Breaking Point (Chapter-11)

Their first meeting wasn’t until three, so Creed and Boston-Wright had a few hours to kill. It was too early to check into the Parramatta Park Royal. It was a pity, as Creed dreamt of more sleep, but Boston-Wright was keen to relax at the poolside bar, kick back with a couple of drinks and have an early lunch.

Boston-Wright looked at the inviting water and wished she had brought her swimmers. Creed was oblivious to the water and had his eyes fixated on the thirty-something blonde on the lazy boy at the other end of the pool, his attention not unnoticed by Boston-Wright, who thought it was probably just as well she had forgotten her bathers.

After lunch, Creed and Boston-Wright checked into the hotel, quickly unpacked and met back in the lobby by 2.00pm. Jack wanted to call into the Dad’s Army office on route to Parramatta CID.

The Dad’s Army office was located on the fourth floor of a modest six story building in a side street off Parramatta Road. The lift shook and reeked of mildew and both Creed and Boston-Wright were glad the doors finally opened on the fourth floor. The receptionist announced their arrival to the manager before she showed them down the narrow, dark corridor to his office. The manager, who had now taken a phone call, waved the detectives into his office, gesturing for them to take a seat on the sofa.

“Yes, I know you are on the pension, love, but our rate is $49 an hour. You won’t find it any cheaper, not with the quality we offer. I’ll place you on hold and Miss Jones can book you in.

“Christ, these old biddies want to rob you blind,” the manager sighed. “Now what can I do for you two?”

“Charlie Warburton, your man up there in the Tweed, said you could help us,” Creed replied, hoping that a bit of name dropping may hold them in good stead for their unscheduled visit. The manager nodded as he took a sip of his coffee.

“You had a fierce electrical storm here in Sydney in February. I believe Parramatta was particularly badly hit,” Creed explained.

“It was a ripper, Detective. Roofs were ripped off; homes were flooded, and trees were uprooted everywhere. A bloody mess it was,” the manager recalled.

“We understand that you had to get extra help to do the repairs,” Creed stated. Producing Talbot’s photo from his suit jacket pocket, Creed asked, “Did you have a Mick Talbot working for you during that period?”

Dave Hamilton, the Dad’s Army manager, scratched his head and took a closer look at Creed’s photo. He didn’t look like the sharpest tool in the shed as he started to fumble on the keyboard of his desktop computer, cursing as he typed with a single finger.

“Yep, he was here with his lovely wife, Kay. We had her on cleaning duties as well.”

“Any chance we could get a printout of the dates and jobs he did for you?” Boston-Wright asked.

“Sure. I remember them now. I remember how strange it was that they stayed in a van park,” Hamilton remarked.

“And what’s so strange about that?” Boston-Wright asked.

“The van park was in Potts Point, which is about an hour’s drive from here,” Hamilton replied with a smirk on his face as he grabbed the job schedule off the printer.

“Maybe Michael enjoyed a rub n tug on Darlinghurst Road,” Hamilton commented with a cheeky grin like a 12-year-old schoolboy. Creed grabbed the notes, thanked Hamilton and made his way to the office door.

“Aren’t you going to tell me what this is about? There’s not a dodgy work claim coming, is there?”

“Just a general enquiry, Mr. Hamilton. Thank you.” Boston-Wright raced to catch up with Creed, who was holding the lift door open.

Once back at the car, Creed had a change of plans. “Let’s head back to the Potts Point caravan park and see if the manager there can tell us anything about the Talbots. Boston-Wright pulled into the late afternoon traffic and headed back to Potts Point. The traffic was more congested than their morning ride and drivers seemed not to understand how to use their indicators when changing lanes.

The entrance to the van park was calming, a wide-open entry with royal palms defining the roadway to the reception. A water fountain just inside the gate gave the place a resort feeling as Boston-Wright observed the 10klm/hour drive to the manager’s hut. The duty manager greeted his new guests, but upon discovering they were with the police, his tone soon cooled.

