“I could not agree to their demands. They are targeting me because of my past. Helping them smuggle heroin would go against everything I believe in.” He stared her out. “You may seem outraged, Mary. But believe me, I will live with that decision for the rest of my life. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.”
Chapter 22
Thirty-six Hours Ago.
PAM HEWES’ HUSBAND, Geoff, was in his favorite chair in his favorite pub, The Cloverleaf in Darlinghurst, and he was feeling pleased with himself.
He’d had a good week so far. That afternoon, he’d won a couple of grand at the races, squeezed over ten thousand more from the small businesses he was lending to in the Western Suburbs and heard that the brothels he managed for Al Loretto, the biggest underworld name in Sydney, had increased their profits.
He was about to take a sip of beer when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He whirled round and was startled to see Al Loretto himself standing way too close. Another man Geoff half-recognized was positioned behind him, arms folded.
“Hey, Al,” Geoff said, doing well to disguise his surprise. “How are you?”
Loretto didn’t reply for a moment, just stared down at Geoff surveying him with his hard black eyes. He then pulled up a chair, leaned forward. “Geoffrey,” he said quietly. “Do I or do I not pay you well?”
“What do you mean, Al?”
“Simple question. Do I recompense you adequately for your services?” Al had made an effort with the Oxford English dictionary. Thought it was impressive.
“Yeah, course you …”
He gripped Geoff’s lapel and his companion took a step forward. “Then why are you being so disrespectful, Geoffrey?”
Hewes blanched.
“You want to further capitalize on your employment position? Is that it, amigo?”
Geoff went to reply, but stopped as Al Loretto tightened his grip, his breath on his cheek. “How did you come to the conclusion that I would be happy for you to install cameras in my brothels? Hmm?”
Geoff tried again to reply, but was cut short.
“Didn’t you imagine for a second that it was just a tad disrespectful, Geoffrey? Was there not a skerrick of doubt, not a moment when you thought you might ask me first?”
“I didn’t think you would have a problem with it,” Hewes managed to say.
Loretto stared at him in silence again.
“I thought …”
“I don’t pay you to think, Geoffrey. Oh no. I do the thinking.” The gangster tapped his head.
“So, what do you …?”
“What do I want? I want you to cease and desist. Not hard to understand is it, pal? Take the fucking cameras out this afternoon and do what I pay you to do. Any more questions?”
Geoff looked at him blankly.
“Good,” Loretto answered, stood, picked up the almost full glass of beer and poured it over Geoff Hewes’ head.
Chapter 23
I’D JUST WALKED into the lab at Private. Darlene was at a computer, tapping away. The police had sent over everything from the Stacy Friel murder scene for her to study. “Anything?” I asked.
“Not a lot more than the Police Forensics guys have found, I’m afraid. The banknotes are photocopies … high-quality – about the grade of a top-end domestic printer.”
“Fingerprints?”
“I wish! No … Zip. Actually, to be honest, I didn’t expect anything. The killer wore latex gloves. I found traces of the cornstarch powder that coats standard gloves.”
“And nothing special about that?”
“Nope. These gloves could have come from any one of a hundred outlets, a thousand – Coles, Woolworths, any drugstore.”
“Okay. Anything else?”
“Biological matter from the woman’s vagina. I could tell you where she was in her menstrual cycle and whether or not she’d had sex during the past twenty-four hours. But I can’t give you anything practical about what was put into her.”
“She wasn’t raped?”
“Definitely not.”
I looked round the lab. Benches on each side. On top of these stood impressive-looking machines with elaborate control panels and flashing lights. I recognized a powerful microscope and a centrifuge, but that was about it. The rest might as well have been Venusian technology.
“The cops gave you all the material you need?”
“Yeah, personal effects plus a file containing several hundred photographs of the crime scene. I’ve analyzed Stacy Friel’s jacket. I can confirm the police pathologist’s assessment of the attack – the number of stab wounds, the angle of entry, the type of knife. Although of course, the weapon hasn’t been found. I wish I could have been at the crime scene. It’s hard working second hand like this. I might have caught something the cops missed.”