Breaking Point (Chapter-4)

The phones had rung hot, but the information was cold. Creed was right in saying that the lines would be jammed with every nutter south of the border. Boston-Wright felt like she had spoken to dozens of them all wanting to tell their life story but not really offering up any new evidence. The team was frustrated. Of the leads that came through, the newbies were assigned to start sorting through the information.

But on a more positive note, Harry Sturgess cracked in an interview with Pratt, confessing he and Sam did get into a physical altercation in the toilets at Maccas. Originally reluctant to say anything, Sturgess felt the heat from Pratt and was concerned about implicating himself any further in the death.

According to Sturgess, Sam challenged him about his relationship with his girlfriend. With that said, Sam went to the toilet and Harry followed him in to sort it out. They got into a heated argument and Harry punched Sam hard in the stomach, causing him to buckle over. Without wanting to flame the situation, Sam picked up his tote bag off the floor and stormed out, leaving the restaurant. Harry gathered himself together and casually walked back into the restaurant and out onto the street to see if he could see Sam.

Pratt started flashing images of the CCTV through his mind. He didn’t recall seeing Sam walking down Tweed Coast Road with a tote bag over his shoulder. “Are you sure Sam left with a bag?” he asked Sturgess.

“Absolutely. It’s dark grey or black, made from canvas. It’s Sam’s major possession. He swept it off the floor, placed it und his arm and stormed out.”

“What do you mean, major possession?”

“It was his dealing bag, man. The local cops knew Sam Thompson pretty well down here. He had been nabbed a few times in the past year. And that’s why Melissa, his girlfriend, was dumping him. She was sick of him and his drug dealing. We all were.”

“What was he dealing?”

“Mainly ice, sometimes E, whatever he could mix up.”

Sturgess slumped in the interview chair. He felt remorseful as he replayed the argument with Sam in his head knowing that had they not fought, perhaps Sam may still be alive today. Pratt accepted Sturgess’s description of events and decided to release him.

Pratt joined Creed and the team and brought them up to date with Sturgress’s latest account of events. They would need to review the CCTV tapes again and conduct a search for the grey/black tote bag.

“From what I know about serial killers, they usually keep a token of their victim’s possession, a keepsake to remind themselves of their deed. These sick bastards get pleasure from it, apparently. But I’d be surprised if our killer kept a tote bag.”

“You’re assuming the killer is a man and a bag would not be his thing,” Boston-Wright asked.

“No. The bag would be too big. Too hard to conceal. They usually keep small tokens, like a lock of hair, jewellery and the like,” Creed offered up.

“Maybe it’s a drug deal gone wrong? Perhaps Sam owed somebody money.”

Pratt rolled his eyes, dismissing Boston-Wright’s lack of murder experience. Smith backed him up by fidgeting in her chair and turning away from Boston-Wright. Creed let out a small huff but was cautious not to stifle her enthusiasm and stem the flow of ideas in the future. God help them, they needed fresh ideas.

Over the next few days, the team sifted through all call messages. It was confirmed that Sam was wearing a tote bag on his right shoulder, which was mostly concealed from the cameras as he walked down Tweed Coast Road. They needed to find that bag. The killer’s DNA could be on it.

Smith turned up an interesting call. She spoke to a lady, British accent, who believed she saw Sam talking through the window to the driver of an old Land Cruiser, close to the Bear Club. That would kind of fit into the CCTV tape that showed a Land Cruiser passing Sam slowly before he turned down Pandanus Street.

Creed ordered Smith to see if a number plate for the vehicle could be identified as he addressed the team. “Listen up. We need to go over all the murder victims’ cases. Tom Langley, Jessica Campbell, Darlene Ferguson and Sharon Berg. Cross reference anything and everything!”

A fortnight passed and the team had come up empty-handed. The case was going nowhere. The Chief Super was up Creed’s ribs demanding results. But nothing was popping. The case was heading south and if Creed didn’t get a break soon, he’d lose his newbies and most likely the case to another team. Creed gritted his teeth at the thought of losing the case but more importantly allowing O’Halloran to get one over him.

Creed pressed on with his grueling schedule. He was tired and the 10 cups of black coffee a day weren’t helping. His diet was going to shit and the ciggies were making their way back into his routine. Black coffee and a packet of cigs a day was not a healthy option for a 50-year-old guy carrying a few extra kilos.

Yes, the lack of new evidence in the case was frustrating, but Creed’s frustrations were amplified even further by the lack of not getting back to Brisbane to see his family. It had been weeks since he had visited his daughter Melissa in New Farm Clinic, causing him more angst. He missed his wife and daughter tremendously, but the case needed to be cracked.

The phone rang out on Smith’s desk. The ring seemed louder than normal or maybe the team was desperate for some good news. Smith grabbed the call and identified the man on the other end as Peter Tebbit, a detective from Queensland wanting to speak with Creed.

Creed mimed to Smith for her to grab his details, suggesting he was out. Smith jotted down some notes which read that he had some knowledge on Creed’s serial killer and wanted to pass it on.

“He’s a fuckin’ old has-been, bent copper from the drug squad in Brisbane,” Creed responded thinking this was all he needed. “Give me his details. I’ll call him later,” he said reluctantly. Tebbit was one of the reasons why Creed had left the Queensland Police Force and transferred down to New South Wales. Not having a lot of time for the man, Creed was in no rush to call him.

