Breaking Point (Chapter-7)

Creed gathered the troops for a quick update. There seemed to be an air of confidence filling the room. Creed seemed taller. His white French cuffed shirt looked crisper, his Armani black sports jacket recently dry-cleaned. Boston-Wright observed that he was cleanly shaven and a dash of Bulgari Aqua wafted her way. With shoulders back, Creed began.

“We’ve found Michael Talbot. He’s doing some work with Dad’s Army in Casino. Boston-Wright and I are going to head down there now.” Pratt looked at Smith and rolled his eyes. He was starting to feel left out, not like a copper who had 27 years’ experience. He gave Boston-Wright a glare.

“Mr. Talbot is just a suspect, nothing more, so I don’t want you telling anybody. It does not leave this room. The last thing we need is for the media to hear about it and send a posse down to Casino and whip the town up into frenzy. Got it?” Creed stared down each member as they acknowledged his wishes.

Creed placed Talbot’s file on the center table and suggested the team have a read of it. There wasn’t much to go on, but he wanted to make sure everybody was up to speed with the man’s history.

The phone rang in Creed’s office as he motioned toward his desk, inviting Boston-Wright to follow him and close the door. Creed snatched the phone off the receiver and placed it to his ear.

“Yes, Chief Super. Boston-Wright and I are heading down to Casino now. We want to have a crack at our man before he clams up and starts shouting for a solicitor.” Creed sighed and rolled his eyes as the Chief Super told him the obvious, that they needed to do this by the book. No slip ups.

“I need to fix up a couple of things here, Boston-Wright. Get yourself ready. If you need morning tea, grab it now. We leave in 15 minutes.”

“Your car or mine?” Boston-Wright said, tongue in cheek. Creed responded appropriately by waving her out of his office.

The two hour trip to Casino was more talkative than their journey to Yamba. Perhaps Boston-Wright was feeling a little more at ease with Creed and vice versa. The two discussed the case, interview tactics and the time slipped by. At exactly 1.50 pm, Creed’s Mustang was pulling into the driveway of the Glen Villa Resort Park.

The manager was a short and portly man, receding hair and flush red cheeks. Obviously a keen beer lover, Tom Dooley also loved a smoke. He wheezed over the booking sheet, adjusting his glasses as he squinted to find the Talbots’ park site.

“Straight down the end, the last on the right. Site #44. Mrs. Talbot just drove out but I think Mick is still there. He wasn’t in the Land Cruiser,” the manager remarked.

Creed knocked on the metal door of the Jayco and took a step back. After a few minutes a croaky voice replied.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Talbot?”

“Yes,” he said, even more cautious now. “Who is it?”

“The police.” Pause. “May we come in?”

The door hatch was unlocked and Creed and Boston-Wright entered the van. It was quite spacious with a bedroom at one end and all the mod cons throughout including a microwave, flat screen television and an ice maker fridge.

To the left, sitting in the lounge area was Mick Talbot, a small framed man around 70 kilos, grey thinning hair with a matching beard, the upper moustache stained by tobacco. On the table was a packet of Drum and Mick was carefully placing some tobacco into a Tally-Ho paper and skillfully rolling a cigarette with one hand. Talbot appeared calm.

“Is this about the noise complaint, officer?”

“No, it’s more serious than that,” Creed replied pulling out his badge. “I’m Detective Sergeant Jack Creed and this is Detective Constable Jo Boston-Wright.” Talbot scanned both badges of the officers and gave them due respect.

“Can I offer you tea or coffee? Let me just check if we’ve got milk. My wife’s just gone to the supermarket.” Talbot said opening the fridge door.

“No, we’re fine, thanks, Mr. Talbot. We want to chat to you about a murder we are investigating,” Creed replied, trying to gain control of the conversation.

“Murder? Anybody I know, Detective?”

“We would like you to accompany us to the Casino Police Station to continue this conversation. Are you willing to do that?” Creed asked.

“Well, I’m starting to think this is a bit weird. You come in here, asking me to accompany you to a police station, but you won’t tell me who we are discussing. I think I have a right to know, Detective Creed” Talbot commented with eyebrows raised.

“Mr. Talbot, we need you to come with us to answer some questions about a murder case we are investigating. We can arrange legal representation for you there.”

“No need, Detective. I’m happy to answer your questions. I don’t want to appear to be unhelpful. Let me call a solicitor friend of mine. He can meet us there. Better to be safe than sorry, eh?”

