The Unbroken Line

by Alex Hammond

  The news Walsh had for Will wasn’t good. Commissioner Feinson wasn’t wavering on her decision to push for a hearing into Will’s dealings with Nicholas Aaron. So Walsh had made the unprecedented offer of submitting a formal affidavit in support of Will’s character to the tribunal. It was something he’d need to think hard about. Clearly, it was a double-edged sword – for all that it brought in a judge’s clout, it also suggested more back-channel dealing, which was exactly what Will was being investigated for.

  ‘Don’t you know it’s an offence to loiter in a public building?’ Miller appeared behind him.

  ‘With all your standing around and saying nothing at the bar table, you must be up to your neck in fines.’

  ‘That’s how I affect gravitas.’

  ‘Sounds more like loitering.’

  ‘I guess it does.’

  Miller pulled the wig from his head and tucked it under his gown. ‘You heading back to the office?’

  ‘I was. We need to talk some things through.’

  As the rain eased to a drizzle they walked back down Little Bourke, following the curve of the hill behind the Supreme Court.

  ‘Any luck tracking down Eloise?’

  ‘Not yet, but I’d like you to start coming to grips with the possibility that she might not turn up until after the indictment.’

  ‘Something has her running scared.’

  ‘I think we can make an educated guess as to what that is.’

  ‘Still no word from her parents? No word from Roberta?’

  ‘You said it yourself – Roberta’s a long shot. Especially after the way she reacted when I left.’

  ‘Her overreaction says a lot.’

  ‘Maybe . . .’

  Miller was right: her response was extreme, as though she were trying to thwart them, deter them. From something.

  Or some one.

  ‘Maybe she knows where Eloise is and is protecting her . . . Chris, she owns a second property.’

  ‘What?’ Miller gripped him by the arm, his eyes grew wide.

  ‘She owns a vintage clothing store in Brunswick. Got half an hour?’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘To take a look.’

  ‘Definitely,’ Miller said, waving down a cab.

  Miller paid the driver and they stepped out into the lunchtime crush of Sydney Road. The smell of fresh-baked flatbreads, spit-roasted meat and apple-scented waterpipes drifted through the gentle rain. Some young men in pastel suits and wraparound sunglasses walked past them, heading for the train station.

  ‘Fucking racing carnival,’ Miller said.

  ‘I would’ve taken you for the kind of man who likes to bet on horses.’

  ‘What? What about me could possibly give you that idea?’

  Will shrugged. ‘Golf?’

  ‘No. Jesus. I’ve done my share of networking at racecourses, but all that drinking from the trough and pissing on the field? And I don’t mean the horses. You?’

  ‘No. Not really my thing either.’

  ‘Well, at least the protest will make things interesting this year.’ Miller plucked up a copy of the paper from a polished metal table outside a cafe. The front page showed police holding back animal rights activists as they broke the picket line at the gates. Their placards decried the thousands of ex-racehorses killed each year for dog food.

  ‘Here we are,’ Miller said, nodding to a shop called Vintage Diva.

  The noise from the street faded as soon as they stepped inside. The walls and windows of the store were soundproofed by hundreds of old clothes. The smell of fabrics lingered over them – the citrus of nylon, the musk of old silk, the lavender of washed wool. A line of shoes ran below the hangers while a cabinet containing vintage jewellery occupied the centre of the shop.

  Miller, in his bar jacket and white jabot, no longer looked quite so out of place. A young woman in horn-rimmed glasses and a tunic looked up at them from the till at the end of the room. Will approached her, holding his card at the ready.

  ‘We were wondering if we could have a few minutes of your time?’

  The woman put down the copy of the Scandinavian thriller she was reading. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘We’re looking for someone,’ Miller said. ‘A young woman, short, about so high, with dark hair, called Eloise.’ Miller held out his phone showing a photo of Eloise and him, standing in front of a tropical sunset.

  ‘She also calls herself Susan Ferguson,’ Will said.

  ‘Are you working with the police?’

