‘Thank you.’ She smiled slightly. ‘Do you want to know what he’s up to?’

  ‘You don’t have to tell me. Your call.’

  ‘He’s taking a year’s leave, without pay. Going up to Sydney to test his thespian ambitions … among other things.’ The last phrase was squeezed out through a clenched jaw. Mahoney desperately tried to formulate a tactful question; Kendall continued before he could.

  ‘He thinks he wants to join the other side.’

  ‘Organised crime?’

  Kendall laughed. ‘Nice one, Sir. No, he, apparently, has long felt he is “not your average bear” so he’s off to live in Sydney’s inner-west to “explore that option”. Leaves a girl feeling a teeny bit deficient.’

  ‘Which you’re not. You know that.’

  ‘Sometimes I wonder. There’s a side to this job that you don’t see. Being a woman in this job can be wearing. Sexism lays not far below the surface. Nothing concrete, but there’s always that feeling that if you don’t stand to piss, you don’t belong in the force. I deal with it. I have to. Rex was my buttress for some of that silliness. And now he’s going.’

  They turned and started walking back. ‘Well, I can’t solve much for you but you can rest assured that you’re my best officer and you have my unqualified support.’

  ‘Thank you. I do feel that and it’s much appreciated. Don’t worry, I’ll get through this hiccup. We all have to dust ourselves off every now and then. Being right smack in the middle of a case will focus my thinking.’

  ‘Works for me. Speaking of which, I’d better admit why I stopped down here.’

  ‘So we could check out the Stensilset operation? I guessed that.’

  Sprung again. ‘Yeah, that’s right. They’ve got most of the ground floor of that heritage building. According to Susan, they’re the premier bunch for getting publicity banners and the like done. Could be that our guy used them.’

  ‘That would be handy. A change from working our way through a pile of leads and not getting anywhere till the last but one.’

  They headed back to the car park and went over to the display office entrance. Mahoney approached the receptionist and told her their business. She picked up her phone and, almost straightaway, a young male in denim jeans and a lurid t-shirt came into the room.

  ‘Thanks, Josie. Hi guys. I’m Nick Marios. I do the designs for those types of clear stencils. What are you after?’

  The detectives showed him their ID badges and Mahoney drew a shape in the air.

  ‘Rectangular transferrable sticker you could put on a van. Working was pretty simple. “Electric Eric” on there for certain and a contact phone number. Made up sometime in the past six months.’

  Marios went to a computer screen, logged on and brought up an image.

  ‘That look right?’

  ‘Yes, that’s it. Did you meet the client?’

  ‘No. It was an email query with the specifications. I mocked this up and the client agreed. I never met him.’

  ‘He didn’t come in?’

  ‘Nup, all done electronically. Payment was into our business account at Westpac.’

  ‘Electronic Funds Transfer?’

  ‘Josie, how did this snoozer pay?’

  The receptionist clicked into the accounts system. ‘No record on our statement of a sender’s account. So I guess he paid cash to the teller and told them our account details. That’s it. Sorry.’

  ‘No problem,’ Mahoney assured her. To Marios, he asked, ‘Are there any client details in your database?’

  A few more clicks. ‘Bit of a strange one. Original query and the agreement was via a gmail address. Once the payment was in our account, I gave the go-ahead for production. Couple of days later I sent an email letting him know and requesting delivery instructions.’

  ‘And he sent you a post office box number. You sent them off in a carboard tube and later on when you followed up your message to the gmail account it bounced back.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right, Inspector. Exactly that. Is this some sort of scam? The mobile number he gave for the signage doesn’t work either.’

  ‘It wouldn’t. Just any old ten numbers that looks like a valid contact. Not your fault. Whoever did this worked out the best way of getting what he wanted while leaving almost no trail. I doubt very much there’ll ever be any more work from Eric’s business.’ Mahoney scratched his scalp. ‘If we can have the postage details and a printout of the design and your emails, that would be helpful. For all the good it will do, but we’d better give it a try. Australia Post will have some record, I hope.’

