Level one-sixteen would contain Henry Wu’s office when The Tower was finished. Henry came up to the floor a lot now, as though he couldn’t wait. In fact, he liked to have meetings here with Randall. The man had a pass to the whole building and Randall knew he spent time wandering all over the place, talking to people. Sometimes Randall had come upon him in earnest conversation with a subbie, hunched over a plan or a piece of equipment. It wouldn’t surprise him to see Wu one day with his coat off and a power tool in his hands.
Randall had never met a client like this before, and Henry himself hadn’t been this way when they’d first met, during the construction of an eighty-storey tower in Shanghai. Back then he’d acted entirely normal, striding around during site inspections in his Zegna suit, surrounded by a group of lackeys in cheaper, darker clothes. Those appalling ties the Chinese wore. But here in Sydney, Wu had become more of a loner; removed from his context, he seemed to have changed. Or maybe it was just that here he had the freedom to express his true nature. All that weird stuff with the DVDs. But at least it gave them something in common.
Randall reached one-sixteen and wandered across the floor to Henry’s corner, wondering why he’d been summoned today. Surely some revelation was at hand, possibly about his own future. The thought produced a twinge of discomfort in his stomach, and he rubbed it gently. There was no one here yet, so he walked a few steps and stared out at the view.
‘Good morning, Sean.’
He spun around and saw Wu standing by the lifts, wearing a long, camel-coloured coat. It was cold up here, and Randall himself had on one of the padded jackets from the office down below.
‘Cities always look best from towers,’ Randall said; someone had said that to him once, and he wondered who it had been.
Wu nodded and said, ‘They provide perspective.’
Christ. It had been Henry who’d said it to him. Get a grip, man, he said to himself. Get a frigging grip.
He waved—Henry didn’t like shaking hands—and followed him across the floor to the place where his office would be. It looked out on the harbour and also down on the main part of the CBD to the north. Randall tried to see the bridge, but there was only a partial view over the top of the other city towers. Wu had had them set up a desk and a few chairs here, looking ridiculous on a dusty Persian rug laid out on the concrete. The two men sat down and Wu talked for a few minutes about his plans for his office, exactly how he wanted the lighting and the way he intended to decorate the place. The walls were to be made of some of the most expensive wood in the world.
He’d shown Randall the plans on a previous visit, and explained how the inside of the room was being built in China. It would be flown down and installed in a few months, when the floor was ready for the fi t-out.
Noticing a piece of dirt on his sleeve, Wu brushed it off carefully. ‘I’m doing an interview this morning with the documentary people,’ he said. ‘They want to talk to me here. What do you advise?’
‘I thought the police had banned them.’
‘They think they have. But this place is so big, no one really knows what goes on here. Almost no one.’
Randall looked around and shrugged. ‘Nice view,’ he offered. ‘If they can get it on camera.’
Wu pointed to a place in the air several metres away, and said, ‘I’m going to put that golden Buddha we have at home in the alcove just there. I paid a hundred and twenty-seven thousand for it at Sotheby’s in New York. You’ve seen it in our house.’
Randall grunted. He’d never been anywhere near Wu’s house, but he knew Wu was being polite in suggesting he had. Still, it irritated him the way Wu mixed details of his private life up in professional conversations like this. As if anyone cared. It must be a demonstration of the man’s power—he could bore you and you just sat there and looked interested.
He realised with a start that Wu had noticed his lapse of attention and had stopped talking. The pain shot through his stomach.
‘So, Sean,’ Wu said. ‘We’re here to talk about your job.’
Randall nodded, keeping his eyes on Wu now like you’d keep them on a dangerous animal. The man certainly had some European blood in him, his face was more elongated than most Chinese, something about the cheekbones. But only just. Sometimes, in different light or from another angle, you couldn’t spot it at all.
Suddenly the face creased in a smile. ‘You’ve found out where this Asaad is?’
