Anna and Matt got home at six, with Matt asleep in his seat in the back of her car. Troy lifted him out, breathing in a strong aroma of stale milk and vomit, and the unmistakable whiff of a nappy that needed attention. He took the boy inside, laid him gently on the change table and went to work. When he got the nappy off, Matt woke up suddenly and let out a yell, then saw his father and went straight back to sleep. For a moment Troy was awash with emotion.
‘He’s exhausted,’ Anna said, coming in from where she’d been filling the baby bath next door. ‘He had so much fun playing with their puppy. Maybe we should get a dog.’
‘He’s filthy,’ Troy said, looking at the dirt in the creases behind the baby’s knees and the stains on the outside of the disposable nappy he’d just wrapped up.
‘He’s a lovely little man,’ she murmured, tickling the boy beneath his chubby chin.
Matt woke up, looking startled for a moment, and then began to gurgle with pleasure. Troy always enjoyed seeing the way she did that.
She removed Matt’s top so he was naked, and lifted him and took him into the bathroom. She did it effortlessly. Matt was not heavy, and Anna was strong. She took him on long walks in his stroller each day, up and down the big hills of the district, often with friends. She’d done this from soon after he was born, and by the time he turned one her figure had returned pretty much to the way it had been before she became pregnant. Troy knew some mothers became depressed because they’d lost their shape, but Anna didn’t have that problem. It was one reason her depression had surprised him, because she’d always seemed like a person who got on top of things.
He picked up the used nappy and took it out to the kitchen.
‘Are you hungry?’ she called from the bathroom. ‘Let’s get some takeaway.’
After washing his hands he changed his jeans, and put his keys and wallet in his pockets. He found Anna in Matt’s room, bending over him as she prepared him for bed. She was wearing the same clothes she’d come home in: a bright pink T-shirt over a blue skirt that went almost to her knees. From behind he could see the two silver earrings in her right ear. She’d once told him Indians had invented body piercing.
‘What do you feel like?’ he said.
She stood up and turned around, keeping a hand on Matt’s leg as he lay there yelling gibberish and shaking a toy lamb.
‘I’ll have some of whatever you get. Aleisha has agreed to babysit on Monday.’
‘Monday?’
‘So we can go out.’
He wondered what was happening. Hoped it wasn’t another ChristLife event. ‘That’ll be good.’
She smiled almost shyly. ‘Our anniversary.’
I’ve completely forgotten, he thought. But then that’s normal, and maybe normal is good right now. He hadn’t bought a present for her yet, of course. What a present it would be on Monday, if she saw the video footage then. It came back to him now, the horror of his situation. He was overreacting, of course. No he wasn’t. He didn’t know what was happening to him.
He said, ‘I’ll get a pizza.’
SUNDAY
Thirty-two
Randall woke up slowly, staring at a wall that he gradually realised was unfamiliar. After a bit he turned onto his back and contemplated the ceiling, working out where he was. A resort near Pokolbin, expensive, nice restaurant and sauna. He turned his head and saw Kristin wasn’t there; she must have gone to the bathroom. Checking his watch— just after midnight—he realised he’d been asleep for less than an hour. He turned back to the wall, willing himself to sleep again.
They’d hit the wineries in the afternoon, done some serious research. She’d got right into it, recovered from her grumpiness of the morning. But when they got to bed, he’d had problems again, had almost got there, tried to make it up to her in other ways. It hadn’t helped that she’d forgotten to bring any coke with her; that had been the arrangement so he hadn’t bothered bringing any himself, and they were dry. They’d argued about this, she’d told him coke was part of his problem, she’d done him a favour by forgetting it. She had no idea what his problems were.
Truth told, he’d got angry with her, started to swear, pushed her at one point. If efficiency was her thing, what she was proud of, if she wanted to be on a par with men in that area, she had to take the rough with the smooth. She shouldn’t have forgotten to bring the coke: actions have consequences.
He’d promised himself not to bring his mobile away with him, but of course he had. If the blow was going to fall, you had to meet it. Couldn’t spend the whole weekend wondering. As his ma liked to say, a coward dies a thousand deaths. He’d thought he’d be scared of Troy, but it hadn’t turned out that way at all when he’d called the day before. The fellow was cracking up, you could hear it in every word he spoke, behind all the tough-guy threats. It was a sad business, really. Randall thought he’d handled the call all right. Pretended complete ignorance. The stuff about cops paying him a visit on Monday had been scary, but Troy was bluffing. Almost certainly. Still, Randall had made the most of the tastings afterwards, drinking to carry himself off to a more pleasant place. No risk involved, they’d been using a resort limo to ferry them around. Beautiful semillons, enough age on them, some superb plonk. He’d spent over a thousand dollars, even bought a case for Kristin too. Made her happy.
So where was she? Getting out of bed, he padded over to the bathroom and opened the door. Empty. Opening his bag, he looked for the headache tablets, saw a DVD in its case. It had Iceland written on the cover, it was Kristin and him. Henry had returned it a few days ago, said it was one of his best efforts. Randall had brought it along, thinking he might play it if necessary last night, get them going. But he’d forgotten all about it.
