The Unbroken Line

by Alex Hammond

  The guttural chug of a two-stroke engine echoed around the walls of the tunnel as a Harley-Davidson pulled alongside him. An old biker, missing a few teeth, nodded to him as Will decelerated and let him pass.

  He had come here too soon. This was a bad idea.

  Respite came with the gradual release of a soft background warmth. The painkillers he’d swallowed in the Walsh kitchen leeched away the pain and numbed his anxiety. With a light head he joined the procession of onlookers.

  Now that he was here, he needed to see the crime scene for himself.

  It was strange, witnessing the aftermath. The tunnel walls were black and white from rubber and alloy streaks. There were stains of oil, coolant, fluid and blood. Pieces of safety glass the clean-up crew had missed gleamed, scattered like confetti. It was all strangely trivial now without the steaming wreck of his shattered Jag.

  All too soon Will had moved past the exit the men in Zamberlan boots had fled up. He started to count out the emergency exits to the tunnel’s mouth. The traffic quickened and soon he was back outside, 1.3 kilometres covered in a matter of minutes.

  Three exits.

  The press of afternoon commuters frustrated his doubling back. He was in the city proper before he could bring the car around on King Street, with its array of strip joints and nightclubs.

  He parked in the shell of an old warehouse close to the tunnel’s entrance. Stepping out of the car, he watched the sunshine slip behind black-bellied clouds. The light rain turned hard and splattered onto the ground.

  Will unwrapped the large umbrella in Miller’s boot. It was striped with the colours of Mark Eldon’s football team, official merchandise manufactured at sweatshop prices. He popped it open and paused while he used the map on his phone to approximate the first of the tunnel’s emergency exits.

  It was little more than a concrete sleeve around a heavy fire door, like the entrance to a bunker, tucked in among overgrown lots and rusting warehouses of brick and tin. The Porsche’s speedometer had registered the exits at regular intervals of 300 metres. Will used his phone’s GPS to position himself. It showed him above a transparent line that indicated the tunnel’s route. He worked out a grid to calculate the position of the fourth exit. It was near the banks of the Yarra.

  Will returned to the car and drove by the Botanic Gardens before parking close to river. He followed the bike path to a grassy picnic area. The rain was falling more heavily now, drumming a rapid beat on the taut nylon of the open umbrella.

  He’d thought he’d miscalculated until he caught sight of a depression to the west of a picnic area. A motorboat puttered past on the river below as he neared the concrete borders of a sunken stairwell. At the base of the stairs the words Emergency Exit had been painted across heavy fire doors; a broken piece of police tape fluttered from a railing at the top of the stairs.

  Grasses flourished right to the edge of the concrete surrounding the emergency exit, while the stairs themselves had been washed over by a week’s worth of rain.

  He was fooling himself to think that he would find anything here. Too many days, too much rain. The police had been thorough. He wasn’t going to turn up any new evidence for Haigh.

  He’d have to take a different tack. Will pressed his phone to his ear and waited as it rang.

  ‘Will?’

  ‘Teresa.’ He could hear her place her hand over the receiver, her voice muted as she spoke to someone near by. She took her hand away.

  ‘What’s up? How’s Miller doing?’

  ‘He’s angry. Understandably. I can’t really go into it.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I was wondering if you could follow up on something for me? On the quiet?’

  ‘Well, Mr Harris, that really depends on what it is,’ she said, lowering her voice in convivial collusion.

  Is she flirting?

  His phone buzzed. A message was coming through.

  ‘I’ve been told by the police, by Sergeant Haigh, that they are diverting their resources from my case.’

  He stopped himself from speaking. What do you know about this woman? Nothing. Except that she works for the Director of Public Prosecutions.

  It was true. For all he knew, she was part of the system currently ticking over in the background against him. The hidden machinery of justice conspiring to revoke his practising certificate and put Miller in jail.

  Shit.

  He was starting to think like Miller. Too paranoid by half.

  Commit to it. Gamble.

