by John Byron
‘Well, he’s seen a lot of homicides that come down to pretty basic factors.’
‘Human nature, red in tooth and claw.’
Thijs nodded. ‘It’s very often like that.’
‘But you’re not an anatomy sceptic.’
‘No, I’m not. I think Forensics are right about the dissections, and I think there’s a good chance the Fabrica is involved.’
Jo nodded. ‘Anyway, at the lecture. You didn’t come and say hello.’
Thijs looked down. ‘I wasn’t sure what you’d think.’
‘I was glad you came. And a bit surprised.’
‘Why?’
‘I didn’t know of your interest in sixteenth-century anatomical representation.’
‘Vesalius was one of my most accomplished countrymen.’ He sat back and sipped his coffee, looking her straight in the eye.
‘So your interest in Habsburg Dutch humanism brought you to a lecture theatre on a balmy autumn evening?’ She leaned in and raised an eyebrow.
‘Why do you find that so hard to believe? I wasn’t the only one.’
True, the lecture had been popular, but that wasn’t the angle she was working. ‘I’m just wondering about … alternative theories.’ Surely he could see the sparkle in her eye.
Thijs sat forward. She hadn’t realised how far across the table she’d been leaning until his motion brought him near, much nearer than people normally come to one another’s eyes, faces, mouths. His breath on her lips was very pleasant. She watched his eyes as he looked into one of hers, then the other, then at her mouth, then her eyes again. His eyes were so many blues: ocean, sapphire, sky at dusk. Shards of Yves Klein. He opened his mouth to speak, smiled instead. She felt a hammer pulse in her neck – he must see it – felt her mouth go dry while everything else became humid. The tip of her tongue ran lightly across her lower lip before she realised what it was doing. She smiled in return.
‘All right,’ he confessed. ‘I wanted to see you again.’
‘Hmm?’
‘I came to see you.’ There you are, his blue eyes said: are you satisfied?
‘But you didn’t say hello to me,’ she repeated.
‘I thought you might not be pleased to see me.’
Jo slid her hand over his, and the sensory memory flooded back: how lovely his hands were; how well he used them. She cupped his fingers in her palm.
‘I’m pleased to see you, Thijs.’
He smiled back at her. ‘Me too.’
She opened her mouth again slightly, breathing in. He closed the final inch. She kissed him lightly with that lower lip, the very tip of her tongue meeting his.
Friday 27 July – evening
‘Sharon, can we have the bill, please?’ Sylvia asked as the restaurant owner cleared their dishes.
‘No dessert tonight?’ the Thai woman asked with a cheeky smile.
‘You still trying to ruin me, Shaz?’ Murphy said.
‘But you love the black sticky rice, Mr David.’
‘Exactly. That’s the problem.’
‘How about a glass of port?’
He shot a glance at Sylvia, who looked pointedly at the full glass of wine in front of him. ‘Nah, not tonight. Up early tomorrow.’
Sharon shook her head and went to work out the bill. Sylvia opened her purse and rummaged for a moment. ‘Bugger.’
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Murphy.
‘Can’t find my credit card.’
‘When’d you use it last?’ Ever the policeman.
‘This afternoon. Renewed my union membership online. I’m sure I put it back.’
‘But it’s not there?’
‘Doesn’t seem to be. Can you get this, Dave? Sorry.’
He sat back and crossed his arms. ‘No, I can’t, actually.’
She looked up at him. ‘Why not?’
‘Didn’t bring my wallet. You said you were taking me out for tea. Didn’t think I’d need it.’
‘Neither did I.’
‘Typical, though.’
‘Come on, Dave, it was just a mistake.’
‘Yeah, but you always count on me to pick up the slack.’
‘Here, I have a twenty. I can give her that now and we’ll pay the rest later.’
‘You want all the freedoms and privileges, but not the responsibilities.’
‘So now you want to discuss the patriarchy?’ Sylvia snapped.
‘Happy to get bought drinks all night. Free entry for the ladies, complimentary glass of prosecco. Leave your wallet at home, some man will pay your way.’
