I pressed my badge against the grille. ‘I’m here with some more information on your stepson, Dallas Boyd. Can I come in?’
Rowe turned back to check the lounge, hesitation in his voice. ‘I’m not really dressed properly.’
‘I don’t care if you’ve got a syringe on the coffee table, Mr Rowe. I just need to clarify who should receive your stepson’s possessions.’
‘Possessions?’
That was the hook. Greed. It got them every time.
‘Dallas had a number of items in his apartment and we need to finalise where it will all go. It’ll only take a minute. Then you can go back to bed.’
‘All right.’
The door clicked open and we stepped into a dimly lit room, sunlight framing the curtains. The smell of cigarettes and stale beer hung thick in the warm apartment, turning it into a putrid incubator. Rowe was a thin man, face gaunt and unshaven. Bare-chested, tracksuit pants hanging loose off his bony hips, wiry arms covered in tattoos and pus-infected abscesses.
‘Don’t mind the mess,’ he drawled. ‘Bit of a rough time, ya know?’
I held my breath as I followed him through a lounge crowded with empty beer bottles, overflowing ashtrays, dirty dishes and piles of soiled laundry. No Amstel anywhere. My eyes were drawn to the television and the sofa, where the little girl had curled up against a pillow and teddy bear. She looked cleaner than anything else in the room.
To the left was the kitchen.
‘Come in ’ere,’ Rowe said, taking a cigarette from a pack on the cluttered bench. He lit the smoke using the gas stove, making no attempt to open a window.
Pappa hung back, leaning against the doorway, as I followed Rowe into the kitchen. In the sink I noticed an orange syringe cap.
‘So what’s the go with Dall’s possessions?’ Rowe asked, blowing smoke towards a ceiling stained yellow in the corners. ‘Probably best it all comes here, yeah?’
Watching for needles, I pushed aside several beer bottles on the bench to make room for my daybook. I had no intention of filling in any reports. It was all for show.
‘Probably,’ I said. ‘When did Dallas move out of home?’
‘Shit, years ago, mate. He was a survivor, ya know? Didn’t matter what happened, he always bounced back.’
Did he bounce back from all those broken ribs? I thought. What about the shattered arm, you bastard?
‘He was only sixteen, Mr Rowe. Most kids these days stay at home well into their twenties. Why’d he move out so young?’
Rowe took a deep drag and tapped ash in the sink. ‘S’pose I best be honest, hey?’
‘Appreciate that,’ I said.
‘Me and Dall didn’t always get along so well. He’s not me kid, so he was always against the discipline, me bein’ the stepfather and all.’
‘When was the last time you saw him, sir?’
‘Christmas Day, mate. Came over to give Rachel her pressie. Didn’t stay long though. What kind of possessions are we talkin’ about? Last I heard he was living in some hostel in St Kilda.’
‘We’ll get to that. He had a mate named Sparks. Know him?’
Rowe twisted his lips, blew smoke out his nostrils. ‘Nup. What kinda name is that anyway, Sparks? Did Dall have a stereo or one of them iPods? What about a plasma telly? Always wanted one of them.’
I guessed Rowe had handled a few plasma televisions in his time; just never kept any. They’d all gone up his arm.
‘What d’ya reckon, Rach?’ he called into the lounge. ‘Maybe we could get a new telly and DVD player. That’d be all right, hey?’
The girl didn’t respond and I looked back at Rowe and waited.
‘What?’
‘Mr Rowe, just for our records, where were you at midnight last Thursday?’
He took another long drag on his cigarette, then threw the butt in the sink.
‘There aren’t any possessions, are there?’ he said. ‘Ya just here to size me up.’
‘Just answer the question and we can move on, please.’
‘Nup. This is my house, and it’s me son who’s dead, even if he was only me stepson. Fuckin’ pigs all full of shit. Let ya in on good faith and all the while ya lookin’ to work me over. When am I supposed to get me time to grief?’
‘Grieve,’ I spat. ‘And you never treated Dallas like a son.’
‘Fuck off, copper. I know me rights. Ya wanna stay here then let me see ya warrant.’
‘I don’t need one. We were invited in, weren’t we, George?’