The Darkest Hour (6 page)

The woman took it. ‘How is the man?’

‘I’m afraid he passed away.’

A frown creased the old lady’s forehead. ‘This city.’

When Ella approached the beehive witness, she found her blinking back tears and plucking at a fray on her handbag strap.

‘It was awful.’

‘Take your time,’ Ella said.

The woman took a deep breath, and pointed along the street. ‘I was coming along here, in a bit of a hurry because I wanted to get home. Then suddenly there was this bit of a bustle in front of me.’ She squinted at the footpath as if remembering. ‘There were two men together, just for a second, as if they’d collided with one another, then one moved on and a split second later the other fell to the ground.’

‘What did you do then?’

‘As I got closer I could see the man on the ground was grabbing at himself, at his chest. I thought maybe he was having a heart attack, from being knocked over, you know. But then I saw the blood, and I got out my phone and called an ambulance.’ She pointed to one of Murray’s witnesses. ‘That man there started CPR.’ She lifted her chin. ‘I made him stop.’

Ella wrote quickly. ‘What did the other man look like?’

‘He was white, in his thirties or so I’d guess.’

‘Hair colour? Clothing?’

The woman hesitated. ‘Dark hair, I think. Brown more than black. Clothes, I couldn’t really say. Long sleeves, I think. Maybe jeans.’

Ella asked the woman to wait for a moment, and went to speak to Murray. ‘I’ve got a description.’ She read out what the woman had said.

Murray looked at his own notebook. ‘Matches with what I’ve got. White male, blue jumper, short dark hair.’

Ella went back to the beehive woman. She took down her details, explained that they’d be in touch to get a formal statement later, thanked her, and let her go just as Detective Sergeant Kirk Kuiper strode along the footpath.

Ella and Murray met him near the taped-off area around the bloodstain. He frowned at it as Ella summarised what they had so far, his face haggard in the lighting from the shop windows. She gave him the dressing packet, and its protective plastic bag crackled in his hands as he studied it.

‘Okay.’ He gave her the packet back. ‘Go do the notification, see what the family has to say. Try to get the formal statements tonight. We’ll get started on the canvass here. Give me a call later, let me know where you’re up to.’

‘Will do.’

Ella and Murray got into the car. ‘Damn,’ Murray said.

Ella looked up to see one of his male witnesses standing in front of the car, waving at them. ‘Reckon he’s remembered something?’

Murray shook his head. ‘He’s nuts. I’ll get rid of him.’

Alone in the car, Ella smoothed out the plastic and the dressing packet.

Thomas Werner.

I’m not a good man.

She wondered what the wife’s response would be. Well, no, not that, she knew what her response would be. But what light would her response shed on Werner’s reason for stabbing Kennedy? Would she be able to tell them how Kennedy and Werner knew each other? Would she explain why Kennedy had said he wasn’t a good man? Perhaps the killing was related to the car crash he’d caused, the victim’s family taking revenge. Mrs Kennedy should be able to tell them if she and her husband had been threatened lately.

A truck rushed past, the slipstream buffeting the car. Ella watched the tail-lights blur down New South Head Road, and shivered with anticipation.

T
he Kennedys lived in a top-floor apartment in an ageing block in Bondi. Ella looked around at the dark and quiet street, at the clogged traffic on Campbell Parade at the end, while they waited for Mrs Kennedy to answer the buzzer.

‘Bet they’ve got some view,’ Murray said. ‘Some money too.’

Ella could smell the ocean. ‘More likely they bought years ago when it was cheap.’

‘Sitting on a goldmine then.’

The speaker clicked. ‘Hello?’

‘Mrs Deborah Kennedy? I’m Detective Ella Marconi, with Detective Murray Shakespeare. May we have a moment, please?’

There was silence.

‘You’re not in uniform.’

‘Detectives don’t wear them.’ Ella showed her badge to the new-looking security camera overhead.

‘What station are you from?’

Ella didn’t want to say Homicide. ‘We’re based in Parramatta. Would you like a phone number to call to check us out?’

‘Wait a moment, please.’ The speaker clicked off.

Murray said in a low voice, ‘I had a man once look up the phone book to ring the station, he was so sure we were impostors who would’ve given him a fake number.’

‘I guess if she’s doing that she’ll soon find out we’re Homicide,’ Ella said. ‘Makes you wonder what she’s afraid of though.’

After a few moments the door buzzed. Ella pushed it open and they entered the foyer.

The lift was slow and tired. As it stuttered to a stop Murray said, ‘You do it.’

She eyed him. ‘You owe me.’

The doors slid open. A woman stood on the landing, her face anxious. She was in her late forties with short ash blonde hair, the build of a runner, and skin that saw too much sun. She wore a navy tracksuit. Her hands were deep in the pockets of the top, arms pressed close to her sides as if for protection. Ella understood. There were no
good
reasons why police came to your door late at night.

