Dark Ink

by Gary Kemble

  ‘Are you okay?’ Harry asked.

  ‘Harry, don’t worry about me. What happened?’

  ‘Someone else died. Someone was killed this morning. I think there’s a woman manipulating men somehow, blackmailing them . . .’

  ‘No. No, Harry. This isn’t a woman. Or, if it is a woman, she’s meddling in stuff she doesn’t understand. Tell me what happened, exactly.’

  Harry told Sandy about Gillespie, and how he and his partner were sent out to fix some electricity lines and decided to kill one of his workmates for no apparent reason.

  ‘He had the same marks on his back as the suicide victims,’ Harry said. ‘How did you know something was going down? You don’t get informed of every death on the planet, do you?’

  ‘Harry . . . I didn’t know someone had died, but I suspected it. I was asleep. And then I heard this horrendous wailing, a screeching. I jerked awake. I thought it was a nightmare. Then I heard it again. Fury. A furious screaming. Uncontrollable rage. I thought it was someone hiding in the room at first. Usually, when this sort of thing happens, I can tell that it’s from the spirit world. It’s like I’m hearing it through, I don’t know, a wireless that’s not quite on the signal.’

  ‘A wireless?’

  Sandy uttered a mirthless laugh. ‘Don’t toy with me, Harry. Not in the mood right now.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘My heart. I thought it was going to burst. I thought . . . I thought the world was ending. And then I heard whispering. My spirit guides. They were telling me it was okay. It was okay. Except, it’s not.’

  The waitress delivered Harry’s coffee. He pushed it to the other side of the table. He felt sick again. He stared at the formica table.

  ‘Did they say what it is?’

  ‘No. It’s not like that, Harry. They don’t often communicate in words. It’s more like pictures. And for this they showed me . . .’

  ‘A door. A door opening on darkness.’ The vision jumped into Harry’s head before Sandy could speak it.

  He could hear Sandy breathing on the other end of the line.

  ‘Harry,’ she said eventually, ‘you need to be extremely careful around this woman. Whoever it is, this goddess is using her as an envoy.’

  ‘Yeah, I figured. Thanks, Sandy.’

  Before Harry put his phone away, he saw that an email had dropped into his inbox. He opened it.

  Dear Mr Hendrick

  Yeah, I can see that you’ll need to meet me before you take this any further. I’ve just been getting my head straight, you know?

  Let’s do it next Friday, 11a.m. There’s a park just near where you used to work. It’s called Marchant Park. There are some benches near the BBQs, near the car park. I’ll see you there.

  Johnny

  CHAPTER 14

  Harry sipped his drink, letting the music pump through him and watching the woman on the small revolving stage do her thing. Having discarded the nurse’s outfit, she was down to a red G-string and matching bra that barely covered her breasts. He tried telling himself that there was a lot of artistry to the pole dance he was watching, then gave up and admitted it was turning him on. He checked the time on his phone and looked around the dimly lit gentlemen’s club. There was a lot of faux leather and velvet. Dark wood-look tables. A few men sitting around, but it wasn’t packed. Every now and then a scantily clad woman would lead one of the men towards the back of the club. Harry guessed that’s where the lap dances were done. Still no sign of Clarice.

  He’d swapped notes with Bec earlier that week, gently pushing for information until he’d established that they actually hadn’t had sex after their vodka binge.

  ‘Harry Hendrick! What do you take me for?’ she’d said.

  All week he’d been trying to imagine the scenario where he’d apparently undressed her out of the smart, sexy business attire and somehow not made love to her. Another reason to not get drunk. He’d sent her some flowers, and she’d phoned him when they arrived. He could tell by her voice that she was blushing.

  The rest of the week had been largely uneventful. Phil came through with his promise of a full transcript of Gillespie’s interview, and had added pre-death photos of all of the victims, and of Gillespie.

  ‘Harry Hendrick?’

  Harry looked from his phone. The woman was tall, dressed in high heels, stockings and a silk camisole that accentuated her breasts. For this joint, it was a decidedly demure outfit. Around her neck she wore a gold chain with a small key dangling between her breasts. She had a blonde bob, but Harry was pretty sure it was a wig.

  ‘Clarice?’