  ‘No. My . . . client could use her testimony for his defence.’

  ‘If you have seen her, it’s very important that she contacts us,’ Miller said. ‘She’ll be completely safe. We just want to talk to her.’

  Something creaked in the ceiling above them and a light dust drifted down onto the glass countertop.

  Miller looked up as Will smiled at the shop assistant.

  Behind her a narrow wooden staircase disappeared up to a second floor. Although its steps were overflowing with white and red striped clothing bags, a narrow path led up to a closed door.

  Miller moved towards the edge of the benchtop, his eyes still roaming from the ceiling to the staircase.

  ‘I’ve never seen this woman,’ the assistant said.

  Will placed his hand on Miller’s sleeve. ‘Well, we appreciate your time.’

  Miller pulled against him, leaning towards the staircase.

  ‘Have a nice day,’ Will said.

  Miller scowled at Will, his blue eyes flaring with anger.

  Will moved his head in the direction of the door. Miller nodded and followed Will back to the entrance of the shop.

  ‘Damn it, Will, she’s here,’ he whispered. ‘Upstairs.’

  ‘I think so too, but you don’t want to spook her. I promise if we haven’t heard from her by the weekend, we’ll push the point. But not now. We need a cooperative witness.’

  The shop assistant was watching them from over the top of her book as they moved towards the front door.

  ‘But she’s here right now. She could leave. What if she does that?’

  ‘I’ll ask O’Dwyer to watch her. Let’s head back to that news­agency we passed and grab a cheap phone and prepaid SIM card.’

  ‘Why?

  ‘So we can build a rapport here,’ said Will.

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I’m going to keep an eye on the store and make sure she doesn’t leave.’

  Miller grumbled something that Will didn’t catch as they stepped out into the street.

  Will crossed Sydney Road, dodging a tram and its procession of cars. From here he could see both the entrance and the curtained windows of the second floor. They probably had a rear exit, but she was unlikely to run. She had run as far as the intermittent income of yoga lessons and burlesque dancing would allow. This was the most she could do to disappear. What they really risked was pressuring her, and having her reject them.

  Miller returned with a SIM card and a box containing a basic mobile phone. Will took a pen out of his satchel and jotted down a note on the back of his business card:

  Eloise, call any time. You and I are the only ones with this number.

  He then entered the SIM’s number into his own phone. Pulling the plastic wrapper off the box, he slipped both the SIM and business card inside. He held it over his head towards the window and waved it slowly from side to side.

  ‘Why are you doing that?’ Miller asked.

  ‘Pilates,’ he replied.

  ‘The real reason?’

  ‘The soft approach.’ Will lowered his hand and crossed over to Vintage Diva with Miller still at his heels.

  Will strode up to the counter. The startled sales assistant lowered the book again.

  ‘I —’

  ‘Take this. Give it to her. She can call us if she wants or she can call her parents and tell them she’s all right. I don’t care. But she won’t feel safe until we get these guys, and we need her help to
do that.’

  The shop assistant turned red. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  Miller winked and smiled. ‘Of course you don’t.’

  Miller sat in silence, spinning the horsehair wig over his fingers as they took a cab back to the firm. They passed under the leafy boughs of Royal Parade, past the university, before reaching the Haymarket roundabout that misdirected traffic onto seven roads. As their driver merged he hit his horn, bullying his way onto Elizabeth Street. This pulled Miller out of his malaise.

  ‘I don’t want to do this by halves. Eldon, his associates, they need to know they can’t do this. Ride over the lives of people, rort the system. We need to shut this thing down before it hits court,’ he said, turning to look at Will.

  ‘I’ll do what I can.’

  ‘You’ll need to do more.’

  ‘You’re always welcome to represent yourself. You’re also a lawyer, after all.’

  ‘I do better with juries. And besides, I need to show that I have faith in the system if we’re going to allege that it’s being manipulated.’

  ‘I absolutely do not think we should be bringing up our more tenuous theories.’