She held out her badge wallet. ‘I’m Detective Ella Marconi and this is Detective Murray Shakespeare. May we come in?’

Deborah Kennedy peered at Ella’s ID card then up at her face. She did the same to Murray, then held open the door to the apartment.

Ella felt the woman’s eyes on her as she walked by. The living room’s deep beige carpet, oversized plush lounge chairs and velvet curtains drawn against the night made the place feel soundproofed and silent. Ella was aware of the dressing packet in its bag in her pocket, heard it crackle as she walked. On the sideboard a silver filigree butterfly sat amongst family photos. Ella mentally matched the pictures of the man, his rounded features, his dark grey hair and friendly brown eyes, with his licence photo. Smiling alongside him in the frames were Mrs Kennedy and a blonde teenaged girl.

Ella turned to face Mrs Kennedy, who closed the door gently and came into the centre of the room. She gestured vaguely for them to sit but Ella always stood when delivering bad news. Anything else felt too casual.

‘Mrs Kennedy, I’m very sorry to have to tell you that your husband James was assaulted tonight.’ She let that sink in for a moment.

Deborah Kennedy stared. Ella took one step towards her. ‘He was rushed to hospital but unfortunately could not be saved.’

Mrs Kennedy put her hands over her face.

‘I’m very sorry,’ Ella said again.

The woman started to sob. Her arms shook. Ella placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. Across the room on a coffee table was a box of tissues and she motioned with her eyes for Murray to get it.

When Deborah Kennedy looked up he proffered the box but she paid no attention, instead grasping Ella’s hand. Her nails dug in. Ella held back a wince.

‘How did it happen?’ Tears flooded down her face. She looked suddenly about seventy. ‘Who did it?’

‘Could we all sit down?’

They sat side by side on a lounge. Murray took a single chair at an angle. Ella’s fingers were hot in the double-handed grip Deborah Kennedy now had on her; the grip that clenched tight every few seconds as if in time to waves of pain, but she wasn’t going to pull away. She curled her fingers around the woman’s trembling ones and looked into her eyes.

‘The incident happened on New South Head Road in Edgecliff,’ Ella said. ‘Do you know why your husband would have been there?’

‘Near the shops?’

Ella nodded.

‘There’s a bakery there which does a special rye bread that he likes. They always keep a loaf for him. He picks it up on his way home from work.’

‘Where does he work, Mrs Kennedy?’

‘He’s a courier for Quiksmart. He drops the van at the depot in Leichhardt at six and rides his motorbike home.’ She closed her eyes. ‘Tonight it was getting so late, though, and he didn’t answer his phone. I knew something must have happened.’

‘He was definitely on his bike?’

‘Yes, it’s quicker than the car.’

‘And he always finished at six?’

‘They don’t like giving overtime. He’s usually home by seven.’ She shook her head, eyes still closed. ‘How did it happen?’

‘He was attacked with a knife,’ Ella said softly. Stabbed sounded so violent. ‘He was very brave. He was able to talk to the paramedics and tell them what happened.’

Deborah Kennedy looked at her. ‘He was talking?’

Ella nodded. ‘He also gave them a message for you. The paramedic wrote it down.’

‘He . . . Do you have it? Can I see it?’

‘Could you first tell me, please, if you know of anybody who might want to hurt your husband?’

‘I can’t think of anyone. We live a very quiet life.’ She gulped. ‘Lived.’

‘There had been no recent problems with the family of the woman who died in the car accident three years ago?’

‘The Harveys,’ she said. ‘No, nothing. We didn’t even know what Alan Harvey was saying back then until the people from the TV show came around and told us. They wanted to know what we felt, but we just closed the door.’ She grimaced. ‘We felt awful, of course we felt awful over it. But those shows.’ She let go of Ella’s fingers and held out her trembling hand. ‘Please. I want to see what he said.’

Ella hesitated. ‘There’s blood on the piece of paper.’

‘Please.’

Ella took the bagged dressing packet from her pocket. Mrs Kennedy received it like a devout worshipper receiving a communion wafer. Ella met Murray’s gaze over her bent head, grateful to Lauren. What she’d done was not only going to seal their case against Werner but meant a lot to this woman.

She let a few moments go by, then said, ‘Do the lines of poetry have some special meaning for the two of you?’

Deborah Kennedy stared at her, but she had the feeling the woman wasn’t seeing her at all, instead looking through her to whatever meaning the poem had.

‘James used to read poetry to me when we were courting,’ she said suddenly.

Ella pointed to the declaration. ‘Do you have any idea what he meant here, when he said he wasn’t a good man?’

Deborah Kennedy focused on the packet again. She frowned and shook her head. ‘That makes no sense. He
was
a good man.’

‘Just a couple more things,’ Ella said. ‘Had you ever heard James mention that name, Thomas Werner?’

‘No.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘I’d remember,’ she said. ‘Our nephew’s named Thomas. I always notice it when I hear it.’ She looked at the packet again. ‘I have no idea who he’s talking about here.’

