Breaking Point (Chapter-16)

Nick Fife had a rap sheet as long as your arm. Running an illegal brothel, living off the means derived from prostitution, assault and a stint in the Arthur Gorrie Correctional Center for manslaughter. He sounded like one mean bastard.

Pratt passed the rap sheet onto Creed, commenting that perhaps Talbot had done them a favour. Creed returned a non-convincing smile but agreed Fife should be investigated.

“Some good news, Jack. The Pottsville boys have Fife in custody. He gave a hooker a nasty slap around the chops last night, breaking her jaw. And just for the record, she is black,” Pratt commented with his eyebrows raised.

The two detectives organized themselves for the forty-minute trip south to Pottsville. Pratt was on coffee duty and Creed fired off a few last-minute duties for the troops while they were away. He made a point of reminding Boston-Wright to remain in the office and to go over the files, just in case they had missed anything. Creed gave a look to Smith as if to say to keep an eye on Boston-Wright. She got the message and continued typing.

“Not on tour today?” Smith asked Boston-Wright. “He normally takes you. I thought you two were quite chummy.”

“Not today, or tomorrow or possibly ever,” Boston-Wright replied with a stern look on her face. “The sooner this case wraps up the better. I can’t wait to get off it.”

“Oh, sweetie, I thought you liked it here,” Smith replied in a patronizing tone.

“He’s just an arrogant, self-centered, egotistical, fucking prick,” Boston-Wright stated forcibly, clinching her right hand into a fist. “I just want to punch the bastard.”

“Hey, steady down, Princess. We all like him around here and I won’t have you bad mouthing him behind his back.” Smith returned fire. “Sure, he can be a bit over the top from time to time, but he’s an old traditionalist. Something missing in younger men these days. Are you pissed off because he gave you a mouthful about letting Mrs. Talbot into your house?” Boston-Wright stopped gazing around and looked back sharply at Smith.

“Oh, so you heard. So, what is this? Everybody talking about my business behind my back?” Boston-Wright looked disgusted, frustrated and annoyed.

“Quite the contrary. He’s got your back. He’s taken you under his wing. He was just concerned that Talbot was weaving his way into your life and that you could end up in trouble.”

“Well, I don’t need a father figure,” Boston-Wright snapped back.

“Stop being such a prima donna, Jo. Creed is just caring. He’s like that with all of us. But let me tell you something for nothing. Don’t get him offside. It’ll be the worst career mistake you’ll ever make.” Smith finished up and returned to her typing. Boston-Wright grabbed her bag and walked next door to Jarrod’s coffee shop for a change of scenery.

Creed and Pratt made good time to Pottsville in spite of stopping off at Cabarita Hill to gather some fresh air and to check out the day’s surfing action. The breaks were full of surfers, a place both boys wished they were even though neither of them could stand on a board. The duty sergeant welcomed his colleagues from Kingscliff and showed them into his office.

“A bit of a savage bastard,” the sergeant said, passing Fife’s record over to Creed while Pratt read over his shoulder.

“We picked him up at about half eleven last night from a laneway next to the Bull & Keg. It took three bouncers to restrain him until we arrived.”

“How old is this guy?” Pratt asked.

“Um, late forties. Yep, 48,” the sergeant replied.

“We’ve had him in a few times before but nothing as brutal. He loves the grog, but the boys thought he might have been on ice last night. He’s a bit of a no hoper. He’s got that gay bar up in Caba and a share in another in the Cross but he pisses his money up against the wall. Lives in a basement flat at the back of Cabarita Lakes owned by Kerry Douglas, an old hooker from way back.”

“He seems to like the hookers,” Creed said, looking over his convictions.

“Especially the dark ones. His mother was aboriginal, and his old man was a sailor in the merchant navy. He pissed off when Nick was just a lad,” the sergeant commented.

“Does he drive?” Creed asked.

“Sort of. He’s got a beat-up, clapped-out Nissan Patrol. We’ve had it impounded for a week, outstanding parking and traffic fines.

Creed and Pratt were shown the interview room and waited for Fife to be brought in. They didn’t have to wait long. They could hear footsteps and some drunk trying to sing a Joe Cocker ballad.

Fife was shown to the other side of the interview table. He was smaller than Creed expected, although his part aboriginal heritage was evident. His black, slicked back hair looked like a leftover from the eighties and badly in need of a shampoo. His Hawaiian shirt had grass stains and the right sleeve showed a splashing of blood, assumed from wiping his busted nose. His dossier also highlighted that he was a former Golden Gloves champ when he was sixteen.

“What’s this all about?” Fife asked, standing behind his chair.

“I’m Detective Sergeant Jack Creed and this is Detective Greg Pratt. We’d like to ask you a few questions about a case we are working on.”

“Are you having a fuckin’ lend of me? Creed and Pratt. Are you auditioning for the remake of Starsky and Hutch?” Fife sarcastically replied with a big grin. The two detectives looked at each other and thought how they’d both like to wipe the smirk off Fife’s face.

