Chapter 17
‘When does a wog stop being a wog and become an Aussie?’
‘Er, when he’s dead drunk, sarge?’
‘Not bad. Not bad!’ Detective Sergeant Roy Fitzgibbon and his assistant wove through the Vaucluse house and noted the general state of things before they ventured into the lounge where a large woman in working clothes was distraught. ‘But you’re only half right.’ he said as he hastened a female police member to smother the woman’s blubbering. They returned to the study.
Constable Rippov still expected the sally and demanded, ‘Well, what then, sarge?’
‘When his corpse fertilisers gum trees at Woronora Cemetery. Get it?’
Constable Rippov dutifully showed his mirthful appreciation of his senior’s wit with a bout of laughter and a quick repetition of the joke. ‘Haw, that’s good, sarge, that’s good!’
Fitzgibbon, homicide’s ‘duty manager’ at The Cross, brusquely directed fingerprint specialists to scour the house. It had been a few weeks since his Sunday shift had been affected by some form of human explosion. The corpse on the floor reminded him of his appointment with the optician. He wrote a few words into his notebook.
‘Go and shut the bitch up, will you, Rippov, before I book her!’ Then, as the young policeman made for the lounge Fitzgibbon suggested, ‘And get some bloody spray, will you! The flies! They’ll finish this bastard before the wagon gets here.’
A few moments later Fitzgibbon heard the placating voice of Constable Rippov asking the woman if she knew where the aerosol can was.
‘Shit!’ Fitzgibbons swore. ‘That idiot!’
Nikos Tseridis had complied with Milan Krulis’s prediction. The pain in his head confused the benumbing pain of his shattered spine and his heart gave a final flutter before stopping. The bullet from the Beretta had ground its way through a heavy burden of flesh before it petered out in the splintered bone of his spine. Now it rested comfortably, awaiting removal by forensic fingers.
Hans Dorfman had done his homework well. Tseridis’ wife and children lived apart from the ex-wrestler. It was his cleaning woman from Killit Lane who discovered her employer in his sightless torment. She had panicked and run amok through the house, creating a hysterical disturbance on that sleepy Sunday morning.
It was a belated complaint about her noise that brought the police to the door and it was then that the dying form was discovered. Tseridis was dead when Detective Sergeant Roy Fitzgibbon and his team of homicide specialists arrived.
The young constable came out from the lounge and jerked his head over his shoulder. His face showed defeat and frustration. ‘Can’t shut her up, sarge.’
The big detective sergeant did not smile when he was pleased. His eyes became hooded and moist, and a blush appeared to colour his face. He was very tall with thick black hair, his nose the plasticine shape of a boxer’s. His eyebrows joined in a ferocious scowl across his forehead and his thick red lips pressed hard together to hide their femininity. He felt a sudden burst of pleasure now, and he opened his mouth to whistle then realised how he looked and shut them tight in a resumption of toughness.
He dismissed Rippov to another part of the house. Then he strode into the lounge. He banged the door shut behind him. Dragging the sobbing woman to her feet he swiped her face roughly with the back of his hand. Her flesh opened below her lips and a smear of blood coursed across her cheek. She howled fiercely and received a shocking slap from the other direction.
‘Shuttup slut!’
The woman was dazed and increasingly beyond control. Fitzgibbon glanced quickly at the door then punched her solidly below the ribcage. She oooofed the air from her lungs. He shoved her back onto the settee. No further sound came from her except the wheeze of air filling her lungs.
‘That’s better, love!’ Fitzgibbon said encouragingly. ‘That’s one thing you wogs’ve taught us. Belt your women and they’ll love you for it.’ He stared at her, nonplussed by her hysteria. He said, ‘Now! What can you tell me about Big Boy next door?’
The woman gaped at him through tears. Her head moved from side to side and her twisted swollen mouth tried to form words of the noises that rose from her throat. She shrank back as his hand curled for another strike. Then she collapsed.
‘Constable Rippov!’ barked Fitzgibbon.
The young constable scurried in, looked at the woman and said nothing.
‘Get this hag washed up and down to the station. Hold her there!’
‘Do you want her charged?’
‘Nuh! Just threaten her with hindering. I’ll see her later this afternoon. I’ll be away for a bit.’
