Blood Sunset Part 6

She shook her head and I wondered whether she'd read the lie or was simply picturing the kids becoming adults.

'Time flies,' I said. 'Soon there'll be weddings and babies.'

'Oh, hold up, will you. Let them have fun for a while.'

I made a high-pitched wail like a baby crying and Ella shuddered. The thought of having children had never particularly appealed to her. Maybe if she had a steady partner. A committed husband.

'So what's on the menu?' she asked, putting Prince down and sliding onto the sofa. 'What's the sultan of South Melbourne got on the cards tonight?'

'Well, it's Albert Park, actually.'

'Whatever. You sound like a Sn.o.burb.'

'A what?'

'You know, one of those w.a.n.kers who gets all sn.o.bby about what suburb they live in.' She put on a high voice and added, 'It's not South Melbourne, darling, it's Albert Park.'

I took a swig on my beer and tried to think of a comeback but couldn't.

'Anyway, I was going to do a rogan josh but it kind of loses grunt without the meat. So tonight I'll do a warm tuna and chilli salad. You still eat fish, don't you?'

'Yep.'

On a platter I arranged piles of mushrooms, ham and sundried tomatoes around a chunk of camembert, which I then carried to the lounge and set down on the coffee table. Ella helped herself to the platter, then stood in front of the stereo cabinet examining my CD collection.

'You got the new INXS alb.u.m,' she said, selecting it from the rack. 'Good one.'

'Not exactly new,' I corrected. 'It's a tribute alb.u.m. Lots of duets and reworking of the originals. Put it on if you like.'

'Sure will, but I'm just not sure I like the idea of someone trying to copy the almighty Michael Hutchence.'

I nodded. There wasn't a true INXS fan who wasn't insanely protective of the band's cla.s.sic anthems. Michael Hutchence had a voice and a presence that could never be replaced.

'It's respectful,' I said. 'And they don't try to copy him. Trust me, I wouldn't even have it in my collection if they did.'

The track she selected was about as good as it got. 'Never Tear Us Apart' was probably the best recognised and most moving song released by INXS. Some people said it was simply a story of love at first sight and the pa.s.sion that followed, but I disagreed. For me there was a real sadness in there, a knowing that the love wouldn't last. Sure, there was nothing in the lyrics specifically saying that; it was more in the way it was delivered. The version Ella selected featured a duet between Tom Jones and Natalie Imbruglia who, perhaps deliberately, sang with more optimism than the original. It was a beautiful recreation, but they could never touch Michael Hutchence's haunting vocals.

I tied on an old ap.r.o.n and Ella smirked at me from across the lounge.

'What?'

'Isn't that the one I bought you?' she asked. 'Like, five years ago?'

'Indeed it is,' I said, looking down at how faded and torn it was.

'Looks like you need a new one.'

'I tried to give it to the Salvo's but they wouldn't take it. Apparently they have enough troubles of their own. You know you're in strife when even the charities don't want your belongings.'

I went back to the fridge, took out the ingredients for the salad and began chopping it all into piles.

'You know something,' Ella said, 'you'd be quite a catch if you weren't so focused on work.'

'What's that supposed to mean?'

She rolled onto her stomach, facing me on the sofa. 'Well, you're intelligent, funny, and you like to cook. That's rare for a man.'

'Too focused on work?'

'Don't take it the wrong way. I just mean you shouldn't be so worried about being an ace detective any more. You've done your time for the police. Maybe you should think about yourself and do something else.'

'I need to work, El. I have bills and a mortgage.'

'I don't mean quit the police; I just mean do something easier. You know, plenty of cops go back to work but don't go back on the street.'

I put the knife down and considered her comments. It seemed everyone these days was telling me the same thing. Move on, McCauley, time to step aside and let another soldier take your place. Even Ca.s.sie had been hinting at it and, even though I would never admit it to anyone, I knew it wasn't such a bad idea. I could spend more time with Ella, and visit Mum and Dad more often. That would keep Anthony happy. And I might even get to go to the cricket again with Edgar. I filled a salad bowl with the beans and chilli, and tossed them with the tuna as I thought about how a new life could take shape.

