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Authors: Gabrielle Lord
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myself back on track. ‘Particularly that first message.’
Bob rewound and played the few sentences one more time then leaned back in his chair, came forward again and put his elbows on the desk. He was thoughtful a moment. ‘I reckon she changes tack,’ he said finally. ‘Halfway through, she seems to change her mind.’
‘That’s what I thought, too. It’s like she’s going to say one thing and then she swerves away from it and says something else instead.’
‘What did she go on to say?’
‘She said that my daughter was working at the House of Bondage.’
‘Jesus!’ said Bob.
‘It’s been checked out,’ I said. ‘And I went round there in person yesterday. It seems to be a false alarm. The woman who runs it appeared to be telling the truth.’
‘Glad to hear it,’ said Bob. Then he stood up, seeing that I was ready to leave. ‘Here,’ he said, turning to pick up two sealed packages. ‘I’ve retrieved the clothing belonging to the two dead men,’ he said, handing them to me. They were both bagged and sealed with the blue and white tape of Forensic Services Division as well as the red serrated security tape. ‘What they were wearing the nights they died. Bradley wondered if you might want to go over them again.’
I looked at the signature on the tape: F.E. Horsefall. I shook my head and handed back the bag. ‘Lidcombe must’ve sent the samples to Florence for double-checking,’ I said, ‘and Florence is the best. She would have found everything and anything.’ Dr Florence Horsefall had been with Forensic Services longer than anyone else, yet seemed arrested forever aged about forty. She drank carrot juice and practised tai chi. I remembered once catching her smoking behind a tree and her massive embarrassment had seemed out of all proportion to the infringement of her self-imposed health regime. It was an odd incident and that’s why I’d never forgotten. It was as if I’d caught her with her hand in the till, or up someone’s dress.
Bob was indicating a couple of envelopes. ‘I’ve also given you copies of the analysts’ reports to read. You might find something helpful there.’ I took the reports from him, thinking I’d read Florence’s reports later.
‘Marty Cash,’ I said, changing the subject. ‘Where does he hang out these days?’
Bob raised an eyebrow. ‘What would you want with old Pigrooter?’
‘Information,’ I said, picking up my things. Bob made a face and frowned with his increasingly bushy eyebrows. Over the years, Bob’s got more and more eyebrows above his grey eyes and less and less hair on top. ‘He drinks at the Collins Club,’ he said. ‘Or used to.’ The Collins Club is a gentlemens’ club, stuffy with leather and dark colours, that pretends to gentility, yet has walls of poker machines and carpet that looks like a tapestry based on the pattern of the technicoloured yawn.
•
I went home with Dr Florence Horsefall’s reports. I made coffee and glanced through the results my colleague had written up regarding her examination of the clothing of the two dead men. My work is mostly in and around the various chemistry labs, wet labs, analysis rooms or search room. Anything biological is transferred through a double hatch into the Biological Division. We don’t usually examine the blood stains of the victim: there’s no need to. We know who he or she is and we know how they died. What we don’t know is who did it and that’s where trace and particle analysis can be helpful. In both cases, Florence had taken further samples from the upper arm area of the shirt each man had been wearing, because if there’d been a struggle and some grappling, enough DNA material from the killer might have transferred itself from his hands onto the clothing of his victim. In Gumley’s case, there were several foreign hairs and these had been stored—it was possible that our investigation would turn up a person whose hair matched. The follicle needs
Bob rewound and played the few sentences one more time then leaned back in his chair, came forward again and put his elbows on the desk. He was thoughtful a moment. ‘I reckon she changes tack,’ he said finally. ‘Halfway through, she seems to change her mind.’
‘That’s what I thought, too. It’s like she’s going to say one thing and then she swerves away from it and says something else instead.’
‘What did she go on to say?’
‘She said that my daughter was working at the House of Bondage.’
‘Jesus!’ said Bob.
‘It’s been checked out,’ I said. ‘And I went round there in person yesterday. It seems to be a false alarm. The woman who runs it appeared to be telling the truth.’
‘Glad to hear it,’ said Bob. Then he stood up, seeing that I was ready to leave. ‘Here,’ he said, turning to pick up two sealed packages. ‘I’ve retrieved the clothing belonging to the two dead men,’ he said, handing them to me. They were both bagged and sealed with the blue and white tape of Forensic Services Division as well as the red serrated security tape. ‘What they were wearing the nights they died. Bradley wondered if you might want to go over them again.’
I looked at the signature on the tape: F.E. Horsefall. I shook my head and handed back the bag. ‘Lidcombe must’ve sent the samples to Florence for double-checking,’ I said, ‘and Florence is the best. She would have found everything and anything.’ Dr Florence Horsefall had been with Forensic Services longer than anyone else, yet seemed arrested forever aged about forty. She drank carrot juice and practised tai chi. I remembered once catching her smoking behind a tree and her massive embarrassment had seemed out of all proportion to the infringement of her self-imposed health regime. It was an odd incident and that’s why I’d never forgotten. It was as if I’d caught her with her hand in the till, or up someone’s dress.
Bob was indicating a couple of envelopes. ‘I’ve also given you copies of the analysts’ reports to read. You might find something helpful there.’ I took the reports from him, thinking I’d read Florence’s reports later.
‘Marty Cash,’ I said, changing the subject. ‘Where does he hang out these days?’
Bob raised an eyebrow. ‘What would you want with old Pigrooter?’
‘Information,’ I said, picking up my things. Bob made a face and frowned with his increasingly bushy eyebrows. Over the years, Bob’s got more and more eyebrows above his grey eyes and less and less hair on top. ‘He drinks at the Collins Club,’ he said. ‘Or used to.’ The Collins Club is a gentlemens’ club, stuffy with leather and dark colours, that pretends to gentility, yet has walls of poker machines and carpet that looks like a tapestry based on the pattern of the technicoloured yawn.
•
I went home with Dr Florence Horsefall’s reports. I made coffee and glanced through the results my colleague had written up regarding her examination of the clothing of the two dead men. My work is mostly in and around the various chemistry labs, wet labs, analysis rooms or search room. Anything biological is transferred through a double hatch into the Biological Division. We don’t usually examine the blood stains of the victim: there’s no need to. We know who he or she is and we know how they died. What we don’t know is who did it and that’s where trace and particle analysis can be helpful. In both cases, Florence had taken further samples from the upper arm area of the shirt each man had been wearing, because if there’d been a struggle and some grappling, enough DNA material from the killer might have transferred itself from his hands onto the clothing of his victim. In Gumley’s case, there were several foreign hairs and these had been stored—it was possible that our investigation would turn up a person whose hair matched. The follicle needs
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