Missing (The Cass Lehman Series Book 3) (19 page)

‘Have a seat. I’ll go and grab Mr Saunders. He’s been in our cells since last night.’

‘What made you bring him in?’

‘He was loitering under the Morphett Street Bridge with a bunch of other homeless blokes. We got a complaint from some joggers who were running along the Torrens River path that goes under the bridge and we went down there to move on Saunders
and his friends. They all went peacefully except for Mark. He got cantankerous and began swinging his fists around. It was after we got him in the back of the paddy wagon that he started to rant about people being killed.’

‘And you think he’s legit?’ Ed said.

‘I don’t know. I think most of what he’s saying is probably crazy talk but there’s something there that made me wonder. Can’t quite put my finger on what it was. You know how it is.’

Ed did. Sometimes it was more how you felt about a suspect than what they actually said.

Ed sat and waited. The room was small and airless. He smelled their approach well before they appeared in the doorway. Ed wrinkled his nose as the stale body odour hit him. The guy was dressed in clothes that looked like they had been washed sometime in the last decade, maybe. His hair was long and a bushy beard covered half his face, but it was his eyes that pulled Ed’s attention. They were dark, wide and darting around the room, never resting in one place for more than a few seconds.

Roger pushed him into a chair. ‘This is Detective Dyson. He’d like to ask you a few questions about what you were telling me earlier.’

‘Dyson, dying son. Did your son die, Ed?’ Saunders threw his head back and cackled.

‘You told Sergeant Mawson here about the deaths of some homeless men,’ Ed said.

‘Dead man walking. Dying to get in, dying to meet you, death and taxes, dead calm, dead of night. Always at night.’

Ed decided to be more direct. ‘You told the sergeant that you’ve been killing people, Mark. Can you tell me about that?’

‘Dead men. Lots of them. Nobody notices. Shadows. Shadows disappear and nobody notices.’

‘And it was you who made them disappear?’

Saunders threw his head back and laughed.

Ed sighed inwardly. He wasn’t going to get any sense out of this guy. It was going to be a colossal waste of time just like everything else that day.

‘How were they killed Mark?’

‘Killed them with kindness, that’s what happened. No such thing as a free lunch.’

The laughter started again. Louder and more hysterical.

‘Where did you put their bodies, Mark?’

‘Bodies? What bodies. No bodies, nobodies that’s who we are.’

Ed looked at Roger and shook his head.

‘I think that’s enough for now Roger.’

Roger shepherded Saunders out of the room and back to the cells. The sound of his cackling echoed down the hallway, receding as they got further away. Roger returned a few minutes later.

Ed stood up and stretched. ‘Did you search him when you brought him in?’

‘Yeah, just in case. Death in custody rules and all that. We didn’t find anything except for some loose change and an empty gin bottle.’

‘No evidence of blood on his clothes or person?’

‘How can you tell through all the dirt?’ Roger said.

‘He might know something but it’s hard to tell through all the ranting. I’m not sure if he thinks he’s the killer or someone else is. How long will you hold him?’

‘Not long. We’ll need the cells again tonight. I’ll see that he gets a feed and then kick him loose.’

‘Any ideas how we’d find him again if we want to question him?’

Roger screwed his face into a grimace. ‘Not easy. These blokes don’t have addresses. If we need to find him again it’d be a matter of sweeping all the usual places. I think he goes to a few of the hostels if he gets really desperate but he sleeps rough most nights.’

‘All right, thanks for your time, Roger. I’ll be in touch if we need to hunt him down again.’

They shook hands and Roger escorted him back out through the security door. Ed stepped out into the cool sunshine and paused, filling his lungs with the crisp air. Dave would be back at the office and they had an interview to crack on with. He picked up his pace.

Dave was just in the door when Ed got back. Ed filled him in on the interview with Saunders and they both slumped back in their chairs. The morning had been a complete write-off; they had no solid leads and were no closer to working out who their vics were. They’d probably never know if Ken Forster was one,
and the DNA from Thomas Simpson wouldn’t be back for at least twenty-four hours. The only thing they had to show for the morning’s efforts was an extensive list of places homeless people liked to frequent, courtesy of Mrs Jacobs.

Their next step was to talk to the family of their third possible victim. Janice had found that Len Crowley’s daughter worked shifts and would be home by 2pm. They had an hour to burn.

Dave was busy tapping away at his computer, writing up the morning’s events. Ed felt a niggle of guilt that he’d managed to dodge the paperwork, but consoled himself with the thought that Dave was much better at that stuff than he was. Ed was a classic two-finger typist who wrote everything out longhand before typing it up, something Dave liked to take the piss about.

Ed pulled up Len Crowley’s file and reread it. His daughter’s name was Beth Crowley. Wayville was a nice suburb, within the city’s five-kilometre donut. Ed screwed up a piece of paper and hurled it towards the bin. It hit the wall, bounced on the rim of the bin and then onto the floor. With a grunt he stood up to retrieve it. ‘I don’t know about you, but I need some food,’ he said. There was no way he was going to see someone difficult on an empty stomach.

Dave looked up. ‘Ten more minutes and I’ll join you. We should be able to get a DNA sample off the daughter without too much trouble.’

Ed wandered over to the window and stared down at the streetscape. A cold front had moved in and sheets of drizzle were sweeping across the city, making everything hazy. Office workers
braving the weather during their lunch breaks were striding along the footpaths at a brisk pace, shoulders hunched, staying close to the buildings for shelter, their umbrellas jostling for space.

