A planner on the wall showed regular meetings of various kinds at least once every second week, through to the end of the financial year. But there was no sign of a diary or address book anywhere in the office. The wastepaper basket on the floor was empty. On an impulse he pulled out his mobile and Margot’s phone bill, and dialled her phone. He got the answering service message: her voice was confident, slightly impatient, as though she had a lot to do. A lot to live for.
The room had another door. It led to Margot’s bedroom, where there was a big sleigh bed made from some honey-coloured wood and piled high with a doona and lots of pillows. There was a row of built-ins across the back wall. Troy opened them and saw they were full of an astonishing quantity of clothes and shoes. Margot seemed to have owned at least four dresses identical to the one she’d been wearing when she died, although they were made by different designers. No wonder it had taken her so long to get dressed for a night out. Against another wall were two large Georgian chests of drawers, crammed with underwear, belts, scarves, folded knitwear, and dozens of other items. Troy opened a few drawers and checked their contents unenthusiastically. He wished he had a partner to share the search, preferably a woman.
There was an ensuite and he had a quick look through the cupboards. There was no medication there, apart from some headache tablets. The signs were that Margot had been a healthy young woman. The rubbish bin on the floor was empty.
He went back into the bedroom and opened yet another door, and found himself back in the lounge. Jenny Finch was sitting where he’d left her, staring at the curtain flapping in the breeze.
‘Rung your mum?’ he said.
‘Yep,’ she said, sounding a bit brighter now. ‘She’s coming over. My dad, too. I’ve still got both my parents. Aren’t I lucky?’
He nodded, grateful for the change in her mood.
‘I’ll be fine if you have to go now.’
‘That’s good. Do you know if Margot had an address book and a diary?’
‘She had both, matching tan covers. But they’d be in her bag, she always took them with her.’
‘Even when she was out socialising?’
‘They weren’t that big, and she always took a bag with her. With that dress, it would have been the Prada.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘A simple black bag with a long strap.’
He nodded and turned to go back to the bedroom.
‘One thing,’ she said.
He stopped. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s just, on Sunday when I was going out, I saw someone I recognised coming towards the building. He didn’t see me.’ Troy waited patiently. ‘It was Damon.’
‘Damon Blake?’
She nodded vigorously. ‘They got on really well, until the argument.’
‘When did they break up?’
‘Six months ago.’
‘And then there was Ben Wilson?’
‘The magazines got that all wrong.’ She lowered her voice as though confiding important information. ‘Ben and Margot were never serious.’
‘Had Margot seen Damon since they split up?’
‘He rang a lot, at the start. But she wouldn’t have anything to do with him. She found out he’d been seeing someone else, it was why they split. They both took it badly, but Margot was determined, you know.’
‘Did he keep ringing?’
‘No. I was a bit surprised to see him outside, but then I thought, there are lots of people in this building.’
‘You don’t know that he came in here?’
‘No. I didn’t say that. You ask a lot of questions.’
‘Just one more for now. What does he look like?’
‘Pretty average build but well put together. He moves nicely. Long black hair. Good cheekbones.’ She thought about what she’d said, and added, ‘He has great bones.’
Troy went back into the bedroom, closing the door and taking out his mobile. He got onto Stone straight away, resisted the temptation to ask him what he was doing, and explained what he’d found.
‘This is all good,’ Stone said. He told Troy he’d get someone over to Edgecliff to obtain the dental records, and arrange for a full search of the apartment. They needed access to Margot’s email account and internet search history as soon as possible.
‘Now, get back here and bring the woman with you.’
Troy asked if anyone had gone through the bank CCTV footage.
‘How would I know? You’re supposed to be organising all this.’
Stone sounded as impatient as Troy felt. The investigation was moving at last, but it was still a mess.
He disconnected and looked around the room, still on a high from the good work he’d done so far that day. A fuller search wouldn’t hurt. Gritting his teeth, he got on with the job.
After a quarter of an hour, having found nothing of interest, he went back out to the lounge. Jenny wasn’t there so he knocked on another door and when there was no reply went in. It must be her bedroom: the curtains were closed and the place smelled faintly musty. He wandered through the rest of the flat, but there was no sign of her or her keys. He wished he’d told her to stay put, although it might have made no difference.
He found a piece of paper in the office and wrote a quick note, asking Jenny to call him, put it with his card next to the phone, then had one last look around the room. The curtain was still flapping so he closed the door in case a strong wind blew up. Then he let himself out into the corridor and made his way to the lifts. He felt in his pocket for a piece of gum, but he’d forgotten to load up this morning. A lift arrived and there were two women inside, kissing. They stopped and stared at him as he entered and stood facing the door, his back to them. On the way down, one of them giggled. He could really have done with some gum.
When he emerged from the building’s front door, he remembered what Kelly had said that morning and pulled out his phone to call Bruno about retrieving the bracelet. There was a police car parked on the road just outside, and he wondered if Stone had sent it. Two uniformed officers were climbing out, not demonstrating any obvious enthusiasm, and he identified himself to them. They were from Kings Cross, not Central.
