Craven (9781921997365) Read online

  ‘Sounds like a plan.’

  Ed stood just inside the apartment and took in the scene before him. The front door opened into the lounge room, which was mostly black and white with occasional red accents. Black leather couches, a black, white and red patterned rug, black and white prints of Elvis, Marilyn Monroe and James Dean on the walls. The coffee table and side tables were retro glass and chrome.

  On the other side of the lounge room the kitchen was modern with a breakfast bar. It was white. There were three black and chrome stools along the front of the bar and a small red formica table and chairs beyond that.

  Nothing looked out of place. There was no clutter. The only personal touches were a photograph of a woman on one of the side tables, a stack of papers and a bunch of keys on the coffee table.

  Dave snapped on a pair of gloves and started to look through the papers on the table. Ed walked through the room, wanting to see the rest of the apartment before he got into the detail.

  The main bedroom echoed the decor of the living area: black satin quilt cover with red cushions on the neatly made bed, white furniture in a high gloss finish. The bathroom was also white. Ed’s eyes started to ache with the starkness of the place. Hospitals had more colour than this guy’s apartment. He walked down the short hallway to the door at the end; the second bedroom. He put on some gloves and reached for the handle then stopped. There was a bolt and padlock above the chrome knob.

  ‘Hey Dave! Bring me that bunch of keys on the table, would you? Got a locked door down here!’

  ‘Coming.’

  His partner appeared a moment later with the keys. ‘Is that the spare room?’

  ‘Yeah, I think so.’

  ‘So why lock it?’

  ‘Good question.’

  Ed tried all the keys on the bunch. None of them fitted. ‘I guess we’d better start looking for the key,’ he said.

  ‘Nah, don’t bother.’ Dave reached in his jacket pocket and pulled out a small leather pouch. Opening it he took out a set of picks. Within sixty seconds the padlock gave a soft click and sprang open.

  ‘Impressive! Care to share with me how you came by those skills?’

  ‘I’m a man of many talents.’ Dave smiled smugly over his shoulder before sliding the bolt and opening the door.

  ‘Let’s see whether there’s anything in here worth getting killed over,’ Ed said.

  CHAPTER

  2

  The door swung open. A waft of earthy, humid air swept over Ed and Dave.

  ‘That’d do it,’ Ed said.

  They stood looking at neat rows of large, near-mature cannabis plants rigged up to an elaborate hydroponic system. The ceiling was covered in lights and the walls and blinds were backed by foil.

  They’d been looking for a reason why someone would kill Jenkins and they’d sure as hell found it. Drugs made the top-five list of reasons why people got themselves murdered.

  ‘How much do you reckon this lot’s worth?’ Dave’s eyes were so wide they were almost out on stalks.

  ‘I think we’d better call it in,’ Ed said.

  ‘I don’t know about you, but I can’t imagine anyone checking out when they were so close to cashing in.’

  ‘I suppose this means we’ll have to hand the case over to the Drug Investigation Branch?’ Ed said.

  ‘Maybe. I’ll call Crackers and give him the good news.’

  Dave wandered back down the corridor towards the lounge room. Ed stayed where he was, staring at the scene before him. He’d had little to do with drug crimes. Anything bigger than a few plants growing in someone’s backyard had always been taken over by the DIB.

  He missed the straightforward crimes he was used to in the country. Most involved one victim and one perpetrator who was usually pretty easy to identify. The sort of crimes he and Phil could get stuck into, work hard and tie up in a bow in a short turnaround.

  The exception had been his one and only serial killer case. That had been anything but simple. The scars were still fresh – both the emotional and physical ones. He rubbed the angry red welt under his collar.

  He thought about Cass, wondered what she was doing. A smile teased the corners of his mouth. It was still too early for her to have crawled out from under her quilt.

  He hadn’t realised how he really felt about her until he’d left Fairfield … No, that was crap. He had known how he felt about her, he just couldn’t deal with it. How could he be with the person who’d been to hell and back with him and pretend that everything was fine? He couldn’t, so he’d been a coward and run away.

