Foley & Rose Collection

Chapter 19

With the exception of an uneducated, and usually unsuccessful flutter on the Melbourne Cup, Australia’s richest horse race, Sam Rose was not a gambler. He long ago arrived at the conclusion the horses he followed, followed other horses. In all the years a casino existed in Darwin, he had never so much as dropped more than a dollar or two in any of the numerous poker machines that occupied one end of the main gambling room.

The casino was a place, Sam believed, expressly designed to separate the tourist, and indeed the many locals, who followed each other like sheep through the doors each day, from their hard-earned cash. He could never accept that poker machines, and indeed gambling in general, could have anything other than a negative effect on those who indulged in such foolhardy pastimes. Money was too hard to come by to shove it down the throat of a mechanical creation designed with one specific purpose in mind - to relieve the vulnerable of their money.

He also didn’t understand why Darwin’s casino should be named Diamond Beach Casino, given there was no such place as Diamond Beach anywhere near Darwin. The casino was just a short distance from the city centre, at Mindil Beach. He supposed the name Diamond Beach tended to convey to the vulnerable, an image of style and sophistication perhaps not displayed by the name Mindil Beach.

On the rare occasions he went to the casino, he preferred to frequent the opposite end of the building’s ground floor, a quieter place, where the hum of murmuring, hopeful punters, and the seductive, tuneful calling of poker machines, would not infringe on his thinking time.

He sat on a high-backed stool at a large, horseshoe-shaped bar in the casino’s piano lounge. Behind him, a young man dressed in a white suit, complete with bold red tie and sunglasses, tinkled at an impressive, black, grand piano. Stools placed strategically around the piano were meant to entice romantic souls in love, or wishing they were, to sit and stare longingly into the eyes of their partner.

Perched atop the piano, and easily accessible to those seated around it, a large, oversize brandy balloon invited the deposit of tips. Later, as the ambience and the alcohol combined to intoxicate the minds of those who lingered while listening to the pianist’s musical inducements, notes of varying denominations would find their way into the glass. Accordingly, as his tips improved, so, proportionately, would his playing.

Sam glanced into the mirror behind the bar and for a few moments watched the reflection of the musician at work. It was early afternoon, and most of the stools around the piano were vacant. He tried to recognise the tune. He knew it well, but couldn’t remember the title. Eventually, deciding it was of little significance in the overall scheme of things that currently occupied his mind, he returned his attention to the people around him.

Only four other patrons, all male and obviously together, and each of them more than a little inebriated, sat at the bar. In a voice loud enough to be mildly annoying, one of the four entertained his mates with bawdy jokes, the punchlines subsequently greeted with raucous laughter from the remainder of the group. Sam figured this was more than likely the aftermath of a long, lingering business lunch. He smiled inwardly at the reception each might receive when he finally arrived home to the bosom of his loving family.

He was beginning to experience the first signs of irritation. So far, the boisterous comedian hadn’t told a joke that Sam hadn’t already heard at one time or another. He focused on the remnants of the drink in his glass, hoping the revellers would soon leave. He did not notice Paddy O’Reily approach until he sat on the stool next to him.

“And it’s a good afternoon to you, Sam lad,” Paddy greeted.

Startled, Sam looked at the Irishman. “Hi, how are you, Paddy?”

“Better than you look, I suspect,” Paddy replied. “What are you drinking?”

Sam looked at the drink in his glass. “Booze,” he answered, draining the last remains. “Want one?”

“Are the Kennedys gun shy?” Paddy joked.

“I don’t think they have Irish Heather here,” Sam said.

“Of course they do. I come here all the time. They get it in especially for me.”

“By the carton, no doubt?”

“No, by the pallet.”

“Of course, I should have known. In that case, I’ll have one with you.” Sam beckoned to the girl behind the bar. “My esteemed Irish friend here tells me you have adequate stocks of Irish Heather on hand.”

“Yes, sir, we do. Mister O’Reily is a regular customer. Can I get you a couple?”

“Please,” Sam answered. He turned to face Paddy. “So, it’s Mister O’Reily in here is it?”

Mister“I only come here because the staff is courteous and know their manners, Sam lad. Are you sure you can afford it? This is the casino after all. There’s none of your cheap front bar booze here.”

