Kevin O’Keefe was doing what he did best, pursuing each objective with plodding tenacity.
Rita put the phone back in her bag, and tried to relax as she sipped her coffee. Around her, groups of students clustered at cafe tables. The place was full of loud conversations - the clamour of burgeoning intellects among the coffee cups and donuts. The scene almost made her feel nostalgic. A decade ago she would have been at home here in the heady mix of idealism and naivety - a convergence of sharp-witted youths, intense young women, and post-adolescent boys. Outside the cafe, students were strolling back and forth from lectures, or heading for the restaurant or the bookshop, bags slung casually over their shoulders. Then a blind girl with a guide dog walked past. It snapped her back into action, like a visual reminder of the urgency of the manhunt.
Rita picked up her bag and walked through the heat and swirling dust towards the car park. Overhead the leaves of the gum trees lashed themselves in the gusts of a northerly and a flock of galahs swerved in pink arcs as they looked for a stable perch. As she rounded a brown rotunda of lecture theatres her mobile started ringing. It was O’Keefe again.
‘I’ve just got into the office, and a hospital’s got back to us,’ he told her. ‘There’s a patient with the type of injuries we’re looking for.’
‘Go on,’ said Rita.
‘She’s a thirty-year-old woman with concussion and wrist injuries.’
‘Is she a hooker?’
‘No, the complete opposite - a company executive who says she was knocked off her bike. It might be nothing.’
‘A company executive riding a bike,’ retorted Rita. ‘That’s dubious for a start. Give me the name and hospital.’
‘Kelly Grattan, and she’s at Epworth in a private room,’ replied O’Keefe. ‘By the way, if she’s the victim of a hit-and-run, she didn’t report it. In fact, there’s no report of an accident.’
‘Okay, anything else I need to know?’
‘The DNA result’s come through from the lab,’ he answered,
‘and like we thought, the offender’s not in the database. Strickland’s pissed about it. His best hope for a breakthrough just went down the pan. It also means Kavella’s in the clear.’
‘Not necessarily,’ she corrected him. ‘I never had him down for carrying out the attack himself. Kavella doesn’t leave messy crime scenes with a trail of evidence, he’s too clever for that. He’s a puppet master, a manipulator. Besides, his prints are on file and there was no match.’
‘But you still think he’s involved?’
‘Officially, no. We’ve been told he’s out of bounds so we follow up every other lead.’ She paused as she reached her car. ‘That means my next stop is another hospital visit.’
Rita drew the ward nurse aside to ask her about Kelly Grattan.
‘When was she admitted?’
‘Three nights ago,’ answered the nurse. ‘Just before nine.’
‘What are her injuries?’
‘A hairline fracture of the skull, concussion and a head wound that needed three stitches. She’s also got two sprained wrists, with lacerations and contusions to both hands.’
Rita jotted down the details, along with Kelly’s address in Toorak.
‘What treatment has she had?’
‘On admission, an X-ray and a CT scan, but there was no sign of bleeding or swelling of the brain. She was injected with a local anaesthetic before doctors sutured the wound on the back of her head. She’s on supportive treatment for the fracture, simple analgesics.
We’ve been keeping her in for observation, but she’s ready to be discharged.’
‘And she claims she was knocked off her bike?’ said Rita, tapping her notebook with her pen.
‘Yes. But she’s hazy about the circumstances because of the concussion.’
‘She didn’t give any indication that she was attacked?’
‘None at all. Is that what this is about, a road rage attack?’
‘Possibly,’ said Rita evasively. ‘Possibly not. One other thing,
Rita put the phone back in her bag, and tried to relax as she sipped her coffee. Around her, groups of students clustered at cafe tables. The place was full of loud conversations - the clamour of burgeoning intellects among the coffee cups and donuts. The scene almost made her feel nostalgic. A decade ago she would have been at home here in the heady mix of idealism and naivety - a convergence of sharp-witted youths, intense young women, and post-adolescent boys. Outside the cafe, students were strolling back and forth from lectures, or heading for the restaurant or the bookshop, bags slung casually over their shoulders. Then a blind girl with a guide dog walked past. It snapped her back into action, like a visual reminder of the urgency of the manhunt.
Rita picked up her bag and walked through the heat and swirling dust towards the car park. Overhead the leaves of the gum trees lashed themselves in the gusts of a northerly and a flock of galahs swerved in pink arcs as they looked for a stable perch. As she rounded a brown rotunda of lecture theatres her mobile started ringing. It was O’Keefe again.
‘I’ve just got into the office, and a hospital’s got back to us,’ he told her. ‘There’s a patient with the type of injuries we’re looking for.’
‘Go on,’ said Rita.
‘She’s a thirty-year-old woman with concussion and wrist injuries.’
‘Is she a hooker?’
‘No, the complete opposite - a company executive who says she was knocked off her bike. It might be nothing.’
‘A company executive riding a bike,’ retorted Rita. ‘That’s dubious for a start. Give me the name and hospital.’
‘Kelly Grattan, and she’s at Epworth in a private room,’ replied O’Keefe. ‘By the way, if she’s the victim of a hit-and-run, she didn’t report it. In fact, there’s no report of an accident.’
‘Okay, anything else I need to know?’
‘The DNA result’s come through from the lab,’ he answered,
‘and like we thought, the offender’s not in the database. Strickland’s pissed about it. His best hope for a breakthrough just went down the pan. It also means Kavella’s in the clear.’
‘Not necessarily,’ she corrected him. ‘I never had him down for carrying out the attack himself. Kavella doesn’t leave messy crime scenes with a trail of evidence, he’s too clever for that. He’s a puppet master, a manipulator. Besides, his prints are on file and there was no match.’
‘But you still think he’s involved?’
‘Officially, no. We’ve been told he’s out of bounds so we follow up every other lead.’ She paused as she reached her car. ‘That means my next stop is another hospital visit.’
Rita drew the ward nurse aside to ask her about Kelly Grattan.
‘When was she admitted?’
‘Three nights ago,’ answered the nurse. ‘Just before nine.’
‘What are her injuries?’
‘A hairline fracture of the skull, concussion and a head wound that needed three stitches. She’s also got two sprained wrists, with lacerations and contusions to both hands.’
Rita jotted down the details, along with Kelly’s address in Toorak.
‘What treatment has she had?’
‘On admission, an X-ray and a CT scan, but there was no sign of bleeding or swelling of the brain. She was injected with a local anaesthetic before doctors sutured the wound on the back of her head. She’s on supportive treatment for the fracture, simple analgesics.
We’ve been keeping her in for observation, but she’s ready to be discharged.’
‘And she claims she was knocked off her bike?’ said Rita, tapping her notebook with her pen.
‘Yes. But she’s hazy about the circumstances because of the concussion.’
‘She didn’t give any indication that she was attacked?’
‘None at all. Is that what this is about, a road rage attack?’
‘Possibly,’ said Rita evasively. ‘Possibly not. One other thing,
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