  ‘Haigh gave me the sense that there are agendas at work. That they might be trying to unsettle me over Miller’s defence.’

  ‘Will, I can’t think of a single time when there haven’t been agendas at work. We’re government employees. The cops, Prosecutions – all rife with petty emperors.’

  At the banks of the river, a mother duck was nudging her ducklings up onto the muddy shore.

  ‘Do you think you could look into it? Something coming from a divisional commander at Melbourne West called Vincent.’

  ‘Hmm . . . I can’t make you any promises, but I will see what I can find out. Vincent’s a powerbroker, that’s for sure, but he’s shut down a lot of corruption in his time. I’m sorry they can’t find these guys. Seems like you’re not the safest person to be around right now.’

  ‘It certainly feels like it.’

  ‘Sounds to me like I should lodge a PSIO. Make sure I keep you more than 500 metres from me at all times, just in case.’

  ‘It would be the only way to be certain.’

  She laughed. ‘Give me a couple of days. Let me get back to you, okay?’

  ‘Thanks, Teresa. I owe you.’

  ‘You don’t owe me anything. What happened to Eva – just so terrible. I want them to catch these guys. Fuck, I’ll put my hand up to prosecute, if it comes to that.’

  And she was gone.

  Will held out the phone and tapped the screen.

  A message from Brendan O’Dwyer, his investigator: Got something. Meet at your office tomorrow morning?

  He typed a reply confirmation as he trudged back to the car.

  TWENTY

  ‘She’s not really called Eloise. That’s the first thing you need to know.’ The chair creaked as O’Dwyer leant back and balanced the coffee Esther had made for him on his sizable knee. Will was still surprised every time the ex-cop arrived at his office with a new investigation to present to him. Their spotted history together was short, and they had moved rapidly from adversaries to uneasy allies, all guided by the powerful hand of Will’s mother. But now that O’Dwyer had retired and Will needed a private investigator, their business relationship made perfect sense.

  ‘She’s not?’ Will said. He’d asked Esther to make his coffee a double. His mind was still shrugging off the vestiges of last night’s bad sleep.

  ‘Nah,’ O’Dwyer said, his thick fingers waving over the open folder he’d brought with him to the meeting. Retired as he was, he still had the self-impressed theatricality of a long-time cop. His blemished face and grey lips relished the drama of a secret soon to be revealed.

  ‘Her name’s Susan Ferguson. Age twenty-five. Originally from Mentone. Father is a graphic designer for the Kingston City Council, mother is a nurse at South Eastern Private. Last address we have her at is in Abbotsford; that’s where she’s currently enrolled to vote.’

  ‘Did you drop by?’

  O’Dwyer’s nicotine-stained smile broke up his ruddy alcoholic complexion.

  ‘Housemates haven’t seen her in a few days. Said she packed a bag on Thursday evening to go somewhere with her —’ O’Dwyer coughed ‘— lover.’

  ‘That’d be Miller.’

  ‘That it would. Was a time when people would call a thing what it was. You know? Boyfriend. Mistress. Husband. Stripper. Now it’s all lovers and burlesque dancers. We’re drowning under fucking euphemisms and meaningless nonsense.’

  ‘What about this private burlesque club?’

  ‘Not a
registered business. But I did ask around the Collingwood station.’ O’Dwyer closed the folder and slid it across Will’s desk. ‘There have been one or two noise violations. Council is raising a few questions about rates as well, seeing as it’s a residential premises but it appears to be making a bit of money. But it is essentially legal. Private parties, no breach of the smoking regs or liquor licensing. Property is registered to a Mrs Roberta Grange. She’s in her seventies now. Also owns a vintage clothing shop in Fitzroy.’

  ‘So, what, some relative runs the place on her behalf? Without her knowing?’

  ‘Nah. She runs it. She paid the fines for the noise violations. She’s the one fighting the rezoning of the building.’

  Will heard Toby drop down from his sun bed on the windowsill. He watched as the cat commenced a cautious, investigative foray towards O’Dwyer.

  ‘What do you think is going on here?’ Will asked.

