‘Computer?’
‘Nothing except a manual for a laptop in the wardrobe.’
Ryan said, ‘His toiletries are still here, shaving stuff and so on. I guess he had a cunning kit somewhere.’
Troy smiled. A cunning kit was the name given to the cash reserve some detectives carried on their persons for emergency situations, such as a night away from the wife.
‘I think it was in the bathroom,’ said Troy, wondering why Bazzi hadn’t gathered his toiletries too. ‘Is there a phone in the house?’
‘No. Must have relied on his mobile.’
The inspector said, ‘Seems like your bloke’s shot through.’
Troy gave him a straight face, said, ‘You reckon?’
On the way to Punchbowl, he called the hospital, using the hands-free facility for his phone. McIver was stable, but they weren’t letting him use the phone yet.
‘Thank you, God,’ Troy said when he’d hung up.
Asaad’s place was a fibro cottage that had been added to over the years and now contained a large family. There was a big yard, in contrast to the few square metres of sandstone paving at Bazzi’s.
The search took a long time but it produced nothing much. There were the registration papers of the Harley in Asaad’s name, a leather jacket with the word WOLVES across its back, and a few grams of ice and two thousand dollars in cash in a tin above a rafter in the garage. It looked like Asaad hadn’t made it home on Sunday night. His wife and mother screamed at the police as they conducted the search, and Troy went outside to avoid a headache. He was writing in his notebook when Little joined him and fired up a cigarette.
‘Bazzi was a Lebanese Muslim. Asaad’s a Christian. Unusual for them to work together on something like this.’
‘It’s a great big melting pot,’ Troy murmured, recalling the chorus from a song his mother had been fond of. It had been on an old cassette she’d had, the greatest hits of some long-gone year. ‘And business is business.’
‘You think the Wolves are in on this?’
In recent years the city’s biker gangs had become more criminalised. With the exception of the Logan family, they were the closest thing Sydney had to a mafia. But still.
‘Not their line, labour rackets,’ he said. ‘I’d guess Asaad was moonlighting.’
It was a short drive from Punchbowl to Villawood. Troy knew from previous visits that the European backpackers who overstayed their tourist visas were kept in a different part of the complex to the more serious illegals from Asia and the Middle East, often entire families without papers who could spend months behind the high mesh fences before being deported. The place was in the news from time to time, when human rights lawyers and migrant groups brought controversial cases to the attention of the media. Troy imagined Little had strong views on what went on here, but the sergeant was keeping them to himself as they walked across the gravel car park towards reception. It wasn’t much of a place, Troy thought: cheap brick accommodation and lots of temporary admin buildings with air conditioners hanging off their windows.
They were met near the interview rooms by a fat Immigration official who introduced himself as Damien Cowen. After asking about McIver’s condition, he said, ‘There’s been an incident with Qzar. He was beaten up in the bathroom late this afternoon.’
‘You mean they’re all being kept together?’ Troy said with surprise.
Keeping his eyes on Troy, Cowen said, ‘Qzar says he gave sensitive information to your colleagues this morning and asked to be put in protective custody. This request wasn’t passed on.’
Little was shaking his head. ‘That makes it sound like a deal. There was no deal.’
‘Qzar says there was and you broke it. And you told the other illegals he’d given you certain information.’
‘Ask your colleague, the bloke who did the interview with me,’ Little said in disgust. He turned to Troy and said, ‘This is bullshit.’
Troy stared at Little, who looked away, and said to Cowen, ‘Is he okay?’
‘Black eye. It wasn’t much of a beating,’ Cowen said, looking from one detective to the other. He didn’t seem too worried. ‘He’s waiting for you in room three. I want to sit in on the interview.’
Qzar was a plump man of medium height, with a neat black moustache. Troy recognised him from the car park of The Tower the night before, but he looked different, washed and in clean clothes. The skin around his left eye was purple, and when he saw Little he scowled and started to complain about the day’s events. His accent was thick, but Troy could make out what he was saying.
