LITMIR.BIZ

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      Kitchen cabinets in various stages of construction were positioned throughout the workshop. Sawdust lay on the floor and in some areas mounds of it were waiting to be bagged. Throughout the room minute dust particles swirled in the air.

      Tony ushered the detectives through a closed door into a remarkably clean kitchen that led to a small bedroom. A double bed was situated against the far wall. One side of the room had hanging space for an assortment of clothes and several towels were drying on hangers. To the left of the bed was a side table with an electric clock-radio on top. Ballard and John instinctively cocked their wrists, checking the displayed time against their watches for accuracy.

      John made a number of notes in his day book. “Tony, the Crime Scene officers will be here within the hour.” Then with an added questioning look. “Has anything changed in the room since Tuesday morning?”

      Tony shook his head. “No. As I said, I bunk here when I need to start early, or I’ve finished late.”

      Ballard pointed to a closed door leading off the bedroom. “What’s through there?”

      Opening the door Tony pointed inside. “A shower and toilet. The job’s dusty… you have no idea. I scrub up before clients come over to inspect their kitchens.”

      John and Ballard looked at each other, silently questioning his claim he slept in the factory only occasionally. After glancing in the bathroom, John turned back to Tony. “Don’t go anywhere for the next two hours. We’ll need another statement from you, along with some photographs of the rooms. As I said, my team will be here within the hour.”

      Softening his expression he said, “Many thanks for your cooperation Tony. A bit late, but you now know the importance of providing us with all the facts.”

      Ballard joined in. “Yes Tony. You’ve been very helpful. Just remember, tell the truth when you’re questioned again. You’ve nothing to hide.” He chuckled. “Besides, what red blooded male wouldn’t be doing what you were doing at 1.30 in the morning given the chance. Lucky guy.”

      Tony shook his head, relieved.

      Both detectives turned, retracing their steps to the front of the factory. Tony trailed behind them and despite Ballard’s comments, asked, “Am I in trouble?”

      “No Tony. But cooperate with the police this time when they arrive.”

      “Do I need protection?”

      Ballard stopped and after a quick glance at John, looked reassuringly at Tony. “It’s very unlikely the killer knows you were here. You’re no different to any of the other owners except for the fact you happened to hear the shot, if in fact what you thought to be a backfire was the shot. That’s yet to be proven. Now… had you gone outside while he was leaving and he saw you… well that would be a very different matter.”

      Tony began to tremble again. Once he had calmed down, Ballard and John shook hands with him then exited the showroom, heading to the footpath.

      With a measured glance back to the factory, Ballard commented, “Well John, despite what I said to Tony, it’d be a hell of a coincidence if what he heard wasn’t the shooter.” Smiling, he added, “Who will you pick to re-interview him?”

      John favoured him with a scowl. “You know damn well. Bloody Bobby. A fantastic detective, yet every now and then he stuffs things up.”

      Ballard knew John was referring to one of his most effective detectives, Bobby Georgadinov, Macedonian, young, hyperactive and a workaholic who achieved amazing results but every so often, due to his impetuous nature, missed vital clues.

      John shook his head again. “How could he have cocked-up the fact Tony was lying when he said he wasn’t in the factory at the time of the shooting?”

      Ballard laughed. “I’m sure you’ll make him aware of his faux pas in your own subtle way. You make the call to get him and the Crime Scene boys here while I nip over and ask William to keep an eye on Tony… make sure he doesn’t leave the factory. I’ll meet you back at the car.”

      Five minutes later both men sat contemplating with the motor running. John was the first to speak. “A lot of activity but we haven’t achieved much.”

      Ballard scanned through his notes. “I agree. Random bits of information but we’ve been around long enough to know they’ll fall into place eventually. My worry is it won’t be soon enough. Come on, let’s do Forensics.”

      John flicked into ‘Drive’ and with a brief wave to William, they headed towards the main road.

      CHAPTER

      7

      Forensic Services Department, employing over three hundred staff, was known internationally as one of the largest forensic science services in the world. Nestled in a bushland setting, its unremarkable presence from the outside belied its vital standing in forensic investigation, examining over 27,500 pieces of evidence each year. Those items included glass, paint and fibre material; blood and urine samples; firearms and gunshot residues; vehicle identities; drugs; explosives; fingerprints; biological material such as semen and hair; suspect documents and audio recordings.

      Ballard and John often commented how their job was made easier by the fact they had access to such a professional service and over the years, their interaction with the staff had developed to the point where each regarded the other with unquestioning respect.

      Twenty minutes after leaving the crime scene, John parked in the ‘Police Vehicles’ area. Collecting their day books they headed inside.

      “Morning Frank.” John waved at the stocky middle aged man sitting behind the glass security barrier, surrounded by TV screens monitoring both external and internal areas of the building.

      “John… Michael, I guess I know why you guy’s are here. Any progress?”

      John scribbled his details on the visitor’s register before stepping back for Ballard to repeat the process. “Not yet Frank. Early days, but we don’t have a lot of time on this one. Let’s start with ballistics. Is Robert in?”

      Frank nodded. “He is. I’ll let him know you’re on the way.” Hearing the release of the security door they passed through, heading down the long corridor towards the Firearms and Weapons Unit.

      Robert Mayne was the senior Firearms Examiner, a police forensics veteran for over twenty years. With an appearance resembling Tom Cruise, but older and much taller, he enjoyed the comparison, having more than a healthy ego.

      He had a sharp scientific brain, applying a formidable forensic approach to his work that spilled into his personal life which contributed to his divorce ten years earlier. Over time he had come to accept this and as a consequence had decided not to remarry, content with the worldwide recognition he enjoyed in his area of expertise.

      Before Ballard and John were halfway down the corridor, Robert, wearing a white laboratory coat over his electric blue shirt, red bow tie and grey suit trousers, burst through a side door, waving to both men. “Just in time gentlemen. I’ve the photos of the bullet on the screen.” Not one for small talk he spun around and bounded back into the room.

      Both men entered, finding him peering at a computer screen displaying an enlarged, high resolution image of a fragmented bullet. Without bothering to look at them as they took up position on either side, Robert began an explanation with great animation.

      “What we have here is a left hand twist, .45 calibre ACP bullet.” He tapped the screen with his forefinger. “It has a reputation for effectiveness against human targets because its large diameter creates a bloody great hole in the victim, rapidly lowering blood pressure.

      “The wounding potential of projectiles such as these are often characterized

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