Disguising Demons Read online

  Dusty glanced at me curiously. “So that’s where your thoughts are going. Interesting.”

  It also occurred to me Dusty had missed the opportunity to question Saya about the suicide but I kept my mouth shut on that subject.

  The sound of children’s voices signalled our arrival at a large park overlooking the ocean. A young woman jogged past us. Looking after her, Dusty abruptly grabbed my arm.

  “The angry woman. Did you find out anything about her before she left?”

  I retrieved the woman’s business card from my shirt pocket and handed it to Dusty.

  She scanned the details on the card. “Kellie Edwards. Portpaws Veterinary Clinic.”

  I told her what Kellie had said about her son Josh. Dusty nodded thoughtfully.

  “We’ll go and see Kellie Edwards. She can tell me her theories about how her son died. I have to interview her anyway. She blames the monks for her son’s death; perhaps she hated the monks enough to kill one of them.”

  Somehow, I thought as we walked through the park back toward the town centre, I can’t see Kellie Edwards taking kindly to being interviewed as a suspect in Ram’s murder.

  “Her son’s name was Josh. Correct?” Dusty took a last look at Kellie’s card before putting it in her bag.

  “Joshua actually, but he was known as Josh.”

  “Joshua? Now that’s interesting.” She didn’t elaborate on why she found the boy’s name of interest, returning instead to the dead monk’s name. “What about Ram? Isn’t the ram a symbol of sacrifice in some religions? Christianity, for instance?”

  She looked at me as though I might be some sort of authority on the Christian religion probably on the assumption all Irish people are die-hard Catholics. In truth, I’d spent very little time in a church since my school days. All the same, her question was an easy one to answer.

  “Yes. Abraham offered a ram as a sacrifice to God in place of his son.”

  “Very interesting.” After that Dusty fell into a preoccupied silence, eventually coming out of her reverie to suggest lunch.

  Chapter 10

  Later that day, Dusty received a text message from Jake telling her he’d had to go to Cairns, a city around sixty eight kilometres south, and wouldn’t be back until after eight in the evening. He would finish briefing us about the murder at his accommodation in Davidson Street.

  I suggested Dusty go and meet Jake on her own but she insisted I accompany her. I wondered why. Was she nervous about being alone with him? I didn’t doubt strong chemistry, for want of a better word, was pulling them together. Was Dusty afraid to act on it? Did she want to find out if Jake was free to act on it before she got too close?

  “It’s important for you to be there, Sean,” she said. “You need to hear what Jake has to say about the case.”

  I didn’t raise any objections.

  “Can’t work on an empty stomach. Something my nan used to say,” announced Dusty as we headed out to have our evening meal before the planned meeting at nine o’clock.

  Fortified with a generous dinner at an excellent restaurant we strolled along Macrossan Street enjoying the balmy evening. Blurred conversations, bursts of laughter from diners, the clattering of cutlery against plates and the clinking of glasses followed us.

  “Not bad, Jake,” said Dusty when he ushered us into his first floor apartment at the boutique hotel where he was staying. “Queensland Police pay for this?”

  “Not likely. I use my accommodation allowance but it doesn’t cover the full tariff. Still, it makes it affordable – for a couple of days, anyway.”

  “So you want me to wrap this case up in a couple of days?”

  Jake grinned. “I don’t doubt you could do that but it won’t be necessary. I’m only here to get you started. Then I’ll go back to Cairns.” I fancied I saw a passing shadow of disappointment in Dusty’s eyes.

  “I’ll keep in touch of course. Plus, Cairns is only an hour or so away so we can meet up whenever we want.” I had the feeling Jake wasn’t referring only to meeting up for the case. “Righto. Let’s get to it. The sooner we finish the sooner we can adjourn to the balcony for a drink.”

  “You mentioned some things about Ram’s death which haven’t been released to the public,” said Dusty as we settled around the table in the living area. “What are we talking about?”

