety gate and in front of them was a substantial area of scrubby turf. Straight off the DC counted seven dogs with their owners.

  ‘Regular as clockwork most of them,’ said his uniformed offsider. ‘Someone must have seen him if he came here.’

  ‘If.’

  ‘Yeah, but it’s worth a try.’ Herrick bent down to pet a Labrador that had galumphed its way over to them. ‘Hello, boy. You good?’

  ‘He certainly is.’ A tall woman was marching towards them, holding a plastic sling with a tennis ball balanced in the spoon. ‘Are you checking licences?’ Her posture and voice was not a million miles from Penelope Keith on the old TV shows.

  Gibson showed his ID. ‘Not exactly our remit. We’re out here on an associated matter.’

  ‘Dennis the tennis menace, perhaps?’

  They both did a double-take; Herrick gathered his wits first. ‘Sorry, what was that?’

  ‘I complained, most vehemently, to the council. Nothing happened, of course.’

  ‘What was the problem exactly?’ asked Gibson.

  ‘A most truculent individual threatened my Marmaduke.’ She pointed at the large bundle of fur sniffing Herrick’s ankles. ‘No sense of propriety at all. Disgraceful.’

  Gibson endeavoured to adopt Mahoney’s calming manner. ‘Could you explain the particulars of the incident, Mrs …?’

  The woman lifted her chin. ‘Ms. Ms Lynnette Fraser. Do they train that awful monotone into you, Constable, or is it natural?’

  Gibson pressed on. ‘An affectation, Ms Fraser. Now, what happened and when?’

  ‘Ah, that’s more like it. I prefer directness. It was January long weekend, the Monday morning, when Marmaduke and I were visiting the doggie enclosure. We passed a middle-aged man serving ball after ball at the mural. Just one of a number who practise there. Mind you, he was particularly vigorous. And accurate. I have excellent eyesight. I was something of an ace shot in the old country.’

  ‘Not many pheasants down here, I’d imagine.’

  ‘Those days are long gone. I followed my daughter to the Antipodes. She fell in love with the place on a student exchange and felt this was her dream come true.’

  ‘Is it yours?’

  ‘Not overly, Detective Constable. But family is important. My husband passed and London had become something of a nightmare. Gangs, rubbish, people everywhere. Here it is altogether more pleasant. And, of course, my only daughter is here. With her local husband.’

  The last sentence hinted at a son-in-law who wasn’t quite the ticket. Gibson steered them back. ‘So, the man was serving vigorously, as you said. And then?’

  ‘We skirted the edge of the pavement and approached the gate. I unclipped Marmaduke before fiddling with the child lock, but in an instant he was back off to the tennis man. Naughty dog. He raced over to one of the balls and picked it up in his mouth. A natural reaction. What this man did next was most certainly not.’

  ‘He whacked another ball at your dog?’ guessed Herrick.

  ‘A correct assumption, young man. An underhand swipe drove a ball into poor Marmy. It was dreadful. I got over there quick-smart and protested the cruelty, but he totally ignored me. He spent a couple of minutes collecting balls from the ground and then strode off with his bag and racket.’

  ‘Did he speak to you at all?’

  ‘No. No acknowledgement at all. He simply strode right off unconscionably.’

  ‘In which direction?’ asked Herrick.

  ‘Up towards the traffic lights on the corner. But by the time he was halfway, I’d given up on him and gone into the enclosure.’

  Gibson hoped her memory was as sharp as her sight. ‘Would you be able to describe his appearance?’

  ‘Most certainly and with great relish.’

  Herrick was dispatched to the vehicle to collect the iPad so their witness could view the images of Fowler. Gibson did not disabuse Lynette Fraser of the notion that animal cruelty was the focus, but she was no fool.

  ‘I assume you are not here merely to investigate my complaint, Detective?’

  ‘A fortunate coincidence is closer to the truth. This man you encountered may be a person of interest in an important case we’re investigating.’

  Her hand went to her mouth. ‘Oh my Lord. That brutal murderer lives here.’

  Gibson was completely taken aback. How did those dots get jointed up? ‘I’m sorry, I’m not sure how …’

  ‘You disappoint me, young man. Two officers, one a homicide detective, asking questions about a dog attack. Please credit this member of the public with some common sense. The brute I challenged is a suspect in the current murder enquiry, is he not?’

  ‘He could be. I’m not stonewalling. He could be a man we’re keen to see.’ He glanced up at the main road then back at their witness. ‘When you said he lived around here, was that because he left on foot?’

  ‘I doubt he drove here. Otherwise he would have parked his vehicle, as you did, on the other side of the Community Hall.’

  ‘That’s a reasonable assumption. Bus maybe?’