“As a matter of fact, I can’t afford it, but you can. It"s your shout. Convince me that you Irish are the generous people you claim to be.”

The girl returned with the drinks and looked at Sam. “That’s eighteen dollars, Sir.”

“s**t!” Sam exclaimed. “We only want one drink, not a tour of the distillery.” He thrust a thumb at Paddy. “He’s paying, he’s got more money than me, and most of it is mine.”

Paddy fumbled inside his jacket for his wallet, paid the girl, and lifted his glass in a toast.

“Actually, it’s Judge Hackett’s money, Sam. I do love this stuff, but I hate paying for it. Here’s mud in your eye, Sam lad.” He picked up his change and dropped it into another pocket of his jacket. He looked up to see Sam watching him closely. “What?” he queried. “What are you looking at?”

“I’m looking at that jacket,” Sam said. “It’s the middle of November, it must be thirty-five degrees outside, and you are always wearing that bloody jacket.”

“Not always this particular jacket,” Paddy pointed out as he brushed the lapels. “I have two exactly the same. I wear one while the other is at the dry cleaner. Why, what’s the matter with it?”

“Nothing, in fact, it’s a very stylish jacket. At least it would be if this was nineteen seventy-three. I was just curious why you always wear a jacket in this climate.”

“Well, Sam lad, your concern is noted, even if it is confusing. The fact is, I need a jacket like this. I need the pockets. In my job I have to carry a lot of things around with me; tools of the trade, so to speak. Things like pens, and pencils,” he began emptying his pockets onto the bar. “Note-pads and messages. Somewhere here,” he patted at his pockets, “I even have a small camera, and one of those miniature tape recorders.” He paused, reached into an inside pocket and pulled out a folded document. “Occasionally, I even have to carry copies of autopsy reports for a smart-arse private detective friend of mine.” He dropped the document on the bar in front of Sam.

“You got it?” Sam enthused.

“Was there ever any doubt?”

“Not for a second, not for a second.” He got up from the bar. “Let’s get a seat where I can have a look at this.”

They moved to a table on the other side of the piano, away from curious eyes and ears, and a little further away from the would-be comedian and his buddies. When they were seated, Sam unfolded the document and began to read.

While Sam read, Paddy sipped his drink and waited patiently. The guy in the white suit, red tie and sunglasses looked across at Paddy, winked in recognition, and began to play ‘Maggie.’ Paddy smiled back, raised his glass in appreciation, and returned his attention to Sam.

“Jesus Christ!” Sam breathed aloud. “Jesus Christ! I knew it! I just knew it!”

“You knew what?” Paddy asked, leaning forward.

“Have you read this?” Sam waved the document at Paddy.

“Of course,” Paddy shrugged. “We’re partners aren’t we?”

“Well, what do you think?”

“About what?”

“About the bloody report of course!”

“What about it?” Paddy shrugged again. “It seems straight forward to me. It’s what it appears to be, an autopsy report. It confirms what I already knew. John Stringer topped himself, so he did.”

“No,” Sam said.

“No? What do you mean, no?”

“Jesus, Paddy, it’s right here.” Sam slapped the report onto the table. “Stringer didn’t kill himself.”

“How long were you sitting here boozing before I arrived?” Paddy raised his eyebrows.

“I’m not drunk, mate. It’s right here in the report. I got to know almost everything there was to know about John Stringer during the murder investigation. So did you no doubt, when you wrote those articles about him.”

“Aye, that’s true enough, so it is,” Paddy confirmed. “Are you going to enlighten me then?”

Sam picked up the report. “Here, on page three, it says that the body had obvious signs of advanced liver damage. The pathologist attributes that damage to years of alcohol abuse…”

“And John Stringer never drank!” Paddy interrupted, the realisation hitting him.

“He was a f*****g teetotaller, Paddy. Unlike your good self, the bastard never touched a drop in his life!”

“Unless they are serving wine with dinner out at Berrimah Prison these days,” Paddy joked.

“They’re not, trust me.”

“So,” Paddy said as he sipped at his drink. “What does this suggest?”

“That should be obvious, even to you.”

“Okay, let me tell you what it suggests to me,” Paddy offered.

“Please do,” Sam invited.

“The bloke in the car, the one who barbequed himself, was not our John Stringer. How am I doing?”