  “His thongs, for example.”

  “His thongs? In the notes you sent me I read that he took them off to meditate and placed them neatly beside the mat he was sitting on.”

  Jake nodded. “Correct. One of them was still there, apparently undisturbed. It would make sense for both thongs to still be there.”

  “Possibly knocked over the edge during the struggle?”

  “If there was a struggle, it wasn’t violent because the monk’s meditation mat, although it had slipped off the platform, was still on top of the cliff. I think the monk was taken by surprise and immobilised before he knew what was happening. We searched the area thoroughly for the missing thong thinking it might have gone over the cliff. Found no trace. Can’t see it being taken by an animal – hardly any animals can get to the cliff face, certainly not the sort of animals capable of picking up a thong and carrying it away. It’s not likely to have made it all the way to the ocean – too many obstructions on the way down.”

  “An animal could have taken it from the top of the cliff,” suggested Dusty.

  “Unusual for an animal to take one thong and leave the other one neatly in place,” said Jake. “Besides, we found no animal tracks near the platform. No. It looks like the killer took it.”

  “A trophy?”

  “Possible. Especially if the killing was a protest against the monks.”

  “Any idea why the killer stripped the monk of his robe?”

  “We haven’t solved that riddle. It’s possible the robe just came off during the process of pushing the body over the edge.” Jake went on to offer an explanation which could have fitted with Moose Mulligan being the murderer. “Or it could be some sort of message; for instance, a message of contempt for monks.”

  Dusty acknowledged the possibility with a nod. “What other information was not released to the public?”

  “Only one other thing really, but I believe it’s significant. It’s the reason I think the stripping of Ram’s body might have been a message of contempt.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  Jake lowered his voice, perhaps conscious the sliding doors to the balcony were open. “The blow on the head wasn’t the only injury Ram suffered. It’s what killed him but he’d also received a kick elsewhere on his body.”

  “Elsewhere?”

  “His testicles.”

  I winced. “I hope the poor man was already dead when he was kicked.”

  Jake acknowledged my reaction with a conspiratorial grin indicating he also understood the imagined pain of such an attack. “We think so. I believe the kick in the groin was a statement by the killer – you don’t have the balls to be a real man – that kind of thing. Exactly the sort of message Moose Mulligan might want to send about the monks.”

  Dusty’s brow furrowed. “Another thing I was wondering about. The killer didn’t really go to any lengths to hide the body, did he?”

  “Didn’t look that way. Almost looked like he was advertising it. The bright yellow of the monk’s robe in the bush was certain to be spotted sooner rather than later.”

  “As if he wanted the body to be found – because he was making a point.” Dusty scribbled in her notebook. “In which case the killer was probably someone with a grudge against Ram or the Sunyarta monks in general. And he was confident he wouldn’t be caught.”

  Jake spread out his hands as if to acknowledge an obvious conclusion. “Exactly. Mulligan fits the bill. He has the right kind of ego to convince himself he could get away with murder. In fact, that’s one of the reasons he was so angry about being caught with the marijuana plantation. In his conceited mind, he was sure he was smart enough
to hide his illegal activities from the police. Therefore, to his way of thinking, the only way authorities could have found out was if someone grassed him up.”

  I made a suggestion of my own, possibly influenced by the attitude of dissidents back home in Ireland.

  “Or he felt the point he wanted to make was worth getting caught for. He might feel making a point about the monks having property which, in his eyes, rightfully belonged to his family was worth going to jail over.”

  Jake nodded thoughtfully. “You could be right there, mate. It wouldn’t surprise me if Mulligan saw it as a badge of honour to avenge his family by committing murder.”

  Dusty shook her head in disgust. “He chose this particular monk to be the scapegoat because of his mistaken belief Ram had turned him in to the police. Is it possible Ram met his horrible, lonely death because of one man’s stupid assumptions?” Her hand shot up quickly. “Don’t answer that! I know only too well people commit murder for the most bizarre reasons.” Dusty looked directly at Jake. “We can’t afford to get stuck on only one suspect, Jake.”

