by John Byron
‘Hey, what did Woody Harrelson’s father do for a living?’ Jo asked him.
‘No idea. Carpenter.’
‘He was a hitman!’
‘How ’bout that,’ said Murphy, clearly not giving a shit. ‘You all set?’ he asked Sylvia.
‘Soon as you’re done.’ She turned to Jo. ‘We’ll have to shoot off in a minute. I’m taking Dave to the airport.’
‘Where’re you going?’ Jo asked Murphy as he stirred in the crema.
‘Melbourne. Talking to the Operation Scintilla people.’ He noticed her blank look. ‘The Homicide task force on those nightclub killings.’
‘They did an Underbelly of it,’ said Sylvia, riffling through her purse.
‘Australian Psycho,’ added Murphy. ‘They took an unusual approach, got results. Could be useful.’
‘You kept this quiet, too.’
‘People get antsy about official travel.’
Jo nodded, but she was distracted by Sylvia’s increasing agitation. ‘All right, sis?’ Sylvia just muttered in reply. Jo turned back to Murphy. ‘When are you back?’
‘Late Wednesday,’ said Murphy, downing his espresso.
‘Shit!’ said Sylvia, at last.
‘What’s up?’ asked Jo.
‘I can’t find my credit card.’
‘When’d you use it last?’ asked Murphy. Jo rolled her eyes. Never off duty.
‘Yesterday, to buy petrol, but now it’s gone.’
‘Did you leave your purse lying around? In the car?’
‘No, I came straight home and haven’t been back out until this morning.’
‘Maybe it’s at the service station?’ suggested Jo.
‘No, I remember putting it back. I almost jammed the receipt in there with it, see?’ She flourished a crumpled receipt.
‘It’s probably at home,’ said Murphy. ‘Like last time.’
‘No, I put it away and didn’t touch my purse again until now.’ She was getting testy. ‘You didn’t use it, did you?’ she asked him.
‘Why would I use it?’
‘You could phone the service station,’ suggested Jo.
‘It’s not at the bloody service station!’
‘All right, keep your shirt on,’ Jo said. ‘So call up the bank and report it, then.’
‘Yeah, I s’pose. Bugger.’ Sylvia pulled out her phone. ‘Dave, can you cover me for this? It’s about twenty-five.’
‘Nah, I’ll get it,’ offered Jo.
‘All good, sis,’ said Murphy, pulling out his wallet. ‘But check at home before you ring them, Sylv. It’s a bloody hassle, getting a new card.’
‘It’s just gone, David, okay? Don’t worry, I’ll get you to your bloody plane.’ She put her hand out. ‘Give me your card.’
‘Why?’
‘I need the phone number off the back. Just go pay Sorcha, will you?’
‘Who’s Sorcha?’ he asked, handing her his credit card.
‘She’s one of the baristas who’s been making you perfect fucking ristrettos for the past three years. Jesus, Murphy.’ She turned the card over and started dialling.
Murphy made his women! face and went up to pay.
‘If it’s gone it’s gone, best to cancel it and get another one,’ said Jo. She picked up the arts section and turned to the book reviews.
‘Yeah, I know.’ Sylvia sighed. She pressed a few buttons and reached the telephone queue. Murphy came back, stuffing a couple of banknotes into his wallet. Sylvia returned his credit card.
‘Still waiting?’
She nodded, then raised a finger and turned aside. ‘Yes, hello, Stephen, I need to report a lost credit card. That’s right. My name is Sylvia Elizabeth Murphy, and I live at 37 Morgan Street, Randwick.’
Sunday 13 January – morning
Porter ended the call, pressed the Away key and removed his headset. He walked calmly to the kitchen, put the kettle on, scooped two measures of tea into his teapot, and rinsed out his mug. Then he sought the privacy of the men’s room.
He emitted a gasp of joy, his fists clenched in excitement, his eyes aglow in the mirror. He could not believe his good fortune. Immediately after Murphy had insulted Porter’s integrity, impugned his character and misrepresented his practices, his wife Sylvia had volunteered for service.