The CD player was on shuffle mode and the band's new front man, J.D. Fortune, was working his way through a rendition of 'Suicide Blonde' when Ella suddenly screamed and dropped her beer bottle on the floor.

'Jesus Christ,' she shrieked. 'What the h.e.l.l is that?'

'What?' I said, watching Prince dart away from the sofa.

She pointed at the television. 'That!'

Looking over, I realised I'd left the camera plugged into the AV port. Dallas Boyd's ghost-white body filled the screen, the needle hanging from his arm. I'd turned the television off but not the camera.

'You weren't meant to see that.'

'Weren't meant to see it?' She tossed the remote control on the coffee table. 'I just b.u.mped the b.l.o.o.d.y thing and it's right there on the screen! What the h.e.l.l is it anyway?'

Instead of answering, I unplugged the camera and stepped into the bathroom, ran the cold water and rinsed my face. I was embarra.s.sed and knew it only validated her point. I wasn't on the ball.

'Get with it,' I said to myself in the mirror. 'Lift your game.'

When I opened the door Ella was there, a gla.s.s of wine in each hand. She handed me one. A peace offering.

'Maybe we both need a drink?' she said.

I took the gla.s.s but didn't move from the doorway.

'Tell me about him,' she said.

'Who?'

'The boy in the picture.'

Genuine concern filled her face and my sense was that she didn't want to judge me. She wanted to understand me. Right then I realised this was necessary for our future, and I made a choice. I would tell her.

By the time I'd told her about the case, it was almost dark outside. We'd drunk two-thirds of the wine and eaten all of the cheese and biscuits, but hadn't touched the tuna salad. Sitting beside her on the sofa, I stared at my reflection in the window, glad she had listened.

After a long moment she walked to the balcony. 'I need a smoke.'

I opened the door for her and followed her out. The city was alive with the sound of traffic, techno music pumping from a party nearby. The north wind had settled, leaving the smoky air still and warm, like a bonfire left to cool. I leant against the bal.u.s.trade and lit Ella's cigarette first, then my own. She blew out a cloud of smoke and stared at the city skysc.r.a.pers.

'Sad about the fires,' she said. 'Apparently some of them have been deliberately lit. I don't know how those people live with themselves.'

I didn't know the answer either, but I did know she was trying to talk about anything other than what was really on her mind.

She was halfway through the cigarette before she spoke again. 'You know, that's the first time you've ever told me about one of your cases.'

I nodded.

'I know it's not easy, but I appreciate it. It helps me understand what you do, Rubens.' She took my hand, her skin warm and comforting. 'I want you to know you can tell me anything.'

'I know,' I said, looking into her eyes.

'No, I don't think you do. When you were in the hospital and they ...' She cupped a hand over her mouth and I thought she was going to cry but she held it together. 'When they didn't know what was going to happen with you, whether you were going to live or not, I realised why you were in so much trouble. It wasn't just because those men were out to get you. It was because I blamed you for everything that happened to us, and I refused to understand what was happening in your life because I didn't want to know.'

She was referring to a case I'd worked more than a year before, when I'd been set up for the murder of an underworld figure and subsequently shot during the arrest of the killer. It was at a time when our marriage was at the point of no return. There were nights away from home, sometimes weeks at a time. We'd picked fights with each other over money, over stupid things. Meanwhile, there were corruption allegations, the disbanding of entire police squads. Some of my colleagues were involved in underworld killings and drug trafficking. Some were murdered, others went to prison. Some even committed suicide. Prior to all that, I'd spent two whole years on trial after a bikie gang member accused me of accepting bribes. Sure, I was eventually acquitted but I lost my wife in the process. The counselling sessions helped, but not enough. In the end it wasn't her fault and it wasn't mine. At least, that's what I told myself.