  ‘Somewhat unusual.’ She leaned forward to pat Gibson’s forearm. ‘Thank you, Detective.’

  ‘For?’

  ‘Granting me honorary Miss Marple status.’

  Gibson smiled. ‘I was thinking aloud, but you’re right. A local inhabitant is probably more likely.’

  ‘So, following my perusal of some photos and a positive identi­fication, I can expect an influx of the constabulary going door-to-door.’

  Another wide smile. ‘That is pretty much guaranteed.’

  

  Lynette Fraser’s response to the identikit photos of Fowler was a confident ‘Indeed it is he.’ With that under his belt, Gibson got straight onto Mahoney and ran his boss through the latest development. He was instructed to coordinate a doorknock enquiry of the immediate vicinity. Four uniformed officers would be immediately dispatched to assist the operation.

  Ms Fraser agreed now was as good a time as any to make a formal statement at the station. So, with Marmaduke in tow, she was first driven home by Herrick to drop off her bundle of enthusiasm and be taken into the city. This left Gibson to nut out the most effective way to deploy the manpower. He waved to his colleagues as the police car drove up Creek Road to the intersection and walked across the lawn to the corner. He did a slow turn to assess the geography. Fowler had walked off on the long diagonal towards this spot. The park boundary at this point ran back down Creek Road on one side and on the other along Augusta Road to the Athleen Avenue turn-off.

  Gibson made the assumption that if Fowler had wanted to go towards Athleen Avenue, he would not have taken the diagonal path Lynnette Fraser was certain he’d taken. Also, he was unlikely to have come this way if he was returning to a dwelling on Creek Road or Wellwood Street which ran next to the primary school. That meant Gibson could focus the uniforms on the stretch of Augusta Road leading back to the city and the start of Pottery Road stretching up the hill from the traffic lights.

  The promised quartet arrived; they had walked up the pavement from the small car park to join him. The only one he recognised was Alan Wagin who did the introductions. It transpired the other three were mature-age cadets who had been only too happy to sacrifice a lecture on traffic regulations to assist this investigation. With the Google map screen open on his phone, Gibson delineated the search area and they set off. He allocated two hours with the promise of coffees at the end—or a few rounds of beers if they turned up anything really useful.

  Gibson gave himself the short strip of Augusta Road between the intersection and the RSL Club one hundred metres along to his right; he decided to start at the club and work back. Having signed himself in at the foyer, Gibson approached the bar. A man giving a tray of glasses the once-over with a towel looked up. ‘You look official. Licensing?’

  Gibson showed his ID. ‘Not at all. Just wondering if you can help me locate a chap we’re looking for. Any chance a Michael Fowler is a member?’

  The rangey man put down the towel. ‘The name doesn’t ring a bell, but I know all our regulars by sight. Got a picture?’

  Gibson showed him the iPad but the man’s concentrated perusal proved futile. ‘Nah. No-one like him’s been in here. Sorry. What’s he done?’

  ‘Routine. He might be able to help us with a case we’re on.’

  ‘Yeah, right. And my name’s Barack Obama. That’s the snoozer you reckon done those murders.’

  ‘At the moment he’s simply a good lead. So you haven’t seen him about?’

  ‘Nah. Fancy a drink?’

  ‘Yes, but it’ll have to be another day.’

  ‘Come on a Friday. It’s meat tray night. Gets a few in.’

  ‘Will do. Thanks anyway.’

  The childcare centre next door and the remaining two houses before the Pottery Road corner proved fruitless. At the traffic lights he looked up the hill and saw one of the cadets shutting a front gate behind her; the other must be inside a house somewhere. The Augusta Road pair were now out of sight down the hill. No-one had called him, so no joy thus far.

  He crossed to the adjacent corner and entered a hair salon. A strictly suburban affair, its décor had seen better days. In the far corner an elderly lady was under a dryer flicking through a glossy magazine as her perm set. At the counter the lone hairdresser put the phone back in its cradle. ‘Hi, I’m Robyn. Looking for an appoint­ment?’

  She sounded so hopeful that Gibson felt sorry to disappoint. He flashed his badge and stated his business. ‘It’s a bit of a long shot, but you haven’t seen this fella by any chance?’

  ‘Not for a bit.’

  ‘I beg your pardon.’

  ‘Not for a couple of weeks.’ She gestured behind her. ‘There’s a unit out the back attached to this. You enter off Pottery Road. I’m pretty sure it was him there over Christmas for a while.’

  ‘And you’re certain it was this man?’

  ‘Close enough. Not real friendly like. I never actually spoke to him, but I’d see him off and on. You right there, Mrs Evans?’ After receiving no response from her customer, she turned back to Gibson and cocked her head to one side. ‘I reckon it was him in there from around Show Day till about a fortnight ago.’

