‘We’ve identified a couple of key things on the CCTV so far.’ Fry gestured inside, to the bar. Dodge and I followed, me at a distance, staying well back, as the cop set the laptop on the bar runner. ‘Just keeping you updated, detective. We’ve only done a quick sweep through.’
Dodge and I crowded in around the laptop with Fry. Evan was suddenly at my shoulder, which boiled my blood instantly. ‘I told you to get coffee and stay out of my sight!’
‘They’ve got to actually have time tomakethe coffee,sir.’ Evan glanced at Dodge and Fry for solidarity, like I was a lunatic who had wandered in from the street and tried robbing the place with a banana in my hand. ‘It’ll be here in a minute. One of the locals is going to round up a marquee for us to put out there.’
‘We should ask for some of their pistachio croissants.’ Dodge stroked his chin. ‘I bet they’d do a batch up for us. Gotta keep the troops fed.’
‘Would you show me this fucking footage, Fry?’ I said. ‘I haven’t wanted to get out of a bar this badly since the time I stumbled into a speed-dating event run by the Vegans Who Love Jesus.’
Fry pulled up a clip from a selection minimised on the screen. The image showed an overview of the bar we were standing at, the angle encompassing both the cash register and the space that might be taken up by the first two or three customers waiting to order. I glanced up at the discreet black dome camera where it was mounted above me and to my left, above some shelves of wine glasses. I knew from my time as a patrol officer working in Sydney’s Inner West that the camera was in a prime position for capturing sticky-fingered staff, patrons getting into scuffles over their spot in the queue, and those who snapped when they were refused service for being drunk, maybe threw something over the taps at the bar staff. These were the top three concerns for pub owners, staples of the Saturday night shift.
On one side of the image, a small, fluffy-haired guy was fiddling with the till’s touch screen when a petite woman with a blonde ponytail walked into view. The woman who must have been Chloe Lutz put her phone on the counter, and the two exchanged a soundless conversation while Rob Winter checked her in. I watched Rob as carefully as the slightly grainy footage would allow, trying to decide if the publican was looking at Chloe’s face or her breasts or her hands while she fished around in her phone wallet for an IDcard. Fry pointed to the edge of the screen. ‘Check-in at 4.18 p.m., just as Mr Winter stated.’
I didn’t comment. Evan stepped closer, his arms folded, elbow to elbow with me. The anger at him for existing was like a rock in my throat. Fry pulled up footage of Chloe edging a small blue hatchback Toyota into a spot beneath a row of camphor laurel and getting out. ‘Here she is parking her car in the assigned space seven minutes later.’
I cocked my head as I watched, looked closely at the bags she was lugging in. A duffel bag, the one I’d seen upturned in her room, slung over one shoulder. There was also a sizeable black handbag tucked under her other arm.
‘Handbag.’ Evan pointed. I ignored him.
‘Here’s Chloe ordering her dinner,’ Fry said, bringing up another video. ‘Time stamp says 8.07 p.m. Lines up with what the electrician told us about when she came down.’
‘Wrong,’ I said. They all looked at me. I kept my eyes on the screen as a lanky figure loomed behind Chloe at the counter. ‘The camera shows us Chloe ordering her dinner at 8.07. Doesn’t do squat for the witness’s account of what time she came down from her room. For all we know, the electrician’s lying or mistaken, and she came down at six and skipped around the streets picking dandelions for two hours.’
The men around me considered this. I was hardly aware of them. The tall, lean man standing behind Chloe was rocking back and forth on his heels almost imperceptibly, his angular arms folded, staring directly down from his considerably greater height at the back of her neck. A neck that would, only a few hours later, be seized by a hand and used to smash her head into a wall. Chloe’s ponytail was swishing before the tall man as she talked and pointed to the laminated menu on the bar. A dark-coloured ball cap obscured the man’s face from the camera. It swivelled sharply like the beak of a big black bird as Chloe walked away from the bar with her drink. His gaze seemed to follow her right to the door, causing him to turn 180 degrees to face the staff member at the till.
‘Okay.’ I squinted at the screen. ‘So, who’s the creep?’
EVAN
Istared at the image of my son on the screen, my breath caught in my throat and my brain trying to compute the information it was receiving. The experience was the same as when I had first laid eyes on my own image in the newspaper, the first time I’d made it into the local rag for running into a burning house and coming out with the owner’s golden retriever in my arms. There was an unreality to it. An absurdity. That was me, but it couldn’t be me. This was my son, but it couldn’t be my son. And yet, an all-consuming certainty and dread fell over me, made it impossible to take my eyes off the screen.
‘Okay. So, who’s the creep?’ Russell asked.
No one spoke at first. I couldn’t. Dodge and Fry were still taking a moment to examine the image of the tall, lean man behind Chloe. Fry ran the video back and we all watched it again. The turn. The stare. ‘No one in particular is leaping to mind,’ Dodge said finally.
‘It’s not Catherine’s son, is it?’ Dodge squinted at Fry.
‘Who’s Catherine?’
‘The writer’s festival lady. Runs the book club, “The Book Feast”. My wife’s in it.’
‘Oh, her. Dunno. Didn’t know she had a son.’
‘I’ll ask her.’ Dodge paused the footage, used his phone to take a photo of the image on the screen. I felt sweat beginning to bead at my temples. ‘You recognise him, Evan?’
I wanted to scream. I looked at Russell, who had cast his eyes to the floor, thinking, listening, probably trying to pick up intonations in the voices of Dodge or Fry that might reveal they’re trying to cover for one of their local mates. Russell trusted no one. The pressure to pass his audio exam now was making my heart hammer in my chest. Because that was Chris. I was sure of it. And there was no part of me that was brave enough to reveal to this group of men, in this moment, that it was my son who’d examined Chloe Lutz in a decidedly ‘creepy’ fashion in the hours and minutes before she was brutally stabbed to death. Maybe soon I’d be able to get there. But not now. So I said, ‘No idea.’
Russell looked at me for the first time in a solid ten minutes. I braced for a torching. It had been five years since my brother saw my son, and in that time Chris had shot up in height a good foot and a half, lost a considerable amount of puppy fat and grown his hair to his ears. I was confident he was unrecognisable to Russell. But could he see the anguish in my face? Russell turned away, flicked his hand at the screen and said, ‘Hunt him down.’
The words sent a crackle of terror through me. The meeting terminated, and I walked out the door of the pub and around the corner, right to the edge of the beer garden. I dialled Chris. He declined the first call, sent me to voicemail. Grinding my teeth, I dialled again. He picked up after an agonising eight rings. ‘Yeah?’
‘Were you in Redbelly Crossing last night?’
‘Me?’
I told myself to be calm. ‘Yes, you, Chris. Did you go to the pub here?’
‘Nooooo, Daaaaad.’ Chris drew out the words, like he was speaking to someone for whom plain English was impossibly hard. ‘What are you, high? I’m sixteen years old. I can’t go to the bloody pub.’
