The Tower (45 page)

Media coverage of the investigation was still relentless, fuelled over the weekend by a baseless story claiming one of the Triads was involved in providing illegal labour in Sydney. Troy had been rung several times by the two journalists he'd supplied with information on the night of the shootings, but he'd refused to talk with them further.

Conti said, ‘Last night, Kristin saw the photo of the shooter we put out.'

‘That was last week.'

‘Well, she only saw it yesterday. You remember that Thai girl from the brothel I told you about? Turns out Kristin was visiting her last week at Villawood, and the guy was there.'

‘The shooter?'

‘He was talking to Sally when Kristin arrived, saw Kristin and left. He had someone with him, waiting in a car outside.'

‘Why would he show his face at a place like that?'

‘It was before we released his picture to the media. There was a delay, remember.'

Troy remembered. ‘What did this Sally have to say?'

‘She said it was a friend. Kristin didn't push it, the woman wasn't a suspect.'

‘What about now? Has she talked to this Sally again?'

McIver murmured, ‘Thereby hangs a tale,' as they turned into Reilly Street.

‘Sally's not there anymore,' said Conti. ‘She disappeared over the weekend.'

The Golden Arms was in a narrow street in Surry Hills, inside a neat-looking terrace with no sign outside. The men waited in the car while Conti went inside. She'd explained the local workers didn't like illegals because they attracted the attention of the authorities, which was bad for business. She thought they'd do what they could to help find the shooter, but the presence of male detectives would only delay things.

McIver was whistling, gazing around the street.

‘Conti's going back to the Cross in a few days,' he said. ‘Her boss only gave her to us for a fortnight. Stone agreed.'

Troy was disappointed. ‘Can't we do something?'

‘I tried and failed. Everyone wants the good ones.'

He whistled some more, looking at the entrance to the Golden Arms.

Troy said, ‘You ever been in a place like this?'

Mac laughed. ‘To be a good detective you need to be a man of experience. You know that.'

‘Like Conti's father?'

‘You can go too far.'

They waited some more. It was hot in the car; the mist and cold of the night Margot Teresi had died seemed long ago. McIver sung a slow blues about a levee breaking, and tapped out the beat on the dashboard with his fingers. Troy noticed he wasn't wearing his sling.

Eventually Conti came out and slipped back into the car. She had two possible addresses, places where Sally had lived in the few months she'd been in the country.

The first was only five minutes away, a Housing Commission block in Waterloo. The Joseph Banks was a vast place, about sixteen storeys high and very wide. It was approached by broad steps from the road, and as they climbed them McIver paused to loosen his tie and look at the sun. A thin man and a fat woman coming down stared at the detectives openly and with rancour, as though indignation were the only public emotion left in their lives. Conti bridled but McIver looked away from the tattooed couple and recommenced his ascent.

You could see through glass into the building's lobby on the ground floor. One wall was covered in small tiles, reflecting the fashion of the decade long ago when the place had been built. There were black metal security doors, and Troy wondered how they'd get in, but a tenant on his way out stopped and held the door open. They passed through into the confined space, and it was like going into a jail.

As they took a small lift up to the fourth floor, McIver wondered aloud how an illegal immigrant came to be living in public housing.

‘I thought they reserved it for people with complex needs,' he said.

Conti frowned. ‘Maybe Sally did have complex needs.'

‘But were they legal?'

She stared at the sergeant, and Troy could see she was still trying to work him out. Suddenly Mac looked down and smiled at her, and she grinned back. Troy figured she'd be working in Homicide within a year.

On the way over, he'd put in a call to the government agency that ran the block. As they stepped out of the lift they rang him back and gave him a name. ‘The tenant's Bronwyn Davies,' he said. ‘The local office hasn't seen her in over a year, but apparently that's not unusual.'

‘The advantages of electronic banking,' McIver murmured.

Up here it was warmer and the air was stuffi er. They walked down the long corridor, looking for the number they'd been given. The style of the place was old, and the walls were peeling here and there and needed a new coat of paint. Troy felt as though he was slipping back in time.