  ‘That’s me.’

  She slid beside Harry onto the bench seat. Her leg rubbed against his.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, brushing the hair away from her eyes. She peered at him through her fringe.

  ‘That’s okay.’

  Her perfume washed over him. Harry felt aroused despite himself, and then embarrassed. He took a sip of his drink, then pulled his phone over to him.

  ‘Did your manager explain what I’m after?’

  ‘I am the manager,’ she said.

  ‘Sorry,’ Harry said. He blushed. ‘The man I spoke to . . .’

  ‘Oh, that’s Roger. He’s in charge of security.’

  ‘I’m really sorry. You just look . . . so young.’

  Clarice laughed and patted the back of Harry’s hand. ‘Seriously, forget about it.’

  ‘Okay, let’s start again,’ he said. ‘I’m Harry Hendrick. I’m a freelance journalist . . .’

  ‘I know who you are. I googled you. You broke that big story last year. Good job.’

  ‘Thanks. Anyway, I’m working on a story. I can’t go into too much detail at this stage. But two of the people involved came to your club, and both of them went away with a card from the club, with a phone number written on it. So . . .’

  ‘You’re trying to put two and two together?’

  ‘Basically.’

  ‘Okay – have you got the card?’

  Harry pulled the card out of his wallet and handed it to Clarice. She studied it, sniffed it and wrinkled her nose. Frowned.

  ‘Nothing immediately springs to mind. The number isn’t familiar. Come with me.’

  She stood and wove through the mostly empty tables. Harry followed, trying not to look at her legs. A woman lay spreadeagled on the stage, a couple of strategically placed ostrich feathers all that stood between her and the whooping patrons. At the back of the club was a small lectern, something like a maitre d’ would stand behind. This maitre d’ wore a suit jacket over a black corset and fishnet stockings. Her bright red hair was pulled up in a bun. Beyond her, a heavy velvet curtain. As Clarice approached, a man emerged from between the curtains, a nubile young woman on each arm. He looked very happy. He tipped Harry a wink and a grin.

  ‘Hey Gem – does this number look familiar to you?’

  The redhead looked at the card, then shook her head. Through a gap in the curtains Harry caught a glimpse of a lithe body gyrating in time with the music.

  ‘I’ll look it up,’ she said. She flipped open an iPad and swiped, frowning. ‘Nope. Not one of ours. Although if she was doing a bit on the side, she might have a separate phone.’

  ‘The girls aren’t supposed to give out their numbers,’ Clarice said. ‘We try and be really strict about it. There’s no funny business here. But sometimes the girls want to chase a bit of extra money – you know?’

  Harry nodded, although he had no idea beyond what he’d read in news articles. He pulled out his phone and scrolled through the photos to a head shot of Zak Godwin, mirror eater.

  ‘Have you seen this guy around?’

  Clarice looked at the photo. ‘No, but that doesn’t really mean anything. I’m not here twenty-four-seven, and as you can see, we try to at least create the illusion that we’re not trying to identify our patrons. If he’d been here, he’d be on our CCTV footage, but we don’t really have time to go through thousands of hours of . . .’
>
  ‘No, no – that’s okay. How about this guy?’ He swiped through to a photo of Don Clack he’d saved from the union’s website.

  Gem frowned. ‘Oh shit,’ she said, shuddering.

  ‘What?’ Harry said.

  Clarice grabbed Harry’s hand and looked at the photo. ‘Ugh. Daddy.’

  ‘Daddy?’

  ‘Yeah, he used to come here all the time. Always wanted the youngest girls. He was always pestering them to call him “Daddy”.’

  ‘Used to come here all the time?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Gem said, grinning. ‘Tell him the story, Clar.’ Her eyes had lit up and were sparkling. Behind her, a woman with dark skin and long blonde hair led another punter through the curtains.

  ‘About a couple of weeks ago he came in,’ Clarice said. ‘Looking nervous for once, which was weird. He ordered a double Glenfiddich like he was totes cool with it, then sat there sipping it like a nervous schoolboy. Krystal drew the short straw and went over to see if he wanted a dance.

