The Tattooed Man (27 page)

‘How long were you there?’

‘I was with them for eighteen days. A lifetime. I learned there are events so serious, the only people who know what they really mean are the dead. The ones in the mass graves. If I say to you, you can’t know, that’s not an insult to you. You’re lucky you can’t know. Every day in my mind I replay what I witnessed there. It’s like being in hell.’

‘You don’t have to tell me any of this,’ she said.

‘Don’t you want to hear it? I’m sorry. I’ve imposed on you very badly.’

‘I can listen to what you’re saying because that’s what I’m trained to do,’ Grace said. ‘I’ve had to go in and deal with situations where people have been murdered. I can listen to you. But you have to live with bringing it back like this and then with knowing that you’ve told me that story. You may tell me something you wish you hadn’t.’

‘That last point is the least of my concerns. Our so-called expedition had a number of trucks. On the nineteenth day, I stole one and made a run for it. But the truck broke down and my colleagues caught up with me. I tried to take refuge in a building but they burned it to the ground around me. There were other people inside at the time. Somehow, I survived. I was the one who brought that death on
those people and I was the only one who survived. A group of villagers found me barely alive. They took me to a local aid hospital, then to Kinshasa. Finally I was flown home to London.’

‘That’s a terrible story,’ Grace said.

‘What I can’t get out of my mind is that I didn’t die. There were other people who did die around me. I think about those people every day. I know some of their names and I repeat them every morning when I wake up. I tell them I haven’t forgotten them. Yet, somehow, here I am with a new debt-free life and a first-class research project. What did I do to deserve that?’

‘How did you get debt free?’

‘I can thank Elena for that.’

‘Elena Calvo?’

‘Yes. She worked at the same institute in London as myself and Beck. I knew her quite well; we went out for a little while. She’s a rich man’s daughter. She picked me up, paid my medical costs, paid my debts and offered me this project as part of my rehabilitation.’

‘That was very generous of her.’

‘I think she was horrified by the way I looked. She’d never seen anything like that before.’

Brinsmead was silent, lost in his thoughts. He had spoken bitterly. Then, suddenly, he laughed. ‘You see, in a number of ways I’m really already dead. I just keep breathing for some reason. What keeps me going is my work. Usually I don’t focus on anything outside of that. Today has been different. Talking to you has made the difference. It’s the first time in years I’ve felt a sense of being alive.’

‘Should you rely on a chance encounter to feel something like that?’

‘I’ll take whatever’s available,’ he said.

Grace was about to ask another question when she became aware of a faint underlying odour in the chill of the room, a decayed animal smell. Once noticed, it was impossible to ignore. The light had sketched out the structure of Brinsmead’s face. The covering of his features seemed thin, the bones too close to the surface. She suppressed a shiver. He was watching her.

‘Am I frightening you? Either because of my face or anything I’ve said?’ he asked.

‘Maybe,’ she replied.

‘Don’t be frightened. I can’t imagine anyone I’d least like to hurt or see hurt than you.’

Bizarrely, this also had a chilling ring to it. From the kitchen came the sound of an alarm.

‘That’s a reminder for me to take some medication,’ he said. ‘Usually I don’t need reminding. Excuse me.’

‘Go ahead.’

In the kitchen, he poured himself a glass of water and swallowed tablets. Sitting down again, he leaned back, his eyes closed. He was in crippling pain, it was impossible for him to hide it.

‘Is there anything I can do?’ Grace asked.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘These tablets aren’t going to be strong enough. I need an injection. Could you look in the fridge? There are some ampoules there and some syringes. If you could get one for me.’

She found them on the second shelf down, wrapped in thick, protective plastic.

‘You’ll need scissors to cut the package open,’ he called. ‘There’s a junk drawer in the high bar, the top drawer. Look in there.’

Grace looked among the envelopes, twine and bills to find a pair of scissors and a key on a plastic keyring marked ‘P’. A set of keys was already on the
bench: Brinsmead’s, she guessed. She took the key out of the drawer and dropped it in her pocket, then took out the scissors.

‘I’ve found them,’ she said.

‘If you give everything to me, I’ll put it together,’ he said.

