The Stalk Club Read online

  Natalie appeared behind him a few minutes later. “Boo,” she said in his ear, playfully poking him in the ribs and sitting down beside him. Craig had been lost in his thoughts and was momentarily surprised by her sudden appearance.

  “Where were you?” he growled, casting a quick glance at her before returning his eyes to his drink.

  “I was just in the toilet. Did someone steal our table?” she said, frowning towards the group occupying their table. “Why are you back so soon? Did you lose your mark?”

  Craig stared at his second drink, swirling the ice around. “I wish I did.”

  Before he could elaborate Bryce joined them.

  “Honey, you’re back. How’d you go?” Natalie asked, jumping up and kissing him.

  “Not too well. I followed my guys for a while but they were just on a shopping trip. I gave up after one of them tried on his fourth pair of tight leather pants and modeled them for his partner.”

  “How’d you go Craig?” asked Bryce.

  “I ran into a bit of trouble.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, I think I just witnessed a murder,” Craig said with a deadpan expression on his face. Natalie and Bryce looked at each other. Craig finished off his second drink and appreciated the way the alcohol seeped its way into every part in his body and gently massaged and soothed his taut nerves.

  “What did you say? You witnessed a murder?” Natalie said with a confused expression on her face, not knowing if he was joking or serious.

  “Could you speak a little louder next time? I don’t think the people across the road quite heard you.”

  “What happened?” asked Bryce in a barely audible whisper, overcompensating for Natalie’s loudness.

  Craig looked around and waited for a couple of young women to move past them on their way to the bar. He took a deep breath and gathered himself.

  “Well I was last out. My guy was acting kinda strange, kinda nervous. I knew he was up to something. He kept stopping and checking himself. His collar was pulled up high and he was wearing a baseball cap. Anyway, he took the train to St Peters, walked through Sydney Park and then out the other side into a factory area. I kept following him. And then he went up to a car that was parked there and pulled out a gun. Bang, bang, bang, he shot some guy, as simple as that.”

  Natalie and Bryce stared blankly at each other lost for words. Craig just stared into his third drink.

  Jen and Grant returned to the bar together and pulled chairs to the table. Jen noticed the blank faces around the table.

  “What’s going on?” she said.

  Craig was in no mood to repeat his story so Natalie quickly filled them in on what had happened. Jen was near to hysterics by the end of Natalie’s retelling and looked around nervously as if the police would burst through the door and arrest them all at any moment. Grant smiled and stared blankly at Craig, wondering where the punch line was, but it never came.

  “You have to go to the police to report it,” said Jen anxiously.

  “No way!” Craig retorted sharply. “Do you know what happens when guys with records report murders? I’m not that stupid. I didn’t do anything and I’m not going to report anything. It’s got nothing to do with me and I’d like to keep it that way.”

  “I didn’t know you had a record. What’ve you done?” Natalie said, eyeing him suspiciously.

  “It was nothing. Just a couple of DUIs and an assault charge when I was a kid.”

  “But what if the guy isn’t dead?” asked Bryce.

  “Trust me, he’s dead. You don’t get shot three times from close range and live to tell the tale.”

  “What happened then? What happened after he got shot?” asked Natalie.

  Craig stared at his drink trying to remember.

  “I....I don’t really know. I panicked and just ran. I know it sounds stupid, but I can barely remember the next few minutes. My adrenalin was pumping so hard my brain kind of shut down and I just ran like a sissy ten year old schoolgirl. After a while I managed to calm myself down and then I just came back here.”

  “Well I still think we need to report it to the police,” said Jen, shaking her head in disbelief. “I mean you’re a witness, you saw the guy. You can give a description or something.”

  “And what do I tell the cops?” he sneered derisively. “Maybe I should just tell them that me and my friends were out stalking some people and one of them just happened to murder a guy. Yeah, I’m sure that will go down real well.”

  “He’s right,” Bryce conceded. “We don’t need to draw any attention to what we do. There are laws against stalking you know. We could all lose our jobs. Carmichael would definitely sack me on the spot if he found out.”

  “Did you get any photos or video of this guy?” asked Natalie.

  Craig looked at her as if he didn’t understand the question. “No. No, I didn’t really get a chance,” he replied in an exasperated tone. “I should have, I could have shown you guys, but I just wasn’t thinking straight at the time. And he was always on the move, moving away from me, and after he shot the guy he moved so fast….it was over so quickly.

  Grant had been quiet until now. He was still stunned by the news but was trying his very best not to panic and to think his way through it.

  “Did you get a good look at him Nat?” The question seemed to surprise her. She tilted her head and recalled the moment from her memory.

  “I guess, but it was just a quick look. But as Craig said, he was kinda covered up, kinda mysterious and secretive looking. That was the reason I chose him.”

  Nero’s was starting to reach capacity and before long a queue would start to form at the door and the bouncers would begin to earn their money by keeping the numbers inside in line with the prescribed limit. A four piece R&B band had set up their gear on a small stage at the rear of the bar and were doing sound checks on their instruments and double checking connections.

  “So what are we going to do?” Natalie asked.