He went back to his desk and googled ‘Martha Jacobs’. Sure enough, a bunch of references to newspaper articles popped up, all of them singing her praises. He scanned down the page, looking for anything about the history of the hostel itself. One result jumped out at him. ‘House of horrors becomes a house of hope.’ Ed opened it up and scanned the text.

‘Ready?’ Dave walked up behind him.

‘Check this out,’ Ed said.

Dave leant over his shoulder. After a minute he let out a low whistle. ‘Well, that explains Mrs Jacobs’ Draconian approach to discipline. Sounds like she learned from a master.’

The article detailed how the North Adelaide house had been raided by police in the early nineteen forties and the owner, Mr Arthur Pritchard, had been arrested for acts of cruelty to his wife and child. He’d subsequently been found guilty of assault, false imprisonment and failing to provide adequate care for his child. A picture showed a girl of about five who was so painfully thin her cheeks were hollow and her arms skeletal.

‘Is that Mrs Jacobs?’ Dave said, his voice cracking.

‘I think so. Says here that Martha Jacobs née Pritchard triumphed over adversity and has gone on to turn the house where she was treated so badly into a place of kindness and shelter for the homeless.’

‘Casts things in a different light doesn’t it?’ Dave said.

‘I don’t understand how a man could do that to his own child. I hope he rotted away in a cell. But I still don’t think that excuses Mrs Jacobs locking her son under the stairs. I bet her own father did the same thing to her. I’ve never understood why abused children grow up to be abusive parents.’

‘We don’t know for sure she’s abusive. But enough of Martha Jacobs and the Freudian analysis. We need to go see Beth Crowley and we’ve got to eat first.’

‘I think we’d better take the car and go somewhere on the way,’ Ed said, looking at his watch. ‘You’re the expert, any good lunch spots out near Wayville?’

‘Are you kidding? That’s near King William Road. There are heaps of places to eat. We can go to this great little Italian …’

Ed handed Dave the keys and let his words flow over him, secure in the knowledge that wherever they went he’d be well fed.

‘Ms Crowley?’

The woman in the doorway wore a scowl that would have had most people heading for the safety of the footpath.

‘I’m Detective Dyson and this is Detective Reynolds. We’re here to discuss your father’s disappearance.’

‘It’s Dr Crowley.’ The furrows on her brow deepened further. Ed wondered what she’d look like if she smiled. She was probably only in her mid-thirties. Her hair was white-blonde, pulled back
into a severe ponytail. She wore no make-up and no jewellery, making her black polo neck and pants even more dramatic. Her eyes were light grey. The overall effect made Ed feel like he’d suddenly stepped into a black-and-white movie. He could imagine her playing the role of an evil Russian or German scientist in a dodgy B-grade flick.

‘Is this a bad time?’ Dave asked.

‘Is there a good time? I’ve just finished a sixteen-hour shift.’ She looked from Dave to Ed, then rolled her eyes. ‘I suppose you’d better come in.’ She opened the screen door and stepped to one side to let them pass.

‘First door on the right,’ she said.

They filed down a narrow hallway and turned into a small lounge room. Beth closed the door behind them with a loud thud, cutting them off from the world outside. The furniture was minimalist to the point of being clinical — a white leather couch and a matching chair with a glass coffee table. A black-and-white geometric rug was the only soft furnishing in the room. There were no curtains, no cushions and no knick-knacks. If people’s houses matched their personalities, then Ms Crowley was all angles and ice. Against one wall was a glass display cabinet. Neatly arranged on the glass shelves was an extensive collection of knives and saws.

Ed looked across at Dave who was already looking at him.

‘Sit down.’ She gestured at the couch and took the chair.

They sat. Ed wasn’t surprised to find the couch was rock hard.

‘Impressive collection,’ Dave said, pointing at the cabinet.

‘I collect antique surgical instruments. Why are you interested in my father all of a sudden? When I reported him missing, I couldn’t get anyone to take me seriously.’

‘Over ninety per cent of missing persons turn up in the first two weeks. I’m sure the officers who came to see you were hoping your father would turn up of his own accord,’ Dave said.

Ed had to suppress a smile. Dave wasn’t even bothering with the charm routine. He was probably worried she’d eat him alive.

‘Well, they were wrong, weren’t they? It’s been nearly a month and he’s still missing. So why now?’

‘We found some remains recently. Your father and a number of other missing persons match the age and general description, so we’re reviewing case files and collecting DNA to help with our investigation. Can you tell us a little about your father?’ Ed said.

She folded her arms across her chest. ‘I’ve already told the other officer all there is to know. He was a difficult man, and he was suffering from dementia. I’m an only child and my mother died years ago, so it was up to me to look after him.’

‘I see. And that wasn’t something you wanted to do?’ Ed said.

‘Have you got a parent with dementia, Detective?’

Ed shook his head.

‘Then don’t judge me. I put my career on hold to look after him. I made sure he was clean, clothed and fed. His periods of lucidity were diminishing. When he was still living by himself, he used to go for days without eating or washing. It was either take him in or put him in care.’

‘And that wasn’t an option?’ Ed asked.

‘It costs a fortune.’ She pressed her lips together. The effect was alarming.

‘What sort of doctor are you, Dr Crowley?’ Ed asked.

‘I’m registrar in the orthopaedic unit at Adelaide Hospital.’

‘Tell us what happened the day your father disappeared,’ Dave said.