these things are? You buy one of these, you spend your money how you like over here. That’s the whole bloody thing, isn’t it?”
Romano took another photo from the folder, a picture of the dead woman, framed from the shoulders up. “Do you recognise her then?”
“Lots of girls come through here. Now piss off, you’re making the customers nervous.”
Romano checked the line. A sole customer stood waiting. She was about eighty years old and Romano doubted the woman could even see.
“Am I making her nervous?” Romano said.
The man gave a high-pitched whistle and said, “Hey, Margie, what do you think of cops?”
The old woman squinted at them, then leaned over and spat on the carpet.
“The only good pig is a dead one,” she said.
T he checkpoint guards weren’t much better. Their approach to security looked laissez-faire at best. Like at the exchange, Romano only got a couple of questions in before a watch manager stepped in. She came out of a demountable office off to the side and made her way across the busy tollway with a stout, matronly waddle.
“I’m new on the island,” said Romano. “Got a case up the other end involving a dead couple. I figured I’d come down and see what’s what.”
“Well, there you go,” said the manager.
“No records, no CCTV footage, licence plates logs? I’ve got plates I can give you. I just need dates, maybe a run-down of who came and went the night of the murder, I’ve got that in—”
“Nope. None of that. Heaven forbid.”
“So all this is just about the toll then?”
“Uh-huh. That and contraband.”
“Come on,” said Romano.
“If you can bring it with you, why buy it over here?” the woman asked.
“You know, you’re probably supposed to lie to me about stuff like that.”
“It is what it is,” said the manager. “Now I’m going to have to ask you to shuffle on out of here. I don’t want our tourists coming up through the gate and the first thing they see is someone dressed up like police.”
“You know, I could—”
“You have yourself a super day, Officer.” She smiled again and took herself back to the little office.
Romano held up her middle finger.
S he had an appointment with the cleaner—Rosemary Doyle—at eleven-thirty. The Gold Point had given Rosie the day off, and she now sat on the steps of her fibro cottage, up on Point Hallahan. She sipped tea.
“I don’t know them,” she said. “I know they were messy, that’s it. We can’t talk about the guests.”
“How messy were they?”
“Food things, drug things, one of them vomited all over the bed a few weeks back. The man, he always stank like a night out.”
“How long had they been booked in there?”
Rosie shook her head no .
“A few weeks, then,” said Romano, jotting it down. “Talk me through finding them, if you’re up to it.”
Rosie wiped her eyes with her fingers and let out a long, slow sigh. They were in the bed, she said. The woman was on her stomach, her head on the pillow, like she was asleep. In shock, Rosie actually tried to wake her. The man had fallen down between the bed and the wall, trailing a splotch of blood and gore along with him. The room smelledlike fireworks , but there was no gun. Romano figured it would have been down on the floor with the body. She couldn’t see Rosie pocketing it. She wrote GUN/SECURITY in her notepad and circled it.
“Did you call the ambulance?”
“I screamed,” Rosie said. “And then I ran out to the hallway. The other girls called Carl. I think he called the ambulance.”
“Is there anything else you remember?”
Rosie shook her head.
“Some of their personal effects are missing,” said Romano. “Their things. His wallet, her purse, her handbag, if she had one. You didn’t see any of that lying around?”
A phone chimed inside the house.
“I didn’t see anything like that,” Rosie said.
She went inside and closed the door.
Romano heard the deadlock snap across.
S he went
Romano took another photo from the folder, a picture of the dead woman, framed from the shoulders up. “Do you recognise her then?”
“Lots of girls come through here. Now piss off, you’re making the customers nervous.”
Romano checked the line. A sole customer stood waiting. She was about eighty years old and Romano doubted the woman could even see.
“Am I making her nervous?” Romano said.
The man gave a high-pitched whistle and said, “Hey, Margie, what do you think of cops?”
The old woman squinted at them, then leaned over and spat on the carpet.
“The only good pig is a dead one,” she said.
T he checkpoint guards weren’t much better. Their approach to security looked laissez-faire at best. Like at the exchange, Romano only got a couple of questions in before a watch manager stepped in. She came out of a demountable office off to the side and made her way across the busy tollway with a stout, matronly waddle.
“I’m new on the island,” said Romano. “Got a case up the other end involving a dead couple. I figured I’d come down and see what’s what.”
“Well, there you go,” said the manager.
“No records, no CCTV footage, licence plates logs? I’ve got plates I can give you. I just need dates, maybe a run-down of who came and went the night of the murder, I’ve got that in—”
“Nope. None of that. Heaven forbid.”
“So all this is just about the toll then?”
“Uh-huh. That and contraband.”
“Come on,” said Romano.
“If you can bring it with you, why buy it over here?” the woman asked.
“You know, you’re probably supposed to lie to me about stuff like that.”
“It is what it is,” said the manager. “Now I’m going to have to ask you to shuffle on out of here. I don’t want our tourists coming up through the gate and the first thing they see is someone dressed up like police.”
“You know, I could—”
“You have yourself a super day, Officer.” She smiled again and took herself back to the little office.
Romano held up her middle finger.
S he had an appointment with the cleaner—Rosemary Doyle—at eleven-thirty. The Gold Point had given Rosie the day off, and she now sat on the steps of her fibro cottage, up on Point Hallahan. She sipped tea.
“I don’t know them,” she said. “I know they were messy, that’s it. We can’t talk about the guests.”
“How messy were they?”
“Food things, drug things, one of them vomited all over the bed a few weeks back. The man, he always stank like a night out.”
“How long had they been booked in there?”
Rosie shook her head no .
“A few weeks, then,” said Romano, jotting it down. “Talk me through finding them, if you’re up to it.”
Rosie wiped her eyes with her fingers and let out a long, slow sigh. They were in the bed, she said. The woman was on her stomach, her head on the pillow, like she was asleep. In shock, Rosie actually tried to wake her. The man had fallen down between the bed and the wall, trailing a splotch of blood and gore along with him. The room smelledlike fireworks , but there was no gun. Romano figured it would have been down on the floor with the body. She couldn’t see Rosie pocketing it. She wrote GUN/SECURITY in her notepad and circled it.
“Did you call the ambulance?”
“I screamed,” Rosie said. “And then I ran out to the hallway. The other girls called Carl. I think he called the ambulance.”
“Is there anything else you remember?”
Rosie shook her head.
“Some of their personal effects are missing,” said Romano. “Their things. His wallet, her purse, her handbag, if she had one. You didn’t see any of that lying around?”
A phone chimed inside the house.
“I didn’t see anything like that,” Rosie said.
She went inside and closed the door.
Romano heard the deadlock snap across.
S he went
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