‘I can do it for you. I know how to. I’m good at first aid.’

‘I can inject myself.’

‘I’ll do it. You’re in pain. Where do you usually have it?’

‘Right arm,’ Brinsmead said. ‘Where did you learn first aid?’

‘My father made me and my brother learn when we were young. He thought we should know. Then when I was with the police, I did a refresher course.’

She pushed up his sleeve. His undamaged arm had pale European skin, the blue veins close to the surface. He didn’t seem to react when she touched him. Part way through administering the medication, she glanced up. He was watching her with those reflective blue eyes. They were so clear, it was as if they had rolled back onto empty space.

‘I’m taking your likeness,’ he said.

‘You don’t need to do that.’

When she’d finished, he rolled back his own sleeve. After a while, she could see the medication taking effect.

‘If you’re okay now, it’s probably time for me to go.’

‘Yes, probably it is, unfortunately,’ he said. ‘I have to go to work as well. It’s a long way from here, out at Campbelltown. I have some test results due later on today. I want to be there to review them.’

‘It’s a long drive out there.’

‘Too far for me, I can only manage short distances these days. I used to drive a lot, quite fast. I had one or two very nice sports cars. These days, I have a hire car with a driver. I’m one of their favourite customers. I have them booked, they’re due quite soon.’

‘Will you be going to the police?’ Grace asked.

‘I’ll call them. Will they come to me?’

‘I’m sure they will.’

‘I’ll call tomorrow. I have no information that will bring the commander’s son home. Also, I have Elena to think about; I should discuss it with her first. It might not go down too well that her chief scientist has this particular history. Especially since she’s just launched on the ASX. That launch has been very successful so far. The share price is doing well.’

‘Do you think the corporation will be a success out here?’

‘I’m sure it will,’ Brinsmead replied. ‘With Elena driving it, it’ll be very successful indeed. She’ll make sure that organisation works exactly the way she wants it to. When she says that one day it will be one of the best in the world, I’m sure she’s right.’

‘Is that good or bad?’ Grace asked.

‘I don’t understand.’

‘The way you spoke about it just then. It seems almost as if you wish it wasn’t going to be that way.’

‘Does it? That’s unintentional. Elena’s very skilled, very sharp. She’s very much her father’s daughter, continuing in his footsteps. He’s a strange, possessive old man whose past has crippled him at every other level of his humanity except for the one that allows him to be a businessman. A little like me. I’m only able to do the work I do now. Nothing else is left.’

‘I should go,’ Grace said, getting to her feet. ‘It’s been my pleasure, Grace. I’ll see you out.’ ‘You don’t have to if you’re still in pain.’ ‘No, it’s better now. Those injections are powerful. Thanks for coming to see me.’

Once outside, she walked to the lift and glanced back. He was standing at the door, watching her. He waved, she waved back and then she was in the slow elevator, going down. As soon as Daniel Brinsmead was out of sight, she took a deep breath, not only for the release of tension. The smell of death had grown more powerful the longer she had sat there in the penthouse. Brinsmead could have no sense of smell left and must have forgotten that other people did.

Down in the foyer, Grace was looking for ways to hide inside the building when she saw a car pulling up outside. The driver didn’t get out. Grace guessed it to be Brinsmead’s hire car and stepped into the fire escape. Holding it open by a crack, she waited. She could see the foyer clearly, although not the front doors or the street. After almost ten minutes, Daniel appeared, stepping out of the lift. He was still dressed in white, wearing soft loafers on his feet, and walked awkwardly. She heard him leave the building, waited some minutes longer, then stepped out of the fire escape. Both he and the car were gone.

Again, she took the lift to the top floor. Bracing herself, she rang the doorbell to the penthouse. There was no response. The key turned easily in the lock and she let herself in.

The rodent smell was even stronger than it had been earlier. All the lights had been turned off except the standard lamp in the lounge room. The mobile phone was missing from the coffee table.
Grace went into the kitchen and, in the half-dark, saw that Daniel’s keys were also gone. There would be enough time. It was an hour to Campbelltown and an hour back. She moved to search the rest of the penthouse.