Wondering what this had to do with his job, Randall shook his head. He’d passed on Jamal’s information yesterday, about Bazzi’s disappearance, and the possibility that Asaad would be easier to find. ‘Jamal’s people are working on it.’
‘Mr Smith thinks it’s taking them a long time.’
‘Who?’
Wu shifted his gaze and Randall turned his head and started. A man was standing two metres away, hands in the pockets of a dark blue coat, smiling at him.
‘Jesus. You gave me a shock.’ He wondered if anyone else was on the floor.
‘Why don’t you come and join us,’ Wu said, pointing to a chair.
Mr Smith sat down, keeping his hands in his pockets. He was Chinese too, but a lot bigger than Henry. ‘Mr Smith works in our accounting office.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Now, we need to know about this guard.’
Randall explained what Jamal had told him about Bazzi’s house, leaving out the money that had been found there. Ten thousand bucks would mean nothing to Wu.
He was still talking when Wu interrupted. ‘Bazzi’s almost certainly gone, he seems to be a resourceful individual. Let’s focus on Asaad.’
Randall said Jamal was going to call him when he found where Asaad was hiding.
‘Call him now,’ Wu said, ‘so that Mr Smith’s trip up here hasn’t been wasted.’
Randall wondered what was going on here. But he knew Henry wouldn’t appreciate him asking. And he didn’t like the next thing he had to say. ‘There’s a problem. Jamal says if he finds Asaad he’s obliged to tell the police. He won’t tell us unless you promise not to sack Tryon.’
Randall had made this up. He was hoping to get Henry to put some pressure on Taylor so Jamal wouldn’t lose his contract.
Henry took it more calmly than he’d expected. ‘Tryon are fools, Sean, not like us. You know that.’
Randall shrugged. ‘It’s what he says.’
‘I don’t even employ Tryon. But maybe we can work something out.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘Of course.’
Randall wasn’t up to this bullshit. It was too cold and he hadn’t had breakfast. And driving across the bridge this morning, he’d realised how serious this was becoming, wondered what Wu might do. How far he was prepared to go. It was another of the things he didn’t like thinking about, but now he ought to, and it made him scared.
Wu said, ‘You’re hot, Sean?’
Randall put a hand up to his cheek and felt sweat. He tried to ignore the eyes of the man in the blue coat as he pulled out his phone and called Jamal. When Jamal’s phone began to ring, he said, not looking at Wu, ‘What will you do with Asaad?’
He said it softly and Wu asked him to speak up.
Randall shook his head, regretting that he’d spoken.
‘It’s not your concern, Sean,’ Wu said. ‘All you have to do is say the address. If we should happen to overhear you, well . . .?’
Jamal answered the phone and Randall asked after Asaad. After a bit he said, ‘Give me the address.’ Jamal recited it and Randall said, ‘That’s not good enough. I need it now. Call me the moment you have it.’ Randall disconnected while Jamal was still talking, said to Wu, ‘He hasn’t got it yet.’
‘What about the deal, if he tells us instead of the police he keeps his contract?’
‘We already talked about it. He’s assuming we have a deal.’
Wu stared at him for a moment then nodded. I’m a good liar, Randall thought. I should never forget that. Generally he only lie
d reactively, at least where work was concerned, but maybe he should make more of his talent. You have to play to your strengths.
Mr Smith stood up, bowed slightly to Wu and walked off to the lifts, ignoring Randall. He was a big bastard. What was scary was the way he and Wu seemed to communicate without speaking.
‘He’s disappointed,’ Wu said.
A disappointed fucking accountant, Randall thought, wondering what he was going to do next. On the phone, Jamal had said he really ought to inform the police of Asaad’s whereabouts.
It was the thing about lies, they could be hard work.
He unzipped the top of his jacket. There was no doubt he was sweating a lot, and the pain had returned to his gut. Maybe it was hunger. He wondered if giving Asaad’s address to Wu would be some sort of crime. But he had no idea that Henry was going to harm him. Absolutely no reason to expect that would happen.
