The Unbroken Line

by Alex Hammond

  Each surname was accompanied by an initial and a military rank. Some of the names had been highlighted. Thick yellow marks noted men from the middle ranks, those corporals and sergeants garrisoned to Sydney as part of the New South Wales Corps.

  With the light now on, Will could see the same yellow highlighting on the map on the floor. It was a schematic of landholdings around the harbour dating from 1793. Will gripped the side of the desk as he lowered himself to the ground. He’d taken more tramadol, and although the pain registered it came wrapped in cottonwool.

  Hunched over the maps he could see Miller’s notes on the landholders and highlights around their existing property boundaries. They corresponded with the list of soldiers on the desk.

  The paper resisted his touch, staying firm against the rug – too thick to be a single sheet. Will pushed one of the books off its corner and lifted the map up. Below it was another one dating from 1805, on which Miller had scrawled Post Rebellion. This map had twice the highlighting compared to the scattered few on the 1793 map.

  Toby stalked through the doorway that connected Will’s and Miller’s offices. He wound his way through the papers and used his head to nudge Will’s arm. Will looked at his watch. Almost midnight.

  He pulled himself back up onto his feet and turned the desk lamp off. He walked to the tiny kitchenette attached to reception and shook some cat biscuits into the bowl on the floor.

  Toby watched from the door to Will’s office.

  ‘Keep an eye on things until tomorrow for me,’ Will said, as he pulled the door shut and crossed quickly to a waiting cab.

  ELEVEN

  ‘How is it looking?’ Will asked Detective Senior Sergeant Haigh, as he sat down next to her and scanned the other grey cubicles of the Melbourne West Police Station. Neither the bright morning sun nor the end of the working week did much to lift the mood of the detectives in the room.

  ‘Not well,’ she said, rolling back her chair. Her desk was uncluttered; her cubicle walls were lined with business cards, children’s drawings and a photo of her younger self in dress uniform shaking the hand of the police commissioner.

  ‘We’ve got very little to go on,’ Haigh said.

  This was not what Will wanted to hear. He wanted to hear that they were close to catching the men who had him jumping at shadows, the same men who’d banished the only person capable of drawing the turmoil from his mind.

  ‘What do you know about the SUV they left behind? Stolen?’

  ‘Yes. Reported stolen after it was used to attack you. The owner had seen the news footage and recognised the stick-figure family on the back window. We managed to lift some fibres, but that will be of little use. These guys were pros and would have bought their clothes specifically for this job before ditching them. Unfortunately nothing else was dumped nearby. We did get some shoe prints and some casts from mud around the exits they used. But they’re no use unless we can match the footwear. We have the footage from the CCTV. If you’re up for it, we can —’

  ‘Show it to me.’

  Haigh turned to face her computer. After logging into the records management system, she navigated from a folder marked Open Cases to a subfolder called Harris–Mercuri.’

  ‘We advised Eva not to fly overseas,’ said Haigh.

  ‘She wants to be away from Melbourne. I don’t know, the injuries . . . it’s —’

  ‘Fucked up is what it is.’

  Will watched as Haigh launched then expanded the window of a video. A fixed camera from a high angle focused on a section of the Burnley Tunnel. The crumpled Jag slid into view – its sides were flattened metal, the rear right tyre a shredded mess. It rocked violently to a halt.

  Will stared with growing horror and fascination as events still blurry were revealed to him via digital playback.

  The time code counted seventeen seconds until he and Eva struggled free of the wreck. To Will it had felt like an hour. Seventeen seconds and Will and Eva were running towards the emergency exit.

  The two men entered the frame. They were dressed almost identically, variations on an intimidating theme of black on black – boots, black latex gloves, balaclavas, heavy jackets.

  Will watched the footage show him shielding Eva as the closest attacker rushed towards them. Will threw a punch that barely connected. The first man moved his left shoulder to block the blow while pushing Will’s fist up and to the side with his right palm. A second punch from Will clipped what could have been an ear but amounted to nothing. The first man then ignored Will entirely and grabbed Eva in a chokehold.

