“Lionel Broadbent,” he announced as Lionel got up just in time to be enfolded in a bear hug that was strong enough to make him groan. “How on Earth are you? What has it been—a year? Two years?”
“Since the last reunion dinner? Two years is right, I should think,” Lionel replied bashfully, stepping back and smoothing down his jacket. “I wasn’t able to get away from the store for the last one.”
“Amazing,” Whittaker shook his head, still smiling. “Well, it’s bloody good to see you. Things haven’t been the same here since you retired. A lot of changes, and not all of them good ones.”
“I think the writing was on the wall when I called it a day,” Lionel observed wryly. “The department has enmeshed itself too closely with government. It seems to have taken on some bad habits. Though, you’ve achieved some significant victories of late. I see the Carrington Task Force has made the news a number of times.”
Whittaker grinned self-consciously as he went across to the office door and leaned out. He signalled to a secretary with a gesture that indicated a coffee cup and the secretary smiled and stood.
“Well, I had a good teacher,” he continued, closing the door and returning to his desk. He held out his hand toward Lionel. “The best, actually. Most of this department owes something of its legacy to you, Lionel.”
The compliment caused Lionel to squirm and he crossed his legs awkwardly. “Rubbish,” he dismissed. “Policing is and has always been a collaborative pursuit—a team effort. I learnt as much from those under me.”
“Always the modest one,” Whittaker observed, sitting down. “How’s things up in Hambledown?”
“Quiet. Just the way I like it. The general store is ticking along, although Ruth tends to run the enterprise more now. She’s an obsessive organiser—can’t help herself.”
“I think we share some common ground there,” Whittaker chuckled.
The secretary entered the office armed with a tray upon which sat a trio of cups, a plate with some sliced fruitcake and a pot of freshly brewed coffee. The aroma hit Lionel’s nostrils and he felt his stomach leap.
He waited as she poured cups for all three of them, then delicately swiped up a slice of the cake and winked at Whittaker before exiting the office as swiftly as she had arrived.
“So, when did you arrive in town?” Whittaker asked, taking his cup.
Lionel’s expression faltered a little and he tilted his head. “I’ve been here a couple of weeks.”
Whittaker’s eyes bulged. “And you didn’t think to give us a call before now and organise a catch-up beer. I’m hurt, Lionel.”
Whittaker flashed yet another lopsided grin but it faded when Lionel didn’t respond in kind. Instead, he seemed to retreat further into his chair.
“I’ve been a little…preoccupied, I’m afraid.”
Setting his cup down, Whittaker regarded his mentor with concern, sensing that he was troubled by something.
“What is it?” he asked. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes,” Lionel answered uncertainly. “Possibly.”
“Would you like me to close the door?” Whittaker offered, making a move to stand.
Lionel turned in his chair and regarded the door, then nodded. “That would probably be a good idea.”
Whittaker complied.
“Can I talk to you, off the record?” Lionel asked, sitting forward in his seat, cradling his cup in his hands.
“Lionel, of course you can,” Whittaker responded, returning to his seat. “We’ve been friends for thirty years. You know you can come to me with anything.”
Whittaker frowned quizzically, studying his old mentor, trying to gauge what it was that was on Lionel’s mind.
“Is this about Casey?” he ventured. “That thing with Cyber-Crime?”
Lionel looked up at Whittaker at the mention of his granddaughter. He shook his head hesitantly.
“Look,” Whittaker continued before Lionel could answer. “I’m aware that a couple of detectives have called Casey into question.”
“Well, it has been weighing on her family and me somewhat,” Lionel admitted. “One detective in particular seems to be keeping a close watch—Prishna? That’s her name, I think.”
Whittaker chuckled. “Prishna Argawaal. She’s a girl scout. Good detective but she has a tendency to go after conspiracy theories.”
“Well, she seems to have concocted one about Casey. About her having some sort of nefarious sideline career that runs counter to the work she’s been doing for the Department.”