‘You and James have a daughter, is that right?’

‘Tess. She’s at uni, Sydney Uni.’

‘Does she live here with you?’

‘No. She shares a little flat with a friend in Newtown.’ Her face crumpled. ‘How am I going to tell her?’

Ella touched her arm gently. ‘When was the last time you saw and spoke to your husband?’

‘When he left for work this morning, just after eight.’ She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes.

Ella took back the bagged dressing packet, then grasped her hand again. It was wet with tears. ‘Mrs Kennedy, we need someone to identify James’s body to us. It doesn’t necessarily have to be you, if you don’t feel up to it. We can contact one of his friends, or another relative.’

But Deborah Kennedy was shaking her head. ‘I’ll do it. I want to see him.’ She drew in a deep quivering breath. ‘Where is he?’

‘At St Vincent’s Hospital.’

‘So what . . . how does . . .’

‘He will be moved to Glebe Morgue in the morning, for a post-mortem examination to be done. Once you choose a funeral director, they’ll get in touch with the morgue staff and arrange everything from there.’

Deborah Kennedy looked down at her hands. Ella imagined her wondering how it could be that this morning she was a happily married woman and now she had to decide on a funeral company for her husband.

‘Would you like to call anybody before we go?’

She’d ended up on the phone more than once, breaking the news, when the caller had started crying too much to talk. She’d been asked to go around and tell them in person too. She was prepared for anything.

‘I need to tell Tess.’ Mrs Kennedy’s eyes welled again. ‘She’ll want to see him too.’

‘We can pick her up on the way.’

Tess Kennedy lived in a flat in a small block in a dark and narrow street in Newtown. Ella and Murray waited in the car for Deborah to bring her daughter down. Murray opened the door a crack to see the time on the dashboard clock.

‘They’re grieving,’ Ella said.

‘We’re missing the action.’ Murray pulled the door to. ‘Why don’t you go up and prompt them along?’

‘She didn’t want me to go up before, so I’m hardly going to be more welcome now.’

A man walked along the footpath, looking in at them as he passed. Ella stared back at him, then tilted the side mirror to watch his progress along the street.

Murray shifted impatiently in his seat. ‘They’ll probably have it solved by the time we get back.’

‘Calm down,’ Ella said.

‘You want it just as bad.’

Worse, probably.

‘Here they come.’ Ella got out and opened the back door for the weeping women. Tess was gangly, coltish, looking more like a thirteen year old than a university student. She wore jeans and a brown Bali T-shirt, her blonde hair tied back in a messy ponytail, sandals on her feet. Her eyes were red. She helped her mother into the car.

‘I’m sorry about your father,’ Ella said. The girl thanked her in a low voice and got in.

They drove in silence to St Vincent’s where Murray parked in the ‘police only’ bay. They asked for directions from an ED nurse, who called a wardsman to take them down to the morgue.

He asked them to wait a moment in the corridor while he went in.

The Kennedys stood close to each other, fingers intertwined. Tess gripped her mother’s forearm with her other hand.

‘When we go in,’ Ella said, ‘we need you, Mrs Kennedy, if you still feel up to it, to confirm that the body is that of your husband, James.’ She looked at Tess and the way her knuckles blanched on her mother’s arm. ‘Would you like to come in as well, or stay here?’

‘I’m coming in,’ she whispered.

The door opened and the wardsman cleared his throat. They walked in single file, Murray pulling the door shut behind them. In the centre of the small white room stood a stainless steel trolley, and on top lay a man. A sheet covered his body to his upper chest. His arms were outside the sheet and intravenous lines were taped to his forearms. His face was pale with a purplish tinge and his dark grey hair was smoothed back. His eyes were closed and a plastic tube was tied into his mouth with bloodstained cotton tape.

Deborah started to sob and she laid one shaking hand on his shoulder. Tess wrapped her arms around her mother and looked at Ella, tears pouring down her face. ‘It is my father.’

‘You want to pay your debt now?’

Lauren looked up from the street directory open on the case sheet folder on her lap. ‘Huh?’

‘The coffee you owe me for saying the stabbing wasn’t going to be serious,’ Joe said. ‘Fancy it now?’

‘Can we do it later?’

He shrugged and started the engine.

‘And listen,’ Lauren said. ‘Before we clear, can we take a little drive?’

‘Going to see your boyfriend?’

She pointed out the windscreen. ‘Straight ahead.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

He drove, and she kept one finger in the relevant page in the directory and one eye on the road while scribbling out the case sheet for the job they’d just done.
Ninety-year-old female, lost balance and fell in the bedroom, no loss of consciousness. Suffered skin tears to right arm. Wound cleaned and dressed. All obs within normal range.

‘Left here,’ she said.

Joe swung around the corner. ‘So what’s he look like?’

Pt refusing transport – will see GP in the a.m.

‘I bet he’s tall.’

Lauren signed the case sheet and closed the folder. ‘Right at the lights.’