He straightened up and waited for his head to stop hurting. Surveying the bedroom, he realised all her things were gone. Opening the front door, he stared into the cold night at where her car had been. Jesus.
How was he going to get back home? Should never have let her drive. He’d arranged to pick her up from work but she’d called him Friday, said she was out at Villawood, some crisis, the Thai girl she was so excited about had disappeared. She would come straight into the city and collect him, they could go in her car. Randall didn’t like women driving him, but it was not something to raise with Kristin. They’d spent hours in her Prius, crawling up the freeway in the heaviest traffic.
There was a note on hotel paper, telling him it was over, she was being transferred away from Sydney soon anyway and it was best to end their relationship now. What relationship? he thought. Earlier that night, when he couldn’t do it, she’d been angry. Worse than the night before. How dare she! He couldn’t remember what had been said, but he’d been furious. He could remember the fury. It was all her fault—if the stupid bitch had brought the coke like she’d said she would, everything would have been fine. He just needed to relax. She’d spoiled the whole weekend and been too proud to admit it.
What a stupid note, he thought, crumpling it and throwing it through the open door into the bathroom. Later he’d wipe his arse with it, tell her what he’d done on Monday. He got up and went over to the bar fridge, poured himself some juice. Took it back to bed.
He thought about the DVDs he provided for Henry, how he had watched Randall having sex with at least half a dozen women by now, and shivered. The man was one sick fuck. But still, it gave him a hold over Henry, the fact that he knew about his little peccadillo. You had to wonder what Henry wanted from Troy. Maybe if he knew he could work out another way, make them both happy and get the cop off the hook. But he didn’t.
After Troy had called yesterday morning, he’d gone outside, had a smoke, rung Henry. Asked him what was going on.
‘That’s not an appropriate question,’ Wu said.
‘It’s the mystery man, isn’t it?’ Randall said.
He had no idea where the thought came from, but it had been on the money, he could tell from the tone of Henry’s denial. Something about the interest he
’d shown when Randall had told him about the fellow the cops were calling Mr A.
Jesus, Randall had thought, dropping his butt on the gravel and stamping on it. Henry’s right into the whole Teresi business. At some level.
‘Troy’s a decent fellow,’ he said. ‘If you let me know what this is all about, I can help you get what you want.’
He felt guilty. Scared. Excited.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Wu. ‘And now I must go.’
‘Don’t—’ Randall said, but it was too late.
He stared at the walls and drank the juice. Did the time calculation and reached for the phone on the table by the bed, dialled his mum. She was always delighted to hear from him; since his dad had moved out she had a lot of spare time. The old man’s problems had filled her life for so long there was now a great emptiness. He knew from past experience that after ten minutes she’d start to talk about Mary Walsh, the daughter of one of her old friends. Randall had gone to school with her, and she’d been exactly what you’d expect of a girl named Mary. His mum would say how he should have married her, how she was still unwed, something big these days in the Cork Tourist Bureau. She’d always wanted him to stay in Ireland, marry someone local. Poor Ma, retreating into her own past, before the mess she’d made of her life when she’d briefly ventured from Ireland’s shores all those years before.
And now it’s my turn, Randall thought. To make a mess of things. Maybe it was time to go back. But let’s not think of that yet. There was a click at the other end of the line and as she answered he realised he was crying.
‘Ma?’ he said.
Thirty-three
Anna took Matt to a service at ChristLife in Botany while Troy walked to Holy Family on Maroubra Road. At first he didn’t pay much attention as the mass progressed, just thinking about his situation. When the sermon began, he tried to focus on what the priest was saying, in the faint hope it might contain some sort of message for him. But it didn’t seem to; the priest was talking about evil but not with conviction, not as though he comprehended behaviour of the sort Troy was up against. Luke was different. When he spoke of evil you got the sense he knew its shape and feel. This was one of the reasons Troy had been drawn to him years ago.
Earlier that morning he’d checked his email, and there’d been nothing related to the other night. Anna hadn’t looked at hers today, there was no reason to. Troy wondered when the next blow would fall, when he would be asked for money. He should inform his superiors of his situation now, but told himself it could wait until a demand was made. Telling what he’d done would be like giving a bit of himself away forever. He wondered how they’d react. Maybe he should talk to McIver first.
After mass he stood outside the church for a while, chatting to acquaintances about football, gardening, the weather. Nippers was due to start soon, and several parents wanted to check on the times. The ordinariness of the talk seeped into him, healthy as the warmth of the sun, and he was reluctant to leave, but he and Anna were expecting guests, so he made his way home.
While he walked he checked his phone and saw there was a message to call McIver. The sergeant had a string of queries about last week’s work, and as Troy answered them he realised his memory was strangely fragmented. The pieces were there, but not always in the right place.
‘We’ve found out something weird,’ McIver said. ‘The lab reckons Damon Blake’s DNA doesn’t match the skin we found under Margot’s fingernails.’
Troy stopped walking. ‘But he said she scratched him. I saw the marks.’
They’d examined Blake’s back during the interview. The singer had said some of the marks were from his current girlfriend, but a few were from Margot. He looked at Conti while he said this, and Troy recalled her blushing.