He splashed his face with water, finished making his tea, and returned to his desk. He swept yesterday’s newspaper into the bin, declaring the innings on his attempt at dispassionate analysis. The time had come for a more trenchant response.
He knew from his prior research on the Murphys that the job was plausible: good layout, no security firm monitoring, lots of privacy, no children. He’d established rapport with the candidate just now, which would surely advantage him relative to the previous Volumes. All he needed was the opportunity.
Timing was the major hurdle, so he started with Sylvia Murphy’s work roster. Porter soon discovered that the hospital’s facilities management was contracted to a company in Botany, and the back office further subcontracted to a remote service in Phoenix, Arizona. Within minutes he was inside the hospital’s main server and looking at Murphy’s wife’s shift roster. Reading it against his own roster, he saw that Tuesday morning looked promising. She would very likely be at home resting between late shifts, her husband would be at work and Porter would be on a three-day break.
He then ran his usual due diligence process. A check of the candidate’s diary revealed no commitments on the Tuesday. The housing documents confirmed there was no security system. There were no current building approvals for the neighbouring premises. Their cleaner wasn’t due until late Wednesday morning. While inside Murphy’s airline account, he discovered a flight booking to Melbourne for that very afternoon, returning on Wednesday evening.
This was perfect – it afforded Porter a day and a night. While the Volume would still be performed in haste, this windfall nocturne would enable a more fitting depth of study.
Sunday 13 January – afternoon
Murphy looked out the window as the plane powered along the runway. This was the closest he would come to death today, all going well, and he enjoyed the frisson. The rumbling gave way as the aircraft left the ground then leapt ahead of itself, pulling into the sky on a wide bank to the right. They cleared the old oil refinery at Kurnell, rusting tanks in gravel clearings among the marsh and scrub, then the dunes of Wanda Beach – scene of the Force’s oldest cold homicide – then the shining surface of Port Hacking, carved by the curving wakes of a hundred motorboats. Then it was all orange sandstone cliffs with murky black streaks, and a carpet of green stretching back to the freeway, the Royal National Park laced with tracks to beaches, waterholes, the Wattamolla lagoon. They passed Bald Hill – some mad bastard hurling himself into space on a hang-glider, no more than a tent fly stretched across a Hills hoist – then the contours of the Seacliff Bridge, then they crossed the coast above Bulli and finally levelled off.
After they landed, Murphy withdrew some cash from his Fort account at an airport ATM, then found the unmarked outside the terminal. Kelly briefed him on the way. Much of the schedule involved cops behaving badly, but some of it sounded useful. At the Windsor Kelly headed for the Cricketer’s Bar to join the others while Murphy checked in, using his Denison Bank credit card for incidentals. He went upstairs, unpacked and rang Sylvia, but neither had much to say. He asked if she’d found her credit card and she hung up on him. Fine. My flight was smooth, thanks for not asking. Bitch. He went downstairs to join the reception committee in the bar.
Sunday 13 January – afternoon
Sylvia was taking full advantage of the opportunity for a long, uninterrupted session on her guitar. She was still a little rusty from her long hiatus but she was just getting back to the point where she could drift away in a piece at the level of expression instead of concentrating on the physical movement of her fingers. When the phone rang she almost didn’t answer it, but she had to get ready for work soon anyway.
It wa
s Murphy. He was tense, distant and distracted. She asked what the Windsor was like, but he didn’t seem to register the question.
‘Did you check the sofa for your credit card?’ he asked, instead of answering. ‘Wasn’t that where it showed up last time?’
‘Yes I did, it’s not there.’
‘It could be fucken anywhere, for all the care you take of things.’
‘I’ve cancelled it, David, it’s not a big deal.’
‘Yeah but it keeps happening. You’re bloody hopeless.’
She hung up on him then, something she’d never done in her life, not even to her father. But the grim cloud of spiteful negativity Murphy carried around was just too much to bear.
Maybe she should just get out now, she mused, take advantage of a couple of days’ head start. Not having her credit card in hand made it tricky – Murphy handled all the money, otherwise – but surely she could get access to the savings account? She could confide in Jo, perhaps stay with her?
