Dark Ink

by Gary Kemble

  But the man looked worried. No, not worried; kind of dazed. As he walked back to his car he’d stumbled and almost fallen. He’d sworn under his breath. Harry remembered thinking he’d looked stoned, in a paranoid delusions way rather than a happy way.

  Don Clack had sat in his car for another fifteen minutes. He hadn’t moved, just sat there. Then the car fired up. Harry had followed him home, watched him carry his substantial bulk up the stairs.

  Harry thought about having a lie down, then picked up the phone instead. He texted Lee-Anne. She called him a few minutes later.

  ‘Well?’ she said.

  ‘Hello to you too.’

  ‘Is he or isn’t he?’

  ‘Lee-Anne. I told you when I took this on that I’m not a private detective, I’m a journalist. So if I’m going to get this story, you can’t confront him about this…’

  ‘The bastard! I knew it! I bloody well knew it.’ Her breathing became heavy down the line. Then she let rip with a hacking cough. ‘Hang on a sec, love.’

  Harry heard a door slide open and shut. Then the familiar snick of a lighter.

  ‘I mean, I knew. But knowing, you know?’

  ‘Hang on. I don’t know anything for sure,’ Harry said. He recounted his adventures from the previous night. He left out the bit about rifling through Clack’s wallet. Even though Lee-Anne was the one who’d sicced him on Clack, he didn’t think she’d appreciate this detail, for some reason.

  She snorted. ‘Beautiful woman, dressed in lingerie. About an hour. Doesn’t sound like a union meeting to me.’

  ‘I know but… maybe she’s his mistress. As in…’

  This time she laughed, so loudly that Harry had to pull the phone away from his ear. ‘Ha! Did she have a white cane? A labrador?’

  ‘No but, you know. He’s powerful. Maybe that’s what she’s after. Maybe that’s a turn-on for her.’

  ‘I’d rather not sit here discussing that slut’s turn-ons, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘If you want me to do the job and get the story written, I’ll need some help. I’m going to need copies of his credit card statements and, more importantly, the union credit card statements. Can you get hold of them?’

  ‘Yeah. Should be able to. Let me see what I can do. I’ll catch you later, Harry.’

  Harry thought again of the card, and of Zak Godwin’s mirror-filled corpse.

  ‘Hey, Lee-Anne.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘In your email to me, you said this started “recently”. How long ago?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know exactly. He has been working late a lot. The first time I got suspicious was… hang on…’ He heard the door slide again. ‘About five weeks ago. Yeah, that’d be it. He told me he was working late. I phoned him but his mobile was off. He never turns his mobile off. Tried him at the office and he wasn’t there. Didn’t think much of it at the time, to be honest. I thought he’d just gone to the pub. But the next time he told me he was “working late” I tried his mobile and it was off again. When he got back I could smell the slut’s perfume on him.’

  Harry thought of Clack, sitting in his car, staring through the windscreen.

  ‘Have you noticed anything odd about him, since then?’

  There was a pause. He heard Lee-Anne exhaling smoke. ‘Yeah. He’s more secretive. He’s less… you know. He doesn’t want to get intimate. I mean, he hasn’t been that into sex in the past year or so. But it’s gotten worse since the slut. I guess he doesn’t need me for that anymore. Sorry, oversharing.’

  ‘No, that’s okay. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t feel sorry for me. Just nail the bastard. Okay?’

  ‘Okay. I’ll do my best.’

  Harry thought she was going to hang up, but then she spoke again.

  ‘Oh, one other thing. He’s become modest all of a sudden.’

  ‘Modest?’

  ‘Yeah. When you’ve been married as long as we have, you lose your modesty. It doesn’t matter if you’re on the toilet, in the shower. You’ve seen it all a million times. But last three weeks or so, Don’s been locking the door when he has his shower. Comes out in his PJs, if you can believe it. I don’t know what that bitch is doing to him.’

  A vision of the four autopsy photos jumped into Harry’s mind. He thought of the five incisions in each man’s back.

