Breaking Point (Chapter-8)

With Talbot free, the case was once again dying a slow death. The recently expanded team seemed to be a waste of resources and the Chief Super’s hatchet men decided to reduce the numbers by two.

Creed had received a call from Dad’s Army verifying Talbot’s whereabouts around the time of the Berg murder. There was nothing concrete that could tie him to any of the other murders except that Thompson was a neighbor, which did not make him guilty of any crime.

Creed handed the files of the other victims to a new team member, hoping a fresh set of eyes may just dig something up. Boston-Wright got the Darlene Ferguson file, the cleaner at the Hastings Point Caravan Park. Darlene’s mother took her own life not long after her daughter’s murder, unable to cope with the loss. There was a phone number for Darlene’s aunt, who still resided in the area. Boston-Wright decided to give Joan Watson a call and meet up for a chat.

Boston-Wright pulled up outside Joan Watson’s cottage in a quiet col-de-sac three streets from the beach and the Hastings Point Caravan Park. The house was a quaint cottage, a small verandah at the entrance protected by a bull nose corrugated iron roof. The property could have done with a fresh coat of paint, but the gerberas and hibiscus trees gave the exterior a cheery feel.

Joan Watson was expecting Detective Boston-Wright. She stood up from her rocking chair and gave her a warm welcome, steering her toward the couch next to her rocker. A pot of tea and a plate of Arnott’s biscuits sat in the middle of the coffee table. On a side table next to Joan’s chair was a photo frame proudly showing off a younger Darlene Ferguson.

“She was a very pretty girl, Mrs. Watson,” Boston-Wright commented.

“Yes, she did a little bit of modelling after she left school. We, my sister Alice, Darlene’s mother, I mean, had high hopes for her then. She could have gone to Sydney and made it big,” Joan went on.

“But she never got the break?” Boston-Wright asked curiously while biting into a Scotch Finger biscuit.

“No. She met Daryl Jones, a no hoper dropout, and her life spiraled downhill. Alice and I tried to talk some sense into her, but hey, when you’re 18 and beautiful, you know everything. The only trip Darlene got to go to Sydney for was to attend the abortion clinic.”

Boston-Wright empathized with Darlene’s aunt, who continued to pour more tea. Joan pulled out a photo album and proudly went through each picture offering up a little story on a few. Darlene was a bright girl but seemed to get into the wrong company. After the Daryl fiasco, Darlene moved into a flat with a couple of school chums in Hastings Point. Her mother preferred she stay at home, but she wanted her own freedom. She got a job in a local boutique, and everything seemed to settle down.

“Then she up and vanished. Met some bloke, much older than her, and moved to the Tweed,” Joan elaborated.

“Then she came waltzing back into town with new clothes, jewelry and was throwing money around like water,” Joan commented, flicking her head back as she said it. “But her mother and I thought she was on the game. You don’t get that sort of money just being a secretary, if you know what I mean.”

“And did anybody question her about this or try to stop her?”

“Several times, Detective, but she just left. We didn’t hear from Darlene for four years. Her mother was heartbroken.”

“But she did finally come back, right?” Boston-Wright asked.

“Oh yes. When she needed us. Skin and bones. She looked like death warmed up. Apparently, the old boyfriend had her on the game and was pumping her full of heroin. She left us as a beauty queen and returned as a junkie.”

“That must have been heartbreaking,” Boston-Wright replied.

“It took us years to get her cleaned up. It was my husband Dennis who got Darlene the job at the caravan park. And look what happened there.” Joan placed her hand over her mouth as she shed a few tears. Boston-Wright couldn’t work out if she had felt responsible or that she was just upset for her niece, but in either case Boston-Wright felt her grief. She patted Joan’s hand and excused herself.

Boston-Wright sat at the junction. The Pacific Ocean rolled into a pristine sandy beach. Turn left and she would head back to Kingscliff, about a twenty minute drive. But instead she decided on an off chance to turn right and head into the Pottsville police station to see if anybody remembered Darlene Ferguson.

Duty Sergeant Brian Lavers greeted Boston-Wright as she entered the station. His well-worn, wrinkled face immediately told her that he had been around. Maybe he could help her.

“I’m Detective Constable Jo Boston-Wright and I’m doing some work on a murder case. Have you got anybody here who may have known Darlene Ferguson or worked on her case?” Boston-Wright asked.

“I did, love,” Lavers replied. “How can I help you?”

“How long did you know her?”

“I knew the family. She was a real looker when she left school. I know her mum had high hopes for her. Then that bastard Langley got his claws into her. Prostitution and drugs, totally ruined her life,” Lavers explained.

“Langley? Do you mean Tom Langley?” Boston-Wright asked.

“Yes, that’s him. Scumbag!”

Boston-Wright paused for a moment. For the first time there seemed to be a connection with the other murder victims. Langley and Ferguson knew each other, but the connection was never made until now. With Langley being killed further up the coast, it was probably reasonable as to why nobody had put two and two together. A case of one police station not talking to another.

Boston-Wright thanked Lavers and dialed Creed from the car but her call went straight to his message bank. She left a message saying she had found a connection between Ferguson and Langley and would discuss it with him in the morning. Being nearly 6pm, Boston-Wright decided to exit at Cabarita Beach and head home for an early dinner.