‘We need to talk about the man running the police investigation,’ Wu said. ‘Sergeant Stone.’
‘I met him yesterday on level seventy-two, talking to a plumbing contractor.’
Wu frowned. ‘Did you ask him what he was doing?’
‘He said he couldn’t tell me. He said the investigation has thrown up leads in several directions.’
‘Stay away from Stone,’ said Wu. ‘My police contact tells me he’s been brought up from Melbourne; they’re using this as an opportunity to look into something else here.’
Shit, Randall thought. Shit. ‘What?’
‘My contact is still finding out. The New South Wales police force is a complicated organism. Did you know it’s one of the largest in the world?’
‘Yes.’
‘Fifteen thousand officers, multiple sources of power, lots of secrecy, conflicting agendas.’ It was like Henry was doing a PowerPoint presentation. Randall looked around, half expecting to see other people standing there. But he was alone, the lecture was for him.
Wu said, ‘We think it’s to do with corruption in the union. It could even go back to the royal commission into the building industry.’
‘That was years ago.’
‘Is Warton paying anyone in the union?’
‘Only the normal stuff. It’s a pretty clean site, for Sydney.’
Wu scowled. ‘There’s a political angle. I’ll find out soon and let you know. But as a matter of urgency, we need to get closer to the investigation. I raised this before.’
‘I’ve suggested to Nicholas Troy we have a drink together,’ Randall said.
Henry nodded.
Sensing that there was nothing more to be said, Randall stood up; one of the things Henry liked was people who knew when a meeting was over without being told. As he walked towards the lifts the pain in his gut reached up and grabbed his chest, making it harder to breathe. He wondered if he should see a doctor.
Fifteen
At the hospital, Troy remembered the way to the ICU. When he reached it there was no cop sitting in the corridor. Inside, he couldn’t see McIver, and felt a brief moment of panic. He inquired at the nurses’ station and was told the sergeant had recovered so well he’d been moved to a room in a normal ward.
‘He’s under the name of Williams,’ said the nurse, an Irish woman with freckles and a nice smile.
‘Williams?’
‘He hasn’t got a guard anymore. I suppose they thought a new name was cheaper.’
He eventually found the room. McIver was alone, standing in pyjamas over by the window, one arm in a sling, the other connected to a drip attached to a mobile stand. He was talking into his mobile and turned around when Troy came in, gestured to a chair by the bed. Troy put his backpack down and stood watching. McIver scowled at the phone and disconnected. Troy thought he looked thinner.
‘I saw a bloke acting oddly down there,’ McIver said.
‘How odd?’
‘He was sticking a piece of metal down the side of a car window.’
‘That’s odd.’
‘So I call security, it takes four minutes to reach someone and then three more for them to get a bloke there. Talk about response time.’
He walked slowly across to the bed, dragging the mobile stand, and lay down.
‘You’re looking well,’ Troy said.
‘I’m terrified,’ McIver said. ‘Hospitals are dangerous places.’
He launched into a rant that involved lots of stories about people who’d died due to the incompetence of medical staff. There were statistics too, pieces of information he’d remembered from newspapers. Troy smiled. It was a familiar McIver tirade, a sign of recovery.
He looked around the room, at the flowers and cards, and an unopened basket of fruit covered in clear cellophane. A pile of women’s magazines sat on the chair, and he moved them so he could sit down. A woman must have been here—maybe his second wife, the one who still talked to him. Or maybe someone else. McIver was the most sociable man Troy had ever met. It was one of the reasons his marriages failed, Mac said, because he could never stay at home for long.
Troy asked, ‘IA been here?’
McIver scratched his unshaven cheek. ‘They turned up when I was out of it, efficient as always.’
‘The statement I gave them—’
‘Kelly gave me a copy this morning.’
Troy smiled. ‘She’s good.’