  Craig glowered at her under a heavy brow. “We’re all in this together and we’ve all got something to lose if we get dragged into this. We do nothing.”

  Chapter 8

  It was seven minutes past two in the morning. All was quiet, apart from a noise that kept repeating, nagging, distracting dreams. A phone ringing. As his consciousness struggled to the surface to breath he became aware that the phone was not part of his dream. An eye finally opened, registered the time on the old clock radio beside his bed. He was of medium build, yet strongly put together but not in a pretty, waxed, gym junkie way. He was thirty-five. He sat up and turned the bedside table lamp on, causing momentary blindness which he shielded his eyes from. He turned the lamp on because he guessed what was coming. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that he wouldn’t be going back to bed and also knew from past experience that remaining in a prone position after finishing a call often resulted in him falling back asleep. He had never quite got used to working nights.

  The phone waited patiently for him while he rubbed his eyes. There was no voicemail to offer respite after ten rings or so, you either answered it or you accepted the consequences of missing the call. Earlier in the night he had partaken in a few celebratory beers, give or take several, and now he was beginning to regret it, a little. It had been a slow and tedious week, mostly spent at the Central Local court in the city waiting to give evidence at the long winded trial of a case that had been laboriously dragged through the courts for several years. The guilty verdict of murder, that had been returned by the jurors within two hours of the case being wrapped up had been a relief to all involved except the accused and his lawyer and had been the trigger for the celebration. The case had been particularly traumatic on the Homicide detectives involved. Two young children had been abducted on their way home from primary school and found murdered a week later. The accused murderer was a sixty-five year old neighbour of the children who had used his relationship with the family to lure the children away. All of the detectives
involved in the case had been sickened to the core by the abuse of trust and calculated deception of the old man and were hopeful that when sentencing was handed down it would be sufficiently lengthy to ensure the offender would end his days on Earth in a small prison cell.

  After nearly twenty rings, he finally reached for his mobile and flipped it open.

  “Nelson here.” He didn’t bother trying to hide his grogginess, anyone answering the phone at two a.m. sounded groggy.

  “Detective Sergeant Nelson, it’s Detective Superintendent Crighton here. I’m sorry to wake you.”

  Nelson didn’t think he sounded particularly sorry and also thought it absurd that anyone would think it necessary to be so formal at that time of the morning. Detective Superintendent John Crighton was the Commander of the Homicide squad. He was a humourless and ambitious late forty-something year old who had made a career as a ‘yes man’ to those above him on the food chain.

  “Something has come up and I want you on top of it asap.”

  Nelson momentarily wondered why the hell he was speaking to Crighton instead of the usual suspects who normally woke him up in the middle of the night. He also wondered why anyone was calling him at all because as far as his hazy mind could recall he was just at the beginning of three days off after having worked the previous seven straight. He briefly wondered if he was still asleep and dreaming, such was the strangeness of the situation.

  “I’m not the duty Detective tonight,” he said flatly.

  “I’m aware of that Detective Sergeant, but I require your services nonetheless.”

  Nelson decided to give in for the time being. From previous experience he knew that Crighton had a habit of getting his way.

  “What’s going on boss?” he said through a yawn.

  “Are you familiar with the Fogliani family, Detective?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well Emilio Fogliani has just been found dead, shot in his car in the industrial area near Sydney Park in St Peters.”

  Nelson’s mind shrugged off its veil of fog and through force of will became alert as he tried to remember what he knew about the Fogliani name. It was reasonably well known in Sydney for mostly the wrong reasons, as a quick Google search could prove. Emilio Fogliani and his brother Angelo immigrated to Australia in 1960 as eighteen and twenty year olds with their parents. Their father had a long association with criminal gangs back in the old country and had brought his boys up on a diet of violence and crime. Arriving in Australia the boys immediately put their skills to good use and wreaked havoc in the city in the seventies and eighties, building up quite an empire by utilising a mixture of standover tactics, drug distribution and generally well organised and occasionally violent, robberies of jewelry stores and homes. Perhaps for all his sins, Angelo Fogliani died in 1997 from a seemingly innocent car accident and since that time the remaining family had given every impression of being just another tax minimising upper class Sydney family.

  “I see. Any other information?” Nelson asked.

  “It’s a bit sketchy at the moment. I want you and Detective Robards to meet me at the crime scene in thirty minutes.” Crighton provided Nelson with the address.

  Nelson stared sadly at the phone as the line went dead, lamenting the probable loss of his days off. He sighed and then searched through the names stored on his mobile and placed a call.

  “Hello, Pete Robards speaking.”

  Nelson was slightly disappointed that Robards sounded chirpy, too chirpy, as if he hadn’t even gone to sleep, as if it was two p.m. and not two a.m.. In the background, Nelson heard the voice of a woman and realised with mild jealousy that Robards must have had some success in pursuing the quarry he had had his eye on when Nelson left him earlier in the night.

  “It’s Nelson. Crighton just called me. He’s got a job for us.”

