Garland. He’ll vouch for me. He can probably tell you I was there most of the week.”
Robards decided he’d had enough for the time being and left Harvey to his own devices. On the walk back to his car he called the Newcastle city centre police station and Sergeant Garland confirmed Petersham’s story. He had been picked up at eight p.m. in a local park, drunk as a skunk and raising hell with a couple of friends and hadn’t been released until the next morning. There had also been sightings of him during the week. They hadn’t charged Petersham with anything and didn’t bother to inform his probation case officer. Robards thought it a reasonable decision. He had wasted enough of his own time and energy on Petersham himself. But as he made his way back toward the city, on his way to Parramatta, a tight smile formed on his face. The trip hadn’t been a complete waste of time as he had learned that Petersham was most probably a dead end. He was most probably too stupid and small time to have been involved with any mythical setting up of Craig Thoms. Robards mentally penciled in another small stroke of guilt on the hangman picture he was drawing for Craig Thoms.
Chapter 34
Nelson pushed the accelerator to the floor and heard the engine respond in a barking growl. The wind whipped over the windscreen and battered his ear drums. He grabbed fourth gear but eased up as he reached the highway limit of one hundred and ten kilometres per hour - plus a little bit extra for good luck - all too soon for his liking. He was glad to leave the city behind him and felt his spirits and energy lift as he wound his way down the coast, occasionally glimpsing the grey white-capped Pacific Ocean to his left. The day had dawned dark and ominous, but the clouds were beginning to be pushed to the north by a south-easterly breeze that was gaining in strength.
Nelson hadn’t told Robards where he was going when he spoke briefly to him earlier in the morning. He felt slightly guilty about that, but felt justified in keeping his cards close to his chest after he had read the article in the mornings Telegraph on the Emilio Fogliani case. The page three story devoted half a page to the ongoing investigation and contained far too much detail about the case for Nelson’s liking. He pondered where the information might have come from but soon gave up on the thought, conceding that it could have come from one hundred different sources. He decided to switch off his mobile phone for a while because he didn’t want to be the first person Superintendent Crighton spoke to after he read the story. Let him take it out on someone else, Nelson mused.
He was pleased he had bet against the chance of rain and chosen to take his Cobra convertible for the drive down the coast. It was his pride and joy. He had built the car himself from a kit, and had originally expected to have it finished within a year of getting it. Seven years later he finally managed to get it roadworthy and registered, although it still required some body work on a few rust spots that had developed over time thanks to the salt sea air and a paint job to cover the grey undercoat and its many blemishes. The three hundred and two cubic inch V8 engine rumbled beneath him. The sound and vibration of it hypnotised his senses and helped him put the case far from his mind for a while.
After three hours of steady driving he crested the final hill and saw the coastal town of Batemans Bay ahead of him. He knew the area well. At the age of nineteen he had graduated as a cadet from Goulburn Police Academy and had been posted to Narooma, some thirty minutes drive south of Batemans Bay. Back then, Batemans Bay and Narooma had been little more than sleepy hamlets with just a few shops, fishing boats and beach houses. But during the holiday seasons, as with most coastal towns, they would witness an invasion of people from Canberra, Sydney and the surrounding areas and became noisier, or livelier, depending on your point of view. Nelson was stationed at Narooma for just six months before being posted back to Sydney at the first available opportunity. He hadn’t been back since.
He drove across the old steel truss Clyde River bridge that once marked the northern entrance to the town and noticed that although the town appeared to have changed considerably since he was last there, the Clyde River remained unchanged and still looked clean, dark, cold and deep. Despite its size, the ebbing current moved swiftly towards the sea and was more than a match for all but the strongest swimmer or the most determined soul. Nelson marvelled at the beauty of the river and vaguely promised himself he would take some leave soon and come down for a week, maybe hire a boat and do some fishing for flathead and bream. However, deep down he knew he’d never get around to doing it.
Nelson had phoned ahead and spoken to Sergeant John Soward’s wife, who told him the now-retired Sergeant Soward would be spending most of the day at the local bowls club where he was a member and also worked a few shifts a week behind the bar. Casting his memory back he recalled his memories of the man from all those years ago. Although they had been stationed in towns close in proximity to each other, their paths had only crossed a few times. Nelson, being straight out of the Academy had been sentenced to work almost exclusively night shifts, whereas Soward’s seniority ensured he worked almost exclusively days unless an emergency dragged him out. Occasionally the Narooma and Batemans Bay police joined forces when their limited numbers were insufficient to deal with a particular problem and it was from these occasions that Nelson remembered him.
A few minutes later Nelson entered the bowls club. Despite being only ten a.m. it was already filling with senior citizens, playing bowls and pokies, chatting with friends, drinking two dollar pots of beer and reminiscing about how good things were back in their day.
Nelson surveyed the club, scanning the male patrons for Soward, idly thinking they all looked alike with their white clothes, grey hair and wrinkled brown faces. Nelson’s wondered if he was losing his touch as he struggled to find a face that even vaguely matched his memory. He then remembered what Soward’s wife had told him in that he sometimes worked behind the bar and spotted him serving with a cheery smile. Nelson studied the man and had to concede that the years had been good to him as he still had a full head of hair, albeit completely grey now, had dropped a good fifteen kilograms off Nelson’s memory of him and looked fit and strong for his age.
He had considered speaking with Soward over the phone about the vehicular manslaughter case that Craig Thoms had been a suspect in some years previously, but decided to take the time to drive down to see him and show him a few photographs to help jog his memory. He hoped he wasn’t wasting half a day of his precious time and a full tank of LPG, but either way, he felt a desire to lay it to rest before moving in any other direction with the case. It was a thin and possibly meaningless lead, yet it still nagged at him sufficiently for him to want to chase it to ground. Leave no stone unturned, he reminded himself. It was one of Detective Mark Neale’s commandments that he had adopted as his own and he considered it to be one of the reasons for his high clearance rate of cases.
Nelson made his way to the bar and waited for a bunch of octogenarians to shuffle back to the bowling green with their cheap beer. Soward noted his presence immediately as being out of place and stared at him. He recognised a fellow police officer when he saw one but was unable to forge any connections with his past on this occasion. Nelson smiled in amusement. In contrast to Nelson’s excellent memory for faces was the fact that few people seemed to remember him. His soft, plain features and generally quiet demeanour – except when he was riled - seemed to give him a natural anonymity from people he didn’t regularly deal with. He often wondered if he’d missed his calling in life and should be working for ASIO as a spy of some sort. To be fair, Nelson hadn’t expected Soward to remember him. To Soward he was probably just one of many probationary constables who had done their brief stint at a country station before heading back to the city, never to be seen or heard of again.
”Can I help you?” asked Soward, his rich, gravelly voice still slightly inflected by his English heritage despite having lived in Australia for nearly forty years.
Nelson introduced himself, explained their mutual history and waited while Soward again studied his face and tried to match it to his memories. Soward’s mind slowly clicked into gear and eventually a vague recognition began to dawn.
“It’s been a while, but I think I remember you. You were just a kid then. I’d heard you were a decent officer. A shame you went back to the city. Anyway, what can I do for you?”
“I’d like to talk to you about a case I’m working on Sergeant. There might be a connection with a case you worked a few years ago.”
“It’s just John now. I don’t know if I’ll be able to help. I’ve worked a lot of cases in my time, but I’ll listen to what you’ve got to say.”
Soward organised to take a break from the bar and ushered Nelson to a nearby table. He seemed happy to see him now and relished the prospect of rehashing old times.
Nelson told Soward about the case he was working on and as promised, Soward listened attentively. He had
