Breaking Point (Chapter-12)

Boston-Wright sat on the end of the bed in shock. She couldn’t believe her ears. She might have been dozing ten minutes ago, but now she was wide awake. She picked up the phone and dialed 7, the in-room dining. She ordered a hot chocolate with extra marshmallows and then got talked into a slice of the cake of the day, Bavarian Black Forest. It wasn’t her favourite but she thought it would help out the Philippine lady taking her order. Boston-Wright thought she was doing her Good Samaritan deed of the day, hoping to herself that this late-night cake binge would not stay on her hips.

Boston-Wright hit the redial button on her iPhone. This time it was ringing. Creed must have finally got off the phone.

“Did Pratt get hold of you, sir?” Boston-Wright enquired, still in shock but also conscious she was interrupting the boss on one of his rare nights at home.

“Yes, yes. I’ve heard the news.”

“Any more details?”

“Same as the other scenarios. Coloured girl, hands behind her back and throat slit. She’s probably been dead a week to ten days. But it may not be related to the others.”

“O’Halloran wants us back tonight, but he can get fucked. We’ll leave early in the morning. Good night, Boston-Wright.”

Boston-Wright clicked the end button and tossed the phone back on the bed, thinking Creed ended the call rather formally. Maybe his wife was close by, she thought. A knock at the door announced the arrival of the hot chocolate and black forest cake. It would be her sleeping pill tonight.

Creed and Boston-Wright drove out of the Hertz rental lounge at 6.30am and merged into the traffic on George Street before exiting onto the freeway heading south down the coast to Kingscliff. While Boston-Wright drove, Creed looked through the paperwork Winchester provided on Talbot. Puffing and blowing, Creed closed the file and looked out the window.

“Crazy I know, sir,” Boston-Wright commented as she looked at the bumper-to-bumper traffic entering Brisbane.

“What?” Creed came back from his thoughts to align with Boston-Wright’s comment.

“I thought you were puffing about the non-moving traffic going the other way,” Boston-Wright replied.

“No. It’s the bloody case.”

“Are you going cool on Talbot?” she asked.

“I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something. Something isn’t right,” Creed said, dropping the file on the floor under his legs.

The rest of the car ride to Kingscliff was solemn. Both realized the case was stalling and that O’Halloran would have their guts for garters, especially now that they’ve run up more expenses in Sydney and Brisbane. Pulling into the parking lot of the Station, Creed suggested that Boston-Wright drop the rental car back to the depot and take the rest of the day off. He would deal with O’Halloran on his own.

Greg Pratt was the first of the crew to wander into Creed’s office. Creed was slumped in his office chair, a fair indication of how he was feeling about the case.

“Get anything in Sydney, Jack?” Pratt asked.

“Not really. Yes, Talbot was in the area during the times those poor girls were murdered but nobody could ID his car or him,” Creed replied, pulling receipts from his suit jacket and tossing them on the table. “I’m getting the feeling I might have cocked up here.” He sighed, giving Pratt a lingering stare, hoping for some recompense. Pratt never uttered a word.

Boston-Wright put a load of washing on and did some light tidying of her house. Even though she had been away for the past three days, she was not tempted to cook herself a home meal. Instead, she placed the Papa Giuseppe frozen lasagna into the microwave and keyed in three minutes thirty seconds. She poured herself a glass of red and took up a prime position in front of the television. A re-run of Inspector Lynley would be the closest thing to company she would have tonight.

Boston-Wright arrived at the station at 7.45am the next morning. Creed was already in. He was clean-shaven, wearing a fresh shirt, Boss jeans and a black Versace jacket, but he looked like shit. It looked like he had been on an all-night bender.

Boston-Wright looked at Creed’s office, hoping to get a welcoming hello. But nothing. His head was buried in a mountain of paperwork, including receipts from their trip. Boston-Wright threw her bag on the floor next to her desk and slumped down into her chair. Her desk was covered in a pile of paperwork that had mounted up over the past few days while she was in Sydney. The thought of clearing the backlog temporarily overwhelmed her. Creed called her into his office.

“Here are my expenses. Check them over, add yours in and hand the whole thing to Accounts. See if they can get the money back into our banks in the next pay run,” Creed explained, handing his receipts over to Boston-Wright and greeting her with a numb look.

Boston-Wright started sorting through the files on her desk placing them in priority of urgency. She took her expense receipts and placed them into Creed’s folder and left it on her desk. The edges of a couple of photos caught her eye as they protruded from one of the many files on her desk.

Boston-Wright looked over the notes of the Jessica Campbell case while glancing at the photos that first caught her attention. She tossed the file onto the pile and quickly grabbed another case, feverishly thumbing through the notes. Then she looked at the Berg file.

Boston-Wright gathered the case files and raced into Creed’s office, looking like she had just discovered an anomaly in Creed’s accounts. Creed picked up on the look and wondered if she had spotted the porno movie rental on the hotel bill.

“Sir, we are looking for the wrong guy,” Boston-Wright gasped, much to Creed’s relief.

“What do you mean, Boston-Wright?”

“We know Talbot drives a white Toyota Land Cruiser. A similar car was seen in the vicinity of the Bear Club on the night Sam Thompson was murdered. But there’s no mention of a Land Cruiser in any of the other case files. However, there is mention of a Nissan Patrol being seen in the area in three of the other cases. We’re looking for the wrong guy, sir.”

“But remember when we spoke to Talbot in Casino?” Creed carefully said, choosing his words slowly.