'I never want to go there again,' she said.

'I'm not going back to hospital, Ella. I don't work cases like that any more.'

'I don't mean that. I mean I never want to be confused again.' She frowned, struggling with her thoughts. 'What I'm saying, I guess, is that I want to understand you, Rubens. Because if I can't understand you, then I can't ...' Again her voice trailed off and she looked away.

'What?' I prodded. 'If you can't understand me, then what?'

'Then I can't get to know know you again.' you again.'

Squashing her cigarette in the ashtray, she set her gla.s.s on the outside table then buried her face against my chest. I held her, not wanting to move.

'I want you to find him,' she said.

'Who?'

'Whoever killed that boy.'

I pressed my nose into her hair and inhaled. Her smell was intoxicating and something uncurled in me. I looked out across the palm trees towards St Kilda. A glow of light rose from behind the ferris wheel at Luna Park, as though it too was on fire. I squeezed her tighter, knowing this was more than just a physical embrace. Without even knowing, she'd reminded me of why I'd fallen in love with her all those years ago. Ella had been the only person to ever truly believe in me and I suddenly realised, for the first time perhaps, that she may never have really stopped. I cupped her face in my hands and kissed her forehead, wondering how I'd ever got it so wrong.

'Will you stay?' I asked.

She eased out of my arms and, just like that, I knew I'd asked too soon. The moment was over.

'Not tonight.'

8.

EVEN WITH THE AIR CONDITIONER ON, I slept restlessly after Ella left, finally waking at 5 a.m., unable to get her out of my thoughts. Despite her declining my offer to spend the night, it hadn't spoilt the evening or undone any of the positives. There seemed to be a glowing ember of hope now and I couldn't wait to see her again, but I needed to be patient. I'd once read somewhere possibly in a trashy magazine at the doctor's clinic that a woman's heart was delicate, and that distance and s.p.a.ce were sometimes more important than flowers and phone calls. It was all in the timing, apparently. I wanted to call or at least send a text message, but it was too soon. I needed to blow on the ember gently, fuel it gradually and pray that it would catch.

I quickly showered and made my way outside. It was going to be another scorcher. Driving through St Kilda before dawn, I noticed the strip was busier than it had been twenty-four hours earlier. Groups of clubbers gathered outside nightclubs, hailing taxis and staggering across the street.

Outside the Prince of Wales Hotel, an ambulance had pulled into the kerb, its lights flashing. Two paramedics squatted over a patient on the sidewalk, the fluorescent strips on their jumpsuits glowing like beacons. In front of the ambulance, a divisional van had its blue lights going too. Must've been a brawl somewhere. Another drunk bites the dust.

I slowed down, recognising the two uniforms questioning the victim's friends, one of whom held a bloodied tissue to his face. The other's shirt had either gone missing or had been used post-battle as a makeshift bandage. I wound the window down and asked the cops if they needed help. One of them quipped that if I could make it rain, they could use me. I nodded at the familiar complaint. The hotter it got, the more people drank and the more we were called upon to break up brawls and s.h.i.tfights.

At the Acland Street junction, near where Dallas Boyd had died, I went over what I hoped to achieve today. Top of the list was to let Ben Eckles know I no longer believed the death to be accidental. It was a conversation I wasn't looking forward to, but I didn't care. I was in the hunt again and felt the clarity of my judgement and intuition returning.

At the police station on Chapel Street, I parked in the side car park, using the window reflection to adjust my tie. I took the concrete staircase to the third floor where the detective squad rooms were located. In the mess room the television was on but no one was watching. No one in the squad room either. Checking the whiteboard, I saw the night-shift detectives had signed out a car to attend a crime scene. In the notations column next to their names were the letters 'DD'. A domestic dispute.

