by John Byron
‘Never look a gift horse in the mouth, mate. And who knows, it might even turn out to be true.’
‘Do you want me to talk to Jo?’
‘No, let me handle it. I want to run it past the commissioner first. If he knows the vice-chancellor socially it will all be a lot simpler.’
Wednesday 27 June – afternoon
Jo listened to the voicemail again, considering her options. The dean’s assistant had rung while she’d been in the library: his boss wanted to see her urgently. It was well after five, so she could just sneak off home. Or hit Manning Bar for a G&T. On the other hand, whatever he wanted wouldn’t simply evaporate. She decided to get it over with.
She regretted it the moment she saw the assistant’s sympathetic frown. Conor knew everything that went on, and he had a lousy poker face. He waved her through.
‘There you are, Joanna. Good afternoon, how are you today?’ enthused the dean. He sounded like a spiv flogging a condemned flat distinguished only by a homeopathic memory of harbour glimpses from the toilet window. His predatory smile was turned up to eleven, his violet eyes were a pair of toxic uranium-mine tailings, and the steely grey of his suit perfectly matched his dorsal fin. Either he’d just had some puppies strangled, or he had an unpleasant surprise for Jo.
But buggered if she was going to be rattled by him. She sat on the chair in front of his desk and looked him straight in the eye. ‘What can I do for you, Vincent?’
‘I had a visitor a short while ago,’ he confided with a look of deep significance. ‘A senior figure with the Homicide Squad.’
Her sinking feeling sank further. ‘What did my brother want?’
‘He has solicited your assistance on this serial killer investigation.’
Was that all? ‘Yes, I’m giving his unit a briefing on Andreas Vesalius.’
‘Oh, Joanna.’ The dean exhaled, using his silverback voice. Get ready, girlie, this preamble heralded, here comes some man-wisdom: you might want to write this down. ‘You must keep me informed of these things. External engagements are gold.’
‘I haven’t done anything yet. Well, apart from one conversation.’
‘You haven’t started already?’
‘I spoke with some forensic type on the phone. I’ll put it on the activity report.’
‘No, no, no, no.’ He tutted in reproof. ‘You have no idea how competitive resourcing is in this place. The scientists are murdering us. The medicos in particular are insatiable. I need evidence to demonstrate our value. This is a front-page story, it gives us significant leverage.’
‘Okay, I’ll keep that in mind. I’ll email you the details.’
‘Good, you do that. But there’s more to it than a chat and a briefing, you know.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The police commissioner has approached the university requesting your ongoing participation. He’s been exceptionally persuasive.’
‘Persuasive how?’
‘Oh you know, community contribution, fellow feeling, Sydney spirit. Research income.’ He flourished a document on blue letterhead. ‘He has the full support of his political masters.’
An ancient, familiar dread began to stir. What was Murphy up to? ‘What are you talking about, Vincent?’
‘The police need our help and are willing to make it worth our while. Sooo …’ he brandished a university research contract, ‘… as of Monday, you are seconded to the homicide investigation, working out of the Sydney Police Centre in Surry Hills.’
‘But I haven’t even been asked!’ she protested. ‘And I can’t, anyway. I’m teaching three courses. I have eight PhD students.’
‘The courses will be reallocated.’
‘To whom?’
‘I don’t know, Millie will sort it out,’ he said, referring to Jo’s head of department. ‘The mid-year break is upon us, she has a few weeks to come up with something.’
‘But nobody else knows the material well enough!’
‘There are plenty of indispensible people in graveyards, my dear, and yet the world still turns.’
‘One’s an honours course. I can’t abandon them mid-year.’
‘You’re not abandoning them, you’re being called to higher duties.’
‘What about my research students? Everyone’s already over capacity, nobody can take any more load.’
‘There’s latitude in the contract for ongoing commitments. A day a week. But you hold their hands too much, anyway; some independence will do them good.’
She sat back, astonished.
‘Don’t knock it, Jo, it’s a juicy piece of external research funding. Well done.’
‘It’s not research, Vincent. It would only be a consultancy.’