  ‘He started muttering something about his mistress and needing permission. So he phoned up someone, spoke to her for a couple of minutes – all “Yes, mistress, No mistress” – then handed the phone to Krys. She told me later that he was to pay for the longest dance we did, but he probably wouldn’t take that long. Then hung up.

  ‘So he comes past, pays his money, looking all hangdog and nervous. He was sweating like a pig. Hands shaking when he handed over his credit card. Said he wanted the works, whatever was the maximum. We were happy to take his money off him.

  ‘So she takes him in, sits him down, gets him comfy with his drink, starts to dance and he tells her, No. He stands up, takes her hand – he was really gentle, she said, and gestured for her to sit. And then . . .’

  ‘He started dancing,’ Gem blurted.

  Harry did a double-take. ‘He . . . what?’

  ‘He started dancing,’ Gem said. ‘You know, like trying to do a strip routine. Started with his shirt, undoing the buttons one by one.’

  ‘And what was Krys doing?’

  Gem could barely suppress the laughter. ‘She was just sitting there. I think she was shocked more than anything. And she knew that I would’ve seen it on the CCTV . . .’ Gem gestured at the small screen set low on the lectern. ‘He got his shirt off . . .’

  ‘And he had cuts on his back?’ Harry said.

  ‘Yeah!’ Gem said. ‘You know this freak?’

  ‘No, not really, but I know of him.’

  ‘Anyway, by the time Roger got in there, this character had taken his pants off. Not his boxers, thank God. Rog just grabbed him and his clothes and wrestled him out the door. Guy didn’t put up much of a fight.’

  Gem had a hand to her mouth, stifling the giggles. Clarice took over the story again.

  ‘He got dressed out on the pavement. We were going to call the cops but he skedaddled pretty quickly.’ She shrugged. ‘And that was the last we saw of Daddy.’

  Harry made a note of it on his phone, although he couldn’t imagine himself ever forgetting this story. Lee-Anne Stewart wanted something that would humiliate her husband. Shit, Harry could dig up the CCTV footage and stop right there. What was Clack thinking?

  ‘Did he seem drunk? On drugs?’

  Gem shook her head. ‘Not really. He’d had a drink, but he was walking okay. Just nervous, like I said.’

  ‘So what’s the deal with this guy? You gonna arrest him?’

  ‘I’m a journalist. He’s . . . he’s part of the story I’m working on.’ Harry nodded. ‘Thanks for your help, Gem.’

  ‘That all you want? Anything else I can help you out with?’ she said, arching one eyebrow and tilting her head at the curtain.

  Harry laughed. ‘Maybe some other time.’

  ‘I’ll see you then, then.’

  Gem returned to her podium. Clarice led Harry to the entrance.

  ‘I don’t understand why this number is on the back of our cards,’ Clarice said. ‘And then one of them turns out to be this weirdo.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  ‘You showed me two pictures. The other guy – he also had a card?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Harry said, thinking of Zak Godwin, who’d eaten every piece of mirror in his home. ‘But you won’t need to worry about him coming around.’

  * * *

  On the way back to the car, Harry had a thought. He pulled out his phone and dialled Phil.

  ‘Hey, Phil, it’s Harry.’

  ‘Hey, Harry. What can I do for you?’

  ‘You know how I found that weird note at Godwin’s house?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Did you find anything similar at the other crime scenes?’

  ‘Hang on.’

  Harry waited. At the other end of the line, he could hear Phil tapping away on his computer.

  ‘No. But . . .’

  ‘Someone could have missed it.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Have you got anything back from the lab?’

  ‘Nope. They’ve got a massive backlog.’

  ‘Figured as much. I was wondering, can I have a look at the cherry picker?’

  ‘Ah . . . yeah, I guess. Hang on, I’ll see where it is.’ Another pause. More typing. ‘They’ve towed it out to the police compound. I’ll get you the address.’

  Harry pulled on his sunglasses while he was waiting. Even though it was winter, it was hot. People on their lunch breaks milled around him. He leant against a planter box and watched a nervous punter hanging around outside the strip club. The man glanced up and down the street once before taking the plunge and disappearing into the club’s shadowy depths.

  ‘Here you go,’ Phil said, then gave Harry an address. ‘When you get there, tell them you’ve got clearance to inspect the vehicle. I’ll put a note on the file for them.’