“Don’t believe it,” Whittaker croaked dismissively. “Casey is one of our best assets. Hell, I recruited her—I’ll vouch for her.”
“I’m sure you will, Farnham. It goes without saying that I believe my granddaughter and I’ll do anything to protect her from any sort of harassment.”
“I’ll have a word with Argawaal, Lionel. Tell her to turn down the enthusiasm knob.”
Lionel hesitated before looking up at an expectant Whittaker who tilted his head.
“That’s not the only reason you’ve come to see me, is it?”
“No. I wanted to talk to you about an old case. A cold case.”
Whittaker nodded thoughtfully. “One from your time?”
“Slightly after actually. It goes back about three years, a hit and run down near Geelong. Young woman, early twenties, apparently hitchhiking back to Melbourne after leaving a music festival at Queenscliff.”
Whittaker’s expression remained neutral.
“You had some input on the case for a time actually,” Lionel continued. “I saw your name in some of the press coverage.”
Whittaker finally nodded, the wheels turning. “The name was Andrutsiv. Yeah, I remember.”
Whittaker returned to his chair.
“A baffling case. Saskia Andrutsiv, twenty-two years old, found abandoned on some isolated road out in the boondocks. Horrible injuries but still alive. We never found a car. No one came forward. It was declared a major crime when the decision was made to turn off her…”
Whittaker’s voice trailed off and he regarded Lionel with suspicion. “W-wait a sec. Why did you want to talk about this case?”
“I may have come across some new information.”
Whittaker’s eyes narrowed. “I see. So what they say about retired cops not being able to switch off their investigative minds is true then. You been looking for old cases to crack, Lionel? Can’t let it go?”
“I haven’t allowed myself to become that pathetic,” Lionel retorted gently. “No, I’ve only just recently become acquainted with this case. But there may be one or two fresh leads worth looking into.”
“Fresh leads,” Whittaker responded, his eyes narrowing into an interrogatory gaze. “From where?”
Lionel managed a faint smile at his former colleague’s demeanour. “Let’s just say the information is credible. But I’d need to be sure that I’m across the specifics before I can be sure that it is worth pursuing.”
Whittaker sat back in his chair then rotated slightly, turning his attention to an open laptop. He tapped at the keyboard with one hand while looking back and forth between Lionel and the screen.
“Organ donor,” he said softly, reading from whatever information it was that had appeared on screen. His expression paled. “Saskia Andrutsiv’s family donated her organs after she was declared brain-dead.”
Lionel didn’t meet Whittaker’s eyes which narrowed as the detective swivelled to face him. Instead he nodded, looking down into his lap.
“Casey…received her heart transplant around the same time, didn’t she.” It was less a question than an observation. “You think it came from this girl?”
“We know it did,” Lionel said flatly, looking down and picking at his thumb. “It’s been confirmed.”
Whittaker’s lower jaw slackened. His eyes grew wide. “Jesus, Lionel! You do realise how many laws you’ve broken in obtaining that information?”
“Well, to be clear, it
wasn’t me who got a hold of that information. You do know how resourceful Casey can be.”
Whittaker sat back stunned. He rubbed his hand over his mouth, clearly agitated.
“Why on Earth would Casey want to risk her hide by finding out who her donor was? Shouldn’t she be focusing on living her own life with this gift she’s been given and not worrying about where it came from?”
Lionel held up his arms, palms out, towards Whittaker.
“Look, let’s just say that Casey’s health has been precarious for some time. She’s feeling significant distress about having this organ inside her—something that is not uncommon to organ recipients—and she felt she had to find out about the person who gave her a second chance. Unfortunately, she uncovered more than she bargained for. Casey believes that she has some new information about the case that may be significant.”
“What do you think?” Whittaker questioned, extending his finger at Lionel.
Lionel thought for a long moment before answering. “I trust her.”
“Well, okay. Let’s get Casey in here. She can tell us what this information is and, I dunno, we can decide what to do with it.”