  Will could see Haigh’s face reflected in the monitor. She was studying his reactions, waiting for a moment of recognition, relying on her instincts over his own reliability as a witness.

  Good, Will thought. He wasn’t even sure he trusted himself to recall anything with certainty or precision.

  On the screen, Will spun around, twisting his entire torso to drive a left hook into the side of Eva’s attacker’s head. Instinctively he now clenched his fist, the numb bruise stretching across the back of his hand. The blow had hit hard but Will had slipped in the oil and radiator fluid on the follow-through. It was a sharp, unnatural movement.

  Now, days later, he had an answer for the deep pain embedded within him. This was the moment he’d torn open the part of him that was still healing.

  But the footage did not stop. Unrelenting, it kept playing. By this time the second attacker had reached Will. He hit him side-on and threw Will to the ground. Will crashed into the concrete of the tunnel floor. His head hit hard while the second man drove his knee down onto Will’s chest, pumping the air out of him. Will watched himself gasping and struggling to breathe. He tried to raise his right arm to strike at the man, but it was trapped under his boot – black, reinforced canvas with a heavy grip.

  In the footage, Will turned his head to see Eva being held to the ground by the other man, her bare feet slapping on the concrete as she kicked and strained. The man above Will slapped him across the face and barked a warning.

  ‘Back off.’

  Will was shaking. He could feel the blood had drained from his face and his cheeks were stinging. In this moment, whatever future he and Eva may have had, whatever hope he had of drawing together the scattered remnants of a calm and decent life was lost.

  As quickly as it was gone the blood returned to his face. A heat washed over him and he thought only of crafting explicit violence towards his attackers – paralysis, brain damage and worse.

  ‘Pause it,’ Will said.

  Haigh hit the space bar.

  Will leant in. The image was too wide to show any details.

  ‘Can you take it in closer? I need to see his boots.’

  ‘His boots?’

  ‘They were old. I remember now. The only piece of clothing that wasn’t new.’

  Haigh used the mouse to trace a dotted rectangle around the attacker’s boots. It magnified the grainy image of the boot centimetres from Will’s face.

  ‘Can you make it clearer?’

  ‘I can only improve the resolution so far. The tunnel operators keep it low res to save space on their hard drives. They’re concerned with number plates and accidents. Not fine details.’

  ‘I get it. As best as you can, please.’

  Haigh moved through a drop-down menu. The image became sharper, but not ideal.

  Will’s face – blood spilling from a cut on his forehead, his eyes filled with fear. Will’s hand – reaching towards something off screen. Eva.

  There in the centre of the image was a boot. Much like the ones used for hiking and mountain climbing, with high sides, thick soles and wide laces running through reinforced hooks. In the centre of the boot’s tongue was a word, a logo.

  ‘What is that? Summerline?’ Will asked.

  ‘Looks like it says Ramberling. I’ll print out copy.’ Haigh pushed back her office chair and left for the central printer.

  Will clicked play on the screen and watched the close-up of
his face. His attacker slapped him across the right cheek with a meaty left hand, smacking Will’s attention upwards and away from Eva. Another slap. He could still smell the latex now. And then – thud – the punch to his face. He flinched at the impact of his head on the concrete behind it.

  His silent mouth shouted out, spitting blood. The attacker disappeared out of frame. Will watched as his eyes rolled into the back of his head and he passed out unconscious.

  ‘Anything else come back to you?’ asked Haigh, returning to her desk.

  ‘All of it,’ said Will. ‘But nothing that wasn’t already in my statement.’

  TWELVE

  Will had spent the rest of that morning reading over Haideh’s notes on the Barnett case. She was thorough, and given time would doubtless eclipse him as a solicitor. He sensed that she had her mind set on joining the bar.

  Periodically he glanced over at the black and white photo of the CCTV enlargement from the tunnel, hoping to register the label on the boots before it shifted into obscurity again.

  He worked through lunch before rushing to make his meeting with Paraskos at the Melbourne Assessment Prison. After a tram ride up Spencer Street and the rigmarole of metal detectors, he eventually sat in a stark interview room. Feeling safe again, temporarily behind bars.

