Davo's Little Something (33 page)

When he got home Davo trained for almost three hours; harder than usual—if that was possible.

Divisional Detective Inspector Ken Burgess looked at the two reports in front of him, scrutinised them for a few moments,
put them down again then eased himself back from his desk. He thumbed through his pockets for a match to light his pipe still sitting in the ashtray next to the framed photo of his wife and three daughters. Having done so he puffed ponderously on it for a few moments before blowing a huge cloud of grey smoke towards the window behind him.

After almost forty years on the force Detective Inspector Burgess didn't mind the quiet carpeted airconditioned office he'd worked his way up to, two floors above the general hubbub and racket of busy Darlinghurst station. He was looking forward to his retirement early the following year and in the meantime didn't want any waves. The report that Detectives Middleton and Blackburn had placed in front of him was definitely going to create waves, large ones, and he didn't like it one bit.

Sitting across from him the two hardworking detectives stared impassively at the big beefy red-faced Divisional Detective Inspector, with his regimental haircut and almost knew what his answer would be before he opened his mouth.

‘Now let me quickly run through this again, Greg.' He paused and blew out another great cloud of smoke—up towards the ceiling this time. ‘You deliberately told the papers on Monday that these killings were just the results of gang fights. Now it's Wednesday, and in your opinion—and your partner's—you think it could possibly be the work of one person or one group of . . . persons. Is that right?'

Detective Middleton nodded his head. ‘Yes, sir. Look if I'd told the papers I thought it was just one bloke they'd have a picnic and sensationalise it all out of hand and the killer would immediately go under cover. Then they'd do their best to try and make us look bad. You know what lying, scandalmongering bastards those journalists are.'

‘Agreed.'

‘But the similarity between the five killings is too close. Same area. Almost the same injuries. Same type of victims. I'm not a hundred per cent certain sir, but . . .'

‘I have to agree with Greg, sir,' said Detective Blackburn. ‘And we're expecting a more detailed coroner's report later in the week.'

‘Mmhhh.' Detective Inspector Burgess blew another great
cloud of smoke towards the ceiling as the two detectives glanced expressionlessly at each other. ‘Well I'm afraid I have to disagree with both of you.'

‘Yeah. Why's that, sir?'

Burgess gave Detective Middleton a fatherly type of look as if he had no real right to even question his opinion.

‘They're only gang fights. Maybe a little more vicious than usual, but they're only kicking into each other with those big hobnail boots they wear—and their belts and chains.'

‘You think so, sir?'

‘Of course. Look, for one man to do all this.' Burgess tapped the reports with his pipe. ‘He'd have to be bloody Superman. And there's no Supermen around in this day and age I can assure you. Maybe years ago.'

Here we go again thought Detective Blackburn, trying not to roll his eyes with boredom. I remember back in the war years.

‘I remember we had a chap in our regiment. Big sawmill worker from Wauchope. Now he was a Superman. Bull chest, huge hands . . . but I'm getting off the subject.' The Detective Inspector put his pipe in the ashtray and left it there. ‘No, you'll find they're only gang fights—and I want you to treat them as such. In fact I want you give this investigation a low priority. Alright?'

‘If you say so sir,' said Detective Middleton.

‘In fact, if you ask me,' the Detective Inspector leant across the desk a little closer to the two junior detectives as if he expected someone to be listening, ‘the sooner these little animals all kill each other off—the better. Just as long as no decent citizens get hurt in the process.'

Detective Middleton nodded his head wearily. ‘Very good, sir. Whatever you say, sir.'

With a quick glance at each other the two somewhat disgruntled detectives picked up the report, said goodbye to the Detective Inspector and left for their own office.

‘Is he a boring old fart, or is he a boring old fart?' said Detective Blackburn as they started down the stairs.

‘He's unbelievable isn't he,' replied Detective Middleton, shaking his head. ‘I'll bet he didn't even read those bloody reports.'

‘They're still not conclusive evidence that it's one bloke though.'

‘No, I agree. But Jesus, doesn't it look like it to you?'

‘Yeah, fair enough,' nodded Detective Blackburn.

They'd no sooner walked into the detectives' room when a smiling curly haired detective over by a window called out to them.

