Archie looked at both members of his audience.
`Well, for a start, hubby might not want a kid, Davey. A child might be the last thing on his shopping list. He might not think he could afford one. He might like his life just the way it is, thank you very much, with his well-endowed gorgeous young wife.'
`But he wouldn't kill her just because of that, would he?' Davey asked. `Wouldn't he be more likely to tell her to get rid of the thing? I mean, it's the twenty-first century, boss, all you have to do is pop a pill or spend a couple of hours at a clinic. No mess, no fuss, no drama.'
Davey had risen to his feet and was patting the pocket with the telltale, cigarette pack-shaped bulge. Archie looked at him, then over at Carmen who had gone quiet and appeared to be counting the holes in the air-conditioning vent.
`Sure, Davey, sure,' he said. `But what if the thing wasn't his?'
The question hung in the air.
`That's something that can really piss a bloke off, wouldn't you say?'
Archie and Davey locked eyes briefly. Davey was the first to blink.
`Let's go back to the cancer,' he said, taking out the pack of cigarettes and palming them from one hand to another.
`Excuse me,' Carmen sang out. `Would you boys mind terribly if we just skedaddled along to the end of my report, then you can do all the theorising you like. I'm away to dinner with my pal Angie. We're having a paella at the Robbie Burns over in Collingwood and I don't want to be late.'
`Sure, Carmen, my apologies,' Archie said, resisting the urge to ask why Spanish tucker would be served in a Scottish pub. `Can you tell us any more about where the murder might have taken place?'
`Well, as I understand it,' Carmen said, `in spite of the wealth of incriminating evidence found in the suspect's flat, there is no evidence that the murder took place there.'
`So far,' Archie said.
`From the number of scratches and abrasions to the body,' Carmen continued, `the state of the plastic bag and the fact that the bag was still more or less snagged in the branches of a log, I would say that she was carried along the river during the storm we had on Thursday morning. The most likely explanation is that she was buried, or partially buried, somewhere near the banks of the Maribyrnong. The ferocity of the storm and the unusual amount of rain would have been sufficient to dislodge her.'
`That's a bugger,' Archie said, almost to himself. `Widens the crime scene considerably and by now most of the evidence will have washed away.'
`Isn't it mostly industrial around there?' Davey asked.
`Where we found her, yes, Davey, but there's a fair bit of parkland all along that stretch of the river too. Wasteland really. "Wetlands" the greenies call it,' Archie snorted. `Well and truly wet this week, of all weeks. We'll have to widen the search area. Probably a waste of time but something may turn up.'
`Boys!' Carmen bleated, pointing up at the clock. `It's getting on for six fifteen! Shoo!'
The two men rose from their seats and moved towards the door.
`Thanks for all that, Carmen,' Archie said.
`Oh, one more thing,' she sang out as they reached the door. `In the Missing Person Report that tipped you off, by what name was the victim listed?'
`Inga Kransky,' Davey said.
`Which would be her married name?'
`But the driver's licence and credit cards found in her handbag at the flat are held in the name of Inga Kristensen,' Carmen continued. `Are we assuming that's her maiden name?'
`Yeah,' Davey nodded. `Why?'
`Inga Kristensen? Sounds like a Swedish name doesn't it? Danish perhaps?' Carmen mused. `Boys, forensic anthropology's not my field but, cosmetic engineering aside, her face didn't look very Scandinavian to me. What was left of it.'
At six thirty Decca was back at Erskine House, bathed, changed and sorting through a basketful of remote controls. The Herald Sun carried a paragraph noting the discovery of a woman's body in the Footscray area, suspicious circumstances and a man `assisting police with their enquiries'. Footscray was on the other side of town from where Oleg lived, if Decca remembered correctly. If they weren't found together why did the police imagine it was a murder-suicide scenario? There had to be another explanation.
Then again, Footscray… She would have to check her notes, but Decca had a sudden bad feeling the company Oleg had been working for was based a stone's throw from Footscray, in Ascot Vale.
Her mobile rang.
`Hello,' she said. `Yes, Detective Sergeant, I can hear you fine now.'
`Apologies, once again, for interrupting your weekend Mrs Brand,' Davey said.
`That's okay,' she said, seeing no point in being rude or picking him up on her marital status. `You're ringing about Oleg Kransky?'
`That is correct, yes. Mr Kransky's wife was found dead on Friday morning.'
`And you think he murdered her,' Decca said.
`At the moment Mr Kransky is assisting us with some information.' Davey chose his words carefully. `Mr Danehart has probably informed you that when we undertook a search of Mr Kransky's flat we found an appointment card of yours amongst his belongings.'
Decca made a noise of assent.
`We were wondering whether we might be able to have a chat with you about Mr Kransky.'
`Tricky, I'm afraid, Detective Sergeant. Patient confidentiality.'
`Yes, yes, of course,' Davey said. `Did Mr Danehart mention that Mr Kransky is refusing to speak to anyone at the moment? Not even to his lawyer. And this is making progress very difficult.'
`I was told he spent some time in hospital after a failed drug overdose,' Decca said, dropping Volker right in it. `Are you sure he's well enough to answer any questions?'
`Well, Mrs Brand, on the surface, yes, he seems fully recovered and obviously would not have been released by the hospital if that were not so, but, speaking off the record, you may be right. Which is why we're appealing to you, Mrs Brand. I mean, we obviously don't want him to place himself in a prejudicial position if he's not in a fit state. Like the caution says, if it were later proved that he was in an unfit state, then anything he said to us now would be inadmissible as evidence. We could bring in a police psychiatrist to assess him but we felt that because of your prior relationship with Mr Kransky it might be useful to talk to you first and get a few clues.'
`Hmm, Decca sighed. Her mind was racing. `Oleg stopped coming to see me last July, Detective Sergeant. That's a long time in the scheme of these things. I can tell you one thing for sure, however: there is no way Oleg Kransky could have killed his wife.'
`You seem very sure of this,' Davey said. `Why?'
Good question, Decca thought as she strode to the minibar.
`Because he loved her,' she said.
Then the line dropped out.
`Did you hear they found Inga?' Nancy blew out a long stream of smoke. There were a few customers in the bar but the music was still low enough for conversation.
`Where?' Rhiannon asked, placing her handbag on the stool.
`Footscray. By the river.' Nancy took another pull on the cigarette then swung her heavy-lidded gaze towards Rhiannon. `Dead.'
Rhiannon's skinny hands gripped the back of the barstool. A tiny cry escaped her lips.
`Ga-ree!' Nancy yelled to the barman. `Voddie!'
`Who told you?' whispered Rhiannon. A stream of mascara was beginning to pool below each eye.
`Jordy saw it on the morning news.' Nancy's voice spluttered and choked like a dirty carburettor. `God, he loves all those bloody news shows!