  ‘I think you’ve had a chance to meet everyone here, Nick. Or do I need to bring you up to speed?’ Detective Sergeant Evans asked.

  Aaron shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Maybe I do. So you know me already, Detective Evans. I’m the one who’s been trying to arrest you for over a month now. This is the legal prosecution specialist from the Office of Public Prosecutions, Ms Paraskos. She’s the lawyer who will be running your case before the judge.’

  Aaron stared at the tattoos on his hands, the colours bright against his pale skin under the neon light of the interview room. Although Aaron didn’t take the opportunity to meet the gazes of his accusers, Will did. Paraskos was an exercise in contrast to Evans. The cop slouched under his considerable gut and knocked his heavy knuckles across the table, whereas Paraskos perched her small frame on the edge of the seat and lightly tapped on the manila folder in front of her. The polished buttons of her black suit jacket glinted under the light as she flicked her attention from Aaron to Will, her eyes narrowing as she met his.

  Will leant back in his chair, trying to find a comfortable position. He was dying for a painkiller but it was another hour before he was supposed to take his next one. If that wasn’t distracting enough, his growing apprehension had his heart rate pumped up like the pistons on a freight train. It had only been three days since the legal commissioner had questioned him about misrepresenting himself to Aaron. Now he sat here with two legal officers, each a persuasive witness to any outbursts Aaron might have about his lawyer’s previous actions. In no way did he feel on top of this situation.

  Will broke the silence. ‘Shall we start the interview?’

  ‘Your client in a rush, chief?’ Evans asked.

  ‘Always good to keep things moving along. It’s a Friday, after all.’

  Paraskos read from the rap sheet. Her voice was calm and formal – another contrast. ‘You’ve been charged with possession of drugs of dependence in trafficable quantities: 490 grams of MDMA and 150 grams of methamphetamine at your former girlfriend’s residence, as well as one kilogram of MDMA concealed at your apartment in the Docklands. We have the sworn testimony of a witness advising that you would sell these drugs to other dealers out of hotel rooms. An unregistered handgun was also discovered with the smaller quantity of drugs, while photographic evidence of assaults on three women were found in your apartment. You also avoided arrest by knowingly evading police for the last six weeks.’

  Evans let out a slow whistle. ‘That’s some pretty severe stuff there, Nick. What’s a dude like Nick likely to get for those charges, Alida?’

  Paraskos returned to locking eyes with Will. ‘It’s a drugs case so a suspended sentence is off the table. There must be prison time. Add to it the assault . . . Current sentencing trends would suggest about six years.’

  ‘Current sentencing trends would suggest about six years. Six years in jail, Nick. That’s a long time.’

  ‘My client is aware that he is looking at jail time. However, given his cooperation and good behaviour, we think three years would be appropriate.’

  ‘That will be determined by the judge,’ said Paraskos.

  ‘Of course,’ said Will. ‘But you can make a recommendation. My client is not denying the drugs were his, or the handgun, or that he avoided arrest. Your claim about the assaults is spurious at best. Those women were willing participants and consented to the cutting. If you interview them, they’ll confirm this.’

  Paraskos shook her head at Will. She continued to stare at him, her mouth tightening, her eyes widening. ‘The cutting?’

  ‘My client maintains it’s a kind of body art.’

  ‘It’s mutilating women with a knife.’

  ‘Either way, it was consensual. Have any of these women filed a report? No. Consent negates assault.’

  He was so glad Eva couldn’t hear him talking like this.

  ‘Fine,’ Paraskos said. ‘We’ll think about scratching that one. We’ll even consider putting aside his avoiding arrest and call it a misunderstanding. But it’s all just skirting around the central issue. If your client would like a reduced sentence, he needs to start giving us names.’

  ‘Names?’ Will asked.

  ‘Of his suppliers,’ said Evans. ‘Nick isn’t the only dealer who’s been moving these “Cloud Nines”. They’re all over the streets.’

