Dead Man's Footsteps

patterned blue ties and dark suit trousers.
    Potting, dressed in what looked like a demob suit, had briefly lit up his pipe the moment they stepped out of the airport terminal and he now emitted a rank odour of unaired fabric, tobacco and stale alcohol fumes into the car. But he seemed remarkably breezy after the lengthy journey, and the young Detective Constable, also in a suit and tie, envied the older man’s constitution for that.
    ‘OK,’ Fletcher said, ‘we haven’t had a lot of time to prepare but we’ve made a start on all the lines of enquiry. First thing we can report on is the trawl of immigration records for people with the name David Nelson who have entered Australia since 11 September 2001. We have one that is particularly interesting in terms of your time profile. On 6 November 2001, a David Nelson arrived in Sydney on a flight from Cape Town, South Africa. His date of birth puts him at the right age.’
    ‘Did he give an address?’ Norman Potting asked.
    ‘He came in on an Australian passport with a five-year residence visa, so we didn’t require that information. We’re now checking our Law Enforcement Assistance Programme. That will tell us if he has a driving licence and any vehicles registered in his name. It will also tell us any known alias he may have used and his last known address.’
    ‘He could be anywhere, couldn’t he?’
    ‘Yes, Norman,’ Nick Nicholl reminded him, ‘but we know that he had one old friend, Chad Skeggs, in Melbourne, so there’s a good chance he came here – and might still be here. If you are going to do a disappearing act and fetch up in a new country, you need someone you can depend on, someone you can take into your confidence.’
    Potting considered this. ‘It’s a valid point,’ he concededa tad grudgingly, as if he didn’t want to be outsmarted in front of these seasoned detectives by his junior.
    Troy Burg said. ‘And we’re checking the Revenue to see which David Nelsons have a TFN.’
    ‘TFN?’ Potting queried.
    ‘Tax File Number. You’d need that for employment.’
    ‘Legitimate employment, you mean?’
    Burg gave a wry smile.
    ‘We have something else that could be a connection,’ George Fletcher said. ‘Mrs Lorraine Wilson committed suicide on the night of Tuesday 19 November 2002, correct?’
    ‘Allegedly,’ Potting said.
    Four days later, on 23 November, a Mrs Margaret Nelson arrived in Sydney. Could be nothing,’ he said. ‘But the age on her passport is about right.’
    ‘It’s not that common a name,’ Nicholl said.
    ‘It’s not,’ Detective Senior Sergeant Fletcher said. ‘It’s not rare, but it’s not common, I’d say.’
    ‘I think we should run through the agenda we put together, see if it works for you guys,’ Troy Burg said.
    ‘So long as it includes beer and tottie, it works for me,’ Potting said, and chuckled. ‘ Tinnies , isn’t that what you call ’em?’
    ‘You mean girls or beer?’ Fletcher grinned at him, eyes twinkling good-humouredly.
    In the distance, Nick Nicholl could see a cluster of jagged high-rise buildings.
    ‘You guys are in for a treat tomorrow. George’s going to cook for you. He’s a genius. He should have been a chef, not a cop,’ Burg said, becoming animated for the first time.
    ‘I can’t boil an egg,’ Potting said. ‘Never could.’
    ‘I think you’ll want the best part of a week here to get through everything,’ George Fletcher said.
    Nick Nicholl groaned inwardly at the thought.
    ‘We’ve been given a list of what you need to see,’ Fletcher said. ‘You just tell us if you want to skip some of it. We’re going to take you out to the Barwon river, where Mrs Wilson’s body was found. Then you might want to see the car – we have that in the pound.’
    ‘What are the ownership records on the vehicle she was found in?’ Nick Nicholl asked.
    ‘The car had false number plates and its serial numbers had been filed off. I don’t think we’re going to get much from it.’ Moving on, he said, ‘I imagine you will want to see Mrs Wilson’s remains so we’ve set up a meeting with the pathologist.’
    ‘Sounds good,’ Potting said. ‘But I want to start with Chad Skeggs.’
    ‘We’re going there now,’ Burg said.
    ‘You guys like red wine?’ George Fletcher said. ‘Australian Shiraz? It’s Friday, so Troy and I thought we’d take you to a place for lunch that we like.’
    At this moment, Nick Nicholl felt desperately in need of black coffee,