‘Something else, Conti’s found out how the shooter got the key. One of the council admin workers sold it to someone who sounds like Bazzi, for a thousand dollars.’
‘You’ve had a good weekend.’
‘Conti’s on the ball.’
Troy said, ‘I’m coming in.’
‘No you’re not. If you do, I’ll send you home. Siegert tells me you came in yesterday. What was that all about?’
‘I had to pick up something.’
‘He said you were shaving.’
‘How many people have you got in there today?’
‘I’m terminating this conversation,’ McIver said. ‘Try to relax, for Christ’s sake.’
He hung up.
Ralph Dutton arrived at eleven o’clock with his wife Wendy and their two small boys. Troy had become friends with Dutton years ago, when they were both starting out as constables in Sutherland. Later they’d worked together for a while as detectives. Each had been best man at the other’s wedding. They still kept in touch, even after Dutton left the force. Ralph was a big, naturally pale man, who wore a baseball cap whenever he was outdoors to protect his skull from the sun. He was wearing it today, the same faded Sea Eagles cap Troy recalled from years ago. Dutton used to wear it even with a suit, to the intense annoyance of an inspector they’d had at Chatswood.
The two families had arranged to do the long walk along the cliffs and beaches from Maroubra to Bondi. When they left the house, Troy noticed a Subaru Liberty standing outside, behind his own station wagon. Compared with the Camry, it was big and solid. Dutton saw him eyeing the vehicle and beamed.
‘Had it for three months,’ he said. ‘We’re very happy with it.’
‘Four-wheel drive,’ Troy said politely.
‘The handling. You should take it for a run afterwards. Wendy feels a lot better driving it, the way the traffic is these days.’
Wendy said, ‘We’d never go back to a Commodore.’
Troy nodded, thinking about what McIver and the others would be doing at The Tower. After a bit, he realised he was still nodding and forced himself to stop.
Once they got going, the wives moved ahead with their strollers and the men followed behind, Dutton carrying his elder boy on his broad shoulders.
‘I see you’ve been in the papers again,’ he said. ‘Not like you.’
‘I couldn’t help it,’ Troy said. ‘Politics.’
‘You don’t want to get a reputation for that sort of thing. People start to notice you for the wrong reason.’ Ever since they’d made Ralph a manager, it had become important to him to demonstrate his knowledge of how the world operated. He said, ‘Don’t worry, it’ll pass.’
‘It will indeed.’
One way or another.
Dutton told him about a family holiday they were taking next month to California.
‘Bank balance healthy, then?’ Troy said.
It was a subject Ralph liked to talk about. ‘Over a hundred and fifty a year now. Not bad for a working-class boy.’
Troy grunted. A Homicide inspector might earn a hundred if he was lucky. And there weren’t many inspectors.
As they walked along the edge of the dog park at the end of Coogee Beach, Dutton talked about the trip, how they were going to hire a car and drive to all the places he’d seen on television. Starting at Los Angeles and Disneyland, they’d go up the coast to Big Sur and San Francisco, then keep heading north to Seattle and the Boeing factory.
Dutton worked at the airport, and had gradually been acquiring an interest in aircraft. It was something Troy had noticed before. Intelligent men in boring jobs often took up hobbies, did courses or became wine bores.
‘Airport okay?’ he said.
It was what his conversations with Dutton consisted of these days, he realised—him providing openings so his friend could boast. There was little reciprocation. Dutton seemed to have almost no interest in police work anymore, except where it touched on his own professional concerns.
‘Great,’ Dutton said. ‘There’s a lot of technology involved, and liaison with government agencies. I tell you, Nick, with the scope of the terrorism threat, the private sector’s become much more important in the wider secur
ity picture.’
‘Is that so?’
‘And we’ve got the budget to face the challenges.’
Unlike the police, Troy thought. Anything related to riots or terrorism had been well funded these past years, but often the money seemed to have been pulled from other areas of police work.
Dutton said, ‘You still got the old Glocks?’
Troy smiled. ‘This is where you’re going to offer me a job, aren’t you?’
Several times in the past year he’d received a call from a friend or acquaintance who’d moved out. Once he’d even been taken for a pleasant meal. But he’d never been tempted.
‘No,’ Dutton said. ‘We’re just about to expand and we’ve got some jobs going, good jobs. But I wouldn’t offer one to you.’
Ridiculously, Troy felt almost offended, and asked Dutton why not.
The other man laughed. ‘First, you don’t need the money. You already have the home near the beach which half this city is working its butt off to achieve. So the normal incentive structure breaks down in your case. And second, you’d always regret it.’
‘Why so?’
‘Because you’re a natural cop. The job matches your needs at a fundamental level.’
The insight displayed by Dutton’s comment mildly surprised Troy. You should never underestimate people, he thought. Not even your friends.
He said, ‘What about you? Do you regret leaving?’
‘You think I just went for the money. It was partly that. But I hit a situation. I’m sorry I never told you. It’s taken me a few years to see what happened.’
Dutton explained that he’d accepted a promotion into a section Troy regarded almost with contempt: the traffic branch. There’d been another promotion soon after, so Dutton had streaked ahead of him.
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