  ‘If he can give us some actionable information, useful evidence, then we can put it to the judge that he’s been exceedingly cooperative,’ Paraskos said. ‘I can even take a run at getting the sentence down to eighteen months.’

  Aaron blinked at Paraskos. Something about the way he was moving now, as though suddenly awake, sent shivers of urgency running through Will. He could feel the livewire of the Ivanic threat as though it were crackling on the table just before them. If Aaron moved too suddenly, or if Will startled him, they would both be dead.

  ‘Months, mate. That’ll fly by,’ Evans said.

  Aaron started to open his mouth.

  Will held up his hand. He let his face be a mask and, as calmly as he could manage, asked, ‘Are you willing to put that in writing?’

  Evans shook his head.

  ‘You know I can’t do that,’ Paraskos said, scowling at Will. ‘I can make a recommendation in the hand-up brief to the judge. But they will be the one who ultimately decides.’ Paraskos put her finger on the table in front of Aaron. ‘These numbers, Nick, we don’t make them up. They are formal recommendations made to the court. Sentencing has to be consistent. I’m basing these timeframes on other people who’ve been in similar positions. The more specific you can be about your suppliers, the more the years can come down.’

  ‘You give us the names, we knock some off,’ said Evans. ‘How their operation is set up, kapow, that’s another year. The locations of their production facilities, shit, that’s probably two years off right there.’

  Aaron was leaning forwards now, his eyes alight, his fingers poised like a pianist’s on the edge of the table.

  Aaron started to speak. ‘I —’

  Will held up his hand and cut Aaron off. He needed to be more decisive, and quickly. He kept his eyes on the prosecutor sitting between the two cops.

  ‘Nick, I’m recommending that you say nothing at this point. Alida just admitted she can’t make any guarantees. Just recommendations.’

  Paraskos let out a frustrated growl. ‘Recommendations that are almost always followed. What are you doing, Will? We’re trying to help your client get out of jail sooner.’

  Will kept his hand up, the palm still facing towards Aaron. ‘Almost always.’

  Aaron’s eyes returned to his hands. They all watched him, looking for a reaction. Aaron opened hi
s mouth as if to speak but the thought disappeared.

  ‘My client . . . will need to consider a response,’ Will said, testing the water.

  Aaron nodded once.

  At least he’s not speaking.

  Thankfully, Aaron had no idea how much power he had over Will.

  Evans leant forwards, trying to press his way into Aaron’s field of view. Nothing. Aaron didn’t budge. Evans rapped one of his big knuckles on the table in front of Aaron.

  ‘Here’s the thing though, Nicky boy. The longer you take, all these years we would have knocked off, we dial them back up. Soon you’ll be haggling over a couple of months here or there, wishing you’d jumped earlier when it was worth something.’

  ‘You understand that Will is here to advise you, Nick. You are not required to do what he says,’ Paraskos said before pointing it in Will’s direction.

  Fuck you, Alida.

  ‘Of course he realises that.’

  Paraskos shot up from the table and stood over Will. She glared down at him. ‘What say we leave Nick in here for a second and the rest of us step outside? I’d like to flag some of my thoughts with Mr Harris.’

  ‘Oh, I’d love the opportunity for a frank exchange of ideas,’ Will replied.

  In the corridor Paraskos leant up towards him while Evans rested against the wall. Will could see through the small window of reinforced glass into the interview room. Aaron continued to stare at his hands.

  ‘What’s going on, Harris?’ Paraskos snapped her fingers at him.

  ‘I could ask the same question. You must know that I’m going to recommend against him agreeing to a deal when you’re making offers you can’t guarantee. If you’re going to be divisive, you need to do better than that.’

  ‘Why are you even representing him, Will? Two months ago, you were trying to convince us to bring the guy in.’

  ‘I agree,’ Evans said, scratching his big, bald head. ‘This is reading all wrong. You could have brought Aaron back from Torquay yourself. Helped him surrender himself to us. Instead you let us pick him up, cuff him and throw him into a wagon. Fact is, like me, you want to spend as little time with the prick as possible. Let’s process this jerk so we can all get on with our lives. What’s going on, mate?’