  ‘Me? Mate, I have no fucking idea. That’s what’s so great about working in private. I just have to track down the people. Motive, causation, mens rea – I don’t have to hypothesise about the reasons. I just gather the data. Which reminds me: thanks for the work you’ve been sending my way.’

  ‘The mothers?’

  ‘Yeah. Got three jobs so far. Haven’t found any of their kids yet. Fucking tears your heart out seeing them so desperate, wishing for answers. That part of the job hasn’t gone away. But it’s money in. And that’s what I need to keep me in the manner to which I’m accustomed, police super not quite holding against the CPI and all . . .’

  O’Dwyer reached down and started to scratch Toby behind the ears.

  ‘If you were to guess, though, what would you say?’ said Will.

  ‘It depends. Is our man telling the truth?’

  ‘I hope so. I don’t want to imagine a situation where he isn’t.’

  ‘All right then. If the girl skipped out just before the cops arrived, it probably was a tip-off. In our game there are no coincidences. As much as I’m glad to be rid of them, there are always reasons.’

  ‘So someone called her and she hid. Why is she still missing now?’

  ‘If I had the resources to pull off this kind of thing, then I’d just pay this girl to go on a long holiday. She’s got nothing holding her to this town – no job, well, not what you or I would consider a job, no dependants, no mortgage, just debts on two credit cards. Fuck, Harris, her bags were already packed. I think the one person who can corroborate Miller’s story is in hiding. Your mate is screwed.’

  Will hoped that wasn’t true. ‘So what would you do next?’

  O’Dwyer’s face soured. He pulled his hand away from the cat and sniffed it.

  ‘Harris, I like you and all, but you pay me for my work. I know I’m a good investigator and I’ll happily take your money for that service. But I’m shithouse as a legal consultant. I couldn’t rightly charge you for my half-baked opinions, so I’d rather not offer them up.’

  Will nodded, and stood up from the table.

  ‘Any luck tracking down those boys who attacked you?’ O’Dwyer asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you want me to look into it? I could knock 10 per cent off my fee for you, returning customer and all.’

  ‘Thanks, but I think it’s dead. The lead cop is heading that way as well – Haigh.’

  ‘She’s solid. Not much flair but she’s like a terrier when it comes to leads. Which can also be her undoing.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘She tends to focus on the details. Doesn’t take in the big picture and let it wash over her.’ O’Dwyer clapped his hands together. ‘Okay, mate. I’m running out of time on the meter.’

  ‘See you,’ Will said, shaking his hand.

  Will watched as O’Dwyer opened the door and chatted to Esther as he handed her back the espresso cup. O’Dwyer might as well have been talking about him rather than Haigh – focusing on the details.

  The big picture . . .

  He hit the spacebar on his keyboard to bring his computer screen to life. It didn’t take long to find the footage of Miller’s arrest online. It was still being shown by most of the news outlets and was a top-ranking story on a lot of their pages.

  He played it again. Something had always troubled him about the footage, something that he didn’t pick up when he first saw it in the Walsh family’s living room. He’d been solely focused on Miller. Watching it now on his computer, it was hard not to do so again.

  Miller’s cuffed hands were held out in front of him, his jacket folded over the top – a small concession. His face bore the slight tensions of the forced calm Will had seen him project in courtrooms – jaw clenched, skin taut at the edge of each eye.

  Will replayed the footage now, pushing Miller from his mind.

  The cops on either side of him wore Queensland uniforms, as did the four who formed a small cordon to keep the press at bay. A tall greying plainclothes, probably a detective, circled this central scrum, his hand out towards the camera at one point.

  But behind Miller and his escorts were two other men. Will looked closer at them – one had a beard, the other a crew cut. Their jackets had epaulets and patch pockets, and their hands were gloved.

  Special Operations Group?

  That didn’t make sense. They didn’t wear any police markings.Other detectives?

  Will dragged the slider back and paused the frame. He wished he had some way of zooming in on the image. Seeing them better. Their faced were blurred with pixelation.

