the kind of thing.’
‘But now, with this…’
Dickson shot her a glance. ‘You’re thinking there’s more to it?’
Laila nodded, and her stomach shifted. God, she thought she’d feel better once she’d spoken to the police, but if anything she felt worse. What she really wanted was to talk to Evan. She wanted to call him, and enquire about his hand.
‘Anything missing at home?’
‘No.’
‘That’s a good sign.’ Dickson tipped his head in the direction of the waiting room. ‘I’ll check with the phone company, see if they’ve been doing maintenance in the Sydney basin. And I’ll get a tech up here to look at the phone and dust for prints, but honestly, with the drenching from the sprinklers, I’d say we’ve got buckleys.’
The military wouldn’t leave fingerprints.
‘Your neighbour at home didn’t see anything?’
‘No. But someone was hanging around here on Saturday, out in the corridor.’
Dickson looked up. ‘Go on.’
Laila recounted what happened, while Dickson polished off the remainder of his bun.
When she fell silent, he screwed the paper bag into a ball, half stood and lobbed it into the bin behind her desk.
‘Shame you didn’t see his face. I’ll check the CCTV footage again.’
‘Again?’
He reached into his coat pocket, took out a piece of paper and unfolded it. ‘Do you recognise this guy?’
Laila studied the picture. The man was thick set, with a broad forehead and short cropped dark hair. His eyes were covered with shield-style rimless sunglasses, and he wore jeans and a black leather jacket.
‘It was taken from one of the security cameras. We estimate he’s about five ten, around forty-five years old.’
Laila looked up. ‘I don’t know him.’
‘He got out of the lift on the third floor twenty minutes before the fire broke out.’
‘You think he’s the arsonist?’
‘Could be. We’ve spoken to the third-floor tenants. No-one had an appointment with him.’ Dickson picked up his cup. ‘I’m checking the other tenants now, starting with you.’
Laila studied the photo harder. ‘He’s not a client, and to my knowledge, he’s never been here. He has a certain look though — maybe military.’
‘Bikie.’
Laila chin came up.
‘See here.’ Dickson reached across the desk and pointed to the guy’s neck. ‘We have about ten shots of him. In this one, his jacket gapes, exposing a couple of inches of a tattoo. The weather’s hot, right? That’s why he’s wearing the jacket, to hide the ink.’
Laila squinted at the photograph. Sure enough, there was some kind of visible mark on the guy’s neck. ‘What is it?’
‘Rosary beads. The Altar Boys ink the club crest into their left shoulder, rosary beads around the neck.’
Everyone knew of the Altar Boys, like everyone knew of the Hells Angels. Eighteen months ago, the outlaw motorcycle gang had been busted apart by a series of police raids, the ongoing arrests and convictions severely curtailing their illegal operations.
The corruption had reached as far as Poole Greenwood, with former partner Henry Grace struck off the legal register for laundering money through their trust account. Henry Grace’s imprisonment had been Evan’s opportunity.
‘Look, I’ll be straight with you.’ Dickson said suddenly. ‘I’m gang squad, not arson. I got called in because this guy showed up on camera. We’ve been after him for a while. He’s involved in importing illegal firearms, and car re-birthing. He wasn’t here for a meeting with his financial advisor.’
‘You might want to show the photograph to Mike. He’s here all the time. He could have noticed him — I’m in court a lot.’
‘Will do.’ Dickson returned the printout to his pocket. ‘Any idea what your burglar was looking for?’
Laila deliberated, wondering how much she could reveal before ethics came into play. ‘There’s only one party who’d be interested in the contents of those particular cabinets. The Australian
‘But now, with this…’
Dickson shot her a glance. ‘You’re thinking there’s more to it?’
Laila nodded, and her stomach shifted. God, she thought she’d feel better once she’d spoken to the police, but if anything she felt worse. What she really wanted was to talk to Evan. She wanted to call him, and enquire about his hand.
‘Anything missing at home?’
‘No.’
‘That’s a good sign.’ Dickson tipped his head in the direction of the waiting room. ‘I’ll check with the phone company, see if they’ve been doing maintenance in the Sydney basin. And I’ll get a tech up here to look at the phone and dust for prints, but honestly, with the drenching from the sprinklers, I’d say we’ve got buckleys.’
The military wouldn’t leave fingerprints.
‘Your neighbour at home didn’t see anything?’
‘No. But someone was hanging around here on Saturday, out in the corridor.’
Dickson looked up. ‘Go on.’
Laila recounted what happened, while Dickson polished off the remainder of his bun.
When she fell silent, he screwed the paper bag into a ball, half stood and lobbed it into the bin behind her desk.
‘Shame you didn’t see his face. I’ll check the CCTV footage again.’
‘Again?’
He reached into his coat pocket, took out a piece of paper and unfolded it. ‘Do you recognise this guy?’
Laila studied the picture. The man was thick set, with a broad forehead and short cropped dark hair. His eyes were covered with shield-style rimless sunglasses, and he wore jeans and a black leather jacket.
‘It was taken from one of the security cameras. We estimate he’s about five ten, around forty-five years old.’
Laila looked up. ‘I don’t know him.’
‘He got out of the lift on the third floor twenty minutes before the fire broke out.’
‘You think he’s the arsonist?’
‘Could be. We’ve spoken to the third-floor tenants. No-one had an appointment with him.’ Dickson picked up his cup. ‘I’m checking the other tenants now, starting with you.’
Laila studied the photo harder. ‘He’s not a client, and to my knowledge, he’s never been here. He has a certain look though — maybe military.’
‘Bikie.’
Laila chin came up.
‘See here.’ Dickson reached across the desk and pointed to the guy’s neck. ‘We have about ten shots of him. In this one, his jacket gapes, exposing a couple of inches of a tattoo. The weather’s hot, right? That’s why he’s wearing the jacket, to hide the ink.’
Laila squinted at the photograph. Sure enough, there was some kind of visible mark on the guy’s neck. ‘What is it?’
‘Rosary beads. The Altar Boys ink the club crest into their left shoulder, rosary beads around the neck.’
Everyone knew of the Altar Boys, like everyone knew of the Hells Angels. Eighteen months ago, the outlaw motorcycle gang had been busted apart by a series of police raids, the ongoing arrests and convictions severely curtailing their illegal operations.
The corruption had reached as far as Poole Greenwood, with former partner Henry Grace struck off the legal register for laundering money through their trust account. Henry Grace’s imprisonment had been Evan’s opportunity.
‘Look, I’ll be straight with you.’ Dickson said suddenly. ‘I’m gang squad, not arson. I got called in because this guy showed up on camera. We’ve been after him for a while. He’s involved in importing illegal firearms, and car re-birthing. He wasn’t here for a meeting with his financial advisor.’
‘You might want to show the photograph to Mike. He’s here all the time. He could have noticed him — I’m in court a lot.’
‘Will do.’ Dickson returned the printout to his pocket. ‘Any idea what your burglar was looking for?’
Laila deliberated, wondering how much she could reveal before ethics came into play. ‘There’s only one party who’d be interested in the contents of those particular cabinets. The Australian
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