  ‘I’ll see if I can find out. See you, Lee.’

  CHAPTER 11

  Harry tried not to think about what was going to happen. He found it easier that way. There was absolutely no reason to think about the process of asking the hard questions. Just ask them. Instead, he concentrated on his feet, walking up the gravel driveway. One foot in front of the other, shiny black leather. These days, he rarely needed to get dressed up. Many days he barely needed to get dressed at all, given he worked from home. This was not one of those days. He’d dressed that morning, already feeling the butterflies in his stomach. Charcoal trousers. Light pink shirt. Conservative striped tie. And the leather shoes that generally sat at the back of his wardrobe, gathering dust.

  The grounds were alive with energy that only comes with the end of the school day. Kids surged around him, a sea of slacks, green shirts, straw hats. Most of them had an iPhone out as they jostled with their friends. Some were heading back to the dormitories. Others were kicking balls around on the Olympic-grade playing fields. And others still were trudging down the driveway towards the road, where an armada of school coaches and a cavalcade of luxury cars waited to ferry them home.

  The past couple of days had been largely uneventful. Bec had phoned, asking him out for after-work drinks on Friday. He was still waiting for Lee-Anne to find him some union credit card information. He noticed that she had dropped some money into his bank account. For expenses, she told him. It quickly went on removing the power and internet bills from his fridge. Both of those were more essential to his future earning capacity than food.

  Harry checked his phone, looking for the directions Johnny had sent him. Harry wasn’t meant to be on school grounds without permission. And he was pretending he didn’t know that, because he knew he wasn’t going to get permission. But he’d found in his years as a journalist that if you looked as though you knew where you were going, and you were carrying a clipboard or (in Harry’s case, a notebook) you could gain access almost anywhere, if you were willing to shelve any legal or ethical qualms you might have. He didn’t think his journalists’ union membership would be getting renewed this year.

  He passed lovingly restored red-brick buildings, and a few more recent additions. A world-class library and information technology facility, designed by a famed architect. An Olympic-size indoor swimming pool. And of course the shooting range, which came up in the election before last, raised by Labor in a disastrous attempt to take money away from private schools and give it to public schools.

  Harry made his way down the side of the stately admin block, stopping outside a door with a neatly painted sign that read: Facilities Manager. Harry knocked, then pushed the door open a crack because he wasn’t sure his knock would have been heard through the heavy oak.

  Shane Packard looked up from his computer, peering over the tops of his glasses. He was in his late fifties or early sixties, with shaggy brown hair, seeded heavily with silver. From his expression, he was expecting a student, perhaps come to collect a ball that had landed on a roof, or a water pistol that had been confiscated. When he saw a grown man there, Packard blinked a couple of times, as though to make sure he’d seen right.

  Harry entered the room, knowing that the threshold was always the worst place to be caught.

  ‘Sorry to bother you. Harry. Harry Hendrick.’ He crossed the room and offered his hand. Packard took it. He had a hard handshake, his palm and fingers rough with calluses.

  ‘Shane Packard.’ He glanced at his computer. It was open on a news site. ‘Did you have an appointment?’

  ‘No, no, I didn’t. I’m working on a story about the school.’

 
‘A story?’

  Harry took one of the chairs in front of the desk. Packard frowned.

  ‘Yes. An article. I’m a freelance journalist.’

  ‘Your name. Sounds familiar. Have you cleared this through the office?’

  There was no easy in for this story. No safe territory to gradually work his way into it, get enough information so that when he dropped the bombshell, he had enough to go on even if the interview was terminated.

  ‘You’ve been with the school for the past twenty years, right?’

  ‘Does the office know…’

  ‘That’s what it says on the school’s website, anyway.’

  Packard looked slightly bemused. But there were worry lines creasing his brow. He’s trying to remember who I am.

  ‘So you would have been working here through the early 2000s, right?’

  Packard shrugged. ‘Clearly.’

  ‘I’ve got a source who claims there was a paedophile ring operating here at that time.’