Pratt and Boston-Wright hit the pavement from Maccas down Tweed Coast Road, stopping passersby and asking if they were in the area that fateful Saturday night. Nothing. Nobody seemed to be in the vicinity or just didn’t want to be associated with being near a gay night club. In either case, this walking and talking to the public idea of Creed’s was fruitless. Pratt expressed how pointless this random approach was and decided to return to the station.

Boston-Wright on the other hand decided to persevere. Jack Creed was an experienced detective and if he thought walking the streets and chatting to the locals could turn up a lead, then the least she could do was to give it a hundred percent. She entered the IGA Supermarket to grab a coke.

“$3 lovely,” the cashier asked. Boston-Wright jerked her head up to eyeball the lady behind the counter. Not because the price was stiff, but because of her British accent.

“Are you the lady who spoke to Constable Smith a couple of weeks ago about the Sam Thompson case?” Boston-Wright asked.

“Not me, lovely. That’ll be $3.”

“No, it’s definitely you. Smith mentioned your British accent and you called her ‘lovely’ on the call. I just want to chat,” Boston-Wright insisted, although she couldn’t believe her luck in just stumbling upon the woman while thinking that persistence does pay off.

“Hey, I’m busy. Are you going to pay for the drink?”

“Yes, I’ll pay and then you can come with me back to the station where we can talk more formally.”

“Listen, I don’t want any trouble. I did my good deed bit. Besides, I don’t want Donny, the owner, to see me chatting to a copper. I’ve got a ciggy break in ten. I’ll meet you around the side,” the cashier said reluctantly.

Creed tapped the sticky note on his desk, eyeing the details of Peter Tebbit. The last thing he wanted to do was call a man he despised. He sighed and bounced the note on alternative corners, hoping the ink from the page would drop off and he wouldn’t have to make that call.

Tebbit was everything Creed wasn’t. A sleazy womanizer who thought he was God’s gift to women. Flashy, loud, gregarious and seemed to have acquired assets way above a normal policeman’s salary. Nobody else on the force drove a Mercedes, but Tebbit and some of his goons in the drug squad liked to flaunt their opulence. Creed realized the call had to be made, although he didn’t hold a lot of hope in the quality of the information Tebbit could pass on. More importantly, Creed wondered what it would cost him. He was damned if he did or didn’t. Boston-Wright burst in.

“You still here, sir?” She looked at the clock showing 8pm on the wall behind Creed.

“Where else would I rather be?” Creed sarcastically replied.

“I found the pommy woman Smith spoke to, who identified the old Land Cruiser a couple of weeks ago.” Boston-Wright exploded with enthusiasm while gasping for air as she tried to settle herself.

“Bingo!”

“And it gets better. She definitely saw Sam chatting to the driver. In fact, it was a pretty calm conversation, as if Sam knew the person.”

“Any make on the number plate?”

“No, but she knows the family. They come into the supermarket where she works all the time.” As Boston-Wright grabbed her notepad out of her jacket side pocket, she said, “His name is Mick Talbot, ex-Army but now retired. He lives across from the Thompson’s with his wife, Kay.”

“Well, I guess that rules him out of being a member at the Bear Club,” Creed threw into a bewildered looking Boston-Wright. “Good work, Boston-Wright. Let’s follow that up tomorrow.”

Boston-Wright wrote up her notes and finally left the station around half nine, stopping by the Pizza Hut to grab a takeaway for dinner. Sitting in the drive through, a smile came across Boston-Wright’s face. She knew she had made a breakthrough today. Her dad would have been pleased with her. The ‘Bruno gene of persistence’ was paying off.

Boston-Wright had a spring in her step the following morning as she entered the Kingscliff Station, greeted the desk sergeant with an enthusiastic ‘good morning’ and bounced into the incident room in readiness for the day’s update. Creed gathered the team around. Boston-Wright looked nervously around the room with anticipation. Butterflies were going like the clappers in her stomach. She took a few deep breaths. Would she have to address the team?

“Okay, listen up. We’ve had a mini breakthrough,” Creed announced, slightly more upbeat than usual. Boston-Wright fidgeted in her seat, straightening her back and giving the room her best little girl look.

“Dr. Russell has confirmed that the petrol used on Sam Thompson came from a BP petrol station. As we know, there is not a BP in Cabarita Beach. The nearest station is here in Kingscliff. Smith, get on to the owner and grab the CCTV tapes for the past two months. You know what, make it three.”

Boston-Wright’s head dropped, and her shoulders stooped. She thought, no, hoped that Creed was going to announce to the team that she had made the breakthrough and finally get some recognition. She let out a silent puff of air.

“And Boston-Wright also found the UK woman who phoned in anonymously a couple of weeks ago and has identified the owner of the Land Cruiser. Good work, Boston-Wright.”

Boston-Wright returned from the wasteland in her mind to the present with a bang. The smile on her face showed her appreciation to Creed for giving her some limelight. Pratt looked at Smith blankly, his left index finger going in a circular motion next to his left thigh but clearly out of sight of Creed and Boston-Wright.

Creed also announced to the team that he wanted Boston-Wright to go to Brisbane to interview Peter Tebbit. While it would have been a good option for himself to see his family, he couldn’t stand to be in the same town as Tebbit, let alone the same room. A few of the old boys gave Boston-Wright the stare of ‘teacher’s pet’ as they would have liked an all-expenses paid overnight stay at the 5-star Hilton. Boston-Wright smiled with contentment. Maybe she was moving ahead.