  ‘So more like a few months then?’

  ‘Yeah, ‘spose so. Time flies, eh.’

  ‘Is the dwelling you’re referring to completely separate from the salon? No shared entrance?’

  ‘Nope. Same landlord but.’

  ‘And who’s that?’

  ‘Fella that has the shop across the road too. He doesn’t run it, just owns the building. Nick Hatzi. Not a bad person really. Not very keen on funding improvements to the outside of this place, but the rent’s affordable so I’m not too fussed.’

  ‘Any idea how I can get hold of him?’

  ‘I’ve his number here somewhere. But if you want a key, nip across the road.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah. His son, Mani, runs the takeaway. He should be able to help you.’

  Gibson was straight out the door.

  Ten minutes later Gibson was at the entrance to the brick flat with a ring of keys. Mani Hatzi had been very accommodating and confirmed the photo as belonging to the tenant—a tenant who had skipped off about two weeks before without notice so wasn’t going to be seeing his bond money in a hurry. As to a name, Hatzi stated the man had showed ID material for a Gerard Ogden. And, no, Hatzi hadn’t been into the unit yet; he’d been too busy.

  Gibson practically skipped out of the shop. He quickly called Mahoney who said he’d head straight there. The DC slipped on evidence gloves and put the Yale key in the lock. After a slight struggle, the mechanism gave a grudging turn. He crossed the threshold into a musty smelling reception area and stepped lightly into the kitchen. What he saw next set his eyes out on stalks. It was an easy decision to retrace his steps to the front stoop.

  On the drive out to Lenah Valley Mahoney tempered his expectations. From what his favourite blood nut had told him they had stumbled on a massive break. All the checking thus far had moved them forward, but this could be the giant leap every case needed.

  At the intersection he turned left into Pottery Road and parked several car lengths up from the corner. A utilitarian mesh fence marked the edge of a scrubby block which contained a weather-beaten weatherboard shed. Far beyond shabby chic, it looked as if a strong gust could dismantle it.

  Gibson was standing expectantly by the side gate. ‘Well done, David. Wise move not blundering in.’ Mahoney slapped his constable on the shoulder blade. ‘Where are the doorknockers?’

  Gibson hoiked a thumb behind him. ‘Wags has taken them over to the corner shop for a brew. They’re awaiting instructions.’

  ‘Righto. We’ll leave them there for a bit. Kitchener and his forensics team should be here very soon.’ Mahoney glanced back towards the shed. ‘Actually, no. We’ll get them out again with the van images. That old shed could be a ripper place to park a vehicle without garnering too much scrutiny.’

  He put on booties and gloves and pushed open the gate with his index finger. It gave easily despite a creaking or two. ‘If you could stand guard, I’ll take a shufti.’

  Gibson nodded. ‘It’s worth it.’

  Mahoney entered and was struck by the sheer dowdiness of it all; not a great deal of time or money had been spent on this residence. The wallpaper was faded, although it was probably a blessing given the lurid brown and orange pattern. In the kitchen, he walked across torn linoleum to the formica table. Smack in the middle of it was a green plastic baby bath containing, submerged in approximately a foot of water, a Barbie doll. In the corner under the window was a tennis racquet balanced against a blue bucket of used tennis balls. The DI could now appreciate the excited gabbling that had been Gibson’s call.

  The remainder of the kitchen held no surprises, save for the fact it was something of a time warp; it must have been kitted out sometime in the 1960s. At the end of a row of head-high cabinets was a mesh-doored receptacle for condiments. Both pockmarked with age, the kettle had a fraying roped cord and the toaster two side-opening panels. The whole room was too cruddy to be deemed retro. A low hum from the Kelvinator fridge indicated the power was still on. Perhaps their man intended to return, although it was doubtful.

  Mahoney passed through the door frame into a dingy hall. On his right was a stand-alone toilet adjacent to a small bathroom. Neither looked to have been used for a while, nor cleaned for that matter. Next in line was a snug double bedroom. With the curtains drawn, it was gloomy. He flicked the light on. Nothing stood out aside from the hideous décor. Neatly spread across the bed was a blue crimplene cover; everything had been left tidy.

  The final area was the lounge room. As the unit wrapped around the hair salon, this room had some east-facing windows and was a touch brighter, although it still didn’t warm one’s heart to step in. Not only were the carpet and the couch dated, but they looked as if they’d been bought second-hand years ago. He wondered how much rent was charged; it was a convenient location but hardly a luxury pied-à-terre.

  Back at the front gate Gibson was tapping on his mobile.

  ‘Property history?’

  ‘Got it in one, boss, but there ain’t much to see. No sale or rental data to speak of. Probably been part of the Hatzi portfolio for years. I wonder how Fowler found out about it.’