The Final Alibi Read online

  “I had an interesting conversation with another officer last night. You haven’t met Linda yet, but she’s been a cop at Daylesford for a few years. She rang me last night,” she paused long enough to jump in her side of the car and once we were both inside, continued, “and what she told me made me think.” She paused to light a cigarette.

  “What did she tell you?”

  “Her hubby has a mate who works at the old Jackson Street Mill. Has worked there for the better part of 30 years. Can you guess who used to work under him?”

  “Lightman?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

  “Yup, and I’m hoping that he might have an idea of anybody Lightman hung around with that may have some input on the recent killings.”

  The mill was about 20 minutes out of town, almost halfway between Cider Hill and Daylesford. We chatted as we drove, coming up with some questions that we wanted to ask, hopefully finding some sort of lead. God knows we could use a good one.

  9.

  The parking lot out the front of the wood mill was almost completely deserted. It wasn’t common for the mill to be operating on a Saturday, but Richard Sadler had always insisted that a skeleton crew spent the morning cleaning the machines ready for a new week, paying the men double their usual rate for the four hours. He had taken over the running of the mill after his father, John, retired ten years earlier. Richard had been quite young at the time, only 28, but took to running the 40-man operation in his stride. Darren Fermaner, the mate Steph was talking about, had been working at the mill for the better part of 35 years, the last 10 as the mill’s foreman. He was also famous around town for another reason; his unbelievable ability to sink beer. It was how he earnt the nickname “Keg”.

  Richard Sadler came out of the small side office as we pulled into the parking lot, almost on cue, as if he had been expecting us. He wore a warm smile and greeted Steph with a hug as soon as she climbed out of her side.

  “Steph, so good to see you,” he said with a welcoming tone.

  “Rich, this is Jim Lawson,” she said, turning towards me. Richard held out a hand and shook with me.

  “Pleased to me you, Mr Lawson.”

  “Jim, please,” I said.

  “Rich, could we speak with Daz, please?” Steph said. The man looked at her for a moment, his smile fading slightly. Then it returned almost as quick.

  “Keg? Sure thing. He’s down at the dumping shed,” he said, pointing towards a small track at the far end of the parking lot. Steph waved a thank you at him and we headed for the track, Richard walking back to his office.

  The track was a tiny walkway, no more than a foot wide at best and was covered in weeds and low shrubs. A small shed stood at the end of it, flanked by a small dam, the water brown and very silty. There was a pump near the shed, a pipe snaking towards the water and a bald man with a great big belly was hunched over, performing some sort of maintenance on it. He looked up as we approached, then smiled when he recognized Steph.

  “Officer Connor, what brings you out this way?”

  “Hi Daz, this is Jim Lawson. Can we ask you a couple of questions?” The man also shook with me. He struck me as a gentle giant, someone you would trust with your own mother. I think it was his eyes that conveyed his calming nature.

  “Hello, please call me Keg” he said to me, then, “anything I can help you with, Steph. But please, would it be too hard for you to call me Keg, Steph?” He listened as Steph told him about the new string of murders, something he had already read about, no doubt. His face grew grave when we told him about our non-existent leads.

  “There’s not much to tell about Lightman. He was a loner, stuck to himself pretty much, never mingled and never came out for a drink. Not coming out for a drink is what I think kept most of the lads here at a distance. Working men don’t like loners, but a man that don’t drink with others? Something untrustworthy about them.”

  “Did he have any friends? Anyone at all?” But the man just shook his head.

  “None that I remember. Lightman was one of those guys who always turned up on time, did his work, and did it well, then went home at the end of the day. It’s not a crime not to drink and certainly not a crime if you choose to keep to yourself. The boys never beat him up about it, it just kinda went from one day to the next. Became his routine, I guess.” I was about to suggest talking to Richard again when he looked up at the sky and put a finger to his mouth.

  “There was that one afternoon, though,” he said and my interest peaked.

  “What’s that?” Steph asked. Keg was still looking at the sky, thinking. He took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, offered them around, Steph never one to pass one up, then lit his with a match, sparking Steph’s as well.