‘Hey, Greg, Ozzie Joyce rang from the Coroner's Court while you were upstairs with Burgess.'

Immediately the two detectives stopped and turned expectantly in that direction. ‘Yeah? What'd he say?' said Detective Middleton.

‘He just said to ring him tomorrow afternoon. He said he might have something for you.'

‘Fair dinkum? Thanks, Col.' Detective Middleton smiled at his partner and gave him a light punch on the arm.

There was a good documentary on Channel 2 about the war in Afghanistan that Davo wouldn't have minded watching the following Thursday night, but Colin had rung earlier to say he was coming over and Davo, still a little reluctantly, had agreed to see him. Besides, he thought to himself, I can't keep myself bottled up like this all the time. I've got to start talking to people sooner or later; people could start to get a little suspicious. The less the bastards see of you the more curious they get. Colin's alright anyway.

As usual Davo had trained hard all week and by now had reached a peak of fitness that was nothing short of amazing; even he couldn't believe how he felt. Convincing Dr Connely he was still half crippled wasn't getting any easier either. Especially when he told him his blood pressure was the lowest he'd ever seen on anyone and that he had the pulse rate of an athlete; Davo said it must be all the rest he was getting. He'd put the third strand back on the chest expander and was now doing 250 twice a day. His arms didn't appear to be getting that much bigger—his chest maybe a little—but the strength he was developing across his shoulders and in his forearms was mind boggling. He noticed it when he worked out on the heavy bag; especially when he threw back-fists, the bag jerked
and buckled in the middle like it was going to snap in half. The more he trained however, the more fidgety and irritable he became when cooped up in the unit. Long walks around the cliffs away from people helped but there was only one thing now that could really ease the vexation and virulent hatred running through Davo: he had to get out and kill as often as possible.

But unfortunately part of his mind realised he was going to have to cool it—tonight Colin was coming around and he would have to look tired, sick and a bit hangdog when he walked in the door. So right now he was sitting around in an old pair of flannelette pyjamas, buttoned up to the chin, and a loose-fitting dressing gown, with the walking stick positioned prominently in the loungeroom so Colin couldn't miss it. Just after eight o'clock he heard his knock on the door.

The goodlooking truck driver was dressed pretty smartly, in a dark blue mohair cardigan, matching shirt and slacks and looked as if he was half expecting that Davo would want to step out for a few drinks. He couldn't hide the look of disappointment that momentarily flashed across his face when he saw Davo standing there in his pyjamas and dressing gown looking like someone's sick uncle. Nonetheless, he soon started smiling again and shook Davo's hand warmly as he came in the door.

‘G'day, mate,' he said brightly and sincerely. ‘Shit it's good to see you.'

‘Yeah. You too, Colin,' replied Davo, making sure he didn't grip Colin's hand too tightly and give away his newfound strength.

They went into the loungeroom and sat down—a slightly uncomfortable silence followed. Davo deliberately made it that way, preferring Colin to think he was still a bit slow from the beating.

‘Well how are you anyway mate? Jesus you don't look too bad.' Colin studied Davo for a moment then made an attempt to rephrase what he'd just said. ‘I mean . . . you look like you're getting a bit of a tan-up, and all that.'

‘Yeah. I've been getting out on the sundeck a fair bit,' replied Davo, his cheeks colouring slightly. ‘Sometimes I go over to the park and read a book.'

‘You can get around alright?'

‘Ohh yeah. I still have to use the walking stick though.'

‘Yeah, I noticed that when I came in.' Colin's eyes shifted to where it was positioned near the doorway. ‘You need that do you?'

Davo nodded his head. ‘For the moment yeah.'

Colin shook his head slowly and looked a little concerned but didn't say anything.

‘You feel like a beer?' said Davo.

‘Yeah, I wouldn't mind,' replied Colin as Davo made an elaborate effort to get up. ‘Hey stay there,' he said quickly, rising to his feet. ‘I'll get 'em. You gonna have one?'

Davo shook his head in reply. ‘I haven't had a drink since I got out of hospital. The doctors told me not to—it'll make my headaches worse.'

‘You still getting them are you?' said Colin, with his head in the refrigerator.

‘Yeah. I'm getting used to them now though.'

