The Tattooed Man (25 page)

‘I’m one of those boofheads who’s honest,’ Trevor said, when he was calmer. ‘It means fuck all to God.’

‘God’s paranoid. Spook him and he won’t care who he walks over to protect his backside. At the moment, his paranoia is working for us. We’ve got to keep it that way. Now forget all that crap. What are you doing about Toby?’

‘Give God his due, as soon as he heard, he said forget the money. Just get the personnel out there. I’ve got a team at Cotswold, we’re canvassing and searching the district, and I’ve sent out a state-wide alert. We’re checking all stolen vehicles for a possible lead. As soon we’ve got something to guide us, we’ll hone the search in that direction. Why do you reckon this man is the kidnapper?’ Trevor passed Ambrosine’s sketch of the gunman across his desk to Harrigan.

‘My guess is he’s the same man who shot Freeman,’ Harrigan said. ‘He’s a South African. Grace said the gunman had a South African accent. He’s a small man as well.’

‘We’ve sent his picture out everywhere as a person of interest. If anyone sees him, we’ll hear. But why has he got your boy, boss?’

‘I think it’s to do with this.’ Harrigan put his LPS badge on Trevor’s desk. ‘I was given that when I saw Elena Calvo. It gives you access to the building at Campbelltown. I think they tracked me to Yaralla using that. I want you to get it checked out.’

‘No worries. She’s a player, you say.’

‘Up to her neck. We need to talk to the minister again. Grace went to the LPS launch for me. Edwards spoke to her there and established a connection between LPS and Beck. We need to interview him about it.’

‘He’s been on to us, boss. His adviser rang the commissioner this morning requesting a meeting,’ Trevor replied. ‘That’s just been confirmed as happening tomorrow afternoon around four if you’re available.’

‘I’ll be there. Who’s invited?’

‘I know you and me are supposed to be there, but I haven’t been told who else is coming. Apparently, Edwards has beefed up his personal security since the launch. I think Gracie must have told him to do that. All well and good. She’s a professional. But why snatch your boy? You still haven’t told me that.’

‘I think the gunman’s working for Calvo and this is her way of putting pressure on the police investigation.’

Trevor glanced at the door.

‘Did she offer you something the other day, mate?’ he asked.

‘Money and a job. I said no. She’s playing for keeps. Whatever Beck was up to, she’s implicated in it.’

‘Are you saying we have a working scenario?’ Trevor asked. ‘Calvo has Beck removed to protect herself, then tries to get you onside to cruel the investigation. It’s a possible fit. Do you want to make a statement?’

‘It’s my word against hers. It’d be difficult to sustain in a courtroom. Which brings us to the contract. What happened to it?’

‘Fucked if I know,’ Trevor said. ‘Frankie went to check it and it wasn’t there. I don’t even know how long it’s been gone. That’s one line of inquiry stone dead. Assuming I ever get to run this investigation properly with all these fucking firefights.’

Harrigan thought of taking Freeman’s photograph out of his wallet and sharing the story with Trevor. He chose not to.

‘Calvo’s reached in here to get her hands on it,’ he said. ‘She’s bought someone.’

‘Would she know who to ask?’

‘Beck knew the right people. If he and Calvo are connected in some way, why shouldn’t that information have made it back to her, or at least to her dirty tricks man? But if she did have Beck killed to hide what he was doing, why leave the contract behind? Why publicise the killings on the net? Unless she wanted to scare other people off.’

‘Maybe leaving the contract behind was an oversight,’ Trevor said. ‘The killer could have been rushing to finish. Maybe he thought he had both contracts and then realised he only had one.’

‘I’m not convinced by that. It was too much of a setup. But either way, Elena Calvo is still a player in this. Right now I need to see the scene where Toby was snatched.’

‘I’ll ring the sergeant in charge and tell him you’re on your way. As soon as we hear anything, I’ll be on the phone to you. What do you think he’ll want?’

‘I can’t know that till he contacts me,’ Harrigan said. ‘Maybe he doesn’t want anything. Maybe he just wants to put me through hell.’

‘It’s a lot of trouble to go to just for that, boss. We need to organise taps on your phones and a watch on your internet connections. If anyone does contact you, we’ll be listening.’

‘Leave my personal mobile alone,’ Harrigan said. ‘He can’t know that number. He’ll ring on my work phone. Watch that.’

‘If that’s what you want. Do I post people to sit with you while you wait?’

‘No,’ Harrigan said. ‘I don’t know when he’ll call. Have people standing by. We can make arrangements quickly enough if they’re ready to go.’