Words like privacy and confidentiality were bandied around, only irritating Creed further. He explained that the assistant manager would be helping their enquiries and closed with an alternative scenario that he could return with the Potts Point Police in several squad cars to collect the information he needed. A printout of the stay of the Talbots was produced immediately. Creed and Boston-Wright joined the long queue back to Parramatta.

While Boston-Wright battled the traffic, Creed skipped through the printout. It showed the Talbots spent five weeks at the van park from early February to mid-March, the period between the Tweed murders and when Sally Carter was killed in Amos Lane, Potts Point.

“We are getting close, Boston-Wright,” Creed let out with enthusiasm, flicking the page with his right index finger.

“That’s great, sir. I’m starving. I need to eat when we get back,” Boston-Wright replied, rubbing her stomach, trying to fight off the hunger pangs.

“Let’s celebrate, Boston-Wright. Madame Wong’s is the most exclusive Chinese restaurant in Sydney and it’s not far from our hotel. Let me make a booking,” Creed remarked, fumbling for his phone inside his jacket.

“Actually, sir, I haven’t brought any fancy clothes with me. Can we just eat in the hotel? I’m bushed anyway.”

After a quick freshen up, Boston-Wright waited in the lobby for Creed. The lift doors opened, and he appeared. Crisp white shirt, open neck, freshly shaven and hair slicked back. Creed scrubbed up pretty well with just twenty minutes preparation. With his arm cocked, Creed indicated to Boston-Wright to link arms as he escorted her to Tony’s Grille, the hotel’s premier restaurant. Creed was obviously in high spirits and Boston-Wright appreciated the extra attention. It had been a while since any man had shown her attention, even if this was from her boss.

The maître de showed them to a window table. Even though it was dark, the work colleagues had a nice view to the pool, which looked inviting. The gardens were flood lit. Creed seemed more relaxed, perhaps more confident after today’s meetings. For once he seemed to show some interest in Boston-Wright and her life.

“Do you ever feel under pressure to live up to your father’s name?” he asked.

“Sometimes. He was a great role model, and yes, I’d like to be as good as him one day,” Boston-Wright replied.

She was impressed that Creed was showing an interest. She decided to open up a little more and talk about her early days in Robbery and what it was like growing up as a copper’s daughter. Feeling more relaxed, Boston-Wright tossed in a few questions to Creed.

“Your daughter needs medical assistance, Jack?”

“Yes, Jo. She suffered at school from a bully, which she’s carried on to her later teens. She gets quite depressed, sometimes suicidal. She lives for most of the year at New Farm Clinic. It’s a mental health facility in Brisbane. That’s why my family still lives in Brisbane. It’s not by choice,” Creed recalls with a sad look gripping his face. Boston-Wright’s heart strings were heavily tugged.

Dinner ended with a coffee poolside. It had been a pleasant night. Jo felt a bit more comfortable with Creed and her position on the team. Everything was quiet back in Kingscliff, as they hadn’t received any updates from Pratt or Smith, indicating the investigation was stalling or perhaps the mice were playing while the cat was away. In any case, Boston-Wright hoped this wouldn’t affect Creed’s mood, although she had witnessed some pretty low lows with him.

The ride up to their rooms was quiet. Creed seemed to have drifted back into work mode. His mind was clearly elsewhere as he bid Boston-Wright goodnight. She watched as he fumbled, tapping his keycard on the reader three times before the light finally turned green and he was inside. Boston-Wright entered her room and smiled, wondering if she would have keycard issues when she hit her mid-fifties. She had 20 years to go yet.

Breakfast arrived at 7.15am, half an hour late. Boston-Wright sighed as her orange juice was now tomato, the bacon was cold, and the eggs were fried and not scrambled. But there was no time to complain and re-order. Checkout was at 8am.

The old Creed had returned by the time Boston-Wright hit the lobby. The charming, empathetic man she had dinner with the night before had morphed back into the grumpy old Creed she had become accustomed to over the past few months. He looked like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. Boston-Wright rolled her eyes, knowing the trip to the airport in peak hour traffic was going to be murder, especially with Captain Gloomy in the passenger seat.

