The Tribute

by John Byron

  ‘Everything gets to us sooner or later,’ said Murphy, dunking his biscuit in his tea.

  ‘And there’s been nothing like this for the others,’ said Nikolaidis.

  ‘So far,’ persisted Harris. ‘It could still come in.’

  ‘Glebe was eight months and six bodies ago, Harris,’ said Murphy through a mouthful of sodden shortbread. He paused to swallow. ‘If he was routinely knocking off credit cards in department stores we’d have been onto it ages ago.’

  ‘Yes, he’s much more methodical than this,’ added Nguyễn.

  ‘That’s the real lesson here,’ said Janssen. ‘This is quite unsophisticated.’

  ‘You’re right, Thijs,’ said Jo. ‘If he’s changed, why has he changed?’

  ‘Letting emotions come into it,’ suggested Chartier. ‘That argument in the queue.’

  ‘The cold, rational planner getting hot-headed,’ Nikolaidis said.

  ‘That’s when people make mistakes,’ said Murphy. ‘They lose their finesse.’

  ‘The emotions are not skilled workers,’ Jo said.

  ‘I agree the snatch is an anomaly, but I like the entry method for the other victims,’ said Janssen. ‘Showing up with something they want, getting them to open the door, maybe let him in.’

  ‘It fits,’ said Nikolaidis. ‘The lift may be clunky but the entry is slick.’

  ‘What else might he have that they want?’ asked Janssen.

  ‘A telegram?’ suggested Murphy.

  ‘There are no telegrams anymore, van Winkle,’ said Jo.

  ‘Really? When did that happen?’

  ‘Only about a decade ago.’ She shook her head.

  ‘Well, bugger me. End of an era.’ He reached for another biscuit.

  ‘Online shopping?’ asked Nguyễn. ‘Food, books, technology, something like that.’

  ‘No, we’ve gone through every single transaction,’ said Nikolaidis, his boot heel clunking against the steel in emphasis. ‘There’s nothing unaccounted for.’

  ‘What about flowers?’ suggested Jo. ‘You don’t order them yourself.’

  ‘They’ve been mostly men, so I’m not sure about flowers,’ said Murphy. ‘But I like the idea of transactions the vics don’t initiate.’

  ‘It doesn’t even have to be real, just plausible,’ said Chartier. ‘Enough to open the door. To check an order docket, say.’

  ‘Maybe, like a fake delivery error?’ Harris suggested.

  ‘What if he’s mixing it up,’ said Janssen, ‘tailoring his approaches?’

  ‘If he’s following them around like he did with Amber Darcy, working out his best angle, then there’s bound to be more footage,’ Nikolaidis said.

  ‘Yeah, that’s good,’ said Murphy. ‘Let’s see what CCTV we can get in the days leading up. We haven’t really looked into a stalker angle yet.’

  Nikolaidis grunted in approval. It would be labour intensive, but it was action. ‘We’re already getting the city council footage near Hordern’s on Saturday night.’

  ‘Let’s do the same on all the others, too, going back,’ said Janssen. He drained his coffee and stood up from his chair.

  ‘We’ll need more uniforms,’ said Nikolaidis. ‘That’s a lot of hack work.’

  ‘I’ll talk to the commissioner; it won’t be a problem,’ said Murphy.

  ‘Did the others have Hordern’s cards?’ asked Nguyễn, trying another angle.

  ‘Only Newman, from memory,’ said Harris. ‘But Darcy had a Denison Bank card. And Qantas, and NRMA.’

  ‘Six from six is starting to feel relevant,’ said Chartier.

  The cops all looked at Jo. She blinked at them. ‘What?’

  ‘What are the odds up to, sis?’ Murphy asked.

  ‘Oh. I don’t know. Hang on.’ Jo moved to Chartier’s desk nearby and sat down to work it out on paper. She looked up after a couple of minutes, calculations in hand. ‘Based on rough market share there’s still a twenty-six per cent chance of all six being NRMA members, so forget that. The Fort’s at twelve, but Qantas frequent flyers is down to six.’

  ‘Maybe they were all on a flight together once,’ suggested Harris.

  ‘Jesus, spare me the Agatha Christie!’ said Murphy. ‘Fucken – no, Harris.’

  Harris hung his head and shrunk a little. Jo passed him the biscuit tin with a smile. He rummaged beneath the shortbread and extracted two Anzac biscuits.