“Pete, it’s Mick Talbot here.” Silence. “I’m in the van with a couple of detectives who want me to accompany them down to the police station. Some murder or something. They think I can help with their enquiries. Any chance you can pop into the Casino station? Thanks, mate. See you then.” As Talbot clicked the stop button on his mobile phone, he shuffled toward the bedroom to grab his shoes. “He can meet us there in about an hour.”

Outside, Boston-Wright wished she had talked Creed into bringing her car or at least a standard issue police car. Folding the seat forward, Boston-Wright climbed into the back of the Mustang, perching herself in the middle of the seat. Talbot got into the passenger, pulled on the seatbelt and glanced around the car.

“I’m guessing this is not standard issue or is New South Wales police on a budget? Nice ride though,” he said as he nudged himself into the leather seat. Talbot was ever so cool. Ice cool, in fact, perhaps a little unnerving to the detectives.

Talbot telephoned his wife to let her know he was on his way to the police station to help them with their enquiries. By the way the conversation was going, it was obvious that Mrs. Talbot was a little concerned, but Mick Talbot just allayed her fears with, “Everything is all right, love. I’m just helping them out,” and then continued talking. He finished the conversation off by letting his wife know he’d be home for dinner, which he had in the slower cooker on the bench. Nothing fazed Mick Talbot.

Creed drove to the rear of the station to avoid any possible attention at the front, quickly escorting Mr. Talbot through the rear door, down the hallway, past the kitchen to an interview room specially set up for him and Detective Boston-Wright. The Casino Police Station was a far cry from their usual Kingscliff station. It was a much older building, a little worn in parts but loaded with colonial charm. The sandstone walls could tell a pretty story or two.

Mick Talbot was shown in to interview room 2, a small room, no windows and a wooden table with public service issue four chairs. Boston-Wright directed Talbot to take a seat with his back to the wall while she sat opposite, closest to the door. The room felt damp, had a musky smell and was poorly lit. But none of that seemed to worry Talbot. He just sat patiently in his chair, occasionally giving Boston-Wright a smile.

Creed slipped out to the carpark to have a smoke and hoped to catch Talbot’s solicitor upon arrival. A 911 with personalized plates ‘LAWYER’ slipped in beside Creed’s mustang. Peter, as it turned out, was Peter Carter, one of the northern river’s best solicitors, the go-to lawyer you called when you had to get off. Proficient in the technicalities of the law, Carter had gotten more drunk drivers off charges than any other solicitor in the area, much to the annoyance of the local constabulary.

Creed knew he would have to be on his A game.

“What’s this all about, Detective? Seems highly irregular,” Carter expressed clutching an old battered brown leather briefcase.

“I want to talk to your client about the murder of his neighbor Sam Thompson and another four murders over the past the past 10 years,” Creed explained.

“What? Mick Talbot, a murderer? Are you crazy? Carter stopped in his tracks, looking like a stunned mullet.

“No. We think there is a fair bit that links all these crimes together.”

“So I take it my client is not under arrest,” Carter enquired at the bottom of the rear steps into the station.

“No, just doing everything by the book,” Creed assured as he held the rear door open and escorted Carter toward the interview room.

The clicking of the door handle broke the silence of the room as Carter entered, shaking Talbot’s hand and giving him a look of assurance. Creed sat next to Boston-Wright, pulling his chair in close to the table and reorganizing some files on the desk. He leaned across Boston-Wright and turned on the tape recorder, announcing the start of the official interview.

“Present is Mr. Michael Talbot; Mr. Peter Carter, solicitor acting for Mr. Talbot; Detective Jo Boston-Wright; and myself, Detective Jack Creed. The time is 3.20pm. Mr. Talbot is not under arrest and has come here voluntarily to assist us with our enquiries,” Creed stated for the record.

“Wait a minute. I wouldn’t say voluntarily. More like a bit of heavy coercion,” Talbot jumped in. This was the first time the detectives had seen their guest lose some of his coolness. Creed gave Boston-Wright a side glance.

“Can you confirm that you served in Vietnam,” Creed asked

“A fat lot of thanks we got for it,” Talbot bitterly remarked.

“I’ll take that as a yes. I believe you were in the Military Police?”

“Yes, that’s right.” Carter made some notes but the answers didn’t surprise him. He already knew this about his client.