“That sounds encouraging,” Lionel responded bitterly. “You and I both know that VicPol doesn’t have the resources of a dedicated cold case unit. The information will wither and die on the vine before anyone decides to look into it.”
Whittaker feigned a hurt expression. “That’s a bit harsh. Look I can shift a few things around. It won’t be that hard.”
Lionel sat still. He didn’t respond.
Several moments of silence passed between them.
“What are you asking for, Lionel?” Whittaker probed.
“Just a look at the case file.”
Again, Whittaker’s eyes bulged and, for a moment, Lionel thought he resembled a bullfrog.
“Christ! You know I can’t give you access to a case file! You, more than anyone, know the sort of shit that would get me into.”
“I’m not asking you to give it to me. I’d just like thirty minutes in a quiet corner, out of the way, where I can read it and see if any of the established facts marry up.”
Whittaker shook his head in bewilderment and held up his hand defensively. “I’m not going to have an old-aged pensioner and his granddaughter running around like Tango and bloody Cash!”
“Oh come now, don’t be ridiculous, Farnham,” Lionel admonished, giving his voice a ring of his old authority. “You know it’s not going to be anything remotely like that. All I want to do is ensure that we’re not wasting anyone’s time. Do you think I don’t remember all of the crackpots and charlatans that used to come forward with wild claims about old cases?”
“Lionel,” Whittaker lowered his voice. “I don’t care that you know the circumstances of this poor young woman’s’ death or even the fact that she was a donor to your granddaughter. The internet is that bloody pervasive now that I’m sure with a little effort you could find out as much as you want to about the case including the colour of the victim’s undies the night she was hit. But, I’m not going risk the wrath of the Force, the Courts and a one-way trip to prison, just because you think you’ve got a whiff of something new.”
Lionel nodded slowly and silently. Resignation set in.
He knew he was asking too much.
Slowly, he stood and retrieved his jacket from the coat hook behind him as Farnham stood and shuffled out from behind his desk. He met Lionel’s gaze with a pained expression.
“I’m sorry. You taught me everything I know. I know you wouldn’t come to me if you weren’t absolutely sure of what you had. But that’s the thing, you taught me too well. I can’t bend the rules.”
Lionel offered a curt smile and his hand, which Whittaker took.
“No, and nor should you. I’m sorry I’ve put you in this position. It was unfair of me.”
Lionel turned towards the door and opened it.
“Wait, Lionel,” Whittaker said falteringly. “Bring Casey in. We can talk and I’ll see to it personally that it’s handled.”
Lionel left Whittaker’s office and began walking towards the lifts.
“This information,” Whittaker called after him. “Where does it come from?”
Lionel stopped in mid-stride. He lifted his finger and tapped it to his temple three times.
He exited the lift into the reception area and looked out through the glass entrance doors ahead of him. The trees on the far side of St. Kilda Road were swaying back and forth, caught in the aggressive grip of fresh gusts of wind. Grimacing, Lionel slipped his arms into the sleeves of his jacket and drew the collar up around his neck.
I suppose I deserve it, he thought darkly.
Approaching the doors, they slid aside revealing the full force of the blustering conditions outside. He noted the first drops of rain on the path.
“Lionel!”
The voice rang out from behind him and he turned to see Whittaker emerging from a lift beside the reception desk. Whittaker hurried across the reception area towards him and stopped a few feet away. He regarded Lionel uncomfortably.
“Come with me,” he said.
CHAPTER 18.
Shoving the heavy door aside with her foot, Casey lurched into the apartment grunting with the effort of carrying a heavy box of magazines in her arms. Sweat beaded from her forehead as she struggled through the living room and into the bedroom, where she practically tossed the box. As it hit the bed, its contents spilled out across it, with some titles falling off the edge on the far side. Casey shook her aching arms and blew air noisily up and over her face. Lifting loose strands of hair away from her eyes, she stood back, hands on hips and appraised the mess she had just created. She went back to the entrance where two more boxes sat in wait. She hefted each of these in turn into the apartment where she deployed them onto the bed in a similar fashion to the first. In short order, she had created a proper mess.