  His eyes held hers for a brief moment. I wondered if he might have taken Dusty’s comment as a criticism of the police investigation.

  However, he smiled, raising his hand to acknowledge her point. “The thing is, there wasn’t anyone else with a motive, Dus.”

  “You might have found someone if you’d had enough time on the case to dig deeper.”

  “Yup. That’s where you come in. You have time and I know you’ll be meticulous and conscientious.”

  “And,” Dusty flashed a grin at me, “I have a research assistant who can dig deeper than Howard Carter.”

  Shortly after that, Jake finished the briefing. Dusty’s body language during the meeting told me any reservations or fears she might have had concerning her feelings, or renewed feelings, for Jake had gradually dissipated. By the time Jake suggested we adjourn to the balcony, I knew Dusty would not be returning to her apartment that evening. It was time for me to go. Besides, I had something I had to do. I politely took my leave but was stopped at the door by a cryptic comment from Dusty.

  “Keep your eyes out for a woman with short dark hair wearing a pair of beige pants and a black sleeveless top.” She laughed at my nonplussed expression. “I’m surprised you didn’t notice her following us when we left the restaurant.”

  I couldn’t read the look that crossed Jake’s face. Concern? Alarm? Dusty, on the other hand, was being playful.

  “If she’s still out there and sees you come out on your own who knows what might happen.”

  Jake joined in the good-natured ribbing. “Could be your lucky night, mate.” He winked as I pulled the door shut.

  Chapter 11

  Outside, I cast a glance along the street. A couple of family groups, two men about my age speaking what sounded like a Scandinavian language and an Indian lady wearing a summer shawl decorated with glittering butterflies laughingly relating something to her female companions were the only other pedestrians in sight. No sign of the woman Dusty had described.

  The only thing unusual I came across was when I rounded a corner in one of the smaller streets and saw the name Ellen chalked in white on the footpath. It was not a casual scrawl; more like pavement calligraphy. The name had been carefully penned in old-fashioned flowing script as though the writer wanted to show his devotion to the mysterious Ellen. I wondered if someone had recently lost a loved one by that name.

  Apart from the curious message, the walk back to Four Mile Resort was uneventful. Dusty’s stalker did not materialise. She had presumably invented the story about the dark haired woman in beige slacks in a fit of high spirits. I was under no illusions as to what had caused her ebullience. My noble inclination to feel happy for her was overshadowed by a dull pain.

  Back at my apartment, I took some cans of Guinness out onto the balcony. As I drank, I wallowed in a sense of loss. A stupid reaction. I’d lost something I never really had. Seems fierce stupid to be grieving over a fantasy. One more Guinness and I pulled myself together. It was time to act on the decision I’d made this morning. Taking out my phone, I pressed on the familiar face in the contacts list, punched the call sign and waited for Ingrid to answer.

  After working on the last case with Dusty in Darwin, I’d spent some time in Kakadu National Park, camping and riding around on my motorbike. I’d been there on a previous occasion and felt a sort of affinity with the place. Its wilderness, wide open spaces and ancient rocks created a natural environment totally foreign to me yet I felt at home.

  While I was there, a television crew filming for an outdoor show for a commercial network in Victoria turned up. Ingrid was the show’s presenter. Too beautiful to ignore with long blonde hair and a fresh smile, she looked especially fetching wearing an Akubra hat to protect her face from the sun. I wasn’t surprised to learn she’d once been a model and an actress attracting bit parts in various feature films and television shows.

  At five foot eleven, Ingrid was one of the few women I could look in the eye without stooping. For some reason, she took a liking to me. It might have been my so-called disarming smile or my ‘lilting Irish accent’. She had a slight accent herself, having been born in New Zealand. We discovered more common ground when Ingrid mentioned she’d spent some of her childhood years in East Gippsland. I’d become acquainted with the area when I first worked on a case there with Dusty.