  “There was this one time, where he wanted to leave a little earlier than normal. I remember it so well because Lightman never took off early. If anything, that man was punctual and honest. He was always here ten minutes before shift and never left until at least ten minutes after. Anyway, it had been a Friday, and he asked if he could leave at 2 o’clock.”

  “Did he say where he was going?” I asked.

  “Said he wanted to surprise a girl he’d been seeing. Some girl over in Daylesford.”

  “Did he say what her name was?” Steph asked, her tone becoming low with dread, but the man shook his bald head.

  “Nah, sorry. Can’t help you there. He never struck me as the dating kind, you know. Some of the lads even thought him queer. Just struck me as odd when he told me, that’s all. I’m sorry there’s not more to tell.” Steph shook his hand and thanked him for his time. I shook then followed her back to the car, walking behind her single file along the narrow path.

  “Steph, you OK?” I said. She only nodded. “Don’t forget, kiddo, Lightman doesn’t have a pecker, remember?” She stopped and turned to look at me.

  “Does he need one? I mean, is it all gone, half gone, all the bits gone?”

  “I don’t know. Just try not to think about that now. I know it’s difficult but-”

  “Excuse me, Steph?” It was Richard waving his hand from his doorway, trying to get our attention. We turned toward him, then heard him ask, “Does this have anything to do with Clancy Higgins?”

  10.

  He waved us into his office, then sat behind a modest-looking desk, which to me, was surprisingly clean for a timber yard manager’s. Steph and I sat in chairs facing him, anxious to hear what he had to say.

  “How do you know Clancy?” I asked.

  “Clancy is famous in this neck of the woods. And not for any good reasons.” I shuffled in my seat slightly, in anticipation of something useful.

  “How do you mean?” Steph asked.

  “Clancy worked here a few years back. Was just a work hand at the time, nothing too technical. As you know, he has a few sheep short in the top paddock, if you catch my drift. Not all there. Was my Pa that put him on, said everyone deserved to earn an honest living.”

  “How long did he work here?” Steph sat forward; her interest also peaked.

  “He started in, oh, around 42, and I let him go in around 45. I remember ‘cause it wasn’t long after Pa retired.”

  “You fired him?” I asked.

  “Ah yup. Had to. On account of all the animals.”

  “Animals?” I asked, glancing at Steph, but her eyes were locked on Richard’s, as if waiting for the punch line.

  “It was old Graham Roberts that found him first, but he never said anything to him. Instead, came and got me. Took me down past the shed you was just at. The path continues into the bush another 4 or 5 hundred yards or so. Graham had been working on the pump down at the dam. Had been there a couple of hours, and the whole time he was there he swore he could hear a kind of yapping, like a dog in pain. So, he followed the noise and came across the gully that sits at the end of that path. He saw Clancy down in one of the holes down there, watched him for a bit, then came ‘n fetched me.” He stood, walked out into the next room and came bac
k a second later, carrying three open bottles of coke. He handed one to each of us then clinked our bottles together, wishing us good health. After a long swallow, he continued.

  “I could hear the poor dog from almost 500 fucking yards away, ‘scuse my French. When we broke through the trees and stood at the edge of the clearing, the gully opened up maybe fifty or so yards in front of us. It’s quite deep, maybe twenty feet in some places. And there he was, doing his freaky shit.” He took another swallow, his hand visibly shaking.

  “Take your time,” Steph said, sipping her own coke.

