Blood on the Rocks Chapter 8
‘Dead men don’t drive cars,’ Mac said, dropping a cluster of A4 images on the desk in front of Mike Henderson.
Brent Turnbull’s vehicle had been clocked running a red light on the south side of town, speeding. There was one person in the car, probably a man – a big man – but his face was indistinct, even in the blow-up Mac made.
‘Has Omar seen the original file?’ Mike asked. Despite his dismay at a murder on his patch, Senior Sergeant Henderson seemed invigorated: he was out of his seat and pacing again.
‘Yes, sir. He’s doing what he can.’
Frank looked at Mac, eyebrows raised.
‘Omar is a tech-head,’ she explained. Frank looked at Mike Henderson.
‘Better than any of the techies in Sydney, faster and a shitload less expensive,’ he explained, as if Frank should have known.
‘An officer?’
‘Nah, freelances for us. Journo at the paper. The good paper,’ Mike Henderson added. ‘Trustworthy.’
Mike and Mac laughed out loud; Frank gave joining in a go.
‘Trustworthy journalist?’ he said, emboldened by their seeming good humour. ‘Isn’t that an oxymoron?’
Mike Henderson stopped laughing and frowned at Frank, then said:
‘No, not at all: he’s bloody brilliant.’ Mike handed the images back to Mac. ‘I’ll speak to Barry – get a new statement out. Shit. Get a notice out on Turnbull’s car asap, Mac.’
Mac nodded and left the room.
The Henderson stared down at Karen White’s article. Frank saw an opportunity to claw back a little respect from the station chief.
‘At least that means the article is true now,’ he said. ‘One less fire to put out?’
Mike Henderson raised his head slowly; he was not smiling.
‘Really Diamond, you have no idea, do you? The truth has nothing to do with it. Barry here, the editor,’ he said, jabbing a finger at the paper Frank still held. ‘Barry here is a mate and what you’ve managed to do is hand the scoop of the century to the opposition, ruining years of hard work keeping the paper on our side, and making yourself look like a dickhead at the same time. My next call will be to issue a statement for the press, and an apology to a bloody pissed-off editor. And I don’t like apologising, Diamond.’
Henderson slumped down into his seat with an audible groan, picked up his mobile and started tapping, shaking his head. The screen lit up with a number illuminated above the green button; the station chief raised his head to stare at Frank, as if to say get your sorry arse out of my office.
Frank left.
Rhonda was engaged in calming down an overwrought citizen, an older man in an incongruous Hawaiian shirt, as Frank strode through the brightly coloured reception. Frank gave her a wave, not sure where he was heading, not sure if he was angry, embarrassed or amused. He knew he couldn’t have done anything else regarding the journalist Karen White; he also knew he’d been stitched up by Probationary Constable McFadden. She must have known what the journo was like, Frank thought, as he waited to cross the Pacific Highway. She should have warned him.
The walk light flashed to green as the beep, beep, beeping rang out like an alarm. Enough bullshit, thought Frank, time to find McFadden and set her straight. But first some food. As he reached for his phone to search up a decent café in town, it rang: it was Constable McFadden herself.
‘Where are you?’ she asked, with no preamble.
‘Don’t know. Looking for decent coffee,’ Frank replied.
‘Come to Coffs Central – Pansabella – Harbour Drive. Meet you there.’
She hung up with no further information. Eight minutes later Frank found his way to what looked like a flower shop. He was checking his google maps when Mac came out of the shop doorway, holding two brown paper bags in one hand, with two large drink cups clasped against her chest with the other. She thrust the bags at Frank and held up a drink in either hand.
‘Salted caramel, or malted vanilla?’ she asked.
‘Hah,’ replied Frank, his anger melting away. ‘Either.’
‘Caramel,’ said Mac, holding out the container in her left hand. ‘I figure you for a vanilla lover, but if you haven’t tried their salted caramel milkshake, you’ll die an unhappy man. Breakfast in the bags, both the same.’
Frank took the milkshake from her and handed her a bag. Mac led the way back through Coffs Central to the carpark and an unmarked vehicle. She unlocked the car, nodding for Frank to take the driver’s side.
‘I sent the samples from the victim’s wounds off to Sydney; but I also photographed them and showed them to Mr Daniels last night…sorry, Chaplain Daniels, from the hospital?’ she told him, flicking up an image on her phone. ‘Takes too long to wait for the lab.’
‘What did he think?’ asked Frank, too happy sipping his milkshake to question sharing evidence with a layperson. Mac was right: he could die a happy man now. Not that he was planning on it in the near future.
‘Clerodendrum tomentosum – Hairy Lollybush to the uninitiated,’ replied Mac. ‘A–’
‘Rainforest tree,’ Frank said.
‘Doesn’t grow near the beach,’ they said in unison.
Frank looked at Mac – she was grinning.
‘Good milkshake?’ she asked. Frank nodded.
‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘The salted caramel is awesome, and I am a vanilla fan – it is the finest of the flavours. Beach?’
Mac nodded. ‘If you can stay out of the water,’ she said, looking at him with a sly, sideways smile that almost made up for the whole sorry episode.
Frank liked the way the tyres squealed as he drove the car around and out of the carpark.
‘Thanks for brekky,’ he said, as they stopped at a red light before the highway. The bag contained a bacon and egg roll, but a B&E unlike any Frank had tasted before; he chewed slowly, savouring the smoky bacon flavour.
‘That bollocking you got this morning? You didn’t deserve that. She’s a bloody piece of work, that Kaaaaren,’ replied Mac, drawing out the aaa sound in mockery of the journalist’s own tone. ‘Thinks she’s hot shit; got a rich boyfriend bankrolling that piece of crap paper so she can play Lois Lane. She woulda written that crap either way.’
Frank nodded, eyes on the traffic lights. ‘Good work on finding Turnbull’s car,’ he said.
‘Thanks. And ah, Frank?’
Frank glanced over at her. ‘Yeah?’
‘I put a trace on the vehicle before you were on the case. I wouldn’t white-ant you, ok?’
‘Thanks Mac, I appreciate that.’
The lights turned to green and they took off, heading north, heading towards discovery…heading towards danger.