  The groundsman froze. He didn’t look nervous or scared anymore. He looked angry. ‘I know who you are now. Get out.’

  ‘My source says he was raped repeatedly at the school. On one occasion, in the changing rooms…’

  Packard reached for the phone. ‘Get out. Now. Or I’ll call security and have you removed.’

  ‘He says it was a mess when they’d done with him. Any of this ringing any bells for you?’

  Packard was bright red, pointedly not looking at Harry. He spoke a few words into the phone. Harry found himself struggling to control his anger. The tattoo burned on the back of his neck. In his mind’s eye he was performing a number of martial arts techniques on Shane Packard, all of which ended with the groundsman on the floor, struggling for breath. Harry realised he was standing. He didn’t remember getting out of the chair.

  Packard hung up the phone. His eyes were watering, but whether that was from remorse or anger, Harry couldn’t tell.

  ‘They’ll be here soon,’ he said.

  ‘So you knew it was happening, and you let it happen, and you didn’t help those poor kids?’

  Packard looked away, at his computer screen. He put his hand on the mouse. The pointer moving aimlessly on the screen.

  ‘You’ve got nothing to say to me?’

  The door burst open and two big security guards strode into the room. Harry held his hands up in a gesture of compliance. They grabbed him anyway, and dragged him to the door.

  ‘I can walk by myself,’ he said.

  They ignored him, tried to twist his hands behind his back, but Harry knew those moves too. He let them lead him to the door. At the last moment, he shrugged out of their grip.

  ‘Packard.’

  Shane Packard ignored him. He was still staring at his computer screen.

  ‘Shane Packard. You didn’t deny it. Not once. I threw every accusation at you and you didn’t even deny it.’

  Packard looked up, as though to say something, then thought better of it as the security guards dragged Harry out of the room.

  CHAPTER 12

  Harry and Bec sat in a booth at the back of the bar. The place was just filling up with after-work suits. Outside, people streamed past on their way home or to late-night shopping. Bec looked beautiful in her neat white blouse and black skirt.

  ‘Oh my God, I deserve this,’ Harry said, holding aloft the pint of Guinness and tapping glasses with Bec, who had ordered a Manhattan. ‘Cheers.’

  She laughed. ‘Cheers.’

  Harry took a deep slug of beer, and it really did feel good.

  ‘Tough week?’ Bec said.

  ‘You could say that.’ He gave her the shortened version of his adventures following Don Clack, and then getting thrown out of the school. By the end of it, Bec was staring wide-eyed at him.

  ‘I won’t bother telling you about my run-in with HR then,’ she said.

  ‘No, please do,’ Harry said, feigning sleep.

  Bec slapped him on the arm, and then told him about her office adventures that week.

  ‘So this Johnny guy,’ she said, ‘do you think he’s on the level?’

  ‘Up until Wednesday, I wasn’t certain. His email seemed legit, but you can never be sure. I haven’t spoken to him yet. Sometimes people have an axe to grind, and they want to use you as their weapon. But now – I mean, if you were Shane Packard, and the story was totally fabricated, wouldn’t you try to defend yourself?’

  Bec nodded.

  ‘And then the next day I got a call from the headmaster, which was basically a thinly veiled threat of legal action if I tried to go public with any of Johnny’s story.’

  ‘Did they know it came from Johnny?’

  ‘She didn’t name him and I didn’t name him. She said there were some “troubled” boys who’d come through the school as part of the scholarship program. Tried to make out there were kids with mental health issues.’

  ‘There probably were, if what Johnny said is true.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Harry looked at his beer and was surprised to find it half gone. ‘Bec, please don’t let me get wasted tonight.’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘Worried I’ll take advantage?’

  Harry opened his mouth, closed it again. Bec winked.

  ‘Dave and I got a little . . .’

  ‘Wasted?’

  ‘Yeah . . . wasted . . . last weekend.’

  ‘I make no promises. You’re a big boy. You can look after yourself.’

  Over in the corner, the band was setting up. It didn’t look like a traditional Irish affair.