‘I have my wallet, David, I just accidentally left my card at home.’
‘Same thing, darlin’: you still can’t pay. Then you expect a man to cover it.’ He drained his glass. ‘Lucky for you, Sharon knows us.’
‘Lucky for both of us.’
‘How’s it my problem? It was your shout.’
‘Your belly’s just as full as mine, mate.’
‘That’s not the point.’
‘Can we just go now, please?’
‘Fine.’ Murphy scraped his chair back, stood up and walked outside without a backward glance.
Sylvia went up to the counter and explained. Sharon waved away the twenty-dollar note, scrawled an IOU on her duplicate order pad and gave one leaf to Sylvia, taping the other onto the wall next to the till. There was already another one there, alongside dozens of bits of sticky tape of varying vintage. Clearly this happened all the time. She thanked Sharon and left.
By the time she caught up with Murphy he was halfway up the hill. They walked the rest of the way in silence, and nothing more was said until she came to bed.
‘Find your credit card?’ he asked from behind his paperback.
‘Not yet. It’s definitely here, though. Has to be.’
‘You need to pay more attention, Sylvia.’
She huffed and rolled over.
Murphy continued reading until she fell asleep, then gave it another fifteen minutes of rhythmic breathing before retrieving Sylvia’s credit card from beneath the mattress. He went out to the living room, poured himself a Lagavulin, then slid the credit card between the sofa cushions. He took his whisky back to bed, finished the chapter then turned out his light.
Tuesday 7 August – early hours
Stephen Porter was at his desk, entirely absorbed in researching Joanna King, which had become more urgent since the premier’s announcement that the Vesalius expert had been co-opted to the homicide investigation. He’d had a busy night, and the usual sources of information were not very forthcoming, so he’d not made much headway. He threw his pen down in frustration, only to notice that he’d been neglecting an incoming call for almost three minutes. He put himself on queue and the call dropped in.
‘Good evening, Denison Bank. This is Stephen.’
‘Finally. Thank Christ.’
‘I’m sorry for the delay, sir. How may I help?’
‘I’ve been on hold for ten minutes, you know that?’
Well, not quite, thought Porter, but it was not ideal. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I’m the only one here, at this time of night.’
‘More bloody cutbacks. Jesus. Record profits every quarter but nobody around when you need them.’
‘What seems to be the problem, sir?’
‘My credit card’s been stolen. You need to shut it down right now. I don’t want you bastards blaming me when some prick’s out there using it.’
Oh, perfect, thought Porter, another entitled, belligerent fool. How tiresome.
No problem, sir, the bank indemnifies you against liability when you report a loss promptly,’ he said. ‘Can I start with your full name and home address, please?’
‘Patrick Hall, 17 Crown Street, Castle Hill.’
Porter typed and the dozens of Patrick Halls appeared. There was only one in Castle Hill. ‘I’m speaking with Mr Patrick Arthur Hall, is that right?’
‘That’s what I said.’
Porter asked several identity que
stions, Hall answering impatiently but correctly.
‘Thank you, Mr Hall. You say the card was stolen?’
‘My whole bloody wallet was nicked, with my Fort card inside,’ said Hall, using the bank’s marketing nickname.
‘And where did this occur?’
‘The Fiddler.’ That would be the old Mean Fiddler Hotel, up the Windsor Road.
‘Very well. We can lodge a missing card report, if you’re sure it’s gone.’
Porter always checked one final time: sometimes the imminence of cancellation quickened a memory. Most customers appreciated the prudence of a final confirmation. Not Mr Patrick Arthur Hall.
‘For fuck’s sake, of course I’m sure. I just spent a quarter of an hour on hold listening to fucking Kenny G, and I’d rather be asleep at three o’clock in the morning than talking to morons. So yeah, I’m pretty bloody sure it’s gone.’
Porter bristled at the insult: not to him – he was accustomed to abuse – but the hold music was John Coltrane. He nearly terminated the call on aesthetic grounds.
