by Alex Palmer
As Clive had said, Sara McLeod stayed with her all the way to the Westfield shopping plaza at Parramatta. Grace parked on the second floor of the multi-storeyed centre and looked around. The black Porsche cruised in behind her, apparently looking for a parking spot. Grace left her car and walked slowly out to the concourse to find a café. Surrounded by bright lights and hurrying people, the full impact of the morning hit her. She felt giddy on her feet.
She looked around. Sara McLeod had followed her out with no attempt at disguise. As soon as Grace was sure the woman had seen her, she went into the women’s toilets and was sick. They would hear that on the other end of the line. Clive would hear it. Too bad. She washed her face and refreshed her make-up. The pale mask looked back from the mirror. This isn’t who I am. This is just a skin I can peel off when I go home. I am not a cheap blackmailer. I’m not someone who wants other people to die.
Straightening her backbone, she walked out to the concourse again and found a coffee shop with tables set outside where she could be seen. This time, she didn’t see Sara. Instead, the full range of Sydney’s population passed by: giggling girls in headscarves; African women in clothes whose radiant colours were even more vibrant against their black skin; men in traditional Muslim dress; Australians generally from any background, immigrant and indigenous, going about their business. She thought that here she could disappear into the crowd and feel anonymous; it would ease her mind.
She sat over her coffee until the last of it was cold in the bottom of her cup. Half an hour had passed. She got to her feet, paid and had just walked into the car park when Joel Griffin stepped out into her path. She stopped.
‘Hello, Grace. You remember me. We met yesterday.’
‘This is your neighbourhood, is it?’ she asked.
‘I have clients out here. Not just the Jovanovs.’ He was a big man, tall. Standing in front of her, his bulk seemed more solid. His sharp blue eyes never seemed to leave her face. ‘Have you got any time?’
‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘Why?’
‘Come and sit with me in my car for a while. We can talk privately there. I’ll put my keys where you can see them if you don’t trust me.’
‘What have you got to say?’
‘Something to our mutual benefit. Come on. I won’t hurt you.’
‘All right,’ she said.
In the car, the dark blue Audi she’d seen outside the Jovanovs’ house, he put his keys on top of the dashboard.
‘You didn’t have much luck with Sophie the other day,’ he said. ‘Why did you show her that picture?’
‘I wanted to see how she’d react.’
He turned to look at her. ‘You’re an attractive woman. I would have said that a woman with a face like yours doesn’t need to do this kind of work. Why do you do it? Is it because your partner doesn’t keep you? Why don’t you want to marry him? Because he’s not good enough for you? Surely you could find someone with a lot more money than he’s got.’
Grace suppressed profound insult behind her mask. ‘What do you want?’ she asked.
‘I hear you’ve got something to sell.’
‘Who told you that?’
He smiled. ‘A client. But you see, I can’t tally the woman I saw yesterday, the one who genuinely cares about people, with the one who wants to make a deal. One of you has to be a fake.’
‘Who’s your client?’
‘We don’t talk about my client. We talk about you. That’s quite a scar Chris gave you. He told me a lot about you. Twice he almost killed you. Twice you walked away. The second time, one flick of his lighter and you wouldn’t have the face you’ve got now. You’d be lucky to be alive.’
No, you’re wrong, Grace thought. That first time, he didn’t want to kill me. He wanted me to remember him and suffer. That’s the only reason I’m still alive. The second time, who knew what he meant to do? Scar beyond repair? Kill? Had he even thought about it past seeing the flames?
An extraordinary fear took hold of her: that Newell was here, in the back seat. Calmly, she got out of the car and stepped away from it. The dark-tinted windows obscured whether anyone was in the back seat or not. Griffin followed, standing on the other side of the car. He leaned over the top and stared at her.
‘There’s no one in the back seat,’ he said. ‘Look.’
He walked around and opened the back door. There was no one there. She looked around. Not far away, a couple were loading groceries into their car. The man turned and wheeled the shopping trolley away. Her backup.
‘He’s not here,’ Griffin said, still watching her.
She got back into the car but didn’t speak.
‘That got to you,’ he said. ‘You’ve been there and you’ve walked away. You know what it means to look someone in the eyes who wants to kill you. That makes you very special.’
‘Do you want to talk business? Or do you just want to talk crap?’
She spoke with such anger that he recoiled slightly. Then he smiled. Even so, she caught a glimpse of something else in his face. The sense that somehow this was an unjustified insult aimed at him. She was glad she had got under his skin.
‘How do I know this is business?’ he said. ‘I can see that maybe you think your life is a failure and this is a path you want to take. But before my client puts himself on the line, I want you to prove yourself.’
‘Tell your client that’s his problem,’ she said.
‘No, it’s yours.’
‘Why is it mine?’ She was angry. It was easy to act this part. ‘If your client wants to deal, let him deal. If he doesn’t, then Narelle goes to gaol. How long do you think she’ll last faced with that prospect. Everything she knows, we’ll know. Tell him that this time he’s not calling the shots.’
Griffin laughed. ‘What’s this worth to you? What do you expect to get out of it?’
