stacked the five cartons on top of a nearby pallet, Wells removed the invoice from its plastic envelope and ripped the clear pallet wrap from the new arrival. The pair then worked in tandem stacking them onto the pallet near the wall. Wells would take one off the new pallet and hand it to Ryan, who would then place it strategically on his pallet. As he worked Ryan counted the beer cases and finished with a total of sixty-four from today’s delivery. He loaded the five older boxes back on by himself, the load now totaling sixty-nine cartons of Victoria Bitter. He made a point of remembering the totals.
After lunch a delivery van arrived with a dozen boxes of Smirnoff vodka. Once again the stock was rotated on a pallet that housed four different brands of the spirit. Wells placed the invoice in the office on top of the beer invoice.
When Wells ducked out for another cigarette, Ryan quickly glanced over the figures on both invoices before joining the other man outside.
“Who does the ordering here?” Ryan asked during the afternoon as he helped the cellarman restock the supplies upstairs in the empty club. A cleaner was busy vacuuming the floors.
“I do for the most part,” Wells said. “Why?”
Ryan shrugged and stacked some Jack Daniels on the shelves. “No real reason. Just wondering. I’m trying to learn the job. Remember?”
When four o’clock came round Wells told Ryan to go home. Ryan was under the impression that he’d be working until five, but the cellarman insisted he leave at four. Ryan suspected there was a reason for that. His intuition was telling him - as it had done with Selena - that something was not above board with this man. He had a feeling he’d find out exactly what it was before his three days were up.
There was indeed a storm brewing out in the wes t. Heavy dark clouds were forming above the mountains. The air was thick and steamy with humidity and the easterly wind had picked up in intensity. That would swing around to the west when the thunderstorm came through.
On his way home Ryan took a detour through a shopping arcade. His plan was to pass by Threads and see if Chelsea was in there. As he strolled slowly by he saw her inside folding up shirts and placing them neatly onto a display pile. She didn’t see him.
Ryan sighed and continued on home.
Thirteen
Detective Marks arrived at the morgue early. As he parked his car in the staff car park he noticed a storm was brewing in the west. He made sure all his windows were completely closed before going into the building.
He’d just got off the phone to Mrs Simms. Once again she was concerned about the autopsy on her daughter. Marks asserted that Amanda’s remains would be well-respected and that even if organs had to be removed for closer examination, they would all be returned to the body. She still hadn’t sounded appeased, but what could he do? This had to be done to accurately determine the cause of death. She and her husband were already making funeral arrangements.
So far all efforts to locate the suspect had drawn a blank. No significant leads had come in from the public yet after the media exposure, and he and the other detectives and police hadn’t gleaned much information from last night’s canvassing.
They needed a breakthrough, and soon.
Marks went downstairs where he met up with another detective, Scott Richards, who worked for the Coronial Support Unit (CSU). He was also going to be attending the autopsy. Richards was a few years older than Marks and was often the person Marks consulted with when it came to the autopsy process and ensuing results. Unlike the Homicide Detective, Richards had a healthy and full head of blond hair. He was tall with bright blue eyes, was fit and lanky, and always seemed to have a perpetual suntan. Anyone who didn’t know him would think he was a fulltime surfer. It was true, he did like to surf, but time constraints of the job usually meant he didn’t get much of
After lunch a delivery van arrived with a dozen boxes of Smirnoff vodka. Once again the stock was rotated on a pallet that housed four different brands of the spirit. Wells placed the invoice in the office on top of the beer invoice.
When Wells ducked out for another cigarette, Ryan quickly glanced over the figures on both invoices before joining the other man outside.
“Who does the ordering here?” Ryan asked during the afternoon as he helped the cellarman restock the supplies upstairs in the empty club. A cleaner was busy vacuuming the floors.
“I do for the most part,” Wells said. “Why?”
Ryan shrugged and stacked some Jack Daniels on the shelves. “No real reason. Just wondering. I’m trying to learn the job. Remember?”
When four o’clock came round Wells told Ryan to go home. Ryan was under the impression that he’d be working until five, but the cellarman insisted he leave at four. Ryan suspected there was a reason for that. His intuition was telling him - as it had done with Selena - that something was not above board with this man. He had a feeling he’d find out exactly what it was before his three days were up.
There was indeed a storm brewing out in the wes t. Heavy dark clouds were forming above the mountains. The air was thick and steamy with humidity and the easterly wind had picked up in intensity. That would swing around to the west when the thunderstorm came through.
On his way home Ryan took a detour through a shopping arcade. His plan was to pass by Threads and see if Chelsea was in there. As he strolled slowly by he saw her inside folding up shirts and placing them neatly onto a display pile. She didn’t see him.
Ryan sighed and continued on home.
Thirteen
Detective Marks arrived at the morgue early. As he parked his car in the staff car park he noticed a storm was brewing in the west. He made sure all his windows were completely closed before going into the building.
He’d just got off the phone to Mrs Simms. Once again she was concerned about the autopsy on her daughter. Marks asserted that Amanda’s remains would be well-respected and that even if organs had to be removed for closer examination, they would all be returned to the body. She still hadn’t sounded appeased, but what could he do? This had to be done to accurately determine the cause of death. She and her husband were already making funeral arrangements.
So far all efforts to locate the suspect had drawn a blank. No significant leads had come in from the public yet after the media exposure, and he and the other detectives and police hadn’t gleaned much information from last night’s canvassing.
They needed a breakthrough, and soon.
Marks went downstairs where he met up with another detective, Scott Richards, who worked for the Coronial Support Unit (CSU). He was also going to be attending the autopsy. Richards was a few years older than Marks and was often the person Marks consulted with when it came to the autopsy process and ensuing results. Unlike the Homicide Detective, Richards had a healthy and full head of blond hair. He was tall with bright blue eyes, was fit and lanky, and always seemed to have a perpetual suntan. Anyone who didn’t know him would think he was a fulltime surfer. It was true, he did like to surf, but time constraints of the job usually meant he didn’t get much of
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