After introducing himself, Troy said, ‘Who did this to you?’
‘You think I’m stupid? You punish someone and my family back home will suffer.’
Troy listened as the man went on for a while. Occasionally he nodded. He had to establish a simple relationship. After a bit, he interrupted the flow of complaint again and said, ‘I’m responsible for this investigation. Sergeant Little said you wanted to make a deal. I’m here to listen to what you have to say.’
‘So you must be an inspector?’
‘I’m the senior officer in the homicide investigation.’
This seemed to be good enough. Qzar said, ‘The woman who fell from the building. That is very sad.’
‘So what can you tell us?’
‘What sort of deal are you authorised to make?’
‘Deals like this are unusual,’ Troy said slowly, aware that although the conversation was not being taped, Cowen was in the room. ‘I’m going to have to talk to my superiors.’
‘Then why am I talking to you at all? I told Sergeant Little I wanted to talk to the organ grinder, not the monkey.’
Troy felt the urge to smile but held it in. Qzar was upset now, almost jumping around in his seat, consumed by anger. It must be terrible to have all your dreams of a new life collapse in a moment, as had happened when the police came charging into the car park last night.
‘Would you like some tea?’ he said.
Qzar calmed down, said he would. Little took the order and went out to get it, knowing the drill. They needed to get the Pakistani feeling more in control of his circumstances.
Qzar said, ‘I was sorry to hear about your colleague, the one who was shot.’
‘He wasn’t just a colleague,’ Troy said gravely. ‘He’s a friend.’
‘Is he well?’
‘He’s probably going to die,’ Troy lied. ‘So you understand we’re pursuing this case with particular vigour.’ Qzar nodded. ‘Not that any of that excuses what happened to you this afternoon.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘But you understand my desire to find the man who shot my friend.’
As they waited for Little, Troy asked Qzar to tell him his story, and the man explained he was an engineer in his late twenties, married with two children, and his family lived in Islamabad. He had paid a businessman ten thousand dollars to get him to Australia and into a job. He had travelled by plane to Sumatra, where he’d been told the planned final leg, by air to Sydney, was no longer possible because the Australian government had just tightened up a particular regulation. So he’d been brought to Brisbane on a container ship and transported to Sydney in the back of a truck.
The job in The Tower was not what he’d been promised. The work was hard and dirty, and the hours long. But he’d received two letters from his family, sent via a friend in Sydney, to say the agreed wages had been transmitted to them regularly. Troy thought Qzar’s experience was similar to that of many illegals, maybe better than most. Until last night.
‘Which floors have you worked on?’ he asked.
‘We are on one-oh-five at the moment,’ Qzar said proudly. ‘I started on fifty.’
‘You’ve done them all?’
‘Of course not. The company has other employees we never see, we work on different floors.’
‘Have you ever seen a woman up there?’
‘Never, sir.’
Little return
ed with the tea and set the plastic cups on the table. Qzar added two sugars to his and sipped it, wrinkling his nose. Troy picked up his own cup to be sociable, and stared at the brown liquid dubiously.
‘You’re obviously an intelligent man,’ he said, ‘and a well-educated one too. Did you ever see anything on the building site you think might be relevant to the identity of the men who attacked Sergeant McIver?’
Qzar frowned and placed his cup on the table. He put his hands up to his forehead, giving the question the consideration it deserved. Overdoing it maybe just a bit. Troy put the cup to his lips and breathed in the steam.
‘No,’ Qzar said at last. ‘This is my considered opinion.’
He sounded slightly regretful. Troy wondered what sort of a deal he was hoping to get, after an answer like that. Maybe he was just wasting their time.
‘You’ve never seen them?’
‘No.’
‘What about the people smugglers, the men who transported you and brought you food?’
‘They were different men.’
‘Tell me about the man with the gun.’
Qzar brightened up. ‘No, sir. First we have to make a deal.’