‘Maybe what I’m looking for is a long-term source of income. There are deep waters here. I want to find out what’s really going on. I already know enough to close Life’s Pleasures down right now. Maybe there’s a lot more than a passport in this for me, if I work it right. You can tell your client that too.’
He looked at her. ‘Do you think we could hit it off?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe if you stop talking about Newell, I’ll think about it,’ she said.
He was silent for a while. ‘Is it true what they say about you and your partner?’
‘Like what?’
‘You made him leave the police. He hasn’t forgiven you for that. He’s got a lot of enemies and he’s worried they’re going to come after him. Sometimes he loses it and knocks you around.’
Where did his mind live? In the garbage heap where that story belonged? Perhaps he would mistake her expression for humiliation at a truth revealed rather than for the shock and anger it was.
‘Who said that?’ Her tone was more dangerous than she’d intended.
‘In some quarters, it’s what they say,’ Griffin replied.
‘Don’t go there,’ she said. ‘Don’t even think about going there.’
‘Does that mean he does or he doesn’t?’
‘It means, don’t go there.’
Again he was silent.
‘Give me your number,’ he said. ‘I’ll call you in twenty-four hours. That was your deadline, wasn’t it?’
‘I’ll be waiting.’
‘Next time, maybe we can have a little down time together.’
‘Maybe. If you can find something more interesting to talk about,’ she said and got out. She shut the car door behind her and walked away, not looking back.
He didn’t wait; he started his car and was gone before she reached hers. She got into her car and gave him time to get clear. Suddenly aware that her head was throbbing badly, she drove out of the car park. She passed the black Porsche still in its parking bay. There was no sign of Sara.
‘I’m leaving now,’ she said to her wire. ‘Target has already left.’
Out on the road, Cliv
e rang.
‘How are you?’ he asked.
‘Tired,’ she said.
‘Did you know Newell had told Griffin about your connection to him?’
Do I lie? This time, there was no choice. It had to be the truth. ‘Yes.’
‘When did you find out?’
‘Griffin spoke to Harrigan the day Newell escaped and told him. We thought it was an attempt at blackmail.’
‘And you didn’t tell me.’
‘We wanted to handle it ourselves.’
‘Even after yesterday when he turned up as Sophie Jovanov’s lawyer?’
‘It’s a very personal matter,’ Grace said.
‘I had a right to know,’ Clive said. ‘The more personal, the more I need to know. That applies to anything to do with you.’
No, you don’t.
‘Orion does,’ Grace replied. ‘I don’t know about you personally.’
‘Yes, I do, and I think you’ll find that out. We’ll talk about it at the debrief. Once that’s over, you can go home early. You need to recoup.’ Then he was gone.
Utterly drained, she drove carefully. It was a long way from Parramatta to Mascot, a journey along busy roads, dodging trucks and avoiding drivers who seemed to have no fear for their own lives or concern for anyone else’s.
There was no logic to the rumours that had surrounded her and Paul since the start of their relationship. When she first started seeing him, she had been accused of sleeping her way to the top; now she was accused of dragging him out of the police service for her own ends. But she had never before heard it said that Paul hit her. The gossip was like a poison; let it into your mind and it would destroy your happiness.
She was uncertain why Griffin had harped on about marriage. If she asked herself why she and Paul had never discussed it, she realised that on her side it had seemed too much like tempting fate. She had more happiness in her life than she had ever expected to achieve. But in the past, everything she had valued had proved fragile. She didn’t want to risk losing what she had now by asking too much of fate. Take one step too many and who knew what might happen, what thunderbolts might be thrown? Leave things the way they were, they were fine just like that.
She would go home early, she would collect Ellie from childcare and they would spend what was left of the afternoon together. She needed that refreshment. Otherwise some part of her might start to atrophy; feelings like compassion or empathy might die. Small things like that.
14
Harrigan’s investigations took him across the sprawling western Sydney suburbs to the foothills of the Blue Mountains, then up onto the Great Western Highway that cut across into the interior of the continent. Katoomba was the urban centre of the ribbon of small towns that clustered the length of this road, which, in parallel with the railway line, ran along the spine of the low, forest-covered mountains. He reached there late morning, and looked for parking in the steep, chaotic street near the railway station where the grand old Carrington Hotel stood and where the restaurants and coffee shops were full of holiday-makers and honeymooners.
Harrigan’s appointment was at a solicitor’s office, a shopfront close to the top of the town. He let himself into a neatly if modestly furnished reception area. ‘Mr Lambert’s waiting for you,’ the receptionist said and took him through to a smallish office. Simon Lambert got to his feet to offer his hand. There was a subdued fussiness to his dress, down to the waistcoat and bow tie. Possibly he was as much as sixty. His dark curly hair was turning white.
‘Thanks for making the time to see me,’ Harrigan said.
‘You’re quite well known in this profession. I’m sure you know that. Please sit down. Where would you like to start this conversation?’
‘Dr Amelie Santos. You were her solicitors.’
‘We were. Why is that a concern of yours?’
‘I have a client who’s concerned with the affairs of Frank Wells. I’ve already spoken to Frank. Now I’m seeking some information from you.’