McIver shrugged and winced. ‘She’s under a lot of pressure,’ he said. ‘Worried about taking you back so soon, but says she has no choice; Rogers refused to give her any more people except this Stone character. The word is that Blayney doesn’t like Kelly, doesn’t like ambitious women.’
‘But Blayney is—’
‘Exactly. So, tell me about Bradley Stone.’
Troy shook his head and opened his backpack. He pulled out his laptop, and soon McIver was peering at pictures of the men found in the car park of The Tower. As he looked, he said quietly, ‘I believe thanks are due.’
‘Don’t mention it.’
‘I won’t, again.’ McIver looked at the pictures once more. ‘Nope,’ he said. ‘Not there.’
Troy pulled out a photograph and laid it next to the computer.
McIver said, ‘He’s the one you shot?’
‘Yes.’
‘He wasn’t the one who shot me. My shooter must have given the gun to this one. So my one got away. I don’t see him anywhere here.’
Troy pointed to the picture of Khan on the screen, and made it bigger. ‘Are you sure it’s not him?’
McIver studied it carefully. ‘I’m sure. They jumped me as I came around a corner. I had my gun out but it was so bloody dark I didn’t see them until they grabbed me. They were pretty keen and got the weapon away from me. When I tried to get it back, one of them popped me. We’d moved about a bit. There must have been some light, because I saw both their faces.’
McIver was looking pale, as though the memory was hurting him. Troy typed his statement into the laptop, asking him to describe the clothes of the man who’d shot him.
‘Plain blue bomber jacket, zipped up, grey trousers and joggers.’
‘Reckon he knew how to use a gun?’
‘I have no idea. He was close, pointed it and pulled the trigger. It bloody hurt.’
Troy decided not to put this in the statement.
‘Go on,’ he said.
‘I tripped and slid down to the floor. One of them comes and starts searching me, I’m trying to fight him off. Feeling a bit strange. Have you ever been shot?’
‘Keep going,’ Troy said.
‘The other one’s looking at the lift buttons, but they know that without a pass they can’t get a lift to come up there. They’re talking to each other, once they realise I don’t have a pass, deeply pissed off. Suddenly they’re gone, I’m alone. I’m freezing. Maybe I blacked out for a few seconds—I think I did. I try to use my phone, get up and stagger around. I have no idea what I’m doing by that point. And then I meet you and we do our little dance.’
When the interview was over, McIver a
sked about the state of the investigation. Troy gave him a summary. When he’d finished, McIver just grunted. He was slumped against the pillows now, as though exhausted.
Troy said, ‘Who’s Bill Conti?’
McIver opened his eyes. ‘He was my boss for a while, years ago. Very clever bloke. Have you met him?’
‘He had a reputation?’
‘Got caught up in some stuff in the early eighties, when it was hard not to. Bad luck, definitely not the sort of thing you need. They kept the reins on him afterwards.’
‘Stuff?’
‘He fell off the perch in the end. Had a pretty wife as I recall.’
‘Has a pretty daughter, too.’
Troy went over to the window, pulled out his phone. He called Stone and, miraculously, got through to him.
The sergeant sounded upset. ‘I thought you were going to stay in the office.’
‘We needed Mac to look at the pictures this morning,’ Troy said.
‘It’s a priority.’
‘The others are out at Villawood?’
Troy told Stone what they were doing, and the sergeant swore. When he’d finished he asked about McIver. As Troy explained Mac’s response to the photos, he looked at the sergeant on the bed. He had opened one of the manila folders Troy had brought, and was staring at the photos of the victim.
Stone said to Troy, ‘We need to go back over what we know. Confirm there were only twenty-one men living down there. We’ve been assuming that, but what if there were more? What if your two were part of that mob?’
Troy rubbed his forehead, finding it hard to believe Stone had not had this checked before. He said, ‘That’s a good idea.’
‘Mind you, the men we caught all say there were only twenty-one,’ said Stone. ‘And the man you shot was dressed differently.’
‘They could be lying.’ It was something a detective learned early: everyone lies.
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