The Tower

by Michael Duffy

  ‘Are you still there, Sean?’

  ‘Always, Mr Wu. You know that.’

  He was babbling.

  ‘You lied to me, Sean. I’m considering cutting all connections with you.’ Pause. ‘Do you know what that signifies?’

  Why did he do this to himself?

  ‘No, Mr Wu,’ he begged. ‘Please.’

  The pain was stabbing just behind his navel.

  Wu said, ‘I told you this woman’s death had changed everything. I think you’ve had trouble believing that.’

  ‘I believe it now.’

  ‘I’m going to tell you how you can redeem yourself. But I need an expression of faith before we can go on. I want you to promise to do whatever I ask you.’

  It was a big ask. But of course, there was no alternative. So he told Henry he would do whatever he wanted.

  He realised how bad this would look to an outsider, some third party eavesdropping on his life. The indignity and sorrow of this moment. But fuck them. You needed to know every step on the path he’d taken to understand how he had reached this place. He’d never wanted to be this vulnerable, but fate had brought him here.

  ‘Stay away from Stone,’ said Wu. His voice had returned to its warm tone, the one that made Randall feel good. ‘Stone is no good for us. But I have another idea. Do you have a pen with you?’

  After the phone call had finished Randall started to walk again, trying not to think about what Henry had said to him, concentrating on the street. On the city. He realised he hated the place. Sydney was a place stripped of history and uncertainty, pain and poetry. No one here gave a fuck about what had happened yesterday. In Dublin it was all around you. He used to find it stifling, but now, having experienced its opposite, he regretted that lost nourishment.

  As he walked, people in good clothes passed quickly and with purpose, on their way to money-making.

  ‘What rough beast,’ he said to them, ‘slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?’

  Theatrical but necessary. Sometimes you need to assert who you are, and if that’s a stage Irishman in the new world, so be it. But now a fellow had stopped and was asking him a question, saying, ‘I’m sorry?’ Must have heard the words.

  ‘Talking to myself,’ Randall said.

  The man walked off, looking slightly annoyed.

  What the fuck would these people know about words? I can talk, Randall said to himself. I can talk.

  Twenty-two

  After returning from Long Bay, Troy called McIver, who was keen to discuss the investigation. Khan’s information about the tunnel was at the front of Troy’s mind, and they discussed this in some detail. ‘They would have needed a key to the door at the park end,’ he said. ‘That’s owned by the city council. It’s hard to see how anyone could have got a copy.’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘We talked to the council on Monday. Their keys are kept under strict security.’

  It had been a proper check too, not one involving Bergman. But now it would be done again, and this time they would find they had been lied to.

  ‘You might find the handbag down there,’ McIver said. ‘If not, search the park.’ Troy nodded. It was unlikely an item like that would still be there, but stranger things had happened. McIver said, ‘This concrete bloke’s the key, you break him yet?’

  Troy told how Stone had had several more goes at Alex Sidorov, who’d now been charged with employing illegal labour. The businessman hadn’t said a word. ‘He’s got a top brief and there’s no reason for him to say anything.’

  ‘You need to drive a wedge between him and the people smuggler. Jason.’

  The people smugglers were still a mystery. They’d raided the house in Campsie where the illegals had sometimes been taken, and found no one there. It was a rented building, and all the details on the lease form had proved to be false. Between them, the illegals had been able to describe two of Jason’s employees. One might have been called Izhar. They had police artist’s pictures, but they were not high quality. But these men were definitely not the two whom Troy and McIver had encountered.

  McIver said, ‘We’d be thinking our two might be employees as well?’

  ‘Unless they weren’t,’ Troy said. ‘They might have been relatives or friends of the illegals, who’d come for a look around.’

  McIver asked what the forensic accountants had learned about Margot, and Troy said, ‘She sold the last of her father’s companies a year ago. Left with about three million in shares and bonds, and another half a million she’d put into a fashion start-up. Plus the two properties and the Porsche.’