‘Boss, I haven’t thanked you for what you did up there in the commissioner’s office. I know I shouted at you but I appreciate you putting your neck out and I owe you. But I’ve got a question to ask you. Gracie at Freeman’s house the other day. What was that really about?’

‘Mate, I’m going to have to ask you to trust me,’ Harrigan said.

‘Then tell me something. What does it mean for this investigation? Is it compromised? Is the shit going to hit the fan and take us with it?’

‘No. This investigation’s on track and it’s going to stay there.’

‘Are you playing me for a fool?’ Trevor asked quietly.

The only fool in this is me, Harrigan thought. Fool and liar.

‘That’s the last thing I’d do,’ he said. ‘In this case, the buck stops with me.’

‘I’ll take you at your word. There’s one more thing you should know. Gracie. I know Toby’s on your mind more than anything, but if you get the chance, I’d pick up the phone if I were you. I rang
to tell her about Toby and she didn’t sound too happy. I think she’s waiting for you to tell her you want to talk to her. I don’t know if you want to be a single man again. You might want to think about it.’

Grace and Trevor had been old friends; a friendship that had slipped a little since she had been seeing Harrigan. Trevor would have picked up the vibe.

‘I’ll call her.’

Before Harrigan could get to his feet, there was a knock on the door. Chloe stood there, Harrigan’s briefcase in her hand.

‘I’ve brought this down for you,’ she said. ‘You left it upstairs.’

Harrigan realised with a shock that he had forgotten about and then almost lost one of the keys to the investigation. The crop specimens Harold had packed for him were in his briefcase.

‘Thanks, Chloe. Where was it?’

‘Next to my desk. Don’t worry,’ she said, giving him sharp look, ‘no one’s touched it but me.’

She was gone.

‘You had things on your mind, boss,’ Trevor said.

‘We all did. I’ll see you, mate.’

Down in his car, Harrigan spun the combination on his briefcase and opened it. The parcel hadn’t been touched. He locked the briefcase again and sat there weighing the options. With Marvin still in place, it was too dangerous to give these to Trevor. The evidence room wasn’t secure; that had already been proved. But if he kept them, the chain of evidence was compromised. Better for them to go where they could be accounted for. Harrigan had dealt with any number of forensic laboratories in his career. The name of one, Millennium Forensic
Technologies, discreet and professional, was already in his mind. Tomorrow he would see them and start to find out what the fuss was about. First, he had his son to think about.

H
arrigan arrived at the familiar grounds of Cotswold House at a time when the residents were usually asleep. Tonight, all the lights were on. The sergeant was there to meet him and take him through what had happened. A white van had arrived in the car park during the mid-afternoon. The driver had been wearing a hat and sunglasses. No one had got a clear view of his face. A little later, one of the residents had seen Tim wheeling Toby through to the car park. There had been a smallish man with Tim, walking very close to him. Toby’s head was slumped forward but he sometimes did sit that way in his chair. The resident had thought that Toby was going on an excursion and Tim was wheeling him out to the house van.

Harrigan looked into Susie’s office. The chairs were knocked over, Susie’s loved pot plants had been upended on the floor and the phone torn out.

Toby’s rooms were empty. All they had to offer was his absence. Harrigan walked into a space he’d visited as often as he could these last ten years or so. It was the carefully designed cradle that had kept Toby functioning and allowed his mind the chance to work effectively. Cramped in his body and in this
room, working through his computer and his imagination, Toby’s mind had ranged over infinite space. But he was fragile. His body did not withstand extremes of temperature; he had difficulty eating and drinking and he needed medications. Had he been left in a locked van in the sun all day? Was he even still alive? How could Harrigan know?

He brought these thoughts to a stop purely for self-preservation. As soon as he’d finished at Cotswold House, he went to Royal Prince Alfred Hospital. Tim was still unconscious, his face pale. Although not life-threatening, his injury was serious. Susie was sedated. Her face was badly bruised, her eye black and her lip cut. Harrigan walked away. Out in his car, he rang Trevor.

‘Anything to guide us yet?’ he asked.

‘No, boss. You’ll be the first to hear. Maybe you should get some sleep.’

How was he going to sleep? He drove home to his empty house. By now, it was late. He had half-hoped Grace would be there but why should she be? He hadn’t called her and she didn’t know where he was or what he was doing. Why would she wait for him in an empty house?

On the way home, he checked his post office box where there was nothing but the usual collections of official and junk mail. At his house, he checked his mailbox. A small parcel was inside. Once in the house, he opened it to find a mobile phone.