Check-in was hectic. Creed’s lack of patience showed up when he tried to automatically check in, cursing the machine and bellowing for assistance from an airline staff member. The Qantas staffer calmly checked Creed in and sent him on his way with a smile, most likely faked.

Boston-Wright was impressed with the Qantas Club Lounge in Sydney. It was far grander than Coolangatta and the clientele were more businesslike, not so many of the yellow shirt mining brigade. Maybe a happy hunting ground for a new husband, Boston-Wright thought, although it was unlikely, she would be returning any time soon.

Cred was in a reflective mood. He sipped his coffee and looked into space. Boston-Wright could see the cogs of his mind doing overtime.

“You seem to be a bit distant this morning, Jack. Everything okay?” Boston-Wright enquired with one eye on a thirty-something businessman in a dark navy pinstripe suit, carrying a leather briefcase, striding by and wishing she was engaged in more than conversation with him. A wedding band on his left hand caught her eye and brought her back to reality and to Creed.

“We just seem to be going around in circles. Talbot has been around in each of these murders, but nobody can ID him.”

“Our break will come soon. Maybe when we land in Brisbane,” Boston-Wright replied, throwing in a bit of optimism and hoping to lift the mood.

“And Pratt called me last night. He’s resigning at the end of the case. That’s all my fucking need,” Creed sighed.

The hour and ten-minute flight to Brisbane was bumpy. The plane ran into a few electrical storms over Newcastle, causing Boston-Wright to grip onto her partner’s arm like a crocodile going in for a death roll. Creed flexed his forearm upon landing, trying to get the circulation back into the muscle, relieved the flight was over.

The reception of the Brisbane Hilton felt like a second home for Boston-Wright, having been there recently. The Duty Manager gave her a broad smile and welcomed her back. Twenty minutes later, Creed and Boston-Wright were on the Elizabeth Street taxi rank, climbing into a yellow cab and heading to the Dad’s Army office at Springwood.

Keith Winchester welcomed the detectives to the business and took them into his office. After explaining they were conducting some general enquiries around Mick Talbot, Winchester ran a report showing the times when Talbot had worked with the agency over the past eighteen months. Armed with the printout, Creed and Boston-Wright returned to the Hilton.

“Can I leave this file with you tonight, Jo? I’m going to have some quality time with the family. Melissa’s home, so we want to have a roast for dinner,” Creed stated, handing the file to Boston-Wright as he stepped off the pavement into a VW Golf, driven by his wife. Boston-Wright smiled, took the file and bent over to peer through the car window, expecting Creed to introduce her. But all she got was a wave as the car pulled out into Elizabeth Street and punched its way into the peak hour traffic.

As she entered the lift to take her to the Club floor, the upgrade courtesy of the Duty Manager, Boston-Wright recalled that Mrs. Creed looked washed out, her face drawn, skin dry and her hair not brushed. But with the last five years of living hell, how else was the woman to look?

Boston-Wright washed away the day with complimentary champagne and hors d’oeuvres and took in the sunset over Brisbane. The Club Lounge was relatively quiet. An elderly couple sat next to the window looking toward the Brisbane River, deeply engrossed in each other’s conversation. Boston-Wright smiled as the old man patted his wife on the knee before wandering off to refill her glass. The lady caught Jo staring and gave her a warm smile. Boston-Wright returned the smile and drifted off with thoughts of whether she would ever be sitting happily in the Club Lounge with her true love when she would be in her seventies. The love game to date hadn’t been kind, and with that, Boston-Wright gulped the last of her champagne and withdrew to her room.

At 9.40pm, the in-room phone rang. Boston-Wright, who had slipped into a daze while watching a re-run of Midsomer Murders, almost jumped out of her skin as she scampered across the room to her bedside table.

“Is he with you?” the male voice asked.

“No, Pratt. Jack is at home with his wife,” Boston-Wright replied. “Why?”

“I’ve been ringing his mobile for the last hour. We’ve got another murder down here.”