  They were two burly plainclothes men with hard faces.

  It couldn’t be.

  And yet he was shivering now at the thought.

  What if they were the same men who had attacked them? Could they be the men in the Zamberlans?

  His mind was racing now, fired into life by the amped charge of a dawning realisation. He let himself run with it, as unbelievable as it all seemed. Will rewound and pressed the pause button to slow the footage. The crew cut smiled as Miller’s head was guided away from the roof of a police cruiser.

  This wasn’t some hard-fought case, the arrest of an outlaw who’d evaded capture. This was an extradition, with lots of paperwork and no scalp at the end of it. There was no reason for a cop to smile.

  It only occurred to him now, looking at the formless, grinning face, that if these were the Zamberlans, then they had come for Miller less than a week after the attack in the tunnel.

  Will pushed back his chair, startling Toby.

  The seconds it took him to reach Miller’s office seemed like an eternity.

  He grabbed the recycling box from under Miller’s desk and pulled out the discarded envelope from the National Archive: Attn: Miller Harris Lawyers.

  Will slapped it onto the desk. He then found another letter, this one from the Royal Australian Historical Society: Miller Harris Lawyers.

  That one hit the desk as well. Beneath crumpled receipts and the office letterhead, there was an envelope from Freedom of Information New South Wales: Miller Harris Lawyers.

  ‘Back off.’

  They’d said it as though he should have known what they were talking about. He’d been slapped around for denying it. The man in the balaclava had seemed furious at his ignorance.

  Finally, there it was. The three envelopes were like a completed jigsaw on the desk.

  Miller was using the firm’s name to investigate something. Something tied to the founding of colonial Australia. Something where violence and the manipulation of justice were risks worth taking in order to keep a secret hidden. Two men with a reputation for making trouble. Two partners in the same firm. They had attacked him and then gone after Miller.

  Will placed his hand over his stomach, the clawing pain creeping back. Creeping back but driving out his fear. And like that, all the balaclava men in the shadows evaporated from his paranoid fantasies.

  He took out his phone. Gray answered over the sound of a busy police room.

  ‘Mr Harris.’

/>   ‘Gray. How soon until my client is released from custody?’

  ‘Tomorrow, eleven a.m. We’re wrapping up with his apartment this afternoon.’

  ‘You took your time.’

  ‘Backlog with the forensic techs. It was out of my hands. It was unfortunate.’

  ‘You can make up for it by getting him a message. Tell him I’ll be there to pick him up. Oh, and can you add to it that we need to talk?’

  ‘I would have thought that was obvious.’

  ‘It is. It’s why I’d like you to pass it on.’

  TWENTY-ONE

  His phone buzzed, gently throbbing on the coffee table in the centre of his library. It was six-thirty on Wednesday morning. Time to get up.

  He lowered himself onto the carpet and performed the exercises the physiotherapist had given him. Small movements that worked hidden muscles in his core – foot taps, bridges, hip raises. A far cry from the boxing training he was used to, but they still made him shake with effort.

  He showered, pausing to rub steam from the mirror and look at the scars forming across his chest and stomach. Confined to the chair without the boxing, skip rope and thousands of sit ups, his gut was starting to spread.

  Soon.

  He would be back to the gym soon.

  He dragged himself into the bedroom to pull out a suit and shirt from his drawer. He dressed, pulled a breakfast drink from the fridge and headed to the front door.

  When he arrived at the office, Haideh was already there. She smiled over at him from the doorway to her office, takeaway coffee in one hand, ham and cheese croissant in the other. She’d removed the jacket of her blue skirt suit and, through a pale green shirt, Will could see a tattoo on her arm – an ornate sleeve of roses.

  ‘Hey boss,’ she said. ‘So is this ship sinking or what?’

  ‘Down with all hands, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Unfortunately, yes. We’re still good for at least a few more weeks. But after that we start getting into trouble. I’d completely understand if you wanted to bail. You’ve got your career ahead of you. You shouldn’t be burdened with Chris’s and my self-destructive tendencies.’