‘There's definitely a smell,' Conti said.

They stood outside the door at the end of the corridor, staring at it. There was a strong odour now, one Troy had smelled before.

McIver drew out his gun and looked at him. ‘Not that I think we'll be needing it.'

Troy took out his own weapon and banged on the door.

‘Police!'

He called again and looked at McIver, who said, ‘We should call the office.'

As Conti pulled out her phone, Troy kicked the door in.

The dead man was lying in a bedroom, visible from the front door. The detectives were immersed in the hot stench that rolled out of the apartment. Troy put his gun away and pulled out his handkerchief, which he pressed to his nose, although he knew it was largely a waste of time. When he got to the bedroom he saw the man had been strangled. There was no sign of the rope or wire that had been used. The man's face was swollen but recognisable.

‘It's the shooter,' McIver said through clenched teeth.

He didn't want to open his mouth. There were a lot of fl ies.

Forty

T
urn the noise down, buddy,' yelled Jamal.

Randall fumbled with the volume control of the boom box he'd bought yesterday, when he'd moved into the big hotel room. The music became louder.

‘The other way. The other way.'

Jamal and the girls were laughing at him and he joined them. Good, healing laughter that went on for a long time. Laughter to keep the cold away.

He sat up, bumping the head of one of the girls but not too hard, and she fell back in mock distress, setting off the laughter again. He sat on the side of the bed, glancing down at himself proudly. A hard-on you could crack bricks with. He leaned over the magazine lying on the bedside table. There was a pile of white powder there.

‘Careful, buddy,' Jamal called. ‘You haven't paid me for that yet.'

It had come to this: Randall was buying from Jamal because Gregor wasn't returning his calls. He opened the drawer and put most of the coke inside, spilling only a small amount. The way the party was going, things getting active, it would be foolish to leave it lying around. The girl was against his back, nibbling his ear, laughing and asking for some more.

‘More?' he cried, trying to remember the scene from
Oliver!
‘You want more!'

They were all laughing again now, the four of them. He doubted they had
Oliver!
in the Ukraine but it was funny anyway. Everything was funny.

‘Buddy,' Jamal said from the other bed, tears in his eyes. ‘Let's just keep the noise down, okay?'

But Randall liked the noise. It was an essential part of the way he was feeling now, which was all good. He didn't want to have to think of the world outside the noise.

This afternoon was Jamal's way of saying he was sorry, and as far as Randall was concerned, the apology was accepted. Well and truly. ‘Apology accepted,' he cried as he made way for the big girl, who tried to keep her hair and breasts out of the coke as she bent over and hoovered up a healthy quantity.

‘You don't need to say it again, buddy,' Jamal said above the noise. ‘We're good, man, and that's what counts. You just enjoy yourself.'

Randall was having the time of his life, and after the past week he deserved it. Final straw had been Gregor going dead on him, but Jamal had come through, proposed lunch and turned up with the baggie of coke and two Ukrainian lovelies. Apologised for what he'd done with Henry, giving him Asaad's address. Explained he'd had no choice, it was the only way to keep his contract. Henry was the rock that everyone else revolved around.

‘You dropped me in it,' Randall had said on the phone, allowing himself a moment of self-pity.

Jamal had blathered on, enough to get Randall to come to lunch.

Then, much later, when they were well gone, still at the restaurant at this point, Jamal had put his head next to Randall's.

‘You've got to understand, buddy, Wu despises everyone, all of us. The only thing that matters is that he's got a need for you. Not just you, I mean, but all of us. Me.'

‘I know that.'

‘He still needs me and he still needs you. That's all that matters. You're sweet.'

Randall's heart had surged. ‘What does he need me for?'

‘Stuff he's got going on at The Tower, essential to have someone he can trust in your position. The wrong character could shut the whole thing down.'

‘What? What's he up to?'

Jamal had reared back, put a finger next to his nose. ‘Everything.'

