At the listed address of John Gacy Investigations the eponymous “investigator” was still in bed. McMurray eventually roused him, her fist red after a workout on the door. Her watch read 10.10am. More pounding and the locks snapped and door opened to a fat man in grubby boxer shorts and a singlet, what hair he had standing on end. “Yeah?”

The smell wafting out from the void behind him was no match for the stench of alcohol and halitosis that assaulted her when he opened his mouth. She should have waited back a couple of steps. Kessler would have, she thought - the wisdom that comes with experience. She thought of him doing the same thing on the other side of the city.

McMurray breathed through her mouth and started firing questions at the bleary-eyed snapper, each parried by the same verbal brick wall. Describe his relationship with Duncan De Walt (mainly business), did he know if the dead man had any enemies (only the usual nutters). She asked if he knew anything about any investigations De Walt was undertaking involving outlaw motorcycle gangs (no). Did he get on with the guy? Yes. See him socially? No.  McMurray knew the guy was either hiding something, or at least bowing to some sort of ill-advised bottom-feeder code of silence. The fact that he stood out in the hall and swung the door mostly shut behind him only added to his air of guilt. Not that the detective would have set foot in that place for love nor money.

When Gacy scratched his balls and offered a curt, “If there’s nothing else, I’m off back to bed”, she decided she’d been nice enough.

“John, I think you need to come back to the station and answer a few more questions.”

“I don’t think I need to do anything.”

“You don’t want to make enemies of us. Especially if you’re after an Investigator licence.”

She’d done her research and knew Gacy was chasing his PI ticket but had been rejected four times over the last six years. He’d passed the course, but stumbled on some old drink-driving convictions. At least that was the reason he was given.

“Mate, I always get knocked back anyway, so that’s not much of a threat. So unless you’re arresting me…”

She made a few more threatening noises, but could do little if he dug his heals in. She didn’t have any cause to arrest him, and if he was involved the last thing she wanted was an unlawful arrest to taint the case.

She glared impotently but had to leave. But that didn’t mean she had to go away.

On a hunch, she went downstairs and waited in her vehicle, and was five cars behind him barely 40 minutes later, as he slid his wreck of a Camira through traffic like he had somewhere to be.  

The destination seemed to be a row of four townhouses in Fern Street, Clovelly, not far geographically but a million miles from the suburb’s chi-chi waterfront.

The man her internal voice had started referring to as “the suspect” had pulled to the curb and casually walked past a row of townhouses looking at his feet. Once he was past them he stopped as if he’d forgotten something, and retraced his steps.   

McMurray frowned. She trained a set of compact binoculars on him for a while, then got out as he disappeared around a corner. 

Following the footpath close to the fenceline, where she’d be shielded from Gacy’s view, she watched him let himself in a back gate. A dog barked, then nothing.

Soon she was back in the car, controlling her breathing, trying to work out which property he’d just illegally entered.

She picked up the radio, identified herself and asked for residence checks on 47 and 49 Fern Street, Clovelly.

A scratchy radio voice squarked something and she dropped the handset into his lap, straining to see movement in any windows.

The the radio squarked again. “Go ahead,” she said.

“Forty-seven Fern in the name of Alfred James Lebreve and 49 in the name of Friend - John Harold and Natalie.”

No bells were ringing. ”Any dependents at either residence?”

“None at 47. Forty-nine has David Gary Gacy, born 1988.”

Bingo. She got out and got the loudhailer out of the boot.