  “He had that poor dog pinned to the ground, tied to stakes that he had hammered in. The poor mutt had no chance. That fucken creep’s face was covered in blood. He was biting chunks out of the dog’s leg and shoulder. Biting chunks and chewing them.” He was almost yelling now, his anger raw. He had to put the bottle on the table, the shaking almost uncontrollable. Steph’s face was grim, as I was sure mine was. My heart felt like it was beating in my temples again, adrenalin making my stomach feel like it was doing cartwheels.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “I picked up the nearest stick I could find and almost ran down to him. He never heard me coming, never knew I was there until the first swing connected with his head. It almost sent him sprawling, his goofy expression never leaving his face. I could have sworn the fucker was smiling at me. Then I swung again and this time his good eye closed as he went ni-night. Graham already had a pistol which he got from his car when he got me, and now he used it to put the poor animal out of its misery. Then we noticed the smell. At first, I wasn’t sure where it came from, but then we looked around a bit and that’s when we found it.” He paused again, finishing his coke in two large gulps, then holding the bottle in his hand, looking at it, as if trying to read the fine print. He suppressed a belch into the back of his hand as we waited patiently for him to regain his composure, both too dumbstruck to speak. Steph took out her cigarettes and I saw that her fingers were also shaking.

  “It’s OK, Richard. Take your time,” I said, trying to sound in control, but I noticed my voice was a little shaky.

  “Could I bum one of those?” he asked Steph. “I quit, but, under the circumstances. Just don’t tell my wife, she’ll kick my butt.” He took one, Steph lit it for him and he inhaled deeply.

  “We saw a large sheet of tin lying on the ground some way off. At first, we figured it was just some junk, there’s a shit load of it down there, old car bodies and stuff. But then we heard movement from beneath the sheet. We walked over to it and Graham lifted one side. There was a hole dug underneath it, maybe 7 or 8 yards wide and almost as deep. In the bottom of it, were animals, some alive, but most dead. We counted 6 dogs, 12 cats and a goat. Of them, only 1 dog and 4 cats were alive, and those should have been dead. He had been eating them alive, their skins matted with blood. Their faces were all skinnier than you could imagine, probably all starved, eyes sunken into their skulls. The dog was trying to chew on one of the cats. They all had wounds that were weeping blood, pus and God knows what else. And then there were the maggots. It was like their wounds were alive, crawling with those filthy things in some tangled, writhing mass. I can still hear the noise when I close my eyes, like a fucken nightmare. I wanted to kill him, Steph. Right then and there, I wanted to grab Graham’s gun and shoot the son of a bitch. But, of course, I didn’t. Instead, Graham jumped in the hole and put the animals out of their pain. Then he went back to fetch a shovel and when that bastard came to, we made him bury the animals. We stayed there for almost three hours and made him fill in the hole, watching as he panted and groaned, covering his evil one shovel load at a time.” I was stunned into silence, my mouth dry as a dust bowl. I looked at Steph and could see her mind in overdrive, looking down at her fingers, each hand firmly grasping one of her legs.

  “Did you report this?” she finally asked.

  “Yup, but guess what? Rademeyer didn’t want to hear it. Said he wasn’t going to waste valuable police resources on a retard culling the town’s vermin problem.”

  “He said that?” I asked, again shocked. Richard nodded, his fingers closing around a pencil so tight, I heard it begin to splinter.

  “And now that retard is working at the school, hanging around kids,” he said. “I fired that freak and warned him that if I ever saw him again, I would end his miserable life. I saw him down the main street a couple of times but was glad when I saw him cross the street to avoid me.” Steph rose to her feet and held out her hand. Richard shook it, then held it out to me.

  “Thank you, Rich. I appreciate your help,” she said as she headed out the door.

  “No problem, Steph. Anytime.”

  11.

  “That crazy fuck,” she said as we headed back into town.

  “Still keen to talk to him?” I asked, but again she shook her head.

  “No way. We need to follow him. Watch him. I want to know what he gets up to after the sun goes down. Fancy a stakeout?” she asked, turning to me.

  “Whatever it takes to end this nightmare,” I said, “whatever it takes.

  Chapter 7: Trailing Madness

  1.

  As we reached the outskirts of Cider Hill, I asked Steph if she was going to report this new information to Rademeyer, to which she shook her head.

  “But it’s not new information, Jim. Rademeyer already knows. Now why would I bore him with details he’s already aware of?” The cheekiness of her grin told me exactly what she was thinking. “I say, we head to the school and keep an eye on him. We know he’ll be there and it’s a good a place to start as any.” I agreed as she turned the car towards the school, approaching it from one of the roads that ran adjacent to it on its western side. The road sat on the edge of a small hill, thus providing us with an elevated vantage point. We could see Clancy mowing the grass on the far side of the oval, cutting a strange myriad of shapes into the grass as he went.