‘Jumper,’ said the senior one. ‘Must be the season for it.’
Troy paused in his dialling and said, ‘What do you mean?’
‘Two days ago one came off The Tower. And now here.’
Troy grunted and walked quickly to his car, thinking about what he had to do when he got back to the office. It was only when he was in the car, punching numbers into the mobile, that he realised what had just happened. He put the phone down.
For a while he just sat there, his mind blank.
That night he said to Anna, ‘I killed a woman today. By not thinking clearly.’
Matt was asleep in his room and the two of them had eaten together. Troy had drunk some beer, not a lot, but more than he usually did. Now, their plates empty, he told her about Jenny Finch and the terrible thing she’d done when he’d been just a few metres away. It made him angry that he’d had no idea she was going to do it, that she’d given no warning. People lived in high buildings with balconies all the time, didn’t they?
He tried to picture her face, but all he could remember clearly was her white skin. He remembered a line from the Bible. And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death. Father Luke was keen on the further reaches of the Bible, more so than most Catholic priests. At one stage, in his early twenties, Troy had done a Bible class with him for several months. Thinking back, he couldn’t imagine why. But a lot of it had stuck, he had a good memory.
Anna stretched out her arm and put a hand on his wrist. Said, ‘Some families attract death.’
She liked to generalise about such things. Maybe it was even true. When he didn’t say anything, she took away her hand and added, ‘It’s not your fault.’
‘Stone thinks it is.’ The sergeant had been furious and was going to talk to Vella about it. Troy
had told him there’d been no one else to take, the investigation was still understaffed. Stone had said that was no excuse.
‘Maybe it was my fault—I was too impatient,’ Troy said, turning his hand to take Anna’s.
‘I blame Helen Kelly,’ she said. ‘You shouldn’t be back at work.’
She didn’t seem to care about Jenny Finch. He knew she was not unkind, just scared of anything that might lead towards intimacy.
Standing up, he came around behind her and put his hands on her shoulders, feeling them tense up as he did so.
‘What are you afraid of?’ he said softly.
She stood up, half turning, and he knew she wanted to get away from him.
‘I don’t want to have this stupid conversation again,’ she said, pulling away.
‘No, I really want to know. Why are you so tense when you’re with me? Can’t we just—’
Then she said something that surprised him.
‘I don’t know how Matt and you would manage if something happened to me.’
She was crying now, and he felt them being drawn back into a familiar place. A dead end. He sighed, his emotional energy exhausted. A woman had died today. Really died.
‘Don’t worry, love,’ he said. ‘I can do his bottle and change his nappies. We’d survive. I’m not completely helpless.’
She was looking alarmed. ‘It’s not that. I sometimes wonder if you’d want to look after him. If you’d keep him at all.’
He was shocked. This was more than just an attempt to change the subject. ‘Why?’ he said. ‘Why do you feel that way?’
‘I don’t know. I do not know.’
‘It’s crazy talk.’
‘No it’s not. It’s what I feel. I have to deal with him every day. The medicine, his breathing, the doctor—’ ‘It’s only asthma.’
‘You don’t know what it’s like.’
‘I look after him a lot.’
He did, too, on his days off. He did more than many men would do.
‘You’re strong,’ she said.
He was sick of being strong.
‘This doesn’t have to destroy us,’ he said. ‘Why don’t we see a counsellor? You need to talk about this with someone if you won’t talk about it to me.’
‘We’re talking now.’
We’re talking, he thought, but we’re not saying anything.
‘This is crazy stuff, about Matt and me. Will you talk to someone, maybe Georgie?’
‘I’m all right,’ she said, standing. ‘I just need more time.’
‘Will you stay with me tonight?’
She shook her head impatiently and went out the door. It occurred to him that he might stop loving her one day. Maybe he already had. The thought scared him, and he pushed it away. Needing some warmth, he reached for his mobile and turned it on, thinking to call some of the people who’d left messages with him, have some conversations. But the message bank was empty. That was strange, he thought, wondering what had happened. He must have deleted them by mistake. Suddenly he felt very weary. What he needed was a good night’s sleep.
Nineteen
Randall was at mass in the church in George Street near the Haymarket, counting the congregation. Twenty-eight lost souls like himself, six o’clock on a weekday evening and nothing better to do than come to mass. Most of them were middle-aged but there was a young woman, he bet she was Irish, over to the left, curly black hair and creamy skin, a bit solid but with kindness in her face. She’d looked at him when he’d come in late, taking his place and crossing himself. Father, Son and Holy Spirit. He was an irregular attendant at church, but had dropped in here a few months ago because he was early for an appointment in the vicinity. The priest that day had been Irish. For the previous five years that wouldn’t have done anything for him; most times he would have avoided the Irish if he had the choice. But on that particular evening the man’s voice had calmed him, taken him back to the safety of his childhood.
