what evil was? Stuart Miller had given up seeing a point to his work while somebody could do something like that and still at large, walking the streets. Free, to do it again. Nobody was answering at the other end but Miller couldn’t bring himself to put the phone down. He just listened to the hypnotic ring-ring, ring-ring. Then came a click, a fumble, a rustle and a grunt.
‘Lawton speaking, who’s this?’
‘Chris. It’s Stuey Miller here.’
There was a slight delay or echo in the voices as they travelled across the world. They’d kept in touch over the years, Chris Lawton still seeing Miller as a bit of a mentor even after all this time and all those promotions. Now he was Assistant Chief Constable,Northumbria Police, and a shoo-in for the soon-to-be-vacant top job. Lawton dropped the big-boss tone when he heard who it was.
‘Stu. What’s up? It better be good at this time of morning ... Christ, 4.00a.m.!’
‘I think I might have found Davey Arthurs.’
Miller knew that placing Arthurs in WA meant placing him in a geographical area approximately the size of Western Europe before the Iron Curtain came down, but decided not to trouble Lawton with that little detail.
‘Fucken hell. Where? You sure?’
Miller told him all he knew and took down a fax number to send the newspaper article through. Lawton had talked about scanning and emailing but Miller didn’t know what he was on about. He promised to pass on Lawton’s details to South Australian Homicide so they could liaise and compare notes. Speaking of which.
‘Chris, what’s the chance of me getting another look at the Arthurs case history?’
Lawton assumed his Assistant Chief Constable voice. ‘You’re retired and well out of it, Stuart. Let’s keep it that way eh? Protocol and all that; we need to do these things by the book these days.’
Miller knew there was no chance of changing the man’s mind; Lawton was headed for career greatness and wouldn’t jeopardise that for anyone or anything. He summoned up a bright no-hardfeelings voice.
‘No worries Chris, but keep me in the loop okay? It’d mean a lot. Old times’ sake?’ Miller almost pleaded, hating himself and Lawton as he did so.
‘No worries? You’re sounding more and more like an Aussie, mate. Yeah we’ll stay in touch. And Stu, thanks for that.’
Miller put his phone down. So that was it. After thirty-five years he gives them a solid lead on Sunderland’s most notorious unsolved, one that remained at least a smudge on Lawton’s otherwise unblemished CV.
Yeah we’ll stay in touch.
He recalled an image, an impression from the day: Detective Constable Chris Lawton dry-retching in the backyard of 11 MaudStreet. The case that had killed a pregnant young woman and her little boy had also killed Miller’s belief in the job and in himself. Damned if he’d be sidelined on this one.
Greg Fisher had left a note for Cato. He and Tess were off to the bays out at Starvo and Mason to talk to the boaties, they had their mobiles and the UHF switched on to take any routine calls. Greg had crosschecked the state mispers reports and a summary of ‘possibles’ was sitting in Cato’s email inbox. Cato logged in. There were about a dozen males on the list fitting the age range. Some had disappeared up to ten years ago. Some were last seen standing in remote locations up north or on the outskirts of desert outposts or stumbling out of outback pubs at closing time. Travellers, station hands, mineworkers, waiting for a lift, waiting for help with broken-down vehicles, waiting for somebody to save them. Some had probably started walking and never came back. He crossed off four of these as doubtful. The times, distances and circumstances didn’t add up. He opened up the photos of three others. They seemed either too big, too small, too old, too young or too pale. Too pale? Although Dr Harry Lewis wouldn’t commit, Cato had already convinced himself that the dead man he saw was not
‘Lawton speaking, who’s this?’
‘Chris. It’s Stuey Miller here.’
There was a slight delay or echo in the voices as they travelled across the world. They’d kept in touch over the years, Chris Lawton still seeing Miller as a bit of a mentor even after all this time and all those promotions. Now he was Assistant Chief Constable,Northumbria Police, and a shoo-in for the soon-to-be-vacant top job. Lawton dropped the big-boss tone when he heard who it was.
‘Stu. What’s up? It better be good at this time of morning ... Christ, 4.00a.m.!’
‘I think I might have found Davey Arthurs.’
Miller knew that placing Arthurs in WA meant placing him in a geographical area approximately the size of Western Europe before the Iron Curtain came down, but decided not to trouble Lawton with that little detail.
‘Fucken hell. Where? You sure?’
Miller told him all he knew and took down a fax number to send the newspaper article through. Lawton had talked about scanning and emailing but Miller didn’t know what he was on about. He promised to pass on Lawton’s details to South Australian Homicide so they could liaise and compare notes. Speaking of which.
‘Chris, what’s the chance of me getting another look at the Arthurs case history?’
Lawton assumed his Assistant Chief Constable voice. ‘You’re retired and well out of it, Stuart. Let’s keep it that way eh? Protocol and all that; we need to do these things by the book these days.’
Miller knew there was no chance of changing the man’s mind; Lawton was headed for career greatness and wouldn’t jeopardise that for anyone or anything. He summoned up a bright no-hardfeelings voice.
‘No worries Chris, but keep me in the loop okay? It’d mean a lot. Old times’ sake?’ Miller almost pleaded, hating himself and Lawton as he did so.
‘No worries? You’re sounding more and more like an Aussie, mate. Yeah we’ll stay in touch. And Stu, thanks for that.’
Miller put his phone down. So that was it. After thirty-five years he gives them a solid lead on Sunderland’s most notorious unsolved, one that remained at least a smudge on Lawton’s otherwise unblemished CV.
Yeah we’ll stay in touch.
He recalled an image, an impression from the day: Detective Constable Chris Lawton dry-retching in the backyard of 11 MaudStreet. The case that had killed a pregnant young woman and her little boy had also killed Miller’s belief in the job and in himself. Damned if he’d be sidelined on this one.
Greg Fisher had left a note for Cato. He and Tess were off to the bays out at Starvo and Mason to talk to the boaties, they had their mobiles and the UHF switched on to take any routine calls. Greg had crosschecked the state mispers reports and a summary of ‘possibles’ was sitting in Cato’s email inbox. Cato logged in. There were about a dozen males on the list fitting the age range. Some had disappeared up to ten years ago. Some were last seen standing in remote locations up north or on the outskirts of desert outposts or stumbling out of outback pubs at closing time. Travellers, station hands, mineworkers, waiting for a lift, waiting for help with broken-down vehicles, waiting for somebody to save them. Some had probably started walking and never came back. He crossed off four of these as doubtful. The times, distances and circumstances didn’t add up. He opened up the photos of three others. They seemed either too big, too small, too old, too young or too pale. Too pale? Although Dr Harry Lewis wouldn’t commit, Cato had already convinced himself that the dead man he saw was not
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