The house had a cool, silent emptiness, which for a few seconds felt almost comforting, a feeling that dissipated almost as quickly. Harrigan had no appetite and poured himself a whisky. In his study, he saw on his desk an envelope addressed to him in Grace’s handwriting. His heart dipped but it was no
‘Dear John’ letter, instead a report on the launch which, on reading, proved to be as good, if not better, than any he could have received from his own people. Her writing was clear, easy to read. He thought of her in the dead hours smoking endless cigarettes and making these notes and then later waiting for a phone call that never came. I was busy. I was exhausted. I told you that if you didn’t hear anything, that was good. Points of view which were mutually exclusive. Maybe for her it had been the final straw.

He opened his briefcase and took out the drawing Ambrosine had made of him. I’m not as cold as that. I feel everything. It wasn’t what was inside but how others saw you. Few people got under that skin of his. Those who did, he often drove away. He picked up his personal mobile and rang Grace. When she answered, he heard loud music and laughter in the background.

‘It’s me,’ he said. ‘Where are you?’

There was a pause.

‘I’m out with the girls,’ she said, a catch in her voice. ‘We’re at a party.’

Grace’s female friends were lawyers, high-flyers with astronomical incomes. In certain circles they were famous for their hard partying; gossip he had never enquired into too deeply in case he heard something about Grace he didn’t want to know.

‘Can you talk?’ he asked.

‘Sure.’ The background became quieter. ‘What is it?’

There was a touch of distance in her voice.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t call you. I got what you wrote and it’s been acted on. We’re talking to Edwards tomorrow.’

She didn’t reply.

‘Are you there?’

‘I’m still here. Where are you?’

‘At home. I’m waiting for a call to tell me what they want in exchange for Toby.’

‘Do you think it’s the same man who shot at me and tried to kill you?’

‘I’m sure of it. He’s Elena Calvo’s dirty tricks man.’

‘At the launch, she said to me the next time I saw you I should give you her regards. All the time she seemed to be really saying, you’ll never see him again.’

‘I didn’t ring you. I was weighed down. I’m sorry.’

‘That’s how you live. You’re always weighed down. You take everything on.’

He almost said: who else is going to?

‘You don’t have to do that. There’s no need for you to be responsible for everything and everyone,’ she went on, as if she had heard his thoughts.

‘I’d ask if you wanted to come around, but I’m in one of those places you say doesn’t have any light or air,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t be able to talk to you and it’s not a good place for anyone else to be. I just wanted to say I was thinking about you.’

There was a pause. She didn’t ask what he was going to do when someone did call. She was too discreet for that, and she knew the answer already.

‘You’ll handle this in the best way, whatever happens,’ she said instead.

‘I’ve got to wait for their call, Grace. I’ll ring you.’

‘I guess you will. See you.’

He sat in his study with the gifted mobile in front of him. It was an old model, one that looked like it was due to be thrown away. Goya’s prints
looked down on him but his feelings were too raw for him to look back at them. He had a hard, dark ache at his heart that displaced every other thought or feeling. It held him in his chair almost unaware of the night hours passing. Then at about 1 a.m. the sound of the mobile startled him. He had received a text message: a mobile phone number. He packed a bag with the tape and the CD and left the house.

He drove to Parramatta Road before dialling the number in the text message. His call was answered almost immediately.

‘Harrigan,’ he said.

‘Where are you, man?’

‘On Parramatta Road, heading west.’

‘You’re already on the road. Have you got what I want? You tell me what it is.’

‘A tape and a CD. Do you have my son? Where is he?’

‘He’s out there somewhere. It’s a big city. You could look for a long time before you found him. I’ve got a question for you. Did you copy the tape?’

‘No. There were things on it I didn’t want duplicated.’

The man laughed.

‘Your old friend talk about you, did he? I know a lot about you, man. I can guess some of the things he said.’

‘You’ve got what was in his safety deposit box,’ Harrigan said.

‘I have. It was good for a laugh. I could make a little money out of some of the things I found in there and not just from you,’ the voice replied.

‘Where’s my son?’

‘I’m not going to tell you that now. You have to keep your side of the bargain first. I have to know
no one’s coming after me. Because if you take me in, I’m not going to tell you where he is. You can catch me and he can die. Then he can rot where he is.’

‘No one’s going to come after you.’ Except me. ‘Where do you want these things?’

‘I’ll give you a street address. It’ll take you to a warehouse. On the door, there’s a locked metal mailbox. You drop the tape and the CD inside and you go away.’

‘How long do I have to wait before you tell me where he is?’ Harrigan asked.

‘Until I’m sure no one’s coming after me.’

‘You’ve got my word.’

‘Is that good for anything? You’ll hear.’