‘No, I have assurances that this will be assessed as high-impact applied research.’
‘Assurances from whom?’
‘Never mind from whom.’
‘But there’s nothing to assess, Vincent. There is. No. Research.’
‘You’ll have to write something up, of course. But that’s not difficult, is it?’
Jo sat back, stymied. ‘May I see the letter?’
The dean slid it across his desk. ‘As you’ll see, it will all count as external research funding, for the purposes of the block grant formula.’
It was all there in print, everything pre-approved right up the political line – state and federal. Somebody had pulled some serious strings. It was dodgy as all get-out.
‘It’s a handsome bit of income for the faculty, once we apply our premium,’ said the dean, leaning back in his chair and addressing the ceiling. ‘I think we’ll use the corporate tariff, rather than the public sector rate. They won’t even notice.’
Fuck this. ‘What if I won’t do it?’
His attention snapped back to her. ‘This is exceptionally lucrative for the faculty, Joanna, not to mention the reputational value. You’re in no ethical position to decline.’
‘Ethical?’ She leaned forward on the edge of her seat. ‘Ethical would have been discussing it with me before I was assigned, Vincent.’
He looked stunned for a moment, then his face softened into a smile. ‘Oh, I see. Very good, Joanna. My apologies, it hadn’t occurred to me that you had it in you.’
Jo returned his gaze blankly, mystified.
‘All right, then,’ he continued, ‘do you think five per cent would be fair?’
Jo finally caught on. ‘What? No! I’m not looking for a cut.’
‘Oh,’ he replied, perplexed. ‘For your department, do you mean?’
‘No! I just mean, what if I decline? You can’t make me do it.’
‘Actually,’ he said, selecting Jo’s employment contract from the documents on his desk, ‘I think you’ll find I can.’
‘I can’t believe you’d do this!’
‘I can’t believe you’d argue with me. I thought you’d enjoy a break from this place. The students, the colleagues. The committee meetings.’
The prospect of not dealing with the dean himself was appealing, admittedly, but she resented not being given even the illusion of choice. Bloody Murphy.
‘Oh, come on, Jo. Don’t you want to help stop the killer? Isn’t that enough?’
He had her. ‘Yes.’ She sighed. ‘Fair enough.’
‘How about that?’ muttered the dean.
‘What?’
‘Your brother told me to lead with that angle. I should have listened.’
Jo shook her head and got to her feet. ‘Can I go now?’
‘Yes, you may. You’ll have to get your skates on to hand over. Talk to Millie, she’s always on top of things. Then report to Detective Murphy at Surry Hills on Monday morning. He’ll give you the full details.’
‘Oh, I’ll be seeing him before Monday, don’t worry,’ said Jo. In fact, she was going to head around to his house right away.
As soon as she’d had that gin and tonic at the Manning Bar.
Wednesday 27 June – evening
Murph
y held the door a little unsteadily, and Sylvia stepped out of the Greek taverna onto the footpath. ‘Efharistó, Dave, that was lovely.’
‘A pleasure, erastís.’ They headed towards King Street, Murphy smacking his lips. ‘That mastika is fantastic. Must get a bottle.’
‘I do miss Newtown,’ she said. ‘We should come here more often.’
‘It just reminds you of your youth.’
‘Yeah, it was fun living here, but it’s still pretty great.’
‘You’re romanticising it. You forget how hot it gets in summer.’
‘Maybe. It’s a little cool now, though.’ The night was mild for the season, but it was still winter. And she wasn’t wearing much.
‘Here y’are.’ Murphy draped his jumper across her shoulders, pulling her in close. ‘So who was that bloke you were talking to?’
‘I don’t know, it was just small talk.’
‘Why do you need to talk to someone to go to the toilet?’
‘He spoke to me as I went past, that’s all.’
‘What’d he say?’
Sylvia sighed. ‘He said he liked my dress.’
‘Liked what’s under it, more likely.’ Murphy smoothed his hand over the curve of her arse and hitched up the fabric.
Sylvia’s hand went straight to her hem, and she tilted away from him slightly. ‘Stop it, Dave,’ she said, laughing. ‘This dress is short enough by itself.’