  Ingrid had recently broken up with her long-time boyfriend. That might have made her receptive to my attentions as much as the things we had in common. Whatever the reason, chemistry ignited between us. When Ingrid returned to Melbourne with the rest of the crew, I followed.

  Since our last case, I’d signed a deal with Dusty’s publisher Poppins Press for my humble chronicles to be published as companion books to Dusty’s journalistic exploration of her cases. It’s a good deal financially. I get royalties and a generous retainer which means I can go for long stretches without seeking work if I want to. However, the retainer does mean I need to be willing to drop everything and join Dusty when she takes on a new case. That’s what happened on this occasion.

  When Dusty’s email instructing me to go to Port Douglas arrived, I was jolted into the realisation that in the months since we’d last worked together, I’d become settled. I wasn’t sure it was a good thing.

  Although reluctant to leave Ingrid, I’d left Melbourne looking forward to being on the move again and working with Dusty once more.

  Now things were different. Seeing Jake and Dusty together had been a reality check. Pushing the empty can of Guinness aside, I checked the time in Western Australia where Ingrid was currently on location filming an episode of her show. Just after nine o’clock in the evening. Perfect.

  “Hello darling.” It wasn’t until I heard her soft breathy voice on the line that it occurred to me in an unexpected flash of insight she might not say yes. My throat felt dry.

  “Hello.” Despite what Dusty calls my ‘Blarney stone accent’, I’m not really into sweet words. I hesitated, not sure how to continue. Nervousness was beginning to take control so I rushed to the point. “Er. I want to ask you something.”

  “Anything your heart desires, darling Irishman.” I heard the smile in her voice. She didn’t realise the question I wanted to ask was a serious one.

  I asked her. She did say yes.

  The next morning I woke in the surreal knowledge I was now engaged to Ingrid Olsen: a stunning thirty-year-old Australian ex-model. This was the real deal; the first step to marriage, children and all that goes with that. My mother would be right chuffed – to use one of her expressions.

  I wondered how to tell Dusty. She didn’t need to know just yet anyway; not until the engagement was made official. How would I give her the news? I could just send her an invitation to the engagement party when the time comes. Cowardly? Then I realised I was having bizarre thoughts. Why should I not tell Dusty?

  Breakfast was a strong cup of coffee. Tired from a slee
pless night and a little hung over, food was not attractive to my stomach. Taking long, slow slurps of the coffee to allow its medicinal properties to take effect, I mulled over some information I’d picked up last night at the pool table. I was sure Dusty would be interested.

  To clear my head, I set off for a walk along the beach. A few people were already there – some lounging in deck chairs, some wading in the shallows. Kicking off my thongs, I carried them loosely in one hand, allowing the waves to wash over my feet as I walked along the shore. Seduced by the sapphire-blue sea and clear skies, I went further than I intended.

  On the way back, I encountered the octogenarian couple from yesterday. The woman wished me a sweet good morning. The smile accompanying the greeting illuminated her face and radiated to her clear brown eyes. She must once have been quite a beauty. I wondered if Ingrid and I would one day reach our twilight years together.

  As if to bring me back to the present, my phone in the back pocket of my shorts vibrated, delivering a text message from Dusty telling me Jake had arranged for us to meet Rocky at his cafe today.

  Chapter 12

  Rocky’s Cafe, or La Cucina di Rocco to give it its official name according to the sign across the door, was one of those quirky places with its own individual character. On the right side of the open doorway propped up against the wall the cafe shared with the quaint old house next door, was a stainless-steel man’s bicycle. I wasn’t sure if it was meant to be part of the decor or the means of a ready getaway for a chef whose meals hadn’t pleased the patrons.

  Several outdoor tables near the entrance were distinctive for their lack of uniformity. Tables were different shapes; chairs were multi coloured. The jumbled mishmash created a fun, inviting atmosphere.