  She probably hated his guts. He hadn’t heard boo from her since he’d left. What did he expect? He couldn’t treat her like shit and still expect her to ring him every second day for a chat.

  He and Dave could really do with a touch of Cass’s talent right now. She’d be able to tell them exactly how their vic had died. They’d know within minutes whether it was a suicide or a murder and, if they were really lucky, she’d even get a glimpse of the killer. Still, there was no point wishing for the impossible. She’d probably rather eat crushed glass than help him with an investigation any time soon.

  Dave wandered back. ‘He wants us to keep going until he’s had a chance to talk to his equivalent over in the DIB. Apparently he’s tied up.’

  ‘He’s not out of bed yet, you mean?’

  ‘Probably not. One of the perks of being that senior is the right to keep more civilised hours.’

  ‘Nice for some,’ Ed said.

  ‘What say we leave the drug room as is for now and talk to the neighbours?’

  ‘We’d better start with the one who thought she heard an argument. Maybe she’s not as batty as we thought.’

  Half an hour later Ed was sitting on one of the most uncomfortable couches he’d ever had the misfortune to rest his backside on. It was upholstered in rose pink velvet and the arms and legs were ornate mahogany. He couldn’t think of anything that said ‘ageing spinster’ more clearly, except maybe the doilies and artificial flowers that decorated every available surface.

  He wriggled against the cushions, adjusting his position so that the timber frame wasn’t leaving an imprint in the middle of his back. It wasn’t an easy thing to do. He was clutching a dainty porcelain teacup in one hand and trying not to upset the bad-tempered ginger cat curled up next to him. The cat’s tail hadn’t stopped twitching since he’d sat down and he could see a glint of yellow from beneath its half-closed lids that told him his every move was being watched. He gave up his attempt to find a comfortable position and focused on the elderly lady.

  ‘It’s so lovely that Oscar has taken a liking to you. He normally doesn’t like strangers,’ she said.

  ‘Aren’t I lucky?’ Ed managed to keep most of the sarcasm out of his voice.

  ‘Do you have a cat yourself?’ she asked.

  ‘No … friends of mine do.’ Cass and her cat Shadow flashed through his mind.

  ‘Back to what we were talking about,’ Dave interrupted. ‘You’ve lived here since the apartments were built but Mr Jenkins next door has only lived here for a short time?’

  Interviewing Mrs Randall was a slow process. She seemed to be enjoying the experience and wasn’t in a hurry to wind things up. She made a point of ignoring Dave and kept her attention focused on Ed.

  ‘It’s nice to have someone new to talk to. I don’t often get visitors. Most of my friends are in Centennial Park these days. Would you care for some more tea?’

  Ed shook his head. ‘Is that a retirement village?’

  ‘It’s a cemetery,’ Dave said.

  ‘Oh, sorry, Mrs Randall, you’ll have to excuse me, I’m not from Adelaide.’

  ‘Oh that’s all right. You weren’t to know. Where are you from, dear?’

  Ed heard Dave sigh. He smiled inwardly. Dave was only good with the ladies when they were under twenty-five. He decided to ignore his partner’s restless fidgeting and give the old lady a bit more of their time. It wouldn’t kill the
m to be kind.

  ‘I’m from Fairfield. In Adelaide for a year. How about you, Mrs Randall, where are you from?’

  ‘I’ve lived in Adelaide since I was a girl but originally my family came from Cairns.’

  ‘Cairns, that’s quite a change,’ Ed said, watching Dave squirm out of the corner of his eye.

  Dave reached the end of his patience. ‘I’m sorry Mrs Randall, but we really need to get on with things. Can you please tell us a bit more about Mr Jenkins? How long had he lived here?’

  Mrs Randall looked at him with a frown. ‘He moved in about twelve months ago. He kept to himself. I saw him every so often at the letterboxes or in the lift.’

  ‘Did you talk to him?’ Dave asked.

  Ed nodded to himself. Of course she had, she would talk to everyone.

  ‘Yes, we chatted sometimes, but he was a very private person, really.’

  ‘Did he tell you anything about himself?’ Dave asked.