  “Crighton called you? What’s going on?” responded Robards immediately. Robards was something of an annoying revelation to Nelson. When he initially joined Nelson’s squad six months previously, Nelson could barely hide his amazement that this twenty-six year old ‘kid’ held the rank of Detective Senior Constable and had secured a placement in the highly sought after and elite Homicide Squad ranks. In time however, Nelson came to understand how Robards had risen through the ranks so rapidly and seemed earmarked for future success. Despite his second-rower appearance, he had a sharp and agile mind. He also possessed some career enhancing character traits that Nelson didn’t, like the ability not to piss people off and always remembering to give a generous serving of respect and deference to his superiors, including Superintendent Crighton. Nelson was resigned to the likelihood that Robards’ career would continue to blossom while he held no such thoughts of grandeur for his own.

  “There’s a body in St Peters and Crighton wants us on it,” replied Nelson, massaging his stubbly face. “He wants us to meet him there in thirty minutes.”

  Robards energetically pestered Nelson for further information like a five year old on Christmas Eve, but Nelson cut him off, told him the location of the murder and hung up just as abruptly as Crighton had hung up on him.

  Nelson made his way to his bathroom and regarded the man that stared at him in the mirror. His light brown hair was cropped short at about a centimetre in length all over. When it grew longer than that it had a mind of its own and grew in all different directions. He had long given up on trying to style it because it point blank refused to be styled. He noted that it was definitely starting to show more grey than he would have preferred but it didn’t bother him overly. His father’s hair had been grey for as long as he could remember so he knew what he was in for. His nose was slightly hooked, his large, blue eyes were set wide apart on his round face and were still red and tired after only a couple hours of sleep. He cast aside the tired image in the mirror, disrobed and jumped into the shower. He had a long day ahead of him.

  Chapter 9

  As Detective Sergeant Nelson sped along Southern Cross Drive at one hundred and forty kilometres per hour in his old rattle filled Subaru Liberty wagon, he mused that the lack of traffic was the only good thing about starting work at two-fifty a.m.. His mood continued to deteriorate as he considered that his next three days were unlikely to be filled with watching footy, heading down to the beach and catching up with some friends as he had originally planned. His annoyance was transferred into extra pressure on the accelerator and his car touched one hundred and sixty kilometres per hour before he banked left and worked his way across to St Peters.

  Despite making the journey from his home in Brighton LeSands in near world record time he still didn’t quite manage to make Crighton’s thirty minute time frame. Nelson turned into Euston Road and immediately saw the flashing blue lights of a couple of general duties squad cars advertising the police presence. He knew the area well enough as he had attended a few concerts in the park over the years. The eastern edge of the park was framed mostly by small factories, storage warehouses and depots. As it was only a fifteen to twenty-five minute drive - depending on the traffic - from the city centre, the floor space in the area was in high demand and a fairly expensive leasing proposition.

  Nelson parked his car. As he alighted into the cold night air he noted that Robards had already arrived and was speaking with a security guard alongside Crighton. Nelson briefly wondered how the hell Robards had managed to arrive before him seeing that he lived further away. Adding further to Nelson’s chagrin, Robards looked as fresh as a daisy in his thousand dollar suit and was no doubt impressing the hell out of Crighton with his dapper punctuality and eagerness. Nelson was not so sartorially elegant but his fleece lined jacket kept out the cold June night, which was the most important thing to him.

  Crighton noted Nelson’s arrival, excused himself and limped towards Nelson. Crighton had spent only a couple of years in active operational duty before blowing out his knee while trying to wrestle a garrulous drunk into a cell. The injury was severe and predated the wonders of modern orthopedic surgery
. Several botched treatments had resulted in an unholy fusion of ligament and bone that could never be properly fixed. From that day forward he had walked with a limp and had been restricted to the non-operational areas of the New South Wales Police Force. Although his injury hampered his mobility it proved to be the making of his career. His spotless personnel record, his exemplary work ethic and his relative competence as an administrator ensured that he progressed smoothly through the ranks in the ensuing years, holding positions mainly at Police Headquarters and the Academy at Goulburn. Rumour had it that in a previous life Crighton had been a fairly competent sportsman but his work habits and dodgy knee had long ago removed any sign of athleticism from his now podgy, round body.

  His appointment to Commander of the Homicide squad two years previously had raised plenty of eyebrows among the ninety or so Homicide squad members who were generally of the opinion that someone with a little more front line experience would have been better suited to managing the squad. However, those above him considered that he had done a reasonable job during his tenure.

  “Take a walk with me Detective Sergeant,” he said by way of greeting.

  Nelson followed him as they walked well out of earshot of the others in attendance at the scene. He noted with mild satisfaction that Crighton looked tired as tired as he felt, with tight, deep lines framing his blue eyes.

  “Now I don’t need to tell you Detective that the Homicide Squad needs to be seen to be on top of this from the beginning. Emilio Fogliani is a well known name in some circles and there’s likely to be media interest in this. I especially don’t want you or any other members of the Police Force giving off the cuff, speculative quotes to the media over what has transpired here tonight. The only statements that I want to see in the press are those that have come out of the media unit or any press conference that will be organised through me. What I do want however, is for you and Detective Robards to give this case your undivided attention and handle it as quickly and efficiently as possible. Is this understood Detective?”