The square up, p.1
The Square Up, page 1
Praise for the
DETECTIVE INSPECTOR MAHONEY SERIES
HIGH BEAM is ‘a seriously welcome addition to the Australian thriller genre. It’s tight and gripping from the start.’
— Quintin Jardine
‘I love reading novels set in Tasmania; HIGH BEAM didn’t disappoint. Can’t wait to get my hands on the sequel.’
— Examiner, Launceston
‘HIGH BEAM is clever, relevant, well-written and has momentum. Brown has developed a tough, uncompromising central character.’
— Mercury, Hobart
DEAD WOOD’s ‘combination of racy thriller, local context and relentless crime fighter prove a winner with its sophisticated context of power politics, big business and issues that influence the future development of the state.’
— Mercury, Hobart
THE DETECTIVE INSPECTOR MAHONEY SERIES
High Beam
Dead Wood
Big Stake
The Square Up
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Stephen Brown resides in Hobart where the DI Mahoney series is set. When not writing he walks his Border collie, makes plans to play more golf, and endeavours to contribute to family life.
The intention of his fiction is to enable readers to explore Tasmania in its various guises and to investigate the harsher realities of modern life.
Readers of his work are invited to contact him at: sjbrownauthor@gmail.com
Copyright © Stephen John Brown 2021
ISBNs
Paperback 978-0-6489727-8-5
eBook 978-0-6485329-1-0
All rights reserved.
Without limiting the rights under copyright above,
no part of this publication may be reproduced,
stored in or introduced into a retrieval system,
or transmitted in any form or by any means
(electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording
or otherwise), without the prior written permission
of the author.
Cover design Kent Whitmore
Cover image Alamy Stock Photo
Published by
Forty South Publishing Pty Ltd
Hobart, Tasmania
fortysouth.com.au
Printed by
McPherson’s Printing Group
Melbourne, Victoria
mcphersonsprinting.com.au
Now I have his full attention. No choice but to focus on me. Can’t glance away and pretend I’m not there. Nor can he feign indifference. He has to mark my words.
So far he’s done better than I thought he would. Hasn’t fainted or soiled himself. Not bad … under the circumstances. When he came round there was confusion in his eyes. At some time over the weekend he’d expected to be trussed up, but not like this, I bet. The Rohypnol worked a treat. He’d been out cold for three hours: longer than I needed, but to have him coming out of it early would have thrown my plan.
It was all pretty easy, really. Element of surprise helped. I knocked on the door of his holiday home early evening. When he answered there was no recognition. Why would there be? I’m just an ordinary guy. Run of the mill. Not an achiever like him. Spun him a line about having just bought a block of land along the road. Said I’d seen his great place and did he have any design tips? He reckoned he could spare a few minutes. Only too happy to show off his schmick layout. I’d brought a couple of stubbies of his favourite beer. Whipped the top from one I’d ‘prepared earlier’, as the TV chefs say. He wasn’t going to refuse. As was his habit, the first swig drained half the contents. After that it was just a bit more chat before he got the wobbles and collapsed on the couch.
I waited a little while to be sure he was knocked out. Then took his mobile phone off the kitchen bench and sent a text to his bit on the side. Made up a credible excuse to make sure she didn’t turn up for their planned rendezvous. No fun and games for her. But there would be for him—Scott ‘Hotshot’ Hellyer. Just not quite the way he expected.
Then it was a quick duck out to the car to grab the gear I needed. He was a solid lump to manoeuvre, but I’d been training and I managed to truss him up just right.
And then he was coming round, struggling to comprehend what was happening. He shook his head to clear the fogginess. Lifted his gaze and saw me standing a couple of metres away.
There’s a sex toy gag strapped in his mouth. He snorts. Twists his neck to see why his arms aren’t moving. They’re both extended out from his side in a crucifix pose. Tethered with climbing rope to the oak beams on the ceiling. Gives a tug as best he can but they’re not moving. His spread-eagled feet are tied to the bases of the posts. No give there either.