  Kendall spoke to the receptionist. ‘Josie, does it show what day the money went in?’

  A lacquered fingernail traced down the screen. ‘At the Sandy Bay branch of Westpac on the 4th of January this year. Into our account the next day.’ She looked up and smiled. ‘I hope that helps.’

  Mahoney slapped the counter lightly. ‘Thanks for your help. Please keep this confidential. We’ll be in touch if anything else pops up.’

  Once back in the car with the small sheaf of documents Kendall said, ‘The PO box is Sandy Bay too. The Post Office is next to Dome Café and that oriental food shop.’

  ‘Yeah, I know it. The Westpac branch is in Magnet Court so that’s easy. Ready to go?’

  ‘Yep.’

  

  The high obtained from their luck at Stencilset lasted just over an hour. While Kendall checked the local bank, her boss took on the lead at the Post Office in King Street. They arranged to rendezvous in the Dome Café at around four o’clock.

  Kendall was ordering a small pot of tea and considering an Anzac cookie when Mahoney entered, looking frustrated. She altered the order to a large pot with two cups and joined him at the semi-enclosed booth near the far window. ‘You look like you had as much joy as me.’

  ‘Most likely. How was the bank?’

  ‘Bit of a dead end. I spoke to the manager, Clark Haas. A tall guy with a solid jaw, and boy, could he use it. I got a full history of how his is the highest performing branch in the state. No shrinking violet that one. We had to wait for a bit in his office to speak to the teller … sorry, customer relations officer.’ She paused as the tea was served. ‘Anyway, the bank does have excellent security, including a schmick new set of digital recording cameras.’

  Mahoney poured his beverage and waited for the ‘but’.

  ‘But any records for January have been wiped. Haas was very helpful though. He brought up the data for January 4th. He found the transaction and identified the employee who received it. Got her in and explained what I wanted.’

  ‘And …?’

  ‘She was as much use as she could be. She confirmed it was her transaction, but she couldn’t remember anything unusual. The guy paid four hundred and fifty dollars cash into the Stencilset account. The depositor wouldn’t have needed ID. He would have been given a receipt, but there’s no record of who he could be.’

  ‘It was over two months ago, and if he was a nondescript sort of bloke on a busy day after the Christmas and New Year break …’

  ‘That’s what she said. Almost word for word. She’s got no idea if she’s seen him since because she barely remembers the first encounter. So, he’s not a regular customer. How did you fare?’

  He took a mouthful of tea, then snorted his frustration. ‘Worse, if anything. The bank not having anything is understandable, but the Post Office should. And they didn’t. The procedure for securing a PO box is simple and, you’d assume, foolproof.’

  ‘Don’t you just go in, provide a valid ID, set up a payment and you’re good to go? Assuming there is a box free at that branch.’

  Mahoney opened his hands. ‘Exactly. And what happened next door? Our chap circumvents it.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Used a stolen driver’s licence as I found out. It’s taken a few calls but here’s the gist. The man who set up the post box did it on the 4th of January. As we’ve already said, a busy day after the holiday break. Lots of small businesses opening their doors for the new year of trading. The clever bugger chose that day.’

  Mahoney poured more tea into his cup. ‘The account was set up under the name of Gary Oates, as per the plastic ID card. And, before you ask, I have contacted Mr Oates. He had been blissfully unaware that his driving licence was missing until he came back in early January from a week on a friend’s boat and found it among his mail at the family home. He assumed he’d misplaced it and that a do-gooder had returned it to the address on the card. Thought no more of it.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah. Sounded perfectly genuine. How often do you check if you have your licence on you?’

  ‘Never. Unless I’m doing something that requires an ID validation.’ Kendall’s eyes narrowed. ‘This may mean our man looks like Oates.’

  ‘The Australia Post employee does remember the actual transaction. She checked the photo and apparently made a comment to the guy, along the lines of how much a holiday beard changes one’s looks. The customer kept a straight face and said he was on long service leave so he was having a break from his razor.’

  ‘And she accepted that?’