‘Let’s be clear about what you’re offering. It is about Khan and the gun?’
‘I need to be clear about what you are offering too, sir,’ Qzar said, and went on at some length about his expectations in the matter.
Essentially, he wanted to be allowed to stay in Australia and bring his family here. As the man spoke, Troy had to stop himself from yawning. He could see this was going nowhere.
‘If you help me,’ he said, ‘I will ask the government to approve your application.’
‘Thank you, sir. But we are not children. So I must ask you for a piece of paper, something in writing, before I tell you of the very interesting thing I know.’ He put a hand up to his left eye. ‘This thing that is also very dangerous.’
‘I can’t do that,’ Troy said. ‘It’s not how things are done in this country. But—’
‘In that case, I think I need to see a lawyer.’
‘I’m married to an Asian woman,’ Troy said. ‘I’m sympathetic to your plight and will do what I can. But I must have your information now.’
Qzar finished his tea and placed the cup carefully on the table. ‘In that case, sir, I don’t think we can do any business tonight.’
Little spoke for the first time. ‘It’s now or never.’
He said it roughly, and Qzar looked affronted, but Troy no longer minded. There was probably nothing to lose by becoming more aggressive now. Cowen, as if sensing the changing mood, also spoke. ‘My department will fly you back to Pakistan as soon as possible, once we’ve confirmed your story. But you could also be charged with withholding information from the police here and put on trial. If convicted, you might spend time in an Australian jail. It could be a year or more before you see your family. If you cooperate, you’ll be back with them as soon as possible.’
Qzar looked almost smug, as though he thought he had the upper hand. ‘Thank you for your concern, sir,’ he said, turning to face Cowen. ‘But I have nothing to say to the police at this moment.’
Little was angry, Troy could tell. He could sense something coming from Cowen, too: a profound apathy, as though the man had long ago lost all faith in his fellow human beings. Little began to go over the ground again, his voice heavy with irritation, and Troy wondered about terminating the interview. His phone started to vibrate and he pulled it out, saw it was Stone. He stood up.
‘Urgent call,’ he said to Little. ‘We through here?’
‘Just about,’ Little said through clenched teeth. ‘You go out, we’ll join you in a sec.’
Troy went outside and dialled his voicemail, walked along the corridor until he turned a corner and came to some sort of staff amenities area, empty now. He lifted his arms, up and down, trying to shift the tension that had built up in the small room. It wasn’t just the room: there was something about Qzar that was irritating but impossible to describe. Perhaps nothing more than a cultural difference, the way he paused or hung his head. But still, it got to you.
Stone’s message came on and Troy swore softly in the empty room. There was no news, just a request for Troy to call him when he was free. Troy called back but got the voicemail, left a few words and hung up, looked at his watch. It was time to get out of here.
When he opened the door to the interview room he was struck by noise: Qzar moaning and crying out, Little shouting in fury. The sergeant was on his feet on the far side of the table, shaking Qzar by the shoulders so that his head jerked back and forth, now stopping and slapping the back of his head. Cowen was observing this from his chair, his arms folded.
Troy closed the door, went round the table and grabbed Little from behind, pulling on his arms. The other man was strong; he tried to shake off Troy and then suddenly turned and shoved him heavily, catching him by surprise so that Troy took a step backwards and hit the wall.
‘The fuck?’ the sergeant yelled. ‘We’ve tried it your way.’
He turned and slapped Qzar’s head again. The Pakistani had been trying to get out of his chair, and the blow sent him sprawling. Troy thought the blow had been more for him than the man now on the floor.
Little stood over him, panting. Qzar looked up in terror, an arm half-raised, his eyes moving from Little’s face to Troy’s.
‘He was just about to fucking tell us,’ Little shouted in one last burst of rage.
There were tears in his eyes. Then he was in movement again, around the table away from Troy. He flung the door open, and left the room.
Shakily, Qzar got to his feet and took his seat again. ‘I don’t want any trouble,’ he said quietly.