“Yes, sort of,” Boston-Wright replied.

“I complimented him on owning a Land Cruiser and he replied that he had only owned the vehicle for about six months,” Creed explained, looking to see if the wheels of thought were turning in Boston-Wright’s brain.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning we need to run a check on what car Mr. Talbot owned before the Land Cruiser,” Creed replied with a smug look.

Boston-Wright called the Department of Transport and after validating her credentials, she asked for a check on vehicle registrations owned by Mick Talbot over the past three years. The lady on the other end of the line immediately confirmed his ownership of a white Toyota Land Cruiser, but nothing else. When Boston-Wright pressed the lady further, she still came up empty.

It didn’t make sense. How could there be no records of vehicle registration to Mick Talbot prior to his current four-wheel drive? Boston-Wright was rattled. She sat back in her chair, staring into space while keeping the registration clerk holding on the line. As Talbot had been a normal working man all his life, there would be no reason to register a vehicle in a company name. Boston-Wright asked if the clerk could search by street name.

“Yes, Detective. I have a Nissan Patrol registered to a Kay Talbot of that same address.”

Boston-Wright could hardly contain her excitement. She raced back into Creed’s office, closed the door and raised her hand for a high five.

“Bingo! Kay Talbot owned a Nissan Patrol up until about six months ago,” Boston-Wright spat out with a grin from ear to ear as she slapped Creed’s hand.

“Get him in. Not her, just him. And Boston-Wright, we need to do this by the book. Give him the option to bring his solicitor,” Creed replied, clasping his hands and tapping them rapidly on the desk.

Talbot was surprisingly calm when Boston-Wright phoned. He agreed to come into the station at 3.30pm today. He never really asked what it was about and confirmed that his solicitor would not be attending. Boston-Wright hung up thinking Talbot was one cool customer, putting it down to his military career.

Mick Talbot sat calmly in the interview room sipping his Earl Grey tea waiting for the detectives to arrive. He wore khaki trousers, a white polo and slip-on brown shoes. His almost white hair had been recently cut and his beard trimmed.

Creed and Boston-Wright entered the room in unison, pulling back their chairs to take up their position opposite Talbot, who greeted them with a smile and eye contact. Boston-Wright glanced at Creed, raising her eyebrow, acknowledging Talbot’s coolness. Talbot didn’t miss it. Creed undid his jacket button while Boston-Wright sorted her notes on Talbot’s vehicle registrations.

“You’re Bruno Boston’s daughter, right?” Talbot asked of Boston-Wright.

“Yes, that’s right.”

“He and your mother lived just outside Bangalow, if I remember rightly. I used to pass their home on my way to Canungra when I was in the Army,” Talbot commented, trying to make light conversation. But Boston-Wright wasn’t interested in conversation and immediately took back control by starting the questions about the vehicle registration, the reason as to why Talbot was here. Jack looked impressed.

“Records show us that you drive a Toyota Land Cruiser,” Boston-Wright stated, getting a nod from Talbot.

“But your previous vehicle, a Nissan Patrol, was registered in your wife’s name. Why was that?” Boston-Wright asked, as she shuffled some papers on the interview table.

“Kay is five years older than me, and we thought that as she was getting older, we may have some trouble in her renewing her driver’s license and maybe registering the car,” Talbot coolly replied, sitting crossed-legged, his arms folded on his right thigh. His eyes shifted from Creed back to Boston-Wright.

“And do you still have the Patrol now, Mr. Talbot?” Creed asked.

“No, Detective Sergeant. It is Sergeant, not Inspector, right?” Talbot commented looking Creed in the face with his head slightly cocked to the left, trying to throw the detective off his game.

“The vehicle was stolen, and your Pottsville boys found it trashed in scrub,” Talbot said. “A couple of aboriginal kids supposedly but nobody was ever charged. That Father Douglas stuck up for them in court and the case was thrown out for lack of evidence, I believe.”

Boston-Wright wound up the interview, noted to call the Pottsville Station and thanked Talbot for his co-operation. Creed shook his head and slovenly walked back to his office, complementing Boston-Wright on her interview and rewarding her with an early night. But there was no rest for Creed. This case was beating him.

Boston-Wright took advantage of an early night to catch up on some sleep and hit the sack at 9.05pm. She was lulled into a deep sleep thinking about her parents and the fun times she had living in the family home near Bangalow.

The phone rang. Boston-Wright almost jumped out of her skin. She sat up in bed, startled, trying to work out if the house phone was really ringing or if she was just dreaming. She rubbed her eyes hard, shook her head and threw back the covers as she raced into the lounge, fumbling for the light switch.

“Hello?”

There was no answer. Just silence.

“Hello? Who is this?” Boston-Wright asked as she looked into the kitchen. The wall clock said 10.15pm.

After a few more seconds of waiting, Boston-Wright hung up. She was now fully awake and a little rattled. She dialed the recall button, but no number appeared. Who the hell would be ringing her on the house phone at 10.15, she wondered? It couldn’t be anyone from the station, as they would have rung her mobile.

Creed is kind of an early-to-bed, early-to-rise kind of bloke, except when he’s researching for a case. And then she had a spooky thought.

Mick Talbot.

She tried to think how he could have gotten her number as the kettle boiled the water for her chamomile tea. She gathered her cup and sat on the lounge, her knees under her chin, while she sipped her drink. She was worried but determined not to let this rattle her.