In the hallway, one of the doors had been left open. She switched on the light and went inside. It was the master bedroom, large with a king-sized bed and a walk-in wardrobe whose doors were floor-to-ceiling glass. The bed had been slept in but not made. There was an en suite, scrupulously clean, and more pain medications on the bedside table. Daniel Brinsmead slept here with his temporary anaesthetics and his memories of the dead.

In the top drawer of the bedside table she found a small photograph album. Opening it, she saw pictures of Daniel before he had been burnt. Fit, good-looking and well dressed, he shared most of these photographs with Elena Calvo. They hadn’t just gone out for a little while. They must have been lovers, deeply attached, at least on her side. There was adoration in the looks she gave Brinsmead in these pictures. His response was harder to read. Even so, the happiness in their faces was unforced. Fashion, attraction, wealth, it was all there for them. Then the photographs stopped. She checked the backs of some of the pictures but there were no dates or places given.

Turning a page, Grace found herself looking at very different picture, a black and white photograph from a time that seemed to be immediately post-World War Two. A pale-haired young man and a woman the same age were standing against the background of a ruined European city. The man was holding a baby. No one in this picture was smiling. Their faces were hollowed out, exhausted and
hungry; their clothing dark and ragged. Grace slipped the picture out of its sleeve. It was a new photograph of an old image and showed the original’s creases and tears. Stamped on the back in blue ink were two words:
Kinshasa Photographique.
She put the photograph back and returned the album to the bedside table. Then she left the room, switching off the light behind her.

She checked the other rooms but they were unused. At the end of the hallway, she went to the fourth door and opened it. Immediately, the animal smell filled the air. She had found the main bathroom, a large room with a spa bath. The blinds were drawn here as elsewhere, but the overhead lights, artificially bright, had been left on, illuminating the white tiles. The bathroom didn’t seem to have been used for some time; it was completely dry and the spiders had woven their webs in the corners of the room.

Someone had built a makeshift set of shelves against one wall. They held a dozen cages. She heard a soft rustling. Small animals were in some of these cages; she saw the occasional dull glint of a tiny eye. She walked closer to them. In about three of the cages, white mice sniffed at the air through a strong, closely woven steel mesh or were huddled together in corners, motionless. In all the rest they lay dead beside their feeding and watering trays, all of which were filled with pieces of grain. Each of the cages was locked. Next to the shelves, there was a large steel cabinet. She tried to open it but it was also locked.

It was time to leave; she had seen all she could. She shut the bathroom door behind her and was about to walk into the lounge room when she heard the front door being opened. Quickly she went into
the master bedroom and stepped inside the walk-in wardrobe.

‘Danny?’ a woman called in a clear voice. ‘Are you here? Have I missed you?’

It was Sam Jonas. Grace took out her gun. In the silence, she heard quick footsteps that stopped at the bedroom doorway for a few seconds before continuing along the hallway. There was the sound of another door opening.

‘How are you poor little critters today?’ she heard Sam say. ‘It’s the end of the road, boys. I’m taking you to our safe house, all of you, dead or alive. It’s time for you to fulfil your destiny. Lucky you.’

Sam could only be in the bathroom. While Grace listened, she made a number of trips up and down the hallway and in and out of the penthouse, evidently moving the cages out. Finally, there was the sound of the metal cabinet being opened; then another sound; the front door opening again. Grace heard Brinsmead’s voice.

‘Sam? Careful with them. Don’t disturb them any more than you have to.’

‘I am being careful. Anyway, I’m almost finished. What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be on your way to the bunker?’

‘I realised I’d forgotten my dog tag. It’s the painkillers, they’re addling my mind.’

‘You’ve got to hang in there for a while yet. We’re not finished by a long chalk. Where did you leave your tag?’

‘In the bedroom.’

The light was switched on and Grace heard the footsteps of two people entering the room.

‘Is it in the wardrobe? Maybe you left it pinned to one of your jackets.’

‘No, the last time I took it off, I put it on the chest of drawers. But it’s not there now.’

There was a creaking sound, as if he’d sat on the bed.

‘Are you okay, Danny? Are you in pain? Do you want a shot?’