But that all sounded complicated and uncertain, and a false start might alert Murphy to her plans. Besides, it was no small thing to come between family members, no matter what Jo said. Sylvia decided to stay the course, seek professional advice, set it up right and make the move when everything was ready.
Not long now.
Monday 14 January – morning
Murphy slept poorly and woke at dawn. It was already hot and dry, the start of a classic Melbourne scorcher. He walked north into Fitzroy and found a cafe serving breakfast beside an Airstream caravan, surrounded by home-grown vegetables and sheltered by camouflage netting. He had baked eggs and a couple of coffees, then continued up Brunswick Street until he came across a bookstore. It was early, but there was someone unpacking stock and she let him in. He found the authors his sister had recommended but they didn’t appeal, so the bookseller asked him what sort of books he liked and suggested Peter Temple. When he paid for the book she told him how to get to Docklands by tram.
—
Murphy found the briefings helpful, and he welcomed the absorption. He kept his mind mostly on the job and took copious notes. He checked in with Janssen in the afternoon who told him there’d been a surge in hotline calls after the media attention, but it had yielded nothing yet. Janssen asked whether Murphy had anything for them from his end.
‘No, why should I?’ he snapped.
‘No reason, sorry. Just wondered.’
Murphy took a deep breath. He was too agitated; he needed to regain control. ‘I’m just digesting it all, mate. These Mexicans run a slick operation. We should compare notes more often.’
The day rolled on. Sylvia phoned Murphy just before her late shift, but she sounded as distracted as he was. Probably preparing for her feminazi lawyers, he figured.
That night, the whole Melbourne City Homicide team went out for steaks. The women came along – it was more or less compulsory – but they made their excuses after dinner, along with the softer cocks, so it was just proper blokes afterwards. Murphy ate on the corporate card but used his own plastic for beer.
Soon they were eight or so rounds in at a loud beer hall in Southbank with a row of giant arty flues out front regularly emitting balls of flame. They were all parched by the time the next shout finally arrived, a cop called Douglas returning from the bar with half a dozen jars or tubs or whatever they called the children’s size in Victoria.
‘Took you long enough, Dougie,’ said one of his mates.
‘Got talking.’
‘Yeah I was gunna ask who’s your fat chick.’
A few heads turned and someone said, ‘The dirty blonde in the red stripy thing.’ She looked over while they were all checking her out, and she blushed scarlet.
‘Oh, fuck, mate. You can’t be thinking of taking that home?’
‘If you try to leave with her, Dougie, I’m staging an intervention, I swear.’
‘Nah, fat chicks over forty are great,’ said Douglas, ‘I fucken love ’em.’ There were groans of disgust. ‘Even better if they’ve got kids.’
‘You pervert!’
‘Not like that, you fucken … what is wrong with you, Jonesy?’
‘Well, fucken explain yourself, then.’
Douglas spelled it out deliberately. ‘Because they shave their pussies, and they’ll let you fuck ’em in the arse.’
That shut them up as they weighed the percentage.
‘Yeah, okay. They’re desperate.’
‘Zackly,’ said Douglas.
‘Like Taylor’s “Go ugly, early” policy.’
‘Tried and true, mate,’ Taylor responded, tilting his beer in salute.
‘Makes sense, I s’pose, but Jesus.’
‘Yeah well, your missus doesn’t shave her snatch for you, does she Robbo?’
‘How the fuck would you know, Dougie?’
‘We all saw her at Torquay that day. Fucken jungle down there.’
‘Taking back the plantation.’
‘You shouldn’t let her wear a bikini in that condition, mate.’
‘Maybe I like the seventies vibe,’ Robertson replied.
This elicited further howls. ‘Enjoy camping in Melinda National Park, do ya?’
‘Every chance I get, mate.’
‘What do you reckon, Spud?’ asked Kelly, tilting his head at Douglas’s blonde hopeful, who was still throwing glances their way. ‘Piss-poor standards or cunning strategy?’
Murphy shook his head. ‘My missus is smoken hot and thirty-three, so I’m not much help on tactics.’