He’s naked: his manhood and sculpted frame on full display. He scans the room. Curtains are drawn; nobody can see in. Tacked up behind him is a heavy grey blanket. As he leans his head back, his hair brushes it. There’s a faint rustle. Then another struggle with the ropes. All he does is tighten the knots.
I lean down and press play on the iPod I’ve brought. The sublime notes of Liszt fill the room. I’m a practical person but this touch of theatre pleases me. It’s the music that plays in ‘Schindler’s List’ as the German troops enact their violent rampage through the ghetto. Its significance is lost on a philistine like Hellyer, but I like it.
Stepping forward, I brandish the tennis racquet in my right hand and hold up the basket of balls in my left. His eyes are angry now. There’s another snort. I bet he’s dying to let rip with a volley of abuse. But the gag has to stay in place. Hotshot must suffer in silence.
The one thing I was good at in my teenage sporting days was serving a tennis ball. Hard. Along with the weight training, I’ve been on the court brushing up on my serve. I step back a few feet. The gallery design is perfect for my game. I can wind up and smash the tennis balls into him. Any that miss him will be cushioned by the hanging blanket. Minimal noise. The first few hit the target at three-quarter pace. I’m warming up. Number five hits him square in the package. The jolt of pain races up his nerves and shows in his face. Panic replaces the anger. He’s beginning to register that he’s not in a good place.
The first dozen or so serves are aimed at his midriff. He’s really beginning to hurt now. For the next one I angle the racquet slightly and the ball lands flush on his eye socket. Now that must really hurt—that is the intention after all. I pummel him for a while. After fifteen minutes I’m perspiring and he’s beaten. A couple of the red marks are starting to bruise. I’m serving at about sixty per cent. Good strike rate. I try to get one in the other eye socket but it’s a tough ask. Still, the original one did some nice damage. He’s too arrogant to cry but his nose is running. He senses he can’t sniffle or he won’t be able to breathe. Him choking on his own snot is not in my plan.
I’ve had enough of the pummelling. So, stage two. I take a knife out of my satchel. Wiltshire stainless steel. Razor sharp. He’s still conscious. I hold the knife up to his good eye. The alarm bells must be a cacophony now. I wink at him. It’s almost as good as I imagined it would be. I nick his scrotum with the tip of the knife. His good eye nearly pops out.
Enough fun for now. Time is of the essence. Time for the coup de grâce. I move the tip to his groin. His torso trembles and the bastard finally pisses. For a moment his body is still. I drive the shaft into the flesh. The artery ruptures and I jerk the blade out. Red liquid gushes forth in a series of strong spurts. If he lives, he’ll need to get some cleaners in. But he won’t. Nobody can survive the loss of this much blood.
I walk into the kitchen and rinse the knife under the tap. Then back into the living area where I jam the blade into one of the tennis balls. He’s already expired. No more Hotshot. I leave the punctured ball and blade resting in the pool of blood. You’ve got to love it when everything goes to plan.
‘Holy smoke.’ Detective Inspector John Mahoney was trying to take in the tableau before him, and it was a struggle. Twenty-five or so years as a police investigator meant he’d seen his fair share of corpses. Even here in southern Tasmania—a placid tourist destination—there was violence and grisly death. But rarely like this.
Newly-promoted Detective Sergeant Kate Kendall stood a few feet to his side. She couldn’t verbalise anything. It wasn’t so much shock as dismay that such a gruesome act could occur. In the face of this macabre scene she breathed slowly and waited for her superior to make a move. In her peripheral vision she noted his head adjusting slightly; he was taking in the dimensions of the large room and the activity of the forensic officers.
Waiting for Mahoney to initiate something, she focused her gaze on the male hoisted between the upright posts in front of a suspended blanket. His head was bowed on his chest, face obscured. Thick dark hair covered the scalp, but the torso was smooth. Reasonably hairy legs and arms suggested the victim must have waxed his chest. She noticed the pubic hair looked trimmed.