  ‘And that makes her the fifth-richest woman in the country?’

  ‘You don’t want to believe everything you read. She probably was at one point. Briefly.’ Troy explained about Margot’s obsession with her father’s reputation, her belief he’d been ripped off. ‘We’ve tracked down the journalist she’d talked to at the Financial Review, Paddy Brewer. He says there’s nothing there. Tony Teresi lost a lot of money, but it was all in line with the contract he had with Morning Star. Margot showed Brewer a copy. Tony conceded a bit too much to the Chinese. But he desperately needed a second investor, had to give away more than he liked.’

  ‘So when things started to go bad, he was vulnerable.’

  ‘Brewer says this is hardly unusual. Teresi was a tough businessman, he’d done the same sort of thing to others. When Brewer put that to Margot, she got very upset, threw him out.’

  After a pause, McIver said, ‘I wonder why she got so obsessed by this. She must have known the business world, the way things work.’

  ‘Both parents dying like that,’ Troy said. ‘It would knock you around.’

  When he heard about Mr A, McIver grew excited, demanding to know all the details. Troy sensed how frustrated he was to be stuck in hospital.

  ‘We’ll put his blurred photo out to the media,’ he said. ‘But it really is too poor for anyone to identify him.’

  ‘It might prompt his conscience.’

  ‘Come on!’

  ‘Unless,’ McIver said, ‘he was involved in killing her.’

  After the call ended, Troy sat still, looking at a wall, holding the phone to his ear so no one would interrupt him. Often after a conversation with McIver things came to him. Talking to the sergeant could open up areas of his mind previously closed. McIver had observed this and once noted it would be helpful if it could occur during the conversations rather than after them.

  Now for some reason he was thinking of Matt, recalling the last time he’d seen him, asleep in his cot. It was often this way during an investigation; he wouldn’t see his son for long periods and would start to think about him more during the day. He remembered taking the small shoe from between his hands and replacing it in its box. It had been necessary to tug to get the shoe out of Matt’s grip, and he’d laid it gently on the tissue paper in the box. Now he placed the phone on his desk and forced himself to concentrate on that action. That scene. What was its link to the investigation?

  He logged onto e@gle.i and searched for the investigator note concerning the detailed search of The Tower that Harmer had organised on Monday. For fifteen minutes he read through it. The search had not begun until midday. Finally he picked up the phone and called Randall.

  ‘You’ve decided to have that drink?’ the engineer said when he came on the line. ‘Any news on Mr A?’

  Troy said he was ringing about something else. He asked Randall to remember their walk through the retail level on Sunday night.

  ‘A couple of shops had items in them,’ Troy said. ‘You said the people doing the fit-outs put stuff on the shelves to get an idea of how it’s going to look.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘One of the shops had a few handbags in it. I saw boxes on the floor too, the boxes the bags had come in.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it.’

  ‘They weren’t there when we did the detailed search on Monday.’ He’d learned this from the note
.

  ‘Well,’ Randall said slowly, ‘I guess the interior designer had finished with them and took them out in the morning. The site was reopened at eleven.’

  Troy grabbed a handful of hair and tugged gently at his scalp.

  ‘I need to talk to the people who own the stores.’

  ‘Don’t want much, do you?’

  Troy didn’t think Randall was too upset by the request, though. He had the impression the engineer enjoyed his brushes with the police investigation. Maybe he was as attracted to Troy for the moment as Troy was to him. They were like two war veterans in search of comprehension.

  It was three o’clock, the point in the shift when time spent at a desk begins to draw out. The dangerous period, when some cops take a junk-food hit to keep going. Troy was back from his debrief with the psychologist. It had seemed pretty routine; the man had said he’d be in touch in a few days.