Randall had no idea what he was talking about. ‘The illegals?'

‘Other stuff too.'

‘I gave him some copies of invoices once. Big figures.'

He told Jamal what they were, details of various goods and services. Jamal nodded, went into a long explanation Randall couldn't quite follow, setting out how the invoice details could have been used for a certain type of scam. The words just rolled off his tongue, Jamal seemed to know a lot about finance. Good friend for a man to have.

The girls had been getting restless. Jamal paid the bill and they went to Randall's hotel. He'd moved in yesterday after one of his neighbours had called—not Mrs Crawley but another one—said she wanted to talk to him about a DVD she'd found on the front steps. And then there was the matter of personal security. On Sunday night he'd kept waking up, thinking Nicholas Troy was in the room. He wasn't, of course, but Randall's mind went on playing tricks on him. You put a fellow's marriage under threat, he might get very warm in the first few days. Until he sees it's the way things have to be.

So Randall had decided a hotel would provide him with some peace of mind for a week or two. And it had all worked out. He was in control again. The security management course he'd gone to in KL, the Brit who ran it said security started with controlling the situation; if you do that you can control how people think and feel. Temperature, light, sound, mood. Get all that right and everything else follows. Randall realised you could do that to yourself too, make yourself feel good by controlling inputs like music, drugs, where you were. It seemed the most brilliant insight.

And so. He'd already come once, was ready to roll again, the girl was lying back on the pillows now, playing with herself, calling him to her. What bullshit Kristin had spoken about coke and his dick.

‘Just a minute,' he said, standing up uncertainly and fumbling in his trouser pockets for his wallet. Jamal was up on the other side of the room, getting dressed. He'd said earlier he had to go back to work. Means I get both, Randall thought, looking at the girl sprawled on the other bed. Big rubbery teats on her like you saw on a baby's bottle. Lucky me.

‘How much do I owe you?' he said.

He only had a few hundred in the wallet, and started to pull out one of his cards. Jamal was laughing.

‘Pay me later, okay, buddy? I don't take cards.'

‘Okay. It's just—' ‘The girls are good. Everything's taken care of, buddy. Sorry I have to go, but like I told you, crisis needs to be sorted.'

He was strapping on his gun. As a security manager, he had a licence for a firearm, although he had no need of one. The girls liked the gun, they'd been playing with it before. Randall had felt jealous, wondered if he could get a licence too because of his job. Have to ask his old mate Troy. He turned up the music.

‘Don't do that, buddy, someone will call the front desk.'

Jamal had one hand on Randall's back, the other down at the boom box, firmly pushing his fingers off the control knob and turning the volume down. ‘You just have fun. I can see you got a lot to give.' He turned to the other girl. ‘Nina, you come over here and help your friend. Mr Randall's a good man, but he needs a lot of loving.' He was at the door now, opening it. ‘You take care,' he said, and then he was gone.

Randall was safe, alone in a hotel room with two girls and more coke than he knew what to do with. It was funny how things usually turned out all right. Often better than all right. He breathed deep, wagged a finger at the girls. Let's get imaginative here.

‘This,' he said with a big grin, ‘is what we're going to do.'

Forty-one

M
cIver and Troy left Conti in the flat where the dead man was and walked out of the Joseph Banks apartment block. The crime scene officers had already arrived, and Vella, who was back from Bourke, was on the way.

They'd have to go back soon, but McIver wanted some fresh air. There was a pub just down the road, the Duke of Wellington, and he led the way in, ordered two middies. They needed to get the taste of death out of their mouths.

‘We still don't know anything about them,' Troy said.

‘Them?'

‘The two of them.' Where all this had started. ‘The friend at Villawood, the man Kristin saw waiting in the car. He must have realised Kristin might recognise the shooter at some point.'

‘That's it,' McIver said slowly. He emptied his glass and placed it carefully on the bar, looking at it with sorrow. ‘Lucky they didn't kill Ms Otto herself. But then, this is neater.'