All four limbs were tethered to the oak beams spread-eagling the body. An ugly gash at the groin appeared to be the decisive incision that accounted for the volume of blood on the floor. Aside from that, the striking impression was the number of welts splattered across much of the skin. Collected around the man’s feet was a host of yellowy-green tennis balls.
A foot or two to the side of the body was a middle-aged balding man wearing silver spectacles. He reached in to touch the groin wound, looked down at the pool of co
‘That’s the cause, right there. Ruptured the artery leading to sustained haemorrhaging of blood and heart failure. Quick and decisive. It’s not a clinical incision. It was a forceful thrust and tear.’
‘And the other marks?’ asked Mahoney.
The police pathologist pointed to the tennis balls in reply.
‘Caused by those. I’m no expert on velocity but I’d guess a succession of those were belted at him. In some cases bruises were formed but the quick onset of death meant the majority remain as red welts. One actually hit the eye. If he’d lived, the eyeball would probably have been lost … but of course he didn’t.’
‘No hope.’ Mahoney rubbed his brow and exhaled. ‘Time of death? Approximately.’
‘Very hard to say.’ The doctor held up a palm as if to deflect criticism. ‘In situ is never easy and this one has some particular difficulties.’
‘Such as the lividity,’ Kendall said as she pointed to the small lake of blood.
‘Absolutely, Kate. Good point.’
Johnson took a laser pointer from his pocket. A green dot waggled across the legs of the victim.
‘Hypostasis has occurred in the lower limbs, but it is limited owing to the massive blood loss. That variable and the low body fat means lividity is not a lot of help.’ The speck of light now played across the victim’s chest and shoulders. ‘The musculature is almost fully relaxed indicating rigor mortis has passed.’
‘So more than twenty-fours?’
‘Yes, John. I could safely say that. Supporting that is the body temperature. It’s cooled to room temperature. Assuming a relatively constant temperature in here, that indicates a significant lapse of time.’ The dot now speared at the midriff. ‘Stomach contents will help, but you’ll have to wait for the post-mortem for that.’
Mahoney nodded. ‘Of course. This looks bad enough as it is. Does the blood on the floor help?’
‘Yes, but Kitchener’s forensic experts will be the ones to assist you there.’ Johnson turned to the open-plan kitchen where a tall rangy figure stood with a digital camera in his hand. ‘Looks like Jim McLeod is ready. Are you?’
Mahoney waved the scene-of-crime photographer in.
‘Jim, Doc Johnson will guide you to start with. I’m very interested in full scene shots for this one, okay?’
McLeod nodded. ‘Sure, no problem. Nasty business.’
‘That it is. Kate and I will be over there by the balcony door for a bit.’
McLeod and Johnson advanced towards the dead man as the detectives retreated.
‘You all right?’ Mahoney asked.
‘Fair to middling. Don’t think I’ve witnessed worse.’
‘It is bad. Very bad if you consider the totality of it.’
‘As in the mindset of whoever did it?’
‘Exactly. Your thoughts?’
Kendall looked again at the scene. ‘Very methodical. The blanket, the ropes, the weapon, the method. It had to be this victim in this way. Revenge, maybe.’ She let out a slow breath. ‘Punishment of some particular sort must come before death. Who knows, but there’s a dark symbolism playing right through it all. And a shrewd practicality. I think the identity of the victim will help explain the why and lead to the who.’
‘Agreed. That man’s identity is vital: what he did in life and how he did it. Either the perpetrator is a total nutjob or someone who hated the victim to a compelling degree.’
‘Or hated what the victim represented.’
Mahoney looked around the interior: clean lines, a simple design masterfully crafted. ‘Quite feasibly.’
A flash of ginger hair to his right caught Mahoney’s attention.
‘David, anything?’
