Kessler sat back down after ordering, privately congratulating himself that he was new-age enough not to send the female on, let’s face it, what was a woman’s errand.

He eased his bulk into the booth as customers queued at the counter and the throaty gurgle and double-clack of coffee-making cut through the chatter.

“Right. By the look of the dunderhead at the till we’ve got buckley’s of getting our order right, but anyway - what’s our next move, boss?” “You got Gibson’s phone records in yeah?”

McMurray looked up from her notebook and its voluminous scribblings. “Yeah. How did you get ‘em? They’re not usable, court-wise…”

“Don’t ask - we just use ‘em to get to court.”

“Okaaay. So we’ve got a PI the rich and-or famous gets done, and it looks professional, and he probably knew his attacker. The secretary … Amanda Quade her name is … seems clean, been there for ages, steady boyfriend, and apparently not sleeping with De Walt…”

“That we know about.”

She ignored that half-smirk - was it supposed to be suggestive? Oh dear God, she was about to eat. “…And no red flag calls from her phone. Call records from the other phone - the one on De Walt’s desk - are more interesting.”

It’s like one of those nightmares where you’re running through molasses. ”OK. And…” he said.

“And the list that’s come back has calls from that phone to known associates - contractors and clients mainly - for 48 hours before the ETD. Our ducking and weaving cricketer Gibson is there, and his professional peepshow snapper Gacy.”

“They’re top of our list.”

“Yeah, along with half a dozen local chapters of bikie gangs.”

“He’s had dealings with them before,” Kessler prompted, “and they’ll be exactly zero help.”

“Yeah - then there’s one last call from De Walt’s desk phone and, unless the Coroner’s people have the ETD a couple of hours out…”

“Which is possible, but unlikely. Karlson did it yeah?”

“Correct. So someone’s come in after the rain with their size 11 clodhoppers, found the mess and called in the triple-0.”

“And the feet rule out that restaurant guy and a couple of other clients…”

“Yep. Unless they had help, but hard to see motive from a client - if De Walt was helping them out of trouble.”

“OK. So what’s new here?” If this dragged on too much longer, Kessler knew he was was going to have to put an end to Amateur Hour. 

“Well, Gibson’s phone records link him to De Walt, but we know that he hired the PI the day before, but here’s the thing: he called from his mobile earlier that day, and even though he wasn’t in the appointment book, the secretary confirms Gibson came in to the office - stayed half an hour.”

“When?”

“Saturday, maybe 6.30pm.”

“They were open after six on a Saturday?”

“I asked her about that. They worked oddball hours, apparently. Some big case. Unrelated.”

Kessler hoped letting her do that interview alone hadn’t been a mistake. Then he heard their order called and looked at his partner meaningfully.

She got the message and was soon back with a tray of coffees and pastry. She looked troubled. “Hey, Sarge - you know you can’t order donuts. We’re police - people … it looks bad.”

“Fuck that - we’re not in uniform. And that’s only in Yank cop shows. Fuck them if they’ll dictate if I have a donut.” The old bloke was clearly unimpressed. Time to barrel on.

“So, there’s no other forensics, nothing much from De Walt’s bank…”

“Yeah,” Kessler said, shutting her down through a mouthful of dough, “so we go and pick up the cricketer and the fat spy.”