“We are investigating a series of murders. We would like to eliminate you from our enquiries,” Pratt said, gritting his teeth.

“I want a solicitor before I speak to you two bozos. You’re not going to fit me up with any murders,” Fife said, also demanding a cigarette and coffee. Creed slid over a packet of Marlborough heavies and a $2 Bic lighter. The constable left the room to find a duty solicitor from the station’s panel. Creed and Pratt also exited the room to grab another coffee and a couple of Arnott’s biscuits from the staff kitchen.

The Kingscliff detectives were expecting a podgy, old suburban solicitor to show up for Fife, considering the limited choice one would expect in Pottsville. Casey Edwards, 20-something, blond in a well-cut charcoal grey suit over a soft pink French cuffed shirt, was nothing like they expected. Fife also pepped up and straightened his shirt at the sight of Ms. Edwards.

Creed threw down a photo of Jessica Campbell, the hooker from Pottsville who was brutally murdered. Fife picked up the photo, held it close, squinting as he ran his eyes over the victim and finally nodded that he knew the girl. As he began to speak, Edwards cautioned him to think before he spoke.

“It’s okay, love. I’ve got nothing to hide. Yes, I knew her, if you know what I mean,” Fife replied, looking at Creed. “She was special. If I had a win at the pokies, I’d give Jess a call. I was sorry to hear she got killed.”

Creed placed down two more photos – Tom Langley and Darlene Ferguson.

“Yep, he was her pimp,” Fife recalled, drawing on his cigarette. “Old Tommy was a fuckin’ rogue. She was half his age. I think she thought of him as a father figure but that old prick had her on the game. She used to do half the blokes in the caravan park where she worked while their wives were out shopping.”

“Really?” chimed in Pratt.

“Mate, it was well-known. I think the park manager must have been in on it. There was never a vacancy at the Hastings Point Caravan Park.” Fife coughed and spluttered on his cigarette.

Creed looked at Pratt. It was time to play their trump card. Creed placed down Mick Talbot’s photo and pushed it closer to Fife.

“Do you know this guy?” Creed asked.

“Sure. I bought a car off him. Well, his wife anyway,” Fife replied.

“And what car was that?” Pratt asked.

“The old Nissan Patrol these buggers have got locked up just because of a few parking fines,” Fife stated, looking over at the duty sergeant. Creed couldn’t believe his ears. The Talbots had told him the car had been stolen by some aboriginal kids.

“We had it down as being stolen,” Creed commented.

“Yeah, it kind of was. A couple of the local lads stole it, took it for a joy ride and trashed it inside. But the coppers found it and returned it to the Talbots, who were keen to get rid of it. So Mick and I got chatting and I decided to buy it. The back seat was carved up and had a big stain on it. I called Col Turner from Turner’s Wreckers and he fitted me a new one.”

“What did Mr. Turner do with the old back seat?” Pratt asked.

“Probably burnt it. It was cactus. He couldn’t have sold it.”

“You mentioned Mick Talbot and you spoke about buying the car. Did you already know him?” Creed asked.

“Yeah, we were in the Army together. The Military Police, actually. We never socialized once we got out. I don’t think Mrs. Talbot approved of me. But I used to see them around a bit,” Fife recalled, looking into Creed’s cigarette packet while holding up his empty coffee mug, indicating to the constable to get him another. “Hold the lobster roll,” Fife chuffed as the constable left the interview room.

“So, you would see Mick Talbot around. Anywhere in particular?” Pratt asked.

“Well, he is a handyman with that old bugger’s organization. Dad’s something or another, and down at the Hastings Point Van Park. Let’s just say that’s one of his favorite haunts and that Mrs. Talbot would do a lot of shopping offsite.” Fife smirked, giving Creed a wink.

“Well, Mr. Fife, you’ve been most helpful. I think this establishment will be enjoying your company for another night, so we may pop back tomorrow to ask you a few more questions. Ms. Edwards.” Creed stood and moved to the door of the interview room.

“Hope you’ll put a good word in for me, Detective.”

Creed turned, half smiled and both he and Pratt left the station. It was ten to six and Creed invited his fellow officer to stop off at the Beach Hotel in Cabarita Beach to have a drink and an early dinner. The chicken parmigiana was right up Pratt’s street and Creed couldn’t pass up a 400g rump, well done, over a flame grill fire.

“We’ll get the boys over to Fife’s place in the morning to check out his flat and forensics to give his Patrol a thorough going over in the Pottsville Police Station carpark,” Creed said as he clinked Pratt’s glass, followed by the customary ‘cheers.’

“Do you still think Mick Talbot is our man, Jack?”

“Not sure. Fife is certainly in the frame. Let’s see what the boys turn up in the morning. I might be wrong on our Mr. Talbot after all.”

“Let’s not let Boston-Wright into that little confession just yet,” Pratt said with a smirk.

“Right on, Greg. Your shout.” Creed smiled as he sunk back into his chair and looked through the restaurant, over the sand dunes and onto the beach. The waves crashed onto the shore in a steady rhythm.