‘Will you tell us now?’ Troy said, thinking it was worth a try. Qzar put his head in his hands and started to weep.
Troy looked at Cowen, wondering if he should tell him what he thought of him. ‘What have you got to say about this?’
Cowen considered the question for a while, as though it required a lot of thought. Then he shrugged. ‘This is the strangest police investigation I’ve ever been involved with.’
Outside in the corridor, Little was standing with his fi sts clenched. He said, ‘He was about to tell us more.’
‘They’re always just about to tell us.’
Little shook his head angrily. ‘Forty-eight hours is what you blokes say, isn’t it? If you don’t solve a murder by then, you never will. So, look at the time.’
He stormed off down the corridor, turning after a few metres. ‘You’re too soft, you know?’ he said loudly, coming back a few steps. ‘Someone had to try something.’ When Troy said nothing he added, ‘You tried to get me off the case because of my attitude to Asians. What about yours?’
‘This isn’t about race,’ Troy said, walking up to him. ‘It’s about you being a deadshit.’
Little shook his head sadly. ‘Makes you nervous, does it, seeing these people in here?’
Troy pushed him hard against the wall, grabbed the front of his coat.
Little kept his hands down by his sides, said, ‘Don’t start something you can’t finish.’
Troy pushed him again, then let him go.
Little, red and almost wheezing, said, ‘Feel better now?’
Troy looked at his watch, needing to break the moment. It was just after seven. Little walked off but Troy stayed where he was, waiting for the emotion to subside. After a while it did. The vigilante approach was always an issue. On the whole he’d got by without being tempted. He didn’t despise those who used it; certainly he wouldn’t report Little, and if Qzar did he’d do his best to support the sergeant. He’d talked with Luke about this: the priest said you must never cross the line, it was hard to get back. Troy knew he never would, but he wasn’t sure if this was for moral reasons, or just because he liked things to be clear.
Little was waiting for him in the reception area, and seemed to have calmed down too. He said
nothing about their argument as they handed in the passes they’d been given earlier. There were several rows of empty plastic chairs in the waiting area, and a television up on the wall. Little stopped to look, and Troy realised Helen Kelly was on the screen: it was the evening news, and they were showing some of the commissioner’s press conference. He heard his name. She was telling the camera about the shooting, saying the initial investigation had found Detective Senior Constable Nicholas Troy had acted responsibly, his own life and that of a wounded fellow officer being under threat as they pursued a number of murder suspects through a darkened building. The commissioner appeared on the screen and voiced the view that Troy had acted heroically.
Someone patted him on the back. It was Little, who was smiling.
‘That’s all right then,’ he said.
As though this was all that mattered. And maybe it was. In terms of Troy’s career, this was a big deal.
‘I guess.’
It was still sinking in.
Little winked, said, ‘The power of the press.’
Kelly came back on the screen and he watched her until the segment finished. She was smooth, the way her eyes sought out the viewers beyond the camera lens, as though she was talking to you directly.
‘You should be there,’ Little said.
Kelly looked in her element on the small screen, white blouse beneath a blue suit, standing next to the commissioner and looking serious and capable. He wondered how she did that. Lots of cops were serious and capable, but it didn’t come across on television. For himself, he had no desire to deal with the media ever again. But still, he’d pulled it off. You had to enjoy success when it happened.
In the open air, Little lit a cigarette and they walked slowly back to their cars. It was chilly and Troy shivered, and realised he was sweating; some sort of reaction to what he’d just seen on television. His body had always been reliable, but today it was letting him down. He needed to sleep. Tomorrow he would be back to normal.
‘I could break that prick in ten minutes,’ said Little.
‘Who?’
‘Qzar. I reckon Cowen would have been up for it.’
‘Dream on,’ said Troy.
‘No, I mean it. You can tell, the guy was terrified. Little tap on the eye like that and he’s thinking he’s been beaten up. Told me earlier he’d never done manual labour in his life before this.’
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