Instead he took a breath and smoothed his voice. ‘Of course, Mr Hall. I’m only checking because we can’t reverse a cancellation if the card turns up.’
‘Well it’s not turning up because some bastard at the pub stole it, and right now he’s probably spending your money on hookers and booze. So why don’t you do your fucking job and cancel the fucking card?’
‘Very well, sir. Would you mind holding, please?’
‘Fine.’
‘I won’t be long.’ Porter placed the call on hold, stood up and walked to the kitchen and back, breathing deeply. Over the years he had learned how to let hostility flow past him, but of late he’d implemented an even more effective method for dealing with belligerence.
And this Patrick Hall was making an excellent case for participation in the Tribute. Although being a nasty piece of work was only the first criterion: there were many hurdles to clear yet, chiefly relating to operational security. But Porter was encouraged: the subject appeared to confirm a correlation between a defective personality and a net worth that provided the working conditions required for the Tribute.
Porter sat back down and opened a missing card report, so he could look into Hall over this shift and the next. The system wouldn’t let you browse a customer’s file in detail just because you felt like it – you had to have an open query on them. If research indicated that conditions were unfavourable, Porter would simply cancel the card in the system, and Hall would never know how close he’d come to donating his body to science. If the prospects looked good, however, Porter would delete the open missing-card report and proceed with Volume III.
He returned to the call. ‘Thank you for holding, sir, your card is now cancelled,’ he lied.
‘Thank Christ, what a bloody rigmarole. I’d ditch you lot if the other banks weren’t just as bad, you know that? You’re all a bunch of crooks.’
‘Denison Bank appreciates your business, Mr Hall.’
‘Whatever. When do I get my new card?’
‘The card will be imprinted within the next twenty-four hours and mailed out on Wednesday morning. It should arrive on Thursday.’ This timeline would work whichever decision Porter made.
‘Bullshit, it won’t arrive until next week, at that rate. I need it down the snow this weekend. Just mail it tomorrow.’
‘We’ve missed the plastic card generation cut-off for tonight, I’m sorry. It’s all automated. Yours will be in tomorrow night’s batch.’
‘For fuck’s sake.’ Another big sigh. ‘Can I pick it up instead?’
Porter cursed silently. If Hall opted for pick-up, the Tribute was off: it had to be by mail. But he had to play it straight; let the chips fall where they may.
‘Certainly, Mr Hall. Which branch would suit you?’
‘I don’t know, I run all over town. Dunno where I’ll be.’
‘We’d have to specify a branch for collection, Mr Hall.’
‘Can’t I just drop in when I go past one, get them to sort it out?’
‘No, sir, the card is embossed centrally and couriered out. They can’t print them on site.’
‘Okay then, where do they get made? Maybe I can drop by there.’
‘I’m sorry, sir, there is no public access to the card facility.’
‘Where is it, anyway? Is that where you are now?’
‘I’m afraid security protocols prevent me from discussing that, Mr Hall.’
‘So you’re Jason Bourne now, are you? Unbelievable.’
‘Would our Castle Towers branch do, Mr Hall?’
‘Nah, by the time you bludgers roll out of bed I’ve been on the road for two hours. Could be anywhere.’
‘Is there a branch of the Fort you pass frequently?’
‘Shit, I don’t know. You’ve closed half your branches, anyway. In case you didn’t notice.’
They were at an impasse. ‘Shall we send it straight to your home, then, Mr Hall?’
‘All right, then, just bloody mail it. Shit. I’m going to be stuffed if it doesn’t show up by Friday.’
‘Once you receive the card, please sign it right away, then follow the instructions to activate it.’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, what a bloody bureaucracy. Why do I have to activate it?’
‘If your wallet was stolen …’ Porter began.
‘It was fucken stolen. Are you deaf?’
Porter considered repeating himself but forewent the cheap antagonism. There was a far more satisfying rite of redress in prospect. ‘Your driver’s licence was in your wallet, I take it?’
‘Yeah, so?’