  He thought about calling Anna. Once it had been easy to talk to her, almost anything had provided material for endless conversation. Today the energy was not there. He went out of the room to the kitchen to get a cup of coffee. People looked at him as he went, two stopped to introduce themselves and talk about the investigation. When he reached the kitchen, a uniformed sergeant was getting something from the fridge. He closed the door and turned around, holding a container of yoghurt, and blinked when he saw Troy.

  ‘I used to work with Jon McIver,’ he said. He was a heavy, red-faced man. ‘The man’s a complete prick. How is he?’

  ‘The sergeant’s recovering from his near-death experience,’ Troy said, looking around the room for the coffee. ‘The two of you didn’t get on?’

  The man was almost angry. ‘The Perry case. You know about that?’ Troy nodded. ‘I don’t believe that sort of thing is ever justified.’

  Troy had never discussed Perry with McIver, but from what he’d heard it had involved an attempt to fit up a very unpleasant individual. Unlike the Logan trial, this one had gone wrong. ‘Can I tell Mac who was inquiring after his health?’

  ‘The name’s Ian Ralston, but he’d only think I wanted to know if he was dead yet. Spare cups under the sink.’

  Ralston opened his yoghurt and took it out of the room, and Troy made himself some coffee. While he was stirring it, his mobile rang. It was Luke. They chatted for a while, and the priest asked after Anna. A few months earlier, Troy had visited Luke and tried to talk about the problems he was having with his wife. It was the first time he’d spoken of them to anyone, and he’d been expecting some sort of sympathy.

  ‘Do you go to mass every week?’ the old man had said.

  This is not about going to mass, Troy told him. I want to know what to do if this never ends, if we are never man and wife again. You should pray, Luke said. Pray to God for His help. I have prayed, Troy replied. I pray often. I drop into churches when I pass them during the day. ‘You must be patient,’ said Luke.

  Once upon a time, his friend would have expressed more concern. But now Luke was drawing in on himself, falling back on the dogma that had sustained him for over fifty years. What was being jettisoned was humanity. Troy found this hard: old people were supposed to be wise.

  Now he said into the phone, ‘Is the chemo working?’

  ‘Too early to tell. When I heard you’d almost taken a bullet there, it put my own woes in perspective.’

  ‘That was just a minute’s excitement. There’s no comparison.’

  ‘You have to permit an old fellow his perverse logic.’

  ‘I’ll come out as soon as I can. When this investigation is over.’

  ‘I want to see Taylor fight Mundine next month. Will you take me?’

  ‘Sure.’

  The archbishop had offered Luke retirement when he’d turned sixty-five, but he’d refused. It would have meant closing his church because there were no longer enough priests to go around.

  ‘You’re doing God’s work too, Troy,’ Luke said, coughing.

  He hadn’t been preachy before. Troy could hear his voice fading and thanked him for ringing, then ended the call.

  He sipped his coffee and wondered why, if he was doing God’s work here, God wasn’t more grateful. The relationship with God was rather like his relationship with Anna. Mainly one-way. But he didn’t have to persist with either. He could end them both whenever he liked.

  A uniform appeared and said Damon Blake was down below. He had a lawyer with him.

  ‘That was quick,’ said Troy.

  ‘Called him from the car. His solicitor was here before we were.’

  In the interview room, it was obvious that Blake was contrite and apologetic, even before he opened his mouth. It was something about the way he was sitting, another performance. Troy realised that if Blake told them the truth at any point it would be in the nature of a random event. Everything he said would need to be checked.

  Troy said, ‘I’d like to go over the events of Sunday afternoon with you again. You say you went for a walk but didn’t go into the Horizon or see—’

  ‘My client’s recollection has changed,’ said the lawyer. ‘He was confused this morning, upset by grief, but now he’s had a chance to go over that day and clarify things in his own mind.’

  ‘I believe our officers found him in the underwear department of David Jones.’

  The lawyer shrugged, as though he found the comment unworthy. Maybe it was.

