Wozza looked relieved. He blew out a long breath. ‘It’s nothing personal, Pollard. I’m trained to be suspicious.’ He finished his coffee. ‘Be a bit awkward if I had to arrest you, wouldn’t it?’

‘Bound to put a dent in our friendship,’ I said dryly.

Wozza turned serious. ‘We need to talk to Lachie Murtog again.’

A knock on our office door was followed by an appearance from Randall. He looked as tired as Wozza and I guessed he’d been up all night too.

‘Sorry to interrupt,’ he said. ‘Just typing the statements from the beach and I found this one in my file. It’s from the night Jack Barratt attacked you at the pub.’ He held out a sheaf of paperwork. ‘I hope they’re okay. I’m not a very good typist.’

When Randall typed, his fingers looked like chickens pecking at the keyboard. ‘Thanks,’ I said.

Randall looked chuffed and closed the door behind him.

I glanced at the paperwork and something caught my eye. The top statement was from Ben Murtog. It was dated the night I arrested Jack Barratt.

Record of Conversation between Constable Randall Casey and Ben Murtog conducted at the Commercial Hotel, Deception Bay, Wednesday, 17 September, 9.30 pm

Nah, mate, I saw the whole thing. The sheila was pissed. Legless. Nearly tripped over on the way out. Started drinkin’ at the bar by herself. Now, I don’t mind a lady drinking by herself … as long as she keeps herself tidy. Merv tried to strike up a conversation with her, but she was too good for him. Treated poor Merv like he had the plague or somethink. Then she gets pissed with Jack and all of a sudden ’e’s arrested and down the local lock-up. Prickteaser if you ask me. Ya see this kind of thing all the time: sheilas want to crack on to ya, and when they don’t get their own way, all hell breaks loose. Look, I’ve known Jack fer years. Good bloke. Used ta play footy. Drives a nice rig, too. Once, he gave my nephew a lift up north, which saved him having to hitchhike. Now, I ask you, is that the kind of bloke who’d—what are they saying he did? Oh right—drug a sheila’s drink? I don’t bloody think so.

So, Ben Murtog’s nephew had travelled north with Jack. I looked up at Wozza who was doing his own version of hen-pecking typing. ‘Is Ben Murtog related to Lachie Murtog?’

Wozza nodded. ‘Lachie is Ben’s nephew,’ he said.

‘I’ve found the connection between Jack and Lachie.’

CHAPTER 37: HER HISTORY TOO

CHAPTER 37

HER HISTORY TOO

Doc Caldicott was slated to do Jack’s post-mortem examination, but fortunately I got to miss out on this one. Sometimes, being a murder suspect had its perks. As Wozza pulled on his jacket, he glumly congratulated me on dodging the autopsy bullet.