already identified as belonging to Nicholas
Phillipousos, was cordoned off, waiting for the tow-truck to take
it in to the station for more forensic tests. Barraclough looked
around the loading bay and then at the hole in the wall.
The first thing that struck him was
that there was almost no debris. If the burglars had used
explosives to blow that hole, there would be rubble everywhere. So
they either cleaned up after themselves, or they cut or hacked
their way through the wall some other way, carrying off the bricks
and plaster as they worked. He moved closer. There was plenty of
brick-dust on the ground around the hole and some small lumps of
debris. So many people had trampled in and out and the ground was
so wet that, if there had been tracks from wheelbarrows or even
bulldozers, there were no traces left in the dirty, red slurry. He
moved around the outside of the building. It was a warm night. If
anyone had driven or run away from the building before the police
and fire brigade had arrived, the wet trail they would have left
would have long ago dried up.
He chatted briefly to the cops on
guard and then to the firemen, finally to Mr Greer, the store
manager who appeared from the hole, shaking his head in despair.
There had been no fire. The alarm had been set off by somebody
shooting at one of the sprinklers.
“There are clothes all over the
floor,” Mr Greer complained. “It’s like someone went around all the
rails just throwing everything into heaps. What kind of maniac
would do such a thing? And the mannequins! They’ve destroyed seven
mannequins. Blown them to pieces! Why? What’s the point? Were those
men on drugs? Are they insane?”
Disengaging himself, Barraclough
went into the building. The floor was still sopping wet, with soggy
clothes dripping everywhere, making a constant tinkling, like a
light, summer rain. He had to use his torch since the lights were
off. He made his way through the dismal wetness to where portable
lights had been set up for the forensic team. They were just
packing up to go as he arrived.
“This where they found Douggie and
Nick?” He asked.
A slight, craggy man in a plastic
coat turned to him and smiled. “G’day, Mike. How’s it going?”
“Not bad, Jim. What have you
got?”
Jim shrugged. “Not a lot, mate.
This is where they found them, all right. Both out cold. Both flat
on their backs. There were two shotguns lying nearby. One had
discharged one chamber — presumably the shot that set off the
sprinklers.” He showed Barraclough a spent shotgun cartridge in a
plastic evidence bag, then indicated the hole in the ceiling above
them. “No other weapons. Uniform have been over the floor once but
we can have another look in the daylight. No cartridges or shell
cases apart from this one.”
“Then how did they blow up the
seven dummies?”
Again, Jim shrugged. “It could have
been explosives. We found a sports bag over there with some
plastique in it. Enough to blow a safe, maybe, but perhaps they had
some more and were having some fun. The mayhem in here suggests
they ran amok before they shot the sprinkler and passed out. The
M.E. might want to check them for drugs.”
“Was there anybody else
involved?”
Jim shrugged yet again. “No idea.
This is a department store. Hundreds of people walked around here
today, so there’s no point looking for dropped hairs, or fibres, or
even fingerprints. The watering this place got won’t have
helped.”
“Have you checked the edges of the
hole for fibres or blood?”
“That’s where we’re heading now
but, you know, there have been a lot of people through there
tonight. I doubt that we’ll find anything conclusive.”
Barraclough thanked him and
wandered off across the floor. He called the police on duty at the
hospital and asked them to make sure their prisoners were tested
for drugs, then he went back out to his car and sat in it,
thinking.
Something was very wrong with this
whole picture. Douggie Mack
Phillipousos, was cordoned off, waiting for the tow-truck to take
it in to the station for more forensic tests. Barraclough looked
around the loading bay and then at the hole in the wall.
The first thing that struck him was
that there was almost no debris. If the burglars had used
explosives to blow that hole, there would be rubble everywhere. So
they either cleaned up after themselves, or they cut or hacked
their way through the wall some other way, carrying off the bricks
and plaster as they worked. He moved closer. There was plenty of
brick-dust on the ground around the hole and some small lumps of
debris. So many people had trampled in and out and the ground was
so wet that, if there had been tracks from wheelbarrows or even
bulldozers, there were no traces left in the dirty, red slurry. He
moved around the outside of the building. It was a warm night. If
anyone had driven or run away from the building before the police
and fire brigade had arrived, the wet trail they would have left
would have long ago dried up.
He chatted briefly to the cops on
guard and then to the firemen, finally to Mr Greer, the store
manager who appeared from the hole, shaking his head in despair.
There had been no fire. The alarm had been set off by somebody
shooting at one of the sprinklers.
“There are clothes all over the
floor,” Mr Greer complained. “It’s like someone went around all the
rails just throwing everything into heaps. What kind of maniac
would do such a thing? And the mannequins! They’ve destroyed seven
mannequins. Blown them to pieces! Why? What’s the point? Were those
men on drugs? Are they insane?”
Disengaging himself, Barraclough
went into the building. The floor was still sopping wet, with soggy
clothes dripping everywhere, making a constant tinkling, like a
light, summer rain. He had to use his torch since the lights were
off. He made his way through the dismal wetness to where portable
lights had been set up for the forensic team. They were just
packing up to go as he arrived.
“This where they found Douggie and
Nick?” He asked.
A slight, craggy man in a plastic
coat turned to him and smiled. “G’day, Mike. How’s it going?”
“Not bad, Jim. What have you
got?”
Jim shrugged. “Not a lot, mate.
This is where they found them, all right. Both out cold. Both flat
on their backs. There were two shotguns lying nearby. One had
discharged one chamber — presumably the shot that set off the
sprinklers.” He showed Barraclough a spent shotgun cartridge in a
plastic evidence bag, then indicated the hole in the ceiling above
them. “No other weapons. Uniform have been over the floor once but
we can have another look in the daylight. No cartridges or shell
cases apart from this one.”
“Then how did they blow up the
seven dummies?”
Again, Jim shrugged. “It could have
been explosives. We found a sports bag over there with some
plastique in it. Enough to blow a safe, maybe, but perhaps they had
some more and were having some fun. The mayhem in here suggests
they ran amok before they shot the sprinkler and passed out. The
M.E. might want to check them for drugs.”
“Was there anybody else
involved?”
Jim shrugged yet again. “No idea.
This is a department store. Hundreds of people walked around here
today, so there’s no point looking for dropped hairs, or fibres, or
even fingerprints. The watering this place got won’t have
helped.”
“Have you checked the edges of the
hole for fibres or blood?”
“That’s where we’re heading now
but, you know, there have been a lot of people through there
tonight. I doubt that we’ll find anything conclusive.”
Barraclough thanked him and
wandered off across the floor. He called the police on duty at the
hospital and asked them to make sure their prisoners were tested
for drugs, then he went back out to his car and sat in it,
thinking.
Something was very wrong with this
whole picture. Douggie Mack
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