‘True, she’s a fucken knockout,’ Kelly confirmed for the others. ‘I met her at the PFA show last year.’ The national cop awards night was a very glamorous affair: tuxedos, ball gowns, red carpet, the lot.
‘She wasn’t the one in the blue dress, was she, Spud?’
‘Yeah, she was,’ he replied. ‘Why, did you fellas see the photos?’
This was disingenuous: Murphy knew very well that every male cop in the country had seen the photos, and had probably downloaded them onto their computers. Her red carpet shots were popular, but there was a ripper of her leaning across the table. Her tits very nearly had the better of the neckline.
‘So you get the idea, then. And she goes the full Brazilian for me, I’ll give her that.’ He drained his glass and set it on the table. ‘I’ll leave you gentlemen with that image. See youse tomorrow.’ He headed for the door, relishing their groans.
But thinking about her body had put his head wrong. He had to stop thinking about her. Fuck. Fuck it. It was in motion. Let it run.
He crossed the Yarra and walked along the riverbank, passing under the road near Flinders Street station instead of going up to street level. It was a mistake. He came out in a gloomy, deserted stretch of pathway, disoriented and suddenly aware of how drunk he was.
He was pissing like a racehorse against a bluestone wall when a couple of punks approached, talking overloud. He turned around just as they closed on him, fast and aggressive. Murphy pissed all over the first punk, then shoved him hard onto his arse on the bitumen footpath. The other one threw a wide uncontrolled roundhouse that Murphy easily ducked, buying enough time to tuck himself in and zip up. Then he really let loose, kicking and punching both punks with unmediated savagery, aiming for the soft parts, roaring in fury, until they gave up and took off. ‘Fucken mad cunt,’ one yelled as they ran away, and Murphy howled with manic laughter.
He left the riverbank, found Flinders Street again and walked along the tramway in the middle of the road. A storm swept in from the bay as he climbed the Spring Street hill, his adrenaline draining away as he approached Collins Street. He was dead on his feet by the time he made the Windsor. The doorman bade Murphy a formal good night, pretending not to notice that his guest was all wild and dishevelled and soaked through.
Tuesday 15 January – morning
Sylvia had just pressed play on a Ukrainian bel canto piece she was learning with the hospital choir when there was a knock at the door. She grabbed
her swimming keys and padded up the hall. She unlocked the deadbolt and opened the door to a dorky middle-aged man bearing an insipid smile and a masonite clipboard.
Her hand went automatically to the screen-door latch: locked. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Good morning, I’m looking for Mrs Sylvia Murphy.’
‘What’s this about?’
‘I’m Stephen, from Denison Bank – we spoke on Sunday. When you reported your card missing?’
‘Oh, right. Yes.’
‘You’re on my way to work, so I thought I’d save you some trouble by dropping in your replacement card.’
‘Oh. Well, thank you, Stephen, that’s kind of you.’
‘It’s no trouble, Mrs Murphy.’
She gestured towards his clipboard. ‘Do I need to sign for it?’
‘Yes you do, and I need to record some ID. You know, for the files.’
‘Will a driver’s licence do?’
‘Yes, please. And a recent bank statement, if you have one to hand.’
‘No problem. Back in a sec.’
‘Oh. Okay, Mrs Murphy.’
He clearly wanted to come inside, but he could wait right there. She closed the door on the man from the bank and went to the back of the house, where she rounded up her driver’s licence and the mortgage documentation she’d collected for her meeting with the lawyer on Thursday.
She came back up the hall and opened the front door, unlatching the screen door and handing him the mortgage papers through a narrow gap. ‘Is this okay from the bank? It’s all I have in hard copy.’
‘That’ll be fine,’ he said. She stood behind the screen door while he juggled his clipboard and copied down a number from the paperwork. He handed back the documents through the gap, and she crumpled them into one hand with her keys while handing him her driver’s licence with the other. He stepped back a little to compare her face with the photograph, then recorded the licence number. He held the card out to return it but he was still a step away, so she pushed the screen door wider and reached for it.