  ‘Let me think. He didn’t have any family. Both his parents died a while back. He liked cats. I’m not supposed to have a cat, you know … body corporate rules. Oscar got out into the corridor one day, dashed under my feet and Mr Jenkins was kind enough to catch him for me and return him. He promised he wouldn’t say anything and he never did. He was such a nice, patient young man.’ The emphasis was clearly directed at Dave.

  ‘Did you notice people coming and going from his apartment?’ Ed decided it was time to rescue Dave and the interview. If Dave annoyed her too much she might not tell them anything.

  ‘Oh no, dear, hardly anyone. That’s why I noticed the argument last night. Mr Jenkins never makes much noise. He’s a very considerate neighbour and he so seldom has visitors that when I heard the raised voices I was very surprised. At first I thought it must have been the television but then there was a scream and his door slammed. I knew then that something was terribly wrong.’

  ‘Did you see the person who visited him?’ Dave asked.

  ‘No, of course not. I was in my apartment. Do you think I would be so nosy as to stick my head out the door every time one of my neighbours has a visitor?’

  ‘No, I just thought …’ Dave flushed. Ed shot him a look and took over the questioning.

  ‘You’re being very helpful, Mrs Randall. I’m sure you did your best not to overhear their argument but was there any of it that was too loud to ignore?’ Ed asked.

  ‘Well, now that you mention it, there was one bit. I heard Mr Jenkins yelling at someone and telling them to “Get back!”’

  ‘Are you sure that’s what he said?’ Dave asked.

  ‘Yes, young man, perfectly sure. I may be old but I’m not deaf, and he said it more than once.’

  ‘Did he say anything else?’ Ed asked.

  ‘He yelled “No” quite a few times as well but most of what was said was muffled through the walls. It was only when they were yelling that I heard anything.’

  ‘Did you hear the other person’s voice?’

  ‘Not really. All I heard was a murmuring.’

  ‘So it was only Mr Jenkins yelling?’

  ‘I suppose it was.’

  ‘Could you tell whether the other person was a man or a woman?’

  ‘I’d been assuming it was a man until you asked me. Now I’m not so sure. The voice sounded quite low but I suppose it could have been a woman.’

  ‘Was there anything else you overheard?’

  ‘I heard Mr Jenkins yelling at the person to get out and to leave him alone.’

  ‘Was Mr Jenkins gay, Mrs Randall?’ Dave asked.

  ‘Gay? How would I know? I didn’t think so but I suppose you can never be sure these days. Why?’ She sniffed and raised her nose an extra ten degrees in the air.

  ‘I wondered if what you overheard was a lovers’ quarrel?’

  ‘No, no I don’t think so. I would have noticed the same person coming and going. He was a good neighbour. I’m going to miss him. I still can’t believe that he’s gone. It’s so horrible to think that he was murdered on the other side of that wall.’ She fished a lace handkerchief out from somewhere up her sleeve and dabbed at the corner of each eye.

  ‘I can understand how upset you must be, but we’re still not sure it was murder at this time,’ Ed said. He felt sorry for her. She was probably scared.

  ‘That’s all the questions we have for now unless there’s anything else you can think of that might be relevant?’ Dave stood up, finishing the interview.

  ‘There is one other thing, now that you ask,’ she said.

  Dave stopped and gave her a look that clearly expressed his belief that whatever it was, it was going to be a complete waste of time.

  She turned to Ed, who’d remained seated.

  ‘It’s his phobia.’

  ‘Phobia?’ Dave said.

  ‘I’m afraid of crickets, and he helped me out by removing one from my kitchen. I’ve got no idea what it was doing up here on the fourth floor, very strange …’

  Ed had a fair idea. ‘And Mr Jenkins had phobias too?’ he prompted.

  ‘He was so kind when I explained how much I abhor the little creatures.’ She shuddered. ‘They make my skin crawl. I felt very foolish making such a fuss, but he said he quite understood and that he had plenty of phobias himself. He said a couple were real doozies.’

  ‘And what does that have to do with anything?’ Dave said.

  She continued as if he hadn’t spoken. ‘He thought it was quite funny really. He told me he’d never even set foot on his own balcony.’