  ‘No real reason not to. It was a busy morning and the guy otherwise looked like the photo. Bear in mind the image on your licence is thumbnail size. It was astute of her to even notice the difference.’

  ‘Would she recall enough of this customer for an identikit?’

  ‘Possibly. She’s agreed to come in early tomorrow morning and sit with one of the computer people. We could get some decent images: a bearded and a clean-shaven version. The Oates chap agreed to pop in as well so we could photograph him and see if that jogged the Post Office lady’s memory.’

  ‘That’s good of him.’

  ‘Sounded like a good guy. I explained that his licence is part of identity theft so he’s keen to help us as much as possible.’

  ‘Am I right to presume the PO box next-door is no longer linked to our person of interest?’

  ‘You are. The guy asked for a one month trial, paid cash and hasn’t been seen since. The whole thing has lapsed.’

  Kendall’s brow furrowed. ‘This seems like an awful lot of bother to avoid picking up the stencils in person. Almost a bit over-the-top.’

  ‘I agree. The whole process is over-the-top: the van at Salamanca, the tennis balls … This guy is painstaking in everything he does. The only blip—and it’s tiny—is what we discovered this afternoon. We now know of someone who has actually spoken to him. But all that tells us is that he’s around six foot and has dark hair. He may or may not have a beard, and he might look a bit like Oates. It ain’t much.’

  Mahoney’s phone buzzed. He took the call, sat into the backrest, listened and rolled his eyes once or twice.

  ‘That was Kitchener calling from the van. We still ain’t got much. A few fibres and prints but no matches at all. It has been cleaned very thoroughly. The cab, in particular, is pristine.’

  Kendall tapped the table. ‘It’s like the Fotheringham case then. The more expert the method, the narrower the range of suspects. That’s something.’

  ‘Cortese did say it would be a very particular individual we’re looking for.’

  ‘So it becomes a matter of when.’

  ‘At the moment I’m kind of hoping he reveals himself at tomorrow’s funeral. And dances on the grave.’

  Mahoney had intended to let Gibson down gently, explaining to him that he was required elsewhere so his presence at the funeral wouldn’t be necessary. But the young blood nut had taken it well. He said he was fine with overseeing the identikit process and reckoned it would be better for him to gain some first-hand experience in this area of investigations. He even suggested they ask the Westpac teller in as well. Reckoned she may not have remembered much yesterday, but today with the assistance of the facial imaging software could be a different story altogether. Mahoney could only agree.

  ‘David, a couple of things to remember. Make sure the witnesses don’t get a chance to meet. We can’t afford for one to influence the other. That corrupts the process. The Post Office lady, Jill Ikin, is the first one in at half past nine. Get the lass from Westpac in later.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Umm, not sure. Kate will know so check with her before we leave this morning.’

  ‘Sure. No problem.’

  ‘Later on, after we’ve viewed the images, we can get them both back in and place the other witness’s image in a catalogue of faces. See if anything comes of that.’

  Gibson’s hand went to the phone before he realised the tutorial wasn’t quite finished. ‘And the other thing?’

  ‘Let the police artist direct the cognitive interview. You’ve got Mike Eather today. He’s excellent with the little prompts that bring memories out.’

  ‘Of course. That’s a given. I’m riding shotgun. I know my place.’ He gave his superior a grin that Mahoney couldn’t decipher as knowing, cheeky or enthusiastic. He decided to let it slide.

  Kendall was on the phone herself as Mahoney sauntered over.

  ‘That was Sophie Hellyer with an offer of assistance.’

  ‘Of what kind?’

  ‘Unfortunately their son, Simon, can’t get back from the Northern Hemisphere. It turns out he’s not green keeping anymore. He tried out for some athlete development program at the university in Scotland. He did well at the interview but if he wants the scholarship on offer he has to card a number of good scores in a series of satellite tournaments. The first of three starts tonight, our time. If he misses any of the three weekend cuts, he’s out, and the opportunity of the scholarship goes. Given he’s classified as an overseas student the fees for study are horrendous. He wanted to come home anyway but his mother counselled against it.’