  ‘Well, no. Not that, but the specifics of lying witnesses and incorrect timelines.’

  ‘I can’t help but think that there’s something more. Something we haven’t seen yet.’

  Miller stopped twirling the wig. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Your father’s decision to report those boys, his losing his position as headmaster, your threatening to reveal the person or people behind it – none of it seems to match the response we’ve been hit with.’

  ‘No? We’re talking a systematic perversion of the justice system by someone in a position of authority and power. That’s a pretty big deal.’

  ‘But enough to risk Eva’s and my lives? In such a public way? To try to lock you up and ruin the firm? It still feels like overkill for simply being exposed.’

  Will’s phone buzzed. He and Miller sat motionless as he took it out of the inside of his jacket.

  It was Petra de Marco.

  Miller exhaled. ‘Got my hopes up it was Eloise.’

  ‘Actually, this could be good news.’

  Will put the phone to his ear. ‘Petra.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Heading down Elizabeth Street back to the firm.’

  ‘All right. Meet me at that bar in the middle of the Yarra, the one under the bridge.’

  ‘Have you got anything?’

  ‘I know who attacked you. So, yeah.’

  THIRTY-SIX

  Will crossed the footbridge over the Yarra, leaving the ornate red brick of Flinders Street Station for the glass and granite of the Southbank boulevard. Wrapped around the centremost pylon of the bridge was a small floating bar and restaurant.

  As he walked down the narrow concrete steps to water level, he could see patrons gathered on repurposed crates under the shelter of the bridge itself. Where the pontoon extended out beyond the bridge, branded umbrellas had been raised to keep the rain off. Under one of these, at the furthest point downstream, sat Petra de Marco in a short pale blue trench coat with matching shoes.

  Will walked up to her and she waved a waiter over.

  ‘Do you want anything?’

  ‘Sure. I’ll have tofu salad,’ Will said to the waiter.

  ‘The fish quesadilla for me.’

  The waiter nodded and hurried back under the shelter.

  ‘You and me talking over lunch – who would have thought?’ De Marco said.

  ‘I’m not so proud that I won’t admit I’m desperate here.’

  ‘And I’m not so proud that I . . . What am I saying. I am proud. Look, I might have given you some stick over the way you manipulated the law, but that’s with the commissioner now. It’s for her to decide. So from where I’m sitting, that part of our troubled history is settled. Which brings us to the business at hand.’

  ‘You have them?’

  ‘I have two names. Yes.’

  ‘And . . .?’

  ‘Not so fast. How soon until you have the info linking them to Eldon?’

  ‘I’m getting some help with the research. Maybe by the end of the weekend?’

  ‘So you can wait until the weekend for the names, then?’

  ‘I give you my word I’ll get it to you.’

  ‘But it doesn’t make good business sense, does it? Trading what I have on good faith. Would you trust me if the roles were reversed?’

  Will stood. ‘If you were attacked, your life put in danger by men sent to intimidate you by corrupt city officials, then yes, I would. I would give it to you because it was the right thing to do.’

  De Marco looked off down the Yarra. The wind was cutting across the top of the water, intersecting with its flow, breaking its surface and churning up small brown waves. A gull paddled around at the base of the restaurant, cawing for the diners’ scraps.

  ‘Okay, sit back down. I’m telling you this because even though it all sounds far-fetched, what you told me about Eva Mercuri’s cuts corresponded with what I was able to learn from our source in the Department of Defence.’

  The waiter arrived back at their table and placed the salad in front of De Marco and the fish dish in front of Will.

  De Marco swapped the meals as she continued to speak.

  ‘Just before they pulled out of Afghanistan, there was an incident involving Australian Special Forces in Uruzgan Province. This district saw a lot of Taliban activity, and the Australian Defence Force worked there under Dutch command as part of NATO’s International Security Assistance Force. So, already, you can see that there were layers upon layers of bureaucracy, and the accountability was spread thin.’