  “There he is,” I said as Steph turned the car off. After a few moments, she said, “I wish I had my binoculars.”

  “You have binoculars?” I asked.

  “Sure. They were my mum’s,” she said with a straight face. It took me a second, then I burst out laughing. Steph looked at me, surprised. “What are you laughing at?” she asked, and I realised she didn’t understand.

  “What was your mum doing with binoculars?” She nodded, then giggled a little, as she understood.

  “They belonged to her father, silly.” She looked around, first over the school yard, then the road behind us.

  “What’s up?”

  “Do you mind waiting here? My house is only a couple of blocks behind us. I can go grab them, and maybe some supplies as well.”

  “OK, but don’t be long. Looks like he’s almost finished that patch and I don’t know if he’ll start another.” She agreed and hopped out, hurrying down the footpath behind us. I slid across to the driver’s side to look less conspicuous.

  2.

  I watched him, fascinated, as Clancy weaved in and out of strange patterns in the grass. It was like he was creating some amazing piece of artwork that only he could see. He had his shirt off and had suspended it from his belt. Every so often, he would pull it from his belt and wipe his brow with it, looking up at the cloudless sky as he did. Round and round he went, the remaining grass patch growing smaller and smaller. I figured he would finish in the next ten or so minutes and hoped Steph would be back by then.

  She returned less than ten minutes later, carrying two bags, one in each hand. She hopped in the passenger seat and slung the bags in my direction. I took them and handed them back to her once she closed the door. She reached into the first and pulled out a brown leather case with a long brown leather strap. She popped the top and took out an old pair of binoculars. They looked like something from the first world war, but when I looked through them, saw they were in amazingly clear condition. With the binoculars, I could see Clancy close enough to pick out the beads of sweat on his forehead. Sh
e also took out two thermoses, two bottles of coke and a bottle of milk.

  In the other bag, Steph had packed a loaf of bread, an entire length of salami, a jar of mustard, a whole sponge cake and a container of mixed nuts.

  “Wow, were you expecting anyone else?” I laughed as she handed me the container of nuts.

  “I wasn’t sure what you liked and I don’t know how long this will take.” I took the bag and put it on the back seat, returning the spyglass to my eyes. Clancy was walking the mower back to a small shed next to the main building, the patch finally complete.

  “How are we going to follow him when he walks to wherever he goes after this?” I asked. It was a small town with very little traffic, and he would surely notice a car trailing him, regardless of his IQ.

  “We drive from corner to corner for some of the time, other times, one of us gets out and walks. Although I would probably suggest you hop out. I have no doubt he would notice my uniform.” She had a point and wondered why she hadn’t changed when she was home. I figured it didn’t matter at this point and agreed with her.

  3.

  We followed Clancy for the best part of an hour as he made his way up Main Street. I had to get out a couple of times to follow, but Steph kept coming at just the right moments to scoop me up and continue behind him. He stopped at a couple of shops, one to buy cigarettes and another to buy an ice cream. Each time, he would come out of the shops whistling, throwing a set of keys in the air, then catching them triumphantly. He dropped them once, cursed, then picked them up. It was almost comical to watch him, and under different circumstances, maybe even funny. But our reasons for trailing this person were far from anything enjoyable and so we had our game faces on.

  The further he walked toward the outskirts of town, the harder it became for us to follow. On one occasion he stopped to tie his bootlace just as I had jumped out of the car. I considered jumping back in but there was a woman walking her dog past and I didn’t want to draw unnecessary attention to us. He took an insane amount of time to complete the task of tying the lace and in the end, I had to walk straight past him. I turned my head as he glanced up, trying to shield my identity from him. I think I achieved this with some success as he didn’t utter a word to me. The problem was though, he had seen me, knew I was there. If he continued walking much farther, and I was forced to hop out again, he would surely know I was following him.