“Great mate, you’re doing great. I never did believe all those things people say about you.”

“Of course,” Paddy continued, “that scenario begs the obvious question. If it wasn’t Stringer in the car, who the devil was it?”

“If I’m not mistaken, his name is, or was, Bert Ulstrom.”

“Bert Ulstrom? And who might Bert Ulstrom be?”

“Bert Ulstrom was a long-time resident of the same place where Stringer lived after his release from prison.”

“And,” Paddy deduced, “he went missing around the same time as Stringer?”

“The same day,” Sam nodded. “I went to the hostel earlier today and spoke to the head honcho there. He said soon after Stringer arrived there, he befriended Ulstrom. The two of them were joined at the hip; they went everywhere together. Two days before the body was found in the car, Stringer and Ulstrom left the hostel together, and Ulstrom has never been seen since.”

“Now you are going to tell me that this Ulstrom fella was a big drinker, right?”

“You’re a big drinker Paddy. Ulstrom was a hopeless drunk, an alcoholic, and had been for most of his life. It seems he would drink almost anything, as long as it was cheap and two degrees away from poison.”

You’re“The sort of stuff that would do to your liver what that report says the charcoal chap suffered from?”

“You are good, Paddy, you are really good,” Sam winked.

“So, let’s recap,” Paddy said, ignoring the jibe. “Let’s see. Stringer makes a friend of a homeless bum he meets at the hostel. Then what? Gets him pissed perhaps? Not a difficult task by all accounts. Takes him into the bush, props him behind the wheel, and torches the car?”

“Works for me,” Sam nodded.

“But,” Paddy observed. “There’s one small problem, so there is.”

“What might that be,” Sam asked.

“It’s in the very same report you’re holding there. We both know the good folk at the mortuary, so we do. They are very efficient are they not?”

“Of course,” Sam agreed. “What’s your point?”

“The dental records, lad. They are just like fingerprints. There can be no mistake. The dental records confirmed the body in the car was Stringer’s.”

“Paddy, my old friend,” Sam said. “Indulge me for just a moment, if you will.”

“Are you about to speculate now?” Paddy asked.

“Of course,” Sam confirmed. “Speculation is a good investigative tool.”

“I hope it’s better than your singing. Sorry, I digress. Please, continue.”

Sam paused, and sipped his whiskey. Deep furrows lined his brow. “What if,” he began, “what if they both had false teeth? What if Stringer put his dentures in Ulstrom’s mouth? He got Ulstrom so drunk he passed out. He removes Bert’s choppers and replaces them with a set of his own. Most people have two sets, in case they lose one, or break one, why not Stringer? Then he torches his car with poor old Bert sitting behind the wheel. He uses twenty l****s of petrol because he wanted the body burned beyond recognition. He wanted the fingerprints burned off. The face burned off. He wanted to be sure the body could not be identified by the usual methods. He was relying on dental records to identify the body as his own.”

“What about D.N.A?”

“I’m willing to bet that there is no D.N.A. for Stringer on record, and what are the chances of there being any for a homeless drunk?”

“If you’re not drunk,” Paddy commented, “then I think you’ve been smoking something strange.”

“Think about it for a minute. It would work. Stringer had plenty of time in prison to plan this.”

“Oh no!” Paddy exclaimed. “You mean that Stringer is alive, walking around with a drunk’s false teeth in his mouth? That’s disgusting.”

“No… No… As I said, he has two sets. Most people do."

“Or in case they need to put a set in someone else’s gob before killing them.”

“That’s it, mate, you’ve got it at last,” Sam smiled.

“‘Tis a wild story if ever I’ve heard one,” Paddy smiled back.

“Can you give me a better one?”

“Okay, try this,” Paddy offered. “What if the body in the car was Stringer and this Bert chap just moved on?”

was“That’s not a better one.”

“Do you want to know what I think we should do now,” Paddy asked, draining his glass.

“Tell me, what do you think we should do now?”

“I think we should have another of these fine whiskeys, so I do.”

“At these prices? I don’t think so,” Sam said.

“Because it’s your turn to buy you mean don’t you? You don’t have to pay, remember? We can use more of the good judge’s advance. You can claim it on your expenses.”

“You are always thinking Paddy. That’s why I admire you so much.”