  ‘Why is that important?’ Will asked, turning his fork through the salad.

  ‘Because this is how we get to bad guy number one, Jared Emmet. In the course of this operation there were a number of civilian casualties during a raid on a Taliban stronghold. Emmet was part of a two-man sniper team, with Emmet being the spotter and Colin Gregory, bad guy number two, the shooter. Our source confirmed that these two were involved in the raid and that, yes, there were civilian casualties. But that’s not news in war; civilians always get killed. What was news, though – what was covered up – was that several female survivors under guard by Gregory and Emmet were mutilated.’

  ‘Killed?’

  ‘No. Alive, but their faces were cut. Right through. A long slice on each cheek.’

  The smell of oil and hot metal. Blood flooding from Eva’s face like tears that wouldn’t cease. Will clenched his shoulderblades together, pressing down to stop his body from shaking.

  ‘When they were interviewed about the incident, neither Emmet nor Gregory would divulge what had happened. So they were both suspended on medical leave for twelve months to assess them for PTSD.’

  ‘Not discharged?’

  ‘No. Cost-benefit analysis. The army spends lots of money on its special forces. Letting these guys go would not get them a good return on their investment.’

  ‘So they’re returning to service?’

  ‘Soon, I’d imagine. Looks like they were doing this freelance work as a cash grab until their ship sailed for parts unknown.’ De Marco took a bite of her quesadilla.

  ‘When do they head back?’

  She swallowed. ‘At the end of next week. Normally our source is pretty cagey. He’ll drop us some hints but make us do the work of verifying through other sources – he’s a patriot and believes in the war on terror. But not when it came to these two. We couldn’t stop him from talking. He fucking hates them for jeopardising the Australian Army’s good name.’

  ‘But not for cutting up some women?’

  ‘He’s not that kind of guy, our source.’

  Will couldn’t eat. He pushed the salad to one side.

  ‘Are they still in Melbourne?’

  ‘Probably,’ De Marco said as she chewed. ‘The source said they w
ill receive retraining on Swan Island in Port Phillip Bay before flying out.’

  ‘Swan Island?’

  ‘There’s a reason you’ve never heard of it. It’s a highly secret base for training anti-terrorist and counter-insurgency operatives for the Australian Secret Intelligence Service and Special Forces.’

  ‘Jesus. These are some serious people.’

  ‘No shit. If you’re going to do anything with this, you need to do it soon.’

  Will stood up from the bench and pulled enough cash out of his wallet for their meals. He dropped it next to his uneaten salad.

  ‘Thanks, Petra. I owe —’

  ‘Yes, you fucking owe me,’ she said, pulling his salad towards her and plucking out a piece of tofu. ‘The details by the end of the weekend or . . . Fuck it, I’ll think of something bad.’

  Will climbed the stairs and was on the footbridge heading back towards the office before he took out his phone. He searched through his contacts until he found the name he was after: O’Dwyer. He tapped the number and waited as the phone rang.

  ‘It’s me. I’ve got two names – Colin Gregory and Jared Emmet. I need to know where they are.’

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Another restless night, more bad sleep. Dreams of the desert, of an unfinished concrete room. Of four hooded women being held captive by two broad-shouldered men in black balaclavas. The men produced knives and paced in front of the women, pulling off a hood at random. The cuts were there already, the blood matted in Eva’s hair and clotted down her face.

  He walked to work interrogating his half-memory, trying to remember who the other three women had been. His mother? Teresa? Eloise even? Perhaps they were all strangers. Would that make it any better? Did that speak more or less of this paternal need, in the absence of his own father, to protect all the women?

  Settle down there, Jung.

  He’d reached the firm’s front door. It was already unlocked, the lights on behind it. Someone had beaten him in. Will opened it to find Miller leaning against the reception desk, hand on his chin, deep in thought. Detective Evans sat opposite, hunched forwards, his shirtsleeves rolled up over wide forearms. Between them stood Paraskos in black pinstripe, her small frame spring-loaded with tension.