  ‘Anyway there’s nothing there with the airline,’ said Nikolaidis. ‘We’ve checked and checked again.’

  ‘What if it’s the combination?’ asked Chartier.

  ‘How do you mean?’ asked Nguyễn.

  ‘If the numbers are tightening on each one, what’s that mean for the whole set?’

  Jo nodded. ‘You’re right, Amy, but it just narrows it to the affluent, mobile, well-established – people like that.’

  ‘We already know they’re all loaded,’ said Janssen.

  ‘That’s why things like Qantas are not random,’ said Jo. ‘They’re all well-off, they’ll all be frequent flyers.’

  Murphy had been standing beside Chartier’s desk, off with the pixies and gazing sightlessly at the promo shot from The Wire. He eventually came back to himself and focused on the caption. ‘What would Lester Freamon do?’ he read aloud. ‘Damn.’

  ‘What’s that, Dave?’ asked Jo.

  Murphy seemed to come to a decision. ‘Fuck it.’ He patted his pockets and pulled out his keys. ‘Never mind,’ he answered Jo. ‘I’m going out.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Follow up this commercial angle,’ he said, heading for his office.

  ‘Want some company?’ asked Janssen.

  ‘No, I’m good.’ He grabbed his jacket and was out the door. The others shrugged and moved off to their desks.

  Jo stood to give Amy back her chair. ‘So what would Lester Freamon do?’ She’d never watched The Wire.

  ‘He’d install an illegal wiretap and nearly get himself killed.’

  ‘Not encouraging,’ said Jo. ‘Did he bust his gangster, at least?’

  ‘He did, but then his gangster walked. And everyone got fired.’

  Sunday 23 December – morning

  Jo woke from a deep sleep in a disorienting rush. She opened her eyes and listened intently: a truck was reversing down near the beach, but inside the flat the only sound was her own pounding heart.

  She pulled on a long T-shirt and opened her door carefully. Nothing. She crept across the squeaky hallway floorboards to the living room. Empty. But something was definitely off, some weird ripple in the background radiation. She shivered, despite the clammy heat.

  Maybe it was the accumulated weight of all the horror getting to her. The truncated lives, the sundered bodies. Or maybe it was the memory of the unadorned, depthless grief of Amber Darcy’s son, with whom Jo had spent a wrenching hour after his formal police interview on Friday, until he felt able to go outside again. That poor, inconsolable boy. It would surely be dysfunctional of her not to freak out.

  Or maybe it was just early and she needed a coffee. ‘Oh, fuck it,’ she said aloud, consciously shaking it off. Then she turned to her espresso machine and found a note:

  Hey Jo

  crashing here tonight

  hope you don’t mind?

  See you at brekkie

  S xx

  It had been a delayed reaction, then. Great survival instincts, Buffy. Had Sylvia been an intruder, Jo might’ve been dead for hours before realising it.

  She padded along the hall to her studio and opened the door. Sylvia was sleeping soundly on the guest bed, a couple of stalled paintings on easels behind her: Lizzie Schebesta and Joel Edgerton making shadow-puppets on the set of Felony; Rose Byrne and Heath Ledger drinking steaming mugs of tea on the Two Hands shoot. Jo really needed to finish those paintings.

  She left her sister-in-law to sleep. While closing the door, she spotted a large pink rubber wedge beneath the apartment’s back door. She bent down and retrieved it. Jo
owned the same item in yellow but had never seen this one before. She took it to the kitchen and placed it on the counter, then glanced at her front door – but there was nothing chocking it. Jo couldn’t work out why Sylvia would want to fortify her flat in the first place, but it made even less sense to barricade only the one door.

  Jo turned to make her coffee and became absorbed in the routine. Once she was done, she stood at the counter nursing her flat white, looking through the balcony doors, over the treetops to the glittering sea beyond. Then it came to her:

  Murphy.

  Sylvia and Murphy had a full set of keys to Jo’s flat. Sylvia kept the front-door keys with her Wylie’s tag, so she could shower at the apartment after a swim. But Jo’s spare back-door key lived on Murphy’s keyring.

  Sylvia was barricading Jo’s apartment against her own husband.

  Just then, Jo heard her sister coming up the hall and tried to figure out how to play it. But first, espresso.