Colin returned with a can of Carlton Draught and settled back down on one of the lounge chairs. ‘Cheers anyway, mate,' he said, raising the can.

‘Yeah. Cheers, Colin.'

He took a lengthy pull of beer and let go an equally lengthy belch. ‘So what's been happening anyway, mate?' he burped.

‘Not a thing,' replied Davo, with a shrug of his shoulders. ‘What about yourself?'

That was all Colin needed. He then proceeded to give it to Davo with both barrels about his nagging mother, his stinkin' bitch of an ex-wife, the dirty rotten molls he'd been forced to put up with lately, how hard it was to find a flat or a decent place to stay and how, socially, everything had been up to shit in general. All without letting on that he was breaking his neck for Davo to come good so they could get out on the run again. Davo, on the other hand, was having more than a hard time keeping the hangdog look on his face and was almost pissing himself inside at some of Colin's stories and the expressions he was using. It had been a while since Davo had had a good laugh that wasn't edged with cruelty and, though he didn't want to let on he was glad Colin had come around,
the easy-going truck driver was a tonic in himself and for the moment managed to erase a lot of the hatred smouldering inside him.

‘But fair dinkum,' continued Colin. ‘That old lady of mine is unbelievable. She'd turn a baked dinner cold.'

‘Yeah. It sounds like she's dirty on the world.'

‘It's taken me thirty years to realise what a good bloke me old man is. He must have a heart of gold. I don't know why he doesn't flatten her. I reckon if he did I'd help him put the boot in.' Colin grinned at Davo over his third can of beer. ‘Not a very nice way to talk about your mother is it?'

‘Can't say I blame you, Colin,' sympathised Davo, taking a sip from a mug of Ovaltine he'd made himself. ‘Sounds like she's turning into a nice nark.'

‘She is mate. She'd give a bottle of castor oil the shits.'

They kept talking away for a while longer, with the stereoradio playing softly in the background, till Davo decided it was time for him to put on his sick act or Colin might start thinking there wasn't all that much wrong with him that a night out couldn't fix. He leant back, closed his eyes and started massaging his temples.

‘Are you okay, mate?' asked Colin, after a moment or two of silence.

‘Yeah—I just get these twinges now and again, mate. That's all.'

Colin looked at him for a few seconds with genuine sympathy. ‘I'll finish this then and let you get to bed.'

‘It's alright. I can take a painkiller.'

‘No, I'll get goin'. I got to get up early myself anyway.'

‘Okay. Suit yourself.'

They chatted for a little while longer while Colin finished his beer then he got up and Davo walked him to the door.

‘Well thanks for calling round, Colin, I'm glad you did. Sorry I'm still a bit of a lemon but . . . you know.'

‘That's okay, mate, I understand.' Colin shook Davo's hand warmly again then paused for a moment at the top of the stairs. ‘Do you still think you might . . . feel like slipping out for a bit of a drink one night though. I'll look after you if there's any trouble.'

Davo nearly burst out laughing at the sincere way Colin offered to look after him but he somehow managed to remain straightfaced. ‘Just give me another couple of weeks or so and I'll come out and have a drink with you for sure. I'd like to anyway.'

‘Fair dinkum?'

‘Yeah for sure.'

‘Beauty. See you, Bob.' Colin flashed a happy grin and disappeared down the stairs. ‘See you in a couple of weeks,' he called from halfway down.

‘See you Colin,' Davo called out after him, then closed the door and went inside.

For some strange reason Davo felt like a drink when he got inside; Colin had somehow left him in a good mood, the best he'd been in for weeks. He got the bottle of Old Grandad out, made a tall bourbon highball then turned the stereo up and sat in the lounge sipping it to a little bit of Renee Geyer on 2DAY-FM. Before long he was laughing out loud at some of the things Colin had told him then he started laughing at the farcical side of it all.

‘Ohh, Colin me old mate,' he chuckled out loud. ‘If you only knew. If you only bloody knew.'

That afternoon Detective Middleton had rung Dr Joyce but the coroner had left a message that he would be busy all day and to see him at 2.30 on Friday. At 2.25 the two detectives walked into the morgue where Dr Joyce was waiting for them in his office on the first floor; two brown cardboard folders sat on his desk in front of him.