‘That’s why it’s my favourite.’
‘Why, so you can get annoyed when other men notice me?’
‘Nah, I like the tease. And you’ve got great legs, Sylv. All the way to the top.’
‘That’s kind of you, but you don’t want all King Street knowing what colour undies I’m wearing.’
‘Personally, I’d prefer you went commando,’ he said, trying again to lift her dress.
She pulled right away from him this time. ‘Not in this dress, mister. I can’t afford the bail.’
‘Don’t worry about that, I have connections.’
‘There’s one,’ she said, stepping towards the kerb to hail a vacant taxi.
‘Not yet,’ said Murphy, pulling her back. ‘Let’s go get a daiquiri.’
‘I think I’ve had enough, Dave.’ She knew he had.
‘We haven’t had an anniversary cocktail yet.’ He waved the cab driver on. ‘You don’t even have to work tomorrow.’
‘Let’s just go home, honey.’
‘We hardly go anywhere these days.’ He took her by the wrist. ‘Come on, just the one.’
‘A Murphy “just the one” or a mathematical “just the one”?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Your idea of one doesn’t always stop at three or four.’
‘Really, just one. Promise.’ She said nothing but allowed him to pull her along the footpath to Corridor. They entered the bar and climbed the steep wooden stairs, Sylvia leading. They found a small table on the back terrace.
‘So: blue, eh?’ said Murphy, examining the drinks menu.
‘Blue what?’
‘Your undies.’
Sylvia slapped him with her menu. ‘Pervert.’
‘It’s only natural.’
‘What are you having?’ she asked.
‘Manhattan. What about you?’
‘A cosmopolitan.’
‘Not a daiquiri?’
‘Dave, I haven’t had a daiquiri since Pardon won the Cup.’
‘Is that right?’ He stood up. ‘Back in a sec.’ He went downstairs to order.
Sylvia shook her head at her husband’s persistent misremembrance. It wasn’t just because he was half-cut: he was always trying to feed her daiquiris. Admittedly, the one time she’d overdone them – at Kuleto’s on the corner, not here – was the night she’d finally rewarded his persistence by going home with him, so it was no wonder it had lodged in his brain. But she’d not had a daiquiri since: her body had neither forgotten nor forgiven her the hangover.
She pulled out her phone to check her feed. Lucia from work had finally had her baby, six days overdue. No pictures yet, just an excited update from the boyfriend – a healthy boy, 3.6 kilos and 52 centimetres (slightly overcooked), a seven-hour labour (not bad for her first), mother and baby both doing fine.
Sylvia was typing her congratulations when she heard angry shouts downstairs, followed by crashing furniture and the unmistakable wet crunch of flesh striking something solid.
Murphy.
Sylvia was halfway down the stairs when she saw three men lift Murphy off someone writhing on the scuffed saloon-style floor. She recognised the man who’d spoken to her in the taverna.
Someone yelled, ‘Call the cops!’ but the tattooed hipster barman was already on the phone. Sylvia could see a baseball bat across the chopping board. He’d armed himself but stopped short of intervention.
‘I am the fucken cops,’ snarled Murphy. He looked across at the barman and barked, ‘Put the phone down.’ He shook one arm free, pulled out his badge and shoved it at the man still holding the other. ‘Back the fuck off, arsehole.’ The man let go and stumbled backwards. Murphy turned back to the barman. ‘I said, put the fucken phone down. Bro.’ Cool and menacing this time, sarcastic on the Bro. The barman complied.
Murphy was still for a moment, surveying the wreckage while the man on the floor whimpered and held his crotch. Murphy visibly pondered giving him a final kick for the road, but another bystander took a half-step forward, in an access of courage or decency or recklessness. It was enough.
‘Come on,’ said Murphy, stalking towards the door without looking back. He hadn’t looked up at Sylvia once. The crowd shrank from his path as Sylvia clutched his jumper around herself and followed him into the street, keeping her eyes away from the man still squirming on the floor.