Unmotivated to cook, Jo stopped at Wok On Thai. Jason, the owner, saw her pull up and immediately started preparing a chicken Penang curry and steamed rice, Boston-Wright’s staple order. As she entered the restaurant, she noticed a tall man, nicely dressed, with his back to her leaning on the counter eying the menu. There was a sense of familiarity, and when Boston-Wright was within a meter, he turned.

“Simon,” Boston-Wright said in a startled voice. “What are you doing here?” She tidied her hair and straightened her suit jacket.

“Down for the weekend,” Simon replied with a surprised tone, his eyes lighting up at the sight of Boston-Wright.

Boston-Wright recognized his interest and thoughts of their brief relationship happily flooded back into her mind. Simon was the first man she dated after she and Brett separated. It was a hot and steamy romance with many a wild night spent at The Seaview Motel in Cabarita Beach but it was over as quick as it began. Boston-Wright never found out why except that Simon stopped calling.

“You’re looking great, Jo. Have you been working out?” Simon asked.

“No, just healthy eating and a busy work schedule,” Boston-Wright replied, lying about her eating habits but appreciative that Simon noticed her figure. Her hopes of a dinner invite tonight were rising.

“So are you dining in or grabbing a takeaway?” she asked, ready to change her dining plans at the drop of a hat.

“No, I’m getting a takeaway. Miranda is waiting back at the motel. We are getting married on Saturday,” Peter said sheepishly.

“Oh, wow! Congratulations, Simon. I’m, um, very happy for you both. Hope it all goes well.”

Jason appeared, as if on cue, delivered Boston-Wright’s curry and she exited the restaurant. The drive home was filled with cursing comments in her head. How could she be so stupid to think an old flame would want to ask her out after not speaking for over ten months? How desperate was her thinking that she could pick up where everything had left off and perhaps tonight she might have gotten lucky? As she pulled up in the driveway at home, Boston-Wright leapt out of her car, slamming the driver’s door with an almighty thud of frustration. She was so wound up. She tossed her curry across the kitchen bench where it would sit for the rest of the night.

The team gathered in the incident room and went over each other’s findings for the past 48 hours. Pratt had tracked down the sister of Sharon Berg and spent the afternoon interviewing her. She moved from the US at the time of Sharon’s murder and now resided in Bangalow, on a small farm, living a bit of an alternative lifestyle.

Pratt found it difficult to relate to her organic passion and didn’t get a lot of information about Sharon. He relayed there were a lot of uncomfortable pregnant pauses throughout the afternoon and he was glad to be out of the place. Her home had a distinctive odor and Pratt was confident that if the drug squad were to raid the premises, some cannabis would most likely be found. But he was not about to pinch a 50 year old hippy over a couple of grams of hooch. One thing was determined, though. Neither she nor Sharon had ever heard of Mick Talbot.

Smith was up next. She revisited Tom Langley’s file, trying to look for similarities between all the other victims, but Langley was so far removed. The fact that he was male didn’t match up with the other female victims. The only thing she could immediately link him to the women was the colour of his skin. There was a photograph of Langley and a group of people, perhaps friends, at the Tweed Heads Hotel but she was unable to identify any of them.

Boston-Wright leaned forward and inspected the picture. She smiled and placed the photo back on the table, eagerly waiting her turn to talk to the group.

“And, Boston-Wright, what do you have for us?” Creed asked.

Boston-Wright described the pain Darlene Ferguson’s aunt still has today over Darlene’s murder. “She went into great detail, almost blaming herself for the way Darlene had gone off the rails,” Boston-Wright told the group. “Both she and her sister tried everything to get her away from an older boyfriend, who they never knew the name of, let alone met. It was just tragic.”

Boston-Wright went onto explain that after she left Ferguson’s aunt, she headed to the Pottsville Police Station where she caught up with Sergeant Brian Lavers, who was most helpful.

“He confirmed that the older boyfriend of Darlene Ferguson,” she pointed to Smith’s photograph, “was Tom Langley,” said Boston-Wright, thumping the photograph with her index finger on the table.

“Bingo! We have a connection!” Creed let out with excitement.

Pratt, not wanting Boston-Wright to be glorified with this finding, piped up, “How was this missed earlier? Surely the aunt must have known?”

“Apparently not. Lavers did mention it to Darlene’s mother, but as we know, she took her own life soon after. I suppose she had forgotten to pass it onto her sister,” Boston-Wright remarked, giving Pratt a cool look.

“Still doesn’t mean the murders are linked, though,” Pratt commented, desperate to get the upper hand. Boston-Wright was aware of his little game and decided not to prolong the discussion. She walked back to her desk, thoughts of old dinosaurs flashing in her head. Creed called out to her from his office.

“Good work today, Boston-Wright, especially the little trip to Pottsville Station. Lavers is as honest as the day is long. Now I’ve got another lead to follow up. I’ll pick you up at 7.30.”

“Ok, sir, I’ll see you in the morning,” Boston-Wright replied, gathering her notebook and turning to leave Creed’s office.

“No, I mean tonight. See you in an hour.”