“And after the war you worked in the security industry?”

“Yes, that’s also true,” Talbot replied, fidgeting in his seat.

“Where are you going with all of this, Detective? My client hasn’t got all day,” Carter chipped in, needing to say something to justify his $250/hour fee.

“So I’m assuming you would have used handcuffs when you arrested people,” Creed enquired.

“If they needed restraining.”

Creed decided to switch direction, wanting to leave his last question lingering in the mind of his suspect, hoping it would play some mental tricks on his cool demeanor. He opened the folder on the desk and took out a photograph of Jessica Campbell, a prostitute from Pottsville, showing it to Talbot while explaining verbally for the tape what he was handing over.

“Ever see this woman?” Creed asked.

Talbot grabbed the photo, carefully stared at it, and politely said no as he tossed it back toward Creed.

Creed pulled out the photos of the other victims, each time announcing their name for the record and each time Talbot denied knowing any of them.

“Can you recall where you were on the 17th of January this year?” Creed asked.

“Detective, I’m not sure. Working somewhere, perhaps.”

“According to your employer, Dad’s Army, you were in Hastings Point repairing a fence for a Mr. Daniels.”

“Well, if you know where I was, why the bloody hell are you asking?” Talbot said, raising his voice. Carter tapped him on his thigh, indicating to remain calm. Creed knew he was getting to Mr. Talbot and gave Boston-Wright another sideways glance. He then passed over the photo of Darlene Ferguson, a cleaner at the Hastings Point Caravan Park who was handcuffed, then strangled to death and her body discarded in nearby scrub land like a dirty rag.

“This lady, Darlene Ferguson, was murdered on January 17. She worked at the Hastings Point Caravan Park, the same place you stayed at, Mr. Talbot.” Creed raised his voice and gave him a stare of death.

“Come on, Detective, that’s a bit presumptuous,” Carter intervened. Creed knew it was a bit thin, but it was worth a try.

“You’ll notice all the victims were handcuffed, Mr. Talbot. Did you ever bring any souvenirs home from the army or your security job by way of handcuffs?” Creed asked calmly.

“This is ridiculous. I’m a happily married man. None of that kinky stuff goes on in my house. Now, since I’m not under arrest, I want to leave,” Talbot remarked, his calm exterior slightly penetrated.

Boston-Wright escorted Talbot and his solicitor out of the station. She returned to the interview room and gathered the files into her bag. Creed was slouched back in the chair, tie loosened and looking rather glum.

“How do you think that went, sir?”

“How do you fucking think, Boston-Wright? Up the shit! That bastard was as cool as a cucumber. He gave us nothing. He seemed to know our every move. Our Mr. Talbot has been interviewed before and I’d say often in spite of him ‘never been issued a parking ticket’. Let’s get out of this shit hole. We’ve got a two hour drive ahead of us.” Boston-Wright gathered her things, avoiding eye contact and made her way to the car. This was going to be one of those quiet drives back to Kingscliff.

****

The team milled around the incident room, waiting for Creed and Boston-Wright to return. As the pair walked in, an air of expectation filled the faces of everyone waiting for them.

“Nothing concrete, team. We tried to rattle his cage but Mr. Talbot is very cool. Too cool, in fact. I think he knows the interview system well. Let’s call it quits for tonight. Who’s up for a beer? My shout.” Creed said as he grabbed his jacket off the back of his seat and headed out the door. Pratt followed in pursuit and a couple of the new boys tagged along.

“How did it go, Jo?” Smith asked.

“Like Creed said, fairly ordinary. I think Mr. Talbot played us in one way, and then in another I felt sorry for him.”

“Sounds like he played to your emotions, Boston-Wright. How would you feel if that were your father being interrogated today?”

“Creed did all the talking. I just kind of sat there.”

“So you might as well not have been there then,” Smith remarked.

Boston-Wright gave a half smile, picked up her bag and headed out the door. No point going to the pub with the boys either. Truth be told, she probably wasn’t even missed.

Dinner was another toasted cheese sandwich and a cup of tea. Smith’s comment had hit a nerve. She was not being noticed. After all these months, she still didn’t feel part of the team. Picking up a photo of her father, she commented, “Dad, why can’t I be like you?” She placed the photo back on the sideboard, turned off the lights and went to bed. Tomorrow is another day.