Thursday 28 June – evening
Porter had been out of sorts all afternoon, dreading his evening shift. The elation of his early successes had collapsed into melancholic frustration as his search for a candidate for Volume III had gone nowhere.
He dragged himself to the garage and out into the thick Sydney traffic. It took thirty-nine minutes to get to work – he could literally walk there faster – and now he was ten minutes late for his 7pm shift. This town was becoming unliveable.
‘Evening, Tom,’ he greeted the security guard while scanning in.
‘All right, young Stephen?’
The retired soldier was English but had transferred to the Australian Army in the early 1980s. Rumour was he’d needed to get far away from Ireland in a hurry.
‘Not bad,’ Porter replied. ‘How’s it been?’
‘All quiet on the Western Front.’ The old soldier said this every single time: it was one of his many mantras.
Porter respected Tom, so he humoured him: ‘Good show, let’s keep it that way.’
‘Peace in our time.’
‘Hope it works out better this time around.’
‘I’ll do my bit if you do yours,’ said Tom.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Don’t call me sir, I work for a living.’
‘Yes, Sergeant. Sorry, Sergeant.’
Tom chuckled delightedly. ‘See you up there later, mate.’ Porter pushed through the inner glass door, entered the lift and scanned his fingerprint again.
On the second floor, he crossed through a dozen rows of cubicles to the area occupied by his section, Systems First Response. They were fortunate to be located by the intersection of two walls of floor-to-ceiling windows, although the view was not exactly bucolic: on one side was the railway line with a row of warehouses beyond; on the other a floodlit shopping-centre carpark decorated with skip bins, a shopping-trolley corral and a loading dock. If you crossed your eyes and squinted, you could evoke a kind of Jeffrey Smart aesthetic.
But any distaste was amply offset by the sense of space bestowed by all that external glass: the cube farmer’s equivalent of harbourside water frontage. This was Sydney, after all – it was all about the real estate.
Porter passed through a wide-open work area containing eight broad desks for the day-shift staff and proceeded to the corner of the floor, where the windows converged. Facing out through the apex sat an Aeron chair at a wide, angled command desk with five large computer monitors. Mounted on the partitions that sectioned off the immediate area were smaller terminals displaying command screens or process logs of the systems in action. Beneath them were benches housing half a dozen line printers for error reporting and numerous volumes of dusty documentation manuals, a few key folders clean from constant use. Several office chairs were tucked beneath for use in emergencies and for training, but the area was fundamentally a one-person workspace.
This was the systems monitor’s domain, from which the entire IT first response operation was run. There was someone in this chair around the clock, every day of the year, without fail. In reality, the networks ran themselves most of the time: the systems monitor was there to intervene quickly and accurately when something went wrong. The five staff who worked these twelve-hour shifts were the organisation’s top operators, qualified personnel experienced enough to act solo in the middle of the night when specialist help was an hour away. Systems First Response had other operators on regular eight-hour dayshifts, doing routine IT support, but occupancy of this chair was the real job.
‘Heeeey, Stevie, my man, there you are!’ said the incumbent as soon as he caught Porter’s reflection.
‘Sorry I’m late, Nathan. How’s it been?’
‘Good, good, not much to hand over.’ Nathan jotted a few final notes in the shift journal, evidently bursting to flee in his ridiculous boy-racer motor car. He would most likely have a quick shower then head to the pub to celebrate four and a half days off, hoping to beat the poker machines, win at pool, drink a lot of beer and take home some attractive young woman. Porter never socialised with his workmates, but his understanding of the situation was that his affable, handsome and rampantly single colleague was typically successful in three of these four ambitions.
Nathan rattled off a few telegrammatic remarks to Porter, mostly acronyms and obscene euphemisms the systems monitors had devised over the years to describe the infinite varieties of weird phenomena the systems were prone to. Things had been quiet today, Nathan said, with no sign of drama. Porter was relieved: you could never completely discount the possibility of a sudden systems crash, but it was seldom unheralded by the subtle portents that raised the hackles of a seasoned systems monitor. This sixth sense was what set them apart from their lesser colleagues, and Nathan was one of the best.