“But then it could have devolved into uncontrolled passion.” She pointed to an image of the pruning shears up on the screen. “Cutting off fingers—that smacks of torture. Of someone seeking information. As do the ropes and the chair found in the abandoned homestead.”
“The guy was scared,” added Jimmo. “He shat and peed his pants.”
“Maybe he didn’t give up what his assailant wanted,” said Lozza. “Maybe Martin Cresswell-Smith refused, his captor was enraged, and snapped.”
Corneil held her gaze. She cursed to herself. She could feel in his gaze that he was reminding her that she, too, could have—had—snapped. Become enraged, violent.
“So my question,” Gregg said, “is why try to dispose of him underwater like that? If someone was trying to hide the body, why did they leave the ropes and pruning shears, and all the other evidence, in plain sight inside the house?”
“Because maybe something went wrong?” offered Henge. “Like, there was a plan, and it changed on the fly. In a rush. Maybe the suspect or suspects were disturbed and fled in a hurry.”
“Any idea of time of death, or how long the body was in water, yet?” Sybil asked.
Corneil said, “Preliminary estimate from the pathologist is that he was killed sometime late on November seventeen. He was in water maybe twenty-four hours. Those muddies work fast.”
Lozza knew this to be true. You could leave massive fish heads in a crab pot late at night, and come early morning the bait would be all but gone.
Corneil continued. “So between five forty a.m. November seventeen—the time the Cresswell-Smiths were seen going out in the Abracadabra—and seven forty p.m., when the neighbor saw Mrs. Creswell-Smith stumbling home, she conceivably had a window of opportunity, if the pathologist’s preliminary estimate holds up.”
“She could also have taken the drugs and purposefully passed out, sort of as an alibi,” suggested Gregg. “The alleged memory loss could be a convenient tool. Except things went wrong and she fell and hit her head.”
“Or,” said Henge, “she could have used the overdose simply to misdirect suspicion from herself while also working with a coconspirator. Because a woman like that—heiress with tons of money all her life—people like her hire others to do dirty work.”
“Maybe the bikie,” suggested Gregg.
Lozza juggled the various puzzle pieces in her head but did not offer too much input. She preferred at this point to stay out of Corneil’s crosshairs. Jon had obviously already told Corneil about Lozza delivering the drugs. If he had a chance, he’d use that against her.
“Okay,” said Corneil. “Assignments. DC Grant, you’re on victimology. We need everything we can find on Martin Cresswell-Smith—who he was, what he did, where he comes from, who his friends and family are, what his beliefs are, who his enemies are, what he was doing before he came to Australia, any criminal record anywhere.”
“On it, sir,” said Sybil.
“Constables Markham, Duff, the greenies are yours. Bring the ringleaders in. Constables Bianchi, Abbott, since you both already have history with the wife, I want you two to handle the initial interview with Ellie Cresswell-Smith.”
It did not escape Lozza’s attention that Corneil had not referred to her as a senior constable. The guy was a jerk.
“When DC Grant brought Mrs. Cresswell-Smith into the station from the hospital this morning,” Corneil continued, “she learned that Mrs. Cresswell-Smith had booked a flight out of Moruya Airport that left yesterday. She missed it because she was in hospital. Mrs. Cresswell-Smith made clear to DC Grant that she intends to purchase another plane ticket and return to Canada as soon as she can. So find something we can use to keep her in the country. She’s our number one. I don’t want to lose access to her.” He paused. “Any questions?”
No one responded.
“Right, let’s get to it,” Corneil said. “We’ve got photos of Martin Cresswell-Smith’s missing bronze Rolex Daytona out with Crime Stoppers and the media. It’s worth seventy thousand dollars, give or take. If anyone tries to hawk it, I want to know. We’ve also got the rego and hull identification number of the Abracadabra out there, plus photos of a similar Quinnie model. If anyone tries to sell a boat with that HIN number, I want to know about it. Plus, we’ve got a BOLO on this man—” He tapped his Sharpie on an image on the board of the bald bikie with ink on his neck. “Who is he? How is he connected to Ellie Cresswell-Smith? How are they both connected to the black-market prescription drugs? Why