  ‘Thanks, Phil.’

  * * *

  Harry took a one-hour drive west of the city. The compound was surrounded by rusty old fences, entwined with long dry grass and vines bearing purple flowers. The Police Impound Yard sign was faded. It was even hotter out here, and Harry was dripping with sweat by the time he made it to the office.

  It was blessedly cool inside. Enough so that Harry could forgive the budget minimalist furnishings: drab grey carpet and matching cinderblock walls. The desk and the wall clock looked like hand-me-downs from police HQ, circa 1974. A bored constable checked Harry’s request on a computer that looked like it was thirty years old, and directed him to the rear of the compound. Of course it would have to be right at the back.

  ‘Watch out for snakes,’ the constable said.

  ‘Thanks.’

  Harry followed the rutted dirt track between rows and rows of cars. Most of them had the tell-tale marks of fingerprint dust around the door handles and inside. Some had been in accidents. Others sat on flat tyres. The further towards the rear of the compound he went, the older the cars got.

  The white cherry picker sat in an old corrugated iron shed. It wasn’t hard to tell that this was the right cherry picker – it was the only one in the yard. If it was sentient, it would be thinking, ‘What the fuck am I doing here?’ The basket was wrapped in police tape. Harry could just make out two blackened hand prints. He told himself the smell of cooked pork was just his imagination.

  He walked around to the front of the vehicle and pulled the passenger-side door open, then stepped back as a rush of hot air hit him. A copy of a Queensland Police inspection checklist sat on the bench seat, blue ticks jumping off the page.

  Harry pulled the glovebox open and rifled around inside it. Rego papers, a faded safety checklist, a dog-eared skin mag, a shopping list (milk, Winnie Blues, taco kit). He closed the glovebox. Too obvious.

  He searched under the mat on the passenger side, then on the driver’s side. Nothing but dirt and a desiccated gecko. He closed the door, stood back from the vehicle. Just behind the cab was a storage compartment marked with a green cross. The press button release was dusted with fingerprin
t powder. He tried the button, half expecting it to be locked, but it popped open. He pulled and the door popped up on its hydraulic arm. The first aid kit filled most of the space. Next to it, a defibrillator and a fire blanket in its heavy plastic bag. He pulled the first aid kit out, then the other gear. At first glance it looked like there was nothing else, but then – there.

  A piece of paper, rolled up and pressed into the corner. Harry gently pulled it out. It was stiff and slightly faded, but it was clear it hadn’t been here as long as the porn mag in the glovebox.

  Harry gently unfolded it, careful not to rip it, but he knew what it was going to have on it. That’s why he’d come all this way. The piece of paper was dominated by an inverted pentagram, with symbols marking each point and the centre of the pentagram. He didn’t have to compare it with the picture on his phone. He knew it’d be a match.

  CHAPTER 15

  Harry zipped his jacket and got out of his car, hunching his shoulders against the wind blowing across Marchant Park. A few straggly pines swayed back and forth in the wind, but the park was mostly sportsfields and grassy hills. He’d been here many times in his Chermside Chronicle days, usually to interview Little Athletics stars. Kids ran up and down the hills, with parents or coaches looking on. A dad knelt on a kite, holding it while he tried to tie the string. A toddler with red cheeks and a runny nose watched.

  There was a graffiti-scarred sun shelter with seats underneath, electric barbecues, and benches overlooking the strange white building that Harry had once worked in. An artefact of eighties architecture, it looked like an alien spaceship that had crash landed. Harry had considered visiting Miles, his old editor, but dismissed the idea. That part of his life was over, but he was worried he would end up getting sucked back into it.

  Harry didn’t know what Johnny looked like. He’d said in his email, I’ll see you there, not, You’ll see me there, so Harry presumed Johnny knew what he looked like. There were certainly enough photos of Harry online and in the papers after his big story last year.

  He strode up the hill, glad of an excuse to get his legs working and warm up. He continued past the benches to the top of the hill, then turned and looked back at the car park. This would be a good place to go for a run, he thought, although probably not that good that it would be worth driving all this way. Jim was still pressuring him to join this martial arts tournament that was coming up, and Harry thought he’d give it a go. With so much else going on, the tournament would provide something different to focus on.