The address was out past Parramatta. Harrigan recognised it as the area where they’d found Cassatt’s burnt-out car. It was a long drive across the western spread of the city. Once he reached the freeway, it seemed to last forever. The air was cooler but still tainted by the day’s traffic fumes. There was occasional traffic but the cars speeding alongside him under the yellow lights only increased his sense of isolation.

His street directory took him to a decayed industrial area, not far from the site where they had found the Ice Cream Man’s car. The streets were lined with deserted and locked premises, their windows boarded up. Peeling posters were slapped in layers on corrugated-iron walls. Rubbish had collected in the gutters. It was poorly lit, no one was around. Harrigan found the mailbox as he’d been told. The only feeling in his mind was the necessity of it all. He dropped the tape and the CD into the box and went home. By now it was almost three.

The drive back felt as interminable as the drive there. He took out his mobile and was about to ring Grace when she called him, her name appearing on the display monitor.

‘I was about to call you,’ he said.

‘I just got home. I wanted to know what was going on.’

Harrigan thought, at least she’s not with someone. He avoided saying directly what he’d just done.

‘The thing most on my mind is that I have to trust someone who tortured and killed a man. How can you do that?’

‘Whoever he is, he has all the control,’ she said in a tone that suggested she understood him. ‘What’s happening now?’

‘Nothing. I’m waiting.’

‘When do we see each other?’

‘Soon,’ he said. ‘Trust me.’

‘You always ask people to trust you. I’ll see you.’

When he reached Birchgrove, his exhaustion was so profound he was able to sleep. Very late in the morning, he woke and went to check his email and his answering machine. There was nothing. The day stretched forward like an empty space. He realised he was frozen at the heart, in the grip of the black dog that prevented him from speaking to people outside of the necessities. He couldn’t even pick up the phone to call Grace; he didn’t know how to frame the words. If he tried to speak to her, he wouldn’t be able to breathe.

Later on that day, he drove to Millennium Forensic Laboratories where he asked to speak confidentially to the head scientist who was also the owner: a man in his forties who had grown tired of
waiting for promotion in the forensic laboratories of the police force.

In the quiet sterility of the laboratory, the scientist, his hands gloved, laid out on the benchtop the crop specimens Harrigan had given him. They became hothouse plants, espaliered on a device stretching out their facets for display.

‘Do I really need gloves to handle these?’ the scientist asked.

‘For the tobacco you do,’ Harrigan replied. ‘A friend of mine sustained a significant injury handling that tobacco.’

‘They look so ordinary. These must be among the most widely grown crops in the world.’

Harrigan considered what these pieces of plant matter were worth, one way or another: the Pittwater killings, Freeman’s and Cassatt’s murders, his son’s abduction, the cost of bulldozing into the ground what had once been a huge investment of money.

‘My information is they’re anything but ordinary. What I want you to tell me is what’s different about them,’ he said.

‘Can you tell me the source of the specimens?’

‘I can’t give you that information, I’m sorry,’ Harrigan said.

‘Have they been genetically modified?’

‘Almost certainly.’

‘Is there any specification, any research information, about these crops available from any source?’

‘I’m afraid not. That’s one reason I want a full analysis of their properties.’

‘Are these the only specimens available?’

Ever cautious, Harrigan had kept back a portion of each of the plants.

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘If we destroy them, then they’re gone.’

‘I don’t want you to destroy them,’ Harrigan said. ‘I need to know enough about them to possibly track the owners of the intellectual property and the patents.’

‘That is possible, I suppose, although it’s a very complex job. An analysis like that won’t be quick.’

The sound of the traffic outside was muted through the tinted, double-glazed windows. Millennium Forensic Technologies was in Alexandria, in a plain, grey-green building that had once been a factory for manufacturing cardboard boxes. The scientist was tapping his pen on a notepad on the bench. He knew Harrigan well; had done work for him often enough before.

‘Are we going to be in danger doing this work?’ he asked.

‘You will be if it’s known you have these specimens.’

‘Who’s going to be paying for this?’

‘The police service. I want you to send the invoices directly to me. I guarantee you’ll be paid.’

‘And contact you personally when the results are in?’

‘Yes.’

‘All right,’ the scientist said after some moments. ‘I’ll take control of this job myself. Is there any backup in case someone does come knocking on my door?’

Harrigan handed over his card. ‘I’m contactable day and night if there are any issues, problems, anything.’

‘If there are, I’ll call.’

Harrigan left to go to his meeting with the minister, pleased that he had something else to
occupy his mind. Otherwise caught on this rack, he would have gone mad. Mechanical speech and everyday actions were all that was possible. Everything else was closed down. Like Edwards, he thought, briefly caught with the irony of it all.