  ‘Why was that?’ Ed asked.

  ‘He had acrophobia, dear. Mr Jenkins was terrified of heights.’

  CHAPTER

  3

  I swallowed a couple of times, trying to ease the feeling that a wad of cotton wool had lodged halfway down my throat. It was 9am on Wednesday morning, the first day of my new job as a tutor and my hands were clenched into fists under the table. The notes I’d carefully prepared swam in front of my eyes and blurred into indecipherable scrawl on the page. Sweat trickled between my breasts as I steamed under my favourite green jumper.

  I cleared my throat.

  ‘Hello everyone, I’m Cass Lehman. I’m your Editing 1 tutor for this term. If you’re here for anything other than editing then you’re in the wrong place.’ I smiled, then winced as my attempt at humour bounced back at me without eliciting even one reciprocal smile. I ploughed on.

  ‘I thought we’d start with a few simple exercises. The page I’ve given you has some typical mistakes a lot of writers make. Who’d like to start off telling me what the problem is with the first example?’

  I looked around the circle of young faces that made up my tutorial group. The silence that followed my question seemed to stretch forever. I had to resist the urge to snatch up my papers and run out of the room.

  ‘Is it the use of a semi-colon?’

  I looked gratefully at the girl who’d come to my rescue. I checked the map I’d made of the room with their names.

  ‘That’s right, Justine. Can you tell me how it should read?’

  Thankfully she got it right and the rest of them started to chip in as well. Before I knew it we were five minutes from the end and I was telling them what I had planned for the next session.

  ‘Does anyone have any questions?’

  Justine stuck up her hand. I’d told them I didn’t expect them to raise their hands but they were first years, fresh out of school and a few of them couldn’t seem to help themselves. After thirteen years of indoctrination it was going to take more than one tutorial to change things.

  ‘Yes, Justine?’

  ‘What are your office hours and where’s your office?’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course.’ I blushed. They weren’t the only ones who had a lot to learn. ‘I’ll be available for an hour before each tutorial group as well as Monday and Tuesday between ten and twelve. My office is on level eight. Jason?’

  I looked at the boy sitting at the far end of the table. He had long b
rown hair that hid part of his face and eyes that were so dark they were almost black. He’d spent most of the session staring intently at me without saying much. The only time he’d spoken was when I’d tried to draw him out with a direct question.

  ‘Are you the Cass Lehman from Jewel Bay?’

  The smile slid off my face. ‘Um, yes, I am.’

  ‘So you claim to be a psychic?’

  ‘I don’t really claim to be anything, Jason. Now, do you have a question about the tutorial or what’s happening next time?’

  ‘But is it true what the papers said? Can you really experience how people died?’

  My face and neck were burning. Jason had identified me as the psychic who’d helped the police catch South Australia’s most recent serial killer, dubbed the Fleurieu Killer. I’d really hoped that by moving to Adelaide I would have left my notoriety behind me. The main article had been about the victims and Ed. I’d only featured on the front page a couple of times and I’d assumed that with the passage of time my name would have slipped out of the collective consciousness. Apparently not.

  I looked at the circle of faces. They were all staring at me with eager anticipation. I’d been stupid to think I could simply slide into a new life without my claim to fame following me. Serial killers just weren’t that common in Adelaide, or Australia for that matter.

  ‘I was born with a particular gift that allows me to experience how someone died if their death was sudden or violent. I really prefer not to talk about it. A lot of people don’t believe in that sort of thing and so it’s better if we focus on editing, not me.’

  I could see disappointment on some faces, surprise on others. Jason had dropped his gaze and his hair shrouded his face, hiding his expression. I glanced at my watch. It was five o’clock. I said a silent prayer of thanks.

  ‘OK, that’s time. Thanks everyone. I’ll see you next week.’

  The students filed out of the small, stuffy room. The Napier Building wasn’t the most salubrious building on the campus. I sat there listening to their loud chatter as they headed off towards the lifts and wondered how much of the conversation was about me. If I was a betting woman I would have put good money on my name getting a flurry of hits on Google that night.