  ‘I did go up to Margot’s apartment,’ said Blake. ‘And I had sex with her.’

  ‘Did you use a condom?’ Troy said.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Is there a reason you didn’t tell us this before?’

  The lawyer started to say something but Blake cut him off. ‘It was Donna. If she knew I’d seen Margot again, she’d leave me. I meant to tell you but I couldn’t, not with her there in the next room.’

  ‘I think that’s enough,’ the lawyer said to Blake. Then, to Troy, ‘I note that Damon volunteered this information without any pressure from yourselves.’

  Troy switched his gaze from Blake to the lawyer, wondering if he could afford to dislike him. But it would involve effort, and there just wasn’t the time.

  ‘You said Margot was happy when you had dinner with her the week before,’ he said to Blake. ‘Do you want to change that too?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘We have other witnesses who say she was moody that night.’

  Again Blake’s face changed, as he did a bad act of someone trying to remember something.

  ‘I’m sorry I lied. She was moody.’

  ‘Donna lied too. She said Margot was happy.’

  ‘Donna wouldn’t have a clue. She’s not observant that way.’

  He stopped and then said, ‘But Margot was pretty fired up on Sunday, I can tell you that for sure.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘And it wasn’t just the sex.’

  Troy said, ‘What do you mean, exactly, by fired up?’

  ‘She was feisty, full of energy.’

  ‘Can you be more specific?’

  ‘She was Margot.’

  Stone had been expected back by early afternoon, but there was no sign of him. He called at four, and said they’d be announcing Margot Teresi’s death that evening and issuing an appeal for Mr A to come forward. Troy told him about Damon Blake, and the sergeant grunted.

  ‘So she wasn’t raped.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That’s something.’ He paused. ‘Even I’ve heard of Damon Blake. The media on this is going to be huge. They’re already going crazy out at Parramatta.’

  Troy wasn’t interested in the media. He said, ‘The tunnel is interesting.’

  ‘The what?’

  Stone didn’t yet know about what Khan had told them. When Troy told him, he was angry.

  ‘I can’t believe someone didn’t tell me this,’ he said, so loudly that Troy had to hold the phone away from his ear.

  ‘I thought someone would have told you.’

  ‘That’s you. It�
��s your responsibility to coordinate. What the fuck have you been doing?’

  ‘It’s been busy here. I’m telling you now.’

  ‘What if Kelly found out about it? What sort of a goose does that make me look?’

  He went on for several minutes, and brought Jenny Finch’s death into it too, as another example of Troy’s poor judgement. Eventually he calmed down.

  ‘I won’t be coming back to the office today,’ he said. ‘Any other surprises for me?’

  ‘No. Where are you?’

  ‘I’m at The Tower, talking to the air-con people.’

  The air-con people. There was so much Troy wanted to say that he didn’t trust himself to speak. He hung up in silence.

  Most of the detectives dropped in around the end of the day. There were now a dozen people working on the investigation. Troy called Conti, who was at the town hall talking to the security manager about access to the keys related to public parks. He confirmed they’d found no handbag in the tunnel and went downstairs with Johnson to ask Siegert for help in searching Hyde Park the next day.

  The superintendent seemed withdrawn, and Troy saw he had the day’s newspapers in a pile on a table by the wall, opened at the stories about The Tower. Troy brought him up to date and the superintendent groaned.

  ‘You don’t know for a fact the shooter escaped through the tunnel?’

  ‘It seems likely. We think he’d used the tunnel before.’

  Siegert sighed again and looked down at some papers on his desk. He said the morning’s relief would conduct the search with Johnson.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Troy.

  Siegert turned a page and did not look up at them. The burdens of command.

  By seven, everyone else had gone, and Troy was wondering what had happened about the shop owners at The Tower. He was about to ring Randall when the man himself walked into the room, followed by Harmer. He was looking pleased and carrying a big paper bag. Troy was hungry, and for a moment hoped it might be a takeaway.