  ‘Morning, hun,’ said Jo, turning to make Sylvia’s coffee. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Morning, Jo. Sorry if I disturbed you last night.’

  ‘Didn’t hear a thing.’

  ‘Thanks for letting me crash.’

  ‘Any time.’ Jo glanced over as she filled the basket with ground coffee. ‘Is everything okay, Sylv?’

  ‘We just had an argument. I couldn’t stand the sight of him.’

  Jo waited for more, but Sylvia looked away and kept her silence. Jo finished making the coffee and handed it to her sister-in-law.

  ‘Ah, that’s good,’ said Sylvia, inhaling the coffee aroma and forcing a smile.

  Jo gestured with her mug towards the pink door wedge on the end of the counter. Sylvia blushed.

  ‘Are you all right, love?’ asked Jo, her voice softening.

  Sylvia nodded and tried to smile, but couldn’t quite make it work. She looked down and shook her head slightly.

  Jo put her mug down and took Sylvia in her arms. She held her friend as Sylvia breathed deeply and wiped her eyes. Sylvia pulled back and shook her head again. ‘It’s nothing, I’m fine.’

  ‘Come on, Sylv.’

  ‘I’m just being melodramatic.’

  ‘I doubt that. You’re the most collected person I know.’ She let the silence hang for a moment, weighing her next words carefully. ‘Sylvia. Did Murphy hit you?’

  ‘No, nothing like that.’

  ‘Did he threaten you?’

  ‘No.’

  Another pause. ‘Has he ever hit you, sis?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Sylvia quickly, shaking her head. She was silent a moment, then looked up. ‘Why? Has he ever hit you?’

  Jo paused a moment, not expecting the question. ‘Only once, when we were kids. Mum was totally strict on that. There was pinching and hair-pulling, but nothing serious – apart from that one time.’ Jo hesitated, then added, ‘But I always thought he could. And he got more intense as he got older. Kind of … ominous.’

  ‘I know what you mean.’

  ‘He’d look at me with this cold eye, like he didn’t even know who I was. Scared the shit out of me.’

  ‘Like he’s the hunter and you’re the kangaroo.’

  ‘Exactly! How do you live with it? I was so relieved when he left for the Academy.’

  ‘It’s not often. I’ve learned how to avoid it, mostly.’

  Mostly. ‘Still …’ Jo said.

  ‘Anyway, it’s good to know it’s not just me.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He says it’s my fault. Says I bring it out in him.’

  ‘Oh, it’s not you, honey, he’s always been a deadshit. Honestly, I don’t know what you see in him.’

  ‘Come on, Jo, he’s your brother.’

  ‘Yeah, well, there wasn’t much sweetness and light growing up, I can tell you,’ said Jo. ‘He didn’t have to hit me to make me pay.’

  Sylvia nodded grimly. ‘I know it.’

  ‘You can’t live that way, Sylv. It isn’t healthy.’

  Sylvia looked up. ‘But he’s not always like that. He looks after me; he makes me laugh. We have a good time.’

  ‘Do you, though? Still?’

  Sylvia shrugged. ‘He’s under a lot of pressure right now. With the case.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, he’s meant to be on your side.’

  ‘It’s not so bad. We just need some clear air. Maybe we can get away once the case is finished.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me, Sylvia? I know you two fight, but I had no idea it was like this.’

  Sylvia frowned. ‘It’s complicated. You’re his sister.’

  ‘Fuck that. Don’t even get me started. I’m always here for you.’

  Sylvia smiled. ‘Thanks, Jo.’

  ‘Stay tonight, at least?’

  ‘No, I need to work it out with him.’

  Jo was unconvinced, but didn’t want to press. ‘Okay. But this door is always open to you, no questions asked.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘No questions asked?’

  Jo blushed at that. ‘Fair enough. I’m sorry for the inquisition. You can tell me anything you want, but you never have to explain yourself to me. I promise.’

  Sylvia reached for Jo and hugged her. ‘Thanks, sis.’

  ‘And I’ll get my back-door key back.’

  ‘No, please don’t. Who knows how he’d react. You know how he is.’

  ‘Yeah, I do,’ said Jo. ‘The prick.’

  Sylvia’s grim frown turned into a cheeky grin. ‘Anyway, what’s going on with you? I need to know.’