DC Gibson stepped tentatively to the edge of the main living area. ‘Yep, I’ve run it down. This house has a registered owner in the company name of Newcrest Nominees Pty Ltd. Car outside is a fleet vehicle for the same business. The principal of that company is Mr Scott Hellyer.’ He looked up from his notebook. ‘Is that him?’
‘I honestly don’t know, David. As you can see, we’ve got bodies scouring the house looking for material, but zero personal effects found thus far.’
Gibson was still relatively new to the Serious Crimes Squad. His question was hesitant. ‘How do we find out?’
Mahoney led Kendall through to where the constable stood. ‘As tactfully as possible. God forbid we alarm a Mrs Hellyer and later find out we’ve made a colossal cock-up. Your data suggests it’s likely to be that guy, but we can’t be blundering in with bad news.’ He looked at the kitchen bench. ‘It would be a bonus if a wallet or something was handy nearby.’
The trio moved outside. Mahoney and Kendall had seen enough to form an initial assessment, and there were plenty of forensic personnel in the dwelling. Mike Kitchener’s team could be trusted to comb the interior for any evidence that might help solve the crime.
They stood near the centre of a gravel turning circle. A metallic red BMW sat with its nose to the boundary fence. Aside from a patina of dust on the underside, it gleamed in the late morning sun. The storm clouds gathering over the ridge of the Wellington Range could soon put paid to that.
Members of the FSST—Forensic Science Service Tasmania—were combing the ground around the house. To the rear of the block were several uniformed officers searching for relevant material. Mahoney’s hunch was that they wouldn’t find a whole lot.
Kendall ran her foot over the crushed gravel. ‘Not so good for tyre impressions, is it?’
‘Bugger all use,’ answered Mahoney. ‘Although if we do get a suspect, there’s bound to be pebbles in the tread.’
‘If.’
‘Yeah, I know. Bog standard gravel by the looks of it.’
Mahoney looked across at Gibson. ‘David, I hope you’re not texting your mates. We are kind of busy.’
The constable turned abruptly and strode towards them. ‘So am I, Sir.’
He held up his phone horizontally and placed it in the DI’s hand.
‘This may help.’
On the screen was a photo of a tall dark-haired male. Tanned, chiselled face. Had what advertising people call a winning smile. When the photo was taken, the subject had been standing almost exactly where Mahoney was now. The detective tapped the screen and the image disappeared.
‘What have I done? Sorry, David.’
‘No worries, Sir.’ He took the phone, swished across the screen and held the picture at eye level for his boss. With his index finger and thumb he zoomed into a headshot of the male, then adjusted the image back to the original showing the male standing nonchalantly by the red Beemer.
Kendall was peering in from the side.
‘Where’s this from?’
‘It’s the Facebook profile pic of a man called Scott Hellyer. He looks like our guy, doesn’t he?’
Mahoney and Kendall nodded in unison.
‘He looks like that really handsome guy who doles out investment advice in the media. You know the one? Used to have his own mortgage company,’ Kendall said.
Mahoney did know but couldn’t find a name.
‘Mark Vasouris,’ said Gibson.
Twice, in quick succession, the blood nut had surprised his boss, although Mahoney tried not to let it show.
‘Right, David, that’s good. Yeah, you’d think that he was our victim. Anyway, anything else about this Scott Hellyer?’
Gibson scrolled down the page. ‘Director of Marketing for the Tiger Brewing Group. Lists golf, quality beer and people as his interests. Lives at Kingston Beach. Married to Sophie and has two children at high school. Looks like the kids enjoy a private education, judging by the uniforms. And the whole family knows how to smile.’ He held the phone up for his colleagues to see.
‘Kate, I think that gives us enough to justify visiting his wife. Be sympathetic but clinical. I think what happened in there is way beyond a marital rift. It indicates there was something badly wrong in the guy’s life, and the wife is our first lens into the kaleidoscope. Bring David up to speed on the manner of death and take him with you to their house.’