The open-plan squad room stretched the length of the building and accommodated a team of fourteen detectives. My desk was in the back corner, wedged between a concrete wall and a row of filing cabinets. As I made my way between the desks, the domestic dispute notation reminded me that Dallas Boyd's stepfather needed attention. If, as Will Novak had said, Dallas had organised for the Department of Human Services to check on his sister, there was a very real chance the girl could be removed from the home. Though it sounded like genuine motive, thinking about it now, the killing seemed too slick for a domestic homicide. Still, I couldn't rule it out without a thorough check.

Eckles' office overlooked the squad room, but the door was closed and the blinds drawn. It was just after six and I figured I had about thirty minutes before he arrived. I dumped my briefcase at my desk and took my daybook to a computer by the window. Soon after his a.s.signment as senior sergeant for the CIU, Eckles had rearranged the room so that all four computers were lined up facing the window. His official claim was that it enabled detectives to look out the window every so often, thus reducing eye strain, but everyone knew the real reason was so Eckles could see what was on each screen from his office, which we had nicknamed 'the observation post'. In response, detectives who wanted a little privacy simply raised their chairs so their shoulders blocked the screen.

I did this now, even though Eckles wasn't in, and logged onto the Law Enforcement a.s.sistance Program. While the LEAP database booted, I opened my daybook to my notes from yesterday and started on the list of names I needed to check.

Sparks nickname?

Derek Jardine friend?

Vincent Rowe stepfather First I ran a check on Dallas Boyd. Skim reading, I learnt Boyd had an extensive criminal history that had culminated in an armed robbery two years before. There were no other offences since then. As Will Novak had said, Boyd had stayed clear of the police after his release from Malmsbury. I wasn't sure what to make of this. I wasn't a big believer in the virtues of criminal rehabilitation, in either kiddie or adult prisons.

Reading on, I answered my second question when I saw the name 'Derek Jardine' in the case narrative. Jardine and Boyd had been arrested for the robbery of a Chinese takeaway store. I used the incident number to bring up the relevant information on Jardine. A year older than Boyd, he had a similar story, with numerous petty offences prior to the armed robbery. Nothing since. No fixed place of abode. However, there was an extra paragraph that wasn't in Boyd's narrative.

Offender Derek JARDINE (DOB 10/10/1991) and co-offender Dallas BOYD (DOB 01/11/1992) are well known to each other through foster care and have committed numerous offences in tandem. Third offender Stuart PARKS (DOB 14/02/1993) is also well known to both males, both through the commission of crimes and the DHS Child Protection Unit. All three are accomplices in this matter, although it appears PARKS was unaware of the plans to carry out the robbery.

I wrote the name Stuart Parks next to the nickname 'Sparks' in my daybook, printed the entire file and returned to the main menu, then ran a name search on him. This was more like it. Parks had dozens of convictions, most recently for a residential burglary dated a week after Christmas. His address was registered as the Carlisle Accommodation & Recovery Service. I didn't get excited about that: a lot of the street people in St Kilda used hostels for an address even if they didn't actually live there. An address was necessary to receive welfare payments and these places were the closest they had to a home. Still, it meant Will Novak would probably know the kid.

I glanced at the clock on the wall: 6.30 a.m. Eckles would be in soon. I printed the page then opened my email inbox and typed a message to the Divisional Intelligence Unit requesting copies of both Stuart Parks' and Derek Jardine's mug shots. Using the number Novak had given me, I also filled out a request for a call charge record on Dallas Boyd's mobile phone, hoping the calls coming to and from the phone in the hours before his death might help ID a suspect. Finally I switched back to LEAP and printed everything I could find on the stepfather, Vincent Rowe. Gathering the pages off the printer, I hid them in my daybook as the door opened at the end of the squad room and Ben Eckles walked in.

'McCauley, you're in early,' he said. 'Wasn't sure if you were going to make it. I left a message on your machine but you never called.'