  Jo laughed and waved her hand. ‘It’s just an easy thing with Amy, that’s all.’

  Sylvia gave her a dramatically raised eyebrow. ‘That is not all, Joanna, and you know it. What about Matthijs?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Oh, come on. Bringing you “documents” in the evening then driving Dave to work next morning?’

  Jo groaned. ‘Oh god, don’t tell me he knows.’

  ‘No, he’s oblivious. But I can still add two and two.’

  ‘Okay, so Thijs and I rekindled, you could call it, once I started with the squad. I was just keeping it low key.’

  ‘But then Amy swept you away? Poor Matthijs!’

  ‘Weeeell …’ Jo smiled on one side of her mouth. ‘Not exactly.’

  The penny teetered, then dropped. ‘What, both of them?’ asked Sylvia, then gasped at a further thought. ‘Not together?’

  ‘Ah, no. Definitely not.’ Jo laughed. ‘Strictly in parallel.’

  ‘Oh.’ Sylvia looked relieved and disappointed in equal measure. ‘Do they know?’

  ‘They each know there’s someone else, but not who. It’s all fine.’

  ‘Bloody hell, that must be fraught.’

  ‘It’s not, actually. It’s pretty informal. They’re both cool about it.’

  ‘Keeps you busy, though, I bet.’

  ‘Yeah, finding time for myself turns out to be the main challenge. Besides feeling a little guilty.’

  ‘Why? You’re not hurting anybody.’

  ‘I know, but it’s like I’m getting away with something.’

  ‘Nah, bugger that, good on you. It’s about time someone had it all her own way.’

  Jo laughed ruefully. ‘I guess thirteen years with the nuns have left their mark.’

  ‘Well, enjoy it while you can,’ Sylvia said. ‘One’s more than enough for me, but I can see why you like them both. I hope it works out.’

  ‘Thanks, hun.’ Jo shelved discussion about what ‘working out’ might mean. Another time.

  Sylvia glanced at the clock. ‘I should get going. I have an early.’

  ‘You first in the shower,’ said Jo.

  ‘That’s all right, I’ll go home.’

  ‘You sure that’s a good idea?’

  ‘He’ll be sleeping in. Anyway, my uniform’s there.’ Sylvia put her cup in the dishwasher. ‘Thanks for everything, Jo. I don’t kn
ow what I’d do without you.’

  ‘Well, you don’t have to do without me.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Don’t imagine for a second I’d back him over you. You’re the best thing about that bloke by a country mile.’

  ‘Thanks, Jo.’ Sylvia stepped in and gave her a long hug. ‘When do you leave?’

  ‘First thing tomorrow.’ Jo was going to Hobart for Christmas with Amy’s family, then they would be motoring around Tasmania for a while.

  ‘I won’t see you then – I’ve got a double today. Have a great time, won’t you?’

  ‘We will,’ said Jo. ‘I hope Christmas is all right.’

  ‘It’ll be fine.’ Sylvia kissed Jo on the cheek. ‘I’m really happy for you, Jo.’

  ‘Thanks, Sylv. Call me, okay? And remember, mi casa, su casa.’

  Sylvia grabbed the pink wedge and went through the front door, waving before pulling it closed.

  Jo leaned against the counter and listened to Sylvia descend the stairwell until the lobby door clicked shut below, then let out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding. She shook her head.

  That fucking bastard.

  Monday 31 December

  Sylvia and Murphy had a long Christmas lunch at Rocky and Cath’s, eating like Romans and knocking over half a dozen bottles of wine between the four of them, so they left the car there and walked home. On Boxing Day, Murphy retrieved the car and met a bunch of old cop mates at the Watsons Bay pub to drink their body weights in New while waiting for the Sydney to Hobart yacht race to start. Sylvia was watching the fleet from the Ladies’ Baths when Murphy rang from the Watto, sunstruck and way too pissed to drive. She took a taxi over and drove him home, where he fell asleep on the sofa watching Australia pile on the runs at the MCG. He was still there when the Test concluded four days later, with Australia mowing down a demoralised English tail.

  New Year’s Eve began heavy and sultry, the low leaden clouds roiling impatiently, the air damply electric. The morning light was the unpleasant yellowy-violet of a tender bruise; the greenish sea choppy and restless; the wind squally and menacing. The tension built through the afternoon, the intense weather holding, waiting, summoning its forces.