The Bat(92)

‘Fat arse,’ he answered with a smile when Watkins asked him what kind of an impression she had made on him.

‘Anything new about the girl in Centennial Park?’ McCormack said.

‘Not much,’ Lebie said. ‘But she wasn’t the apple of Mummy’s eye – she took speed and she had just started work at a strip joint in King’s Cross. She was on her way home when she was murdered. We have two witnesses who say they saw her going into the park.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Not so far, sir.’

‘Harry,’ said McCormack, wiping away the sweat, ‘what’s your theory?’

‘The latest,’ mumbled Watkins, just loud enough for everyone to hear.

‘Well,’ Harry began, ‘we never found the witness who Andrew said had seen Evans White in Nimbin on the day Inger Holter was murdered. What we know now is that White is more than usually captivated by blondes, he had an unstable childhood and it might be interesting to examine his relationship with his mother. He’s never had a steady job or a fixed abode and for that reason following his movements is tricky. It’s not impossible that he may have had a clandestine relationship with Otto Rechtnagel, and it’s not inconceivable that he joined Otto on his travels. He may have rented a room in a hotel and found his victims wherever he came across them. This is all theory, of course.’

‘Maybe Otto’s the serial killer,’ Watkins speculated. ‘Maybe someone else killed him and Kensington and had nothing to do with the other murders?’

‘Centennial Park,’ Lebie said. ‘That’s our serial killer. I would bet everything I own. Not that I have a lot to lose there . . .’

‘Lebie’s right,’ Harry said. ‘He’s still out there somewhere.’

‘OK,’ said McCormack. ‘I can hear our friend Holy’s using expressions like not impossible and not inconceivable to launch his theories now, which may be wise. We have nothing to gain by being cocky. Furthermore, it should be clear to all of us now that we’re dealing with a very intelligent man. And very confident. He handed out the ready-made answers we were after, gave us the murderer on a silver platter and assumes now these answers have calmed our fevered brows and that we regard the case as solved, since the perpetrator died by his own hand. By fingering Kensington he knew, of course, that we would decide to hush the matter up – which you have to admit is clever thinking.’

McCormack glanced at Harry as he said the latter.

‘Our advantage lies in the fact that he thinks he’s safe. People who think they’re safe are often reckless. Now, however, it’s time we decided how we’re going to tackle this matter. We have a new suspect and we cannot afford another blunder. The problem is that if we make too much of a splash we risk frightening off the big fish. We have to have stomachs of steel and stand quite still, until we can see the big fish clearly beneath us, so clear that it’s unmistakable and so close we can’t miss. Then, and only then, can we throw the harpoon.’

He gazed at each in turn. Everyone nodded to confirm the boss’s indisputable good sense.

‘And to do this we need to work defensively, quietly and systematically.’

‘Disagree,’ said Harry.

The others turned to him.

‘There is, you see, another way to catch fish without making a splash,’ Harry said. ‘A piece of string and a hook with some bait we know he’ll go for.’





44


A Box Jellyfish


THE WIND DROVE dust clouds ahead as it whirled up along the gravel road and over the low stone wall around the cemetery and into the small gathering of mourners. Harry had to squeeze his eyes shut to avoid getting dust particles in them, and the wind caught shirts and jacket tails, making those assembled look from a distance as if they were dancing on Andrew Kensington’s grave.

‘Hellish wind,’ Watkins whispered during the priest’s recitations.

Harry stood thinking about Watkins’s choice of words, hoping he was wrong. It was of course difficult to say where the wind was coming from, but it was certainly in a hurry. And if it was here to take Andrew’s soul with it, no one could say it was taking its job lightly. The pages of hymn books were fluttering, the green soil-laden tarpaulin beside the grave flapped and those who didn’t have hats to hold on to watched comb-overs and other hairstyles unravel.

Harry wasn’t listening to the priest, he was looking through scrunched-up eyes across the grave. Birgitta’s hair was flying backwards like a red jet of flame. She met his stare with a blank expression. A grey-haired old woman sat trembling on a chair with a stick in her lap. Her skin was yellow, and her age could not conceal her distinctly English equine face. The wind had knocked her hat skew-whiff. Harry had worked out that she was Andrew’s foster-mother, but she was so old and fragile she had scarcely registered Harry’s condolences outside the church – she’d just nodded, mumbling an incomprehensible sentence over and over again. Behind her stood a small, barely visible black woman with a girl in each hand.