She grimaced.
Casey doubted she had ever seen as much literature dedicated to cars in her life: glossy print magazines, newsprint supplements, dealership catalogues, street machine magazines, classified almanacs. The volume of material dedicated to luxury cars in particular was astounding. There must have been at least a hundred titles here.
Since she’d left Kirkwood, the nebulous memory of the car had positioned itself front and centre in her mind. Having invested so much of her resolve in fighting against the recollection of the nightmare, Casey now found herself trying as hard as she could to hold on to the details.
The irony of this was not lost on her.
The mysterious car lingered in her consciousness, teasing her with fragments of clarity through a disconnected mist. She could see fractured detail. The low-slung rectangular headlights. A trapezoidal grille. Four polished, chrome rings in the centre.
Audi… Audi…
No matter how hard she tried, Casey couldn’t sharpen her memory and it gnawed at her like an itch that she couldn’t scratch. On a recommendation from Scott, she’d decided to hit up a secondhand bookshop that specialised in the kind of print ephemera that now graced the entire surface of her bed. Being something of a petrol-head, Scott often sourced auto magazines from there. She’d spent a good hour selecting boxes of back issue magazines, catalogues and newspapers that had, fortunately, been sorted into publication dates and years. While the average customer might have sought one or two titles from any given box, Casey had taken multiple boxes.
The man at the counter had regarded her as if she were nuts.
Casey examined her watch and, turning hesitantly, she retrieved a pair of scissors from the kitchen. From her shoulder bag she took out a large sketch pad, a roll of Scotch tape and a box of pencils she’d purchased on the way home.
On the way back to her bedroom, she stopped before the door to the balcony. The mid-morning sun streamed down onto the bay, the light chop on the sea’s surface glittered with reflected light. Casey opened the door, allowing fresh air into the
apartment. She smiled. Closing her eyes, she allowed the scent of the ocean to clear her mind.
In a moment of clarity, she recalled the car that so intrigued her. She recalled the road that so unnerved her. The scene of violence that so terrified her.
And she recalled something else, something elusive that had nothing to do with the car or the road or the violence.
She could not put her finger on it.
Casey returned to her bed, feeling a twinge of anxiety as she surveyed the massive pile.
She wondered if the magazine store guy was right.
Kicking off her shoes and climbing onto the bed, Casey crossed her legs and scanned the magazines, newsprint and brochures before her.
Opening the sketch book and taking out a pencil, she rested it in her lap and began drawing. She sketched and shaded, closing her eyes repeatedly and going into her mind to pluck out her clearest recollections of the car. Within an hour, Casey had produced dozens of detailed perspectives of the car. She had filled the sketch book front to back with incarnations of the vehicle’s front detail, headlights, fog lights and grille with the eponymous rings of the Audi symbol a prominent feature in all of them. There was a sleekness to the shape of the car she had drawn. The lines felt ultra modern, suggesting a vehicle that was new or near-to new.
A killer with expensive taste.
Leaning back against her pillow, she looked over the pile again.
“Where to begin…”
The obvious place was with the big, glossy publications where she would, no doubt, find high quality images of Audis that she could stick on the wall in the hope that it would jog her memory.
Laying the pad down, Casey leaned forward and shifted the pile in front of her, lifting out a “Luxury Motor” magazine. The cover, ironically, displayed an image of an Audi, though this was an SUV model. She examined the date of publication in the bottom corner of the magazine.
December 2011.
Just a few months before her transplant.
Nodding, Casey opened the magazine and began browsing.
Almost immediately, she found a picture of a silver Audi sedan whose front detailing closely resembled her sketches in the pad beside her. Comparing the two, Casey decided this was an image worthy of further scrutiny. She lifted the scissors, cutting around the image, then lifted it from the page and fixed a piece of Scotch tape to it. Climbing off the bed, she stuck it on the brick wall beside her at head height.