Maybe he’d felt like this because the priest was quite old, like the priests of his childhood. Actually, Randall had lived in Sydney ten years ago, for three months, as a backpacker. There’d been a fellow from Donegal in the church at Bondi, called himself the chaplain to the Irish community. Meaning he listened to the blathering of a lot of homesick drunks. Randall hadn’t been going to church then, but he’d met the man briefly at some party. He’d been young and keen, not like a real priest at all. The old priest was here again tonight, and he was the real thing, big red nose to prove it.
The rest of the congregation kneeled, and Randall was left standing for a moment before he followed suit. He wasn’t paying attention to the mass at all. That was okay. He’d been to some classical music concerts in Houston, a Canadian girl he’d been seeing was cultural. They’d been good occasions to think, just as mass was; he bet lots of people used them for that purpose. Like plays, except that with plays women expected you to talk about them afterwards.
Henry had called that afternoon. Randall had driven back to the city carefully, saw he hadn’t been followed, changed cars in William Street and had gone back to work. Clean desk, dealt with a few messages, and then, bang, it was Henry on the mobile. He’d been expecting it, of course. But still.
He told Henry that Jamal was still looking for Asaad. Jesus. He needed to have a word with Jamal. At the moment he couldn’t see how he was going to handle Henry. It wasn’t just this business of the address; there was a darkness around the fellow that couldn’t be ignored forever. This Margot Teresi business had shaken everything up.
Henry said, ‘You need to talk to the detectives more. This man Troy, build up a relationship.’
‘I’m trying.’
‘You’re failing.’
‘I talked to him not long ago. The dead woman is Margot Teresi.’
‘You should have called me immediately.’
‘I was just about to. Aren’t you interested?’
Sometimes, conversations with Henry reminded him of his brief marriage. Recriminations loaded with assumptions.
Henry didn’t seem interested at all. He said, ‘Make him like you. One man in the right place is all you need.’
The problem with Henry was he always wanted more. And for what? Sometimes, Randall wondered if the Houston deal would ever happen. But that was separate, and of course it would happen, because he could make Henry a lot of American money. That would still be there after this matter had blown over.
‘He’s a happily married suburbs guy,’ Randall said.
‘Think about him,’ said Henry. ‘Every conversation you’ve had with him. Every expression on his face. Think. Every man wants something.’
He’d hung up without saying goodbye. Randall’s wife used to do that too.
The mass was almost over. Kristin had called this afternoon, wanting to meet him tonight. Wanting to talk about the illegals. He knew he couldn’t stand it, had given her some excuse. There was something new about her since this business had started, as though she’d assumed some sort of authority. Over everything, him included. That was what she did, in her job, just waited until a situation came along where she actually knew something, and suddenly her job turned her from a nobody into someone people had to listen to for a few weeks. She was even involved in The Tower investigation in a minor way; he’d told her some details and she’d got her NGO involved. It was giving the immigration department information the United Nations had on trafficking women from Thailand. The way she went on about it when she’d called him, you’d think she’d actually gathered the facts herself.
The priest was finishing up now, everyone crossed themselves and turned to pick up their bags and coats, head back out to the cold world. Randall moved slowly, one of the last to leave.
Outside he almost bumped into the girl. She had freckles; he hadn’t seen them in the dim church. Freckles hadn’t attracted him in a long time, but for some reason they did now.
‘Excuse me for asking,’ he said. ‘You’re not Helen Walsh’s sister
from Rathmines?’
‘Indeed I’m not.’
She was Siobhán Casey from Galway.
He asked if she fancied a drink over at Scruffy Murphy’s, and she took a step back.
‘I’m over Ireland for the moment,’ she said, looking him up and down. ‘That’s a nasty scratch on your head.’
‘I was pistol-whipped.’
She considered this. ‘I know another place down the road.’
‘That’s all right then.’
‘So what happened?’
‘Let me buy you a martini. It’s a long story.’
They were in bed at his place later that night, after their cocktails, after dinner, after everything. He’d used the last of his supply to keep it exciting, needed to call Gregor and get a delivery, maybe at work tomorrow.
He hadn’t bothered turning the camera on. The girl was all right, she put in a lot of effort, almost too much, there was sweat between her breasts, under her arms. Usually women would comment on the amount Randall sweated. First they’d tell him how little hair he had, and Siobhán had done that earlier; not like an Irishman at all, she’d said. But in the sweat area she was giving him some competition and he’d needed a few lines to get his mind off that. She’d clicked into party mood, he had a bottle of Stoli going on the bedside table and now she had a swig, sitting up in bed. She lit two cigarettes, handed him one.
‘God, that was good,’ she said. ‘Wasn’t that truly good?’
‘Fantastic,’ he said, reaching for his mobile.
She looked from it to him. ‘Jesus,’ she said. ‘I don’t believe this.’
Trying to take it from him playfully, but he wasn’t in the mood. He turned around and sat on the side of the bed with his legs apart, his Johnson flopping down on the sheets as he rang Gregor’s number. Wondered where the fellow was—this was the second time today he hadn’t answered. Man was in a service industry, for Christ’s sake.
She came around the bed, her cigarette gone, and kneeled down in front of him, flicking her hair back. There were freckles on her breasts too. ‘We need to get this show on the road again,’ she said.
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