There Is More Light Than Dark

Chapter Fifteen

Friday July 8

Detective Sergeant Dean McCoy flung himself arse first into the lounge suite that had formed a specific receptacle for him, having been through this process most nights for the last 15 years.

He surveyed his own house, unable to resist the comparison to the dingy shithole he'd had to go back to today. In general terms his house was modest. Respectable, clean and well cared for, for sure, but a volume builder, off-the-plan job in Berwick was never going to be somewhere you'd skite about at a work BBQ.

He flicked on the TV more out of habit than interest and quickly found the volume control as the six o'clock news bulletin blared out of the box. He smiled and shook his head, knowing the last one to control this piece of equipment would have been his little girl, Rose.

'Busy' he'd call her when people asked how she was getting on. Six years old and full of beans and interest that he could only marvel at. He certainly could never remember ever having that much get up and go himself. He heard her arguing with Chloe as she tried to dry her out of the bath upstairs. It was a ritual, something you almost looked forward to as long as you weren't on the receiving end.

'Why do the bath bubbles go when I do a wee?'

'How come I have to wash my hair tonight if I'm only going to get it dirty tomorrow at school?'

'How does the tap make the water hot?'

They kept coming and when he was there, in the middle of it, he found it hard to keep his cool. But from down here with a stubby jacked open on the arm of the couch beside him he felt good. At least someone in the house was going to have enough brains to earn their way out of the suburban malaise he'd been plonked in.

He'd brought the file home with him, annoyed and surprised when the path lab had phoned him earlier than expected to say she had a lethal amount of diazepam and oxy in her blood stream but not an excessive amount – not enough to say she'd had any help. They did say she had a blood alcohol reading of .14. McCoy had rifled back through his recollection of the house that day and couldn't recall seeing any empty bottles near the bed.

She must have had a few before she went down there to finish herself off.

He'd flicked through Vincent's family history again trying to find anything that might help this feeling he had.

An only child, his mother had died when he was eleven of an unidentified disease process. He'd been a model citizen, no record of any note and a decent employment history. Right now he was a junior graphic designer – it fit the over confidence and snappy answers to all of McCoy's questions.

He'd phone them tomorrow to check on his hours, if he got the chance.

His father, Peter Sampson, had been hauled in once a couple of years after he lost his wife. A veterinarian, he'd been quick to snuff out the questions that a neighbour had raised about shouting and the boy screaming. The attending officer had noted the boy was quiet but apparently unharmed and happy to state that nothing had happened. There was no follow up and no further incidents had been reported.

He'd also seen the CCTV footage come through from the station, the park and the strip of shops on Canterbury Rd. The prick had indeed walked through at the time he'd said. The frisbee was there, the two people throwing it, the dog and the woman walking it. It was all true and McCoy was angry about it. For years now he'd been able to trust his instinct and this time maybe it was the entitled little arsehole's attitude and place in the pecking order that got to him.

He broke from his train of thought and despondency at getting it wrong when he heard his little poppet padding her way down the stairs.

He took one last swig and grabbed her as she ran to him, arms open and squealing that her dad was home from work again.

That night he slept lightly, annoyed at the world and lightly berated by Chloe as he tossed and turned. And Dean McCoy came back to the file the next morning as he sipped his coffee and still fought that feeling that something was just off the mark on this one.

He had a raft of notes and he'd work his way through eventually but when the evidence all turned in on itself like this and the only real witness and suspect had clearly told the truth he knew he wouldn't be able to give it much time. Crime data, KPIs and Senior Sergeant Frank Young would all see to that.