‘It has your address on it. An experienced thief will know we are having this conversation. They’ve been known to skim mailboxes and steal replacement cards. So they go out unactivated.’
‘Then why do you halfwits mail them out at all?’
‘I am very happy to send your replacement card to a Denison Bank branch, Mr Hall, if you care to nominate one.’
‘Mate, we’ve just been through all that, I don’t know where I’ll be. Christ, you people shit me to tears. Are you even fucking listening to me?’
Porter was very calm now. He had passed through repugnance and irritation, and reached a kind of serenity. There was a lot of vetting to do yet, but he had a feeling that this was all going to end well. For himself and Vesalius, if not for Mr Hall. Although realistically, featuring in the Tribute was the only worthwhile contribution this man would ever make, so in a sense Porter would be doing him a favour.
‘So are we mailing it, then, sir?’
‘Yes, I said. Put it in the bloody mail.’
‘Okay, then, that’s all set. It should arrive on Thursday.’
‘It fucken better,’ said Hall. ‘If I don’t get my card on time there’ll be hell to pay.’
‘I understand, sir.’
‘Are we done?’
Not in the usual course of events, they weren’t: normally the operator would provide the new card number so the customer could start updating their regular billers. But Porter couldn’t do that, because he hadn’t cancelled the card in the system, so it hadn’t generated a new number. Not that it mattered: subject to vetting, any future use of a credit card by Mr Patrick Arthur Hall of Crown Street, Castle Hill was vanishingly unlikely.
‘Yes that’s all we need, Mr Hall.’
There was one final muttered curse, then the disconnect tone.
Porter breathed in deeply and removed his headset. He held that breath for a long time, then slowly let it out. He really hoped this one would work out.
He hated people when they were not polite.
Monday 13 August – morning
Janssen spotted the house with the crime-scene van through a veil of pelting rain and parked in front of the identical McMansion next door. An umbrella was pointless, with the rain rebounding waist-high off the bitumen, so he ran flat-out for the house, straight through the crime-scene tape strung across the driveway.
Murphy came through the white wrought-iron screen door just as Janssen made the verandah. ‘Where the fuck have you been, Janssen?’ he barked. ‘Even the TV cameras have been and gone.’
‘Sorry, boss, I came as soon as I heard.’ He and Jo had flown to Noosa for the weekend, planning to sneak home early Monday morning, but the violent electrical storm had other ideas. Their plane had circled Mascot for an hour, and by the time they’d landed, the airport was in complete chaos. Then the long drive out to the Hills District had taken forever. It was almost noon.
‘It’s a Homicide Squad we’re running here, detective sergeant,’ Murphy continued. ‘In our industry, the suppliers tend to work outside traditional business hours. Know what that means?’
‘Yes, boss. Do not leave my telephone unattended.’ Janssen’s English, never particularly vernacular, tended to the formal when he was stressed.
‘That’s right, mate, answer your fucken phone.’
‘Give him a break, Spud,’ came Mack’s voice from inside the screen door. ‘It’s not like Mr Hall’s getting any deader.’
Janssen appreciated Mack’s intentions, but it would only make matters worse. He kept to business. ‘Morning, Mack. What have we got?’
‘Another dissection. Your boy again.’
But Murphy was having none of this. ‘Chartier and I have been here since fucken sparrow’s fart, Janssen. We went over it all while you were admiring your morning wood. You’ll have to wait for the unit briefing.’
Janssen nodded meekly. Mea maxima culpa.
‘I’m going back to Goulburn Street. You start knocking on doors.’ Murphy pointed at Janssen, right up in his face. ‘Every single house on this street and a block each way. It’s a bloody long drive out here to fucken Woop Woop, Janssen, so you stay until you’re done. Got that?’
‘Yes, boss,’ said Janssen, relieved at the moderate punishment. Murphy had a quick and unpleasant temper, but he tended to get over things. He was tough but more or less fair over the medium- to long-term; short-term, it could go either way.
‘And no uniformed minions today, sport: it’s just you.’ Murphy stalked off to his car.