  Bec frowned. ‘This looks ominous.’

  ‘Yeah. That’s just what I was thinking.’

  ‘Want to go somewhere else?’

  ‘Yeah. That’d be good.’

  They drained the last of their drinks and headed out into the throng, just as the band belted out the opening bars of ‘Mr Jones’. Bec and Harry looked at each other and laughed.

  They wandered through the city, window shopping, talking about nothing in particular. Bec had changed gyms and had dumped pilates in favour of hot yoga. Harry told her about his karate and how the instructor wanted him to think about competing. Bec wrinkled her nose.

  ‘Not a fan of the old MMA?’ he said.

  ‘They fight in a cage, Harry. A cage!’

  He laughed. Bec snaked her fingers into his.

  They stopped walking outside the old Regent cinema, now the foyer for a new apartment complex. He found himself holding both of Bec’s hands, staring into her eyes. From inside the foyer came the smell of coffee.

  ‘Do you want a coffee?’

  ‘Nah. Let’s get another drink.’

  They strolled to the Victory, and any hope of staying clear of cover bands was obliterated by the sounds of ‘Blaze of Glory’. They ordered a jug and stood shoulder to shoulder with the hundreds of people crammed into the beer garden.

  ‘This wasn’t quite what I had in mind, either,’ Bec said.

  They finished the jug quickly. ‘I thought you were meant to be keeping me on the straight and narrow,’ Harry said.

  ‘Let’s go back to my place,’ Bec said. ‘I’ve got Berocca. And vodka.’

  ‘Uh oh.’ But he let her lead him out into the street again, and swipe them into the foyer of her apartment building.

  ‘Not sick of inner-city life yet?’ Harry said.

  ‘Well, the four a.m. bin trucks aren’t getting any more appealing,’ she said. ‘But this is good.’

  She pushed the lift button. They stepped in, and she swiped again and thumbed her level.

  ‘Come here, Harry Hendrick.’

  She pulled him to her and they kissed as the floor fell away under their feet. Harry held her head in his hands. She snaked her arms around his waist. He felt extremely tired, but extremely content.

  Bec’s apartment was smaller than Harry remembered, or maybe she’d just bought more stuff. He was apprehensive about coming back. The last time, he’d been in tears, frant
ically packing boxes because he didn’t want to be here when she returned. It felt different. Maybe because she’d made this place her own, as he’d done at Paddington. And they were different people now.

  He settled himself on the couch, looking out the windows at the city lights. She returned with a tin of Berocca, a bottle of vodka and two glasses.

  ‘I sense interesting cocktails are on the way,’ he said.

  She put down the glasses and poured two drinks. Handed one to Harry. ‘To new beginnings,’ she said.

  ‘New beginnings.’

  They chinked glasses and drank. Harry refilled the glasses, slightly drunk now.

  ‘To watchful friends,’ he said. He was thinking about Bec’s promise to keep him from getting wasted, but when they tapped glasses, he remembered what Sandy had said about Rob keeping watch over him. He shivered.

  ‘You okay?’ She shuffled over until their knees touched, laid a hand on his leg.

  ‘I am now,’ he said, and kissed her.

  She pulled away, grinning. ‘Did you rehearse that line, or what?’

  ‘I did now,’ Harry said, and leant in for another kiss.

  ‘That makes no sense whatsoever,’ she said, but laughed and kissed him anyway. They slid down the lounge together, her skirt riding up. Harry put his hand on her waist. They kissed for a long time before Bec pulled away and topped up her drink.

  She got up and walked to the sliding door out onto the balcony. Harry had a serious buzz going. He picked up his drink, sloshing a little over the side, and followed her.

  The wind whistled through the city at a fair rate of knots, but the drink kept him warm. Thunder boomed, and Harry shuddered a bit. He folded his arms around Bec, nuzzled into the small of her neck. She pressed her body against his. They looked out at the city, still very much alive beneath them. Between the buildings, they could see lights shining off the river.