  ‘She argued that his father would want him to pursue the scholarship?’

  ‘Exactly that. Lord knows how the boy will go missing the funeral, but he’s accepted her advice on two conditions. Firstly, his sister Maggie will read a short eulogy on his behalf. And secondly, the ceremony will be recorded so he can watch it properly in a few weeks.’

  ‘Seems reasonable. Does the assistance have to do with the recording?’

  ‘Yes. She’s hired a specialist through the undertakers as part of the package. And—here she admits she may have watched too many English crime shows—she wondered if we wanted to send someone in civvies along to film the event as well. In case any suspicious figures turn up.’

  Mahoney rubbed his hands together exuberantly. ‘Brilliant. That really could work. Leave it with me.’

  Overnight Mahoney had read Cortese’s detailed analysis. A strong theme was that the perpetrator was seeking some sort of recognition. Of obvious concern was the profiler’s belief the slaying at Opossum Bay would not be an isolated incident. And of immediate relevance this morning was the linked hypothesis that whoever did that deed would want to witness the full repercussions of his actions.

  

  There’s a funeral today: his funeral. From where I’m sitting you can see the melee of mourners swarming into the remembrance hall. Looks like Hellyer was well-liked, no Willie Loman. No long painstaking struggle to get anywhere in life for him. I wonder if amongst all the gush of the eulogy anyone will admit that he’d had it all gifted to him on a plate. Doubt it.

  How I’d love to go in there and smack those hypocritical fools with a short sharp shock of reality. I bet someone, some guy in a smooth suit who drove here in a smart car, is claiming Scotty was a winner. A winner in the game of life. Right then I’d remind them what old Holden Caulfield reckoned about that. I always loved that bit where he puts scorn on that little dictum. Life is a game. Yeah, if you’re on the side of the hotshots it’s dandy. If you’re on the other side, it’s no game. Just a slow sad shuffle through the crap. I’d set them right on that.

  And that’s what I’m doing. Showing the smug ones that everyone counts. We all have a voice. It’s taken a while for mine to be heard but they’re paying attention now.

  It’s a risk being here, but an acceptable one. I thought about attending the service and loitering at the back, hanging around for the refreshments and having a look at the photos of his life pinned up on a board. Scotty as a junior sports champion. Scotty as a proud father. Scotty as a successful businessman. Scotty trussed up at his shack with a knife in his groin. The last one won’t be there. Pity. Would ‘make a statement’ as they say.

  Discretion overrode my curiosity to witness the send-off. The coppers would be there, hoping their prey will slip up. No chance. So I’m sitting in this pissy little corner shop across the road. Nursing a coffee and pretending to read the paper. Dressed in a flannel shirt and overalls looking like a tradie on his morning break. Bit of grease on my cheek and grubby hands. Nice touch that. Just another run-of-the-mill guy going through an ordinary day. Another poor sap. That’s what the bitch behind the counter thought. Didn’t even think I was worth chatting to. Don’t know what she’s got to be so snooty about. Stuck behind a counter in a shop so ratshit not even the wogs want to set up here. So stuff her.

  Funnily enough, it was a funeral that kicked all this off. In June last year my mother went to her final resting place. Except she couldn’t rest, could she. She’ll still be fretting over something wherever she is. I was the only immediate family member left to organise everything. My father died three years ago. Adrian, my younger brother, no longer around either. Muggins got to sort it all out. We had a nice little ceremony at the Launceston Crematorium. Lots of people saying it was such a pity and they hoped I’d be okay. Haven’t heard a peep from one of them since.

  A month later, the crowning glory. Probate. Some joker from Perpetual Trustees informed me I was to receive the balance of the estate after the proceeds from the sale of the family home went to some research group for acquired brain injury. So I got a fifteen-year-old Nissan car and an assortment of goods and chattels. Stuff no sane person would want unless they fancy pokerwork. I considered contesting the will but let it go. It came to me that there was a better way of making people acknowledge your presence.