‘Yes, I remember Mr Wells,’ the solicitor said dryly. ‘His existence was a shock to us all. I directed my staff not to deal with him after the first two phone calls. If you’ll excuse my language, he told my receptionist to get fucked. I wasn’t going to have us put up with that.’
‘Did you have any idea that Dr Santos had a son?’
‘None. In fact, until Mr Wells’s solicitor sent us the proof, I didn’t believe it. I thought he was trying it on. I still can’t connect the man I spoke to on the phone with the woman I knew.’
‘You knew nothing about her husband?’
‘Nothing at all, and I certainly would never have asked her.’
‘Did Dr Santos have any kind of companion in her life, even a close friend?’
‘None that I knew of,’ Lambert replied. ‘Her work meant everything to her. I think it’s fair to say it took the place of any personal relationship.’
‘You seem to know her well.’
‘I first met her when she was in her late sixties.’ The solicitor smiled wryly. ‘More than twenty years ago now, when I was a little younger myself. She was planning on retiring up here and she wanted to make her will. Her family had a long-standing connection with the area.’
‘Which was?’
‘Her grandfather built a holiday house at Blackheath in the 1880s. He was a very well-known Sydney barrister in his day. So was his son, Amelie’s father. Apparently neither of them could stand Sydney’s humidity during the summer. The family always came up to the mountains for Christmas. I remember Amelie talking about coming up by steam train. It was a very fond memory for her. She planned to live out her retirement there. As it happened, she didn’t actually fully retire until she was in her seventies. She was considered a very fine doctor. She still had people consulting with her from time to time even in retirement.’
‘Do you know an Ian Blackmore?’ Harrigan asked.
Lambert gave a thin-lipped smile, more chagrin than anything else. ‘Mr Blackmore. No, I’d never heard of him before. When I saw that letter on our letterhead, which we’d obviously never written, I didn’t know what to think.’ He paused. ‘May I ask why you want to know all this?’
‘As well as being the son of Dr Santos, Frank Wells was also the father of a boy called Craig Wells. That boy murdered his mother when he was eighteen. At the time it was believed he also committed suicide. I’m investigating the possibility he may still be alive.’
‘Do you have a description of this man?’
‘No.’
Lambert was silent for a few moments.
‘Presumably such a man would be dangerous,’ he said.
‘Very dangerous. It was a brutal and premeditated murder. If he is still alive, then it means someone else died in his place.’
‘Then I may have some useful information. Amelie did move up here when she retired and she did live in the house at Blackheath. It was an isolated existence for a woman of her age but she gave me to understand she valued her privacy. When she was in her eighties she was forced to accept home care. Visits from the community nurses to help her wash and dress, that sort of thing. Then early one morning one of these nurses arrived to find Amelie lying in her nightgown on her front path. This nurse was convinced it wasn’t a fall. She was very sure Amelie had taken a blow to the side of the head. It left a wound that never really healed.’
‘Did this nurse see anyone else at the house at the time?’
‘No, but she wouldn’t have been paying any attention to that. She was busy calling an ambulance. If there had been someone there, they could have easily got out through the back of the house. Amelie never recovered and she was eventually sent to Meadowbank Aged Care, which is near the Three Sisters here. By this time she was very confused. Her usually clear-headed self was quite gone. The nursing staff didn’t expect her to live very long and they requested she be assessed for mental competency by the local health care service. However, shortly after she was admitted to Meadowbank she began to rece
ive a visitor, a woman.’
‘Who was this woman?’
‘She gave her name as Nadine Patterson, and told the nursing staff she was a friend who had been concerned for Amelie’s welfare for some time.’
‘Did you meet her?’ he asked.
‘Only once. You see, as her solicitor, I had only a limited power of attorney over Amelie’s affairs. Which meant that if Amelie was assessed as mentally competent, then she would remain in control of her assets. However, if she was declared incompetent, then she had a mechanism set up whereby all her assets would remain in trust until she died, when her will would be executed. As it happened, Amelie had left her entire estate to a medical charity, Medicine International. It was a very generous bequest.’
‘Was she mentally competent?’
‘No. Not in my opinion anyway. But the South Western Health Care Service in the form of one Kylie Sutcliffe disagreed.’
‘With what result?’
‘I was called down to Meadowbank one day to make a deed of gift. Amelie was deeding the house at Blackheath, including all its contents, and a very substantial sum of money, virtually all the readily available money she had, to the Shillingworth Trust as it was called.’
‘Are you sure about that name?’ Harrigan asked.
‘Very. Do you know it?’
‘I’ve come across it in my investigations before today. You agreed to do this for her?’
‘In a way, that’s the point I’m making. I seriously thought about challenging it. Nadine Patterson was one of the trustees. It seemed such blatant exploitation. But Amelie, who had regained a certain lucidity by this time, begged me not to. She said to please just let her make the gift and finish with it. She was so distressed that I went ahead. Then she directed the nursing staff never to let this Nadine Patterson in again. As it was, the woman never came back.’
‘She’d got what she came for,’ Harrigan said. ‘Can you describe her?’
‘I only met her once when she came to collect the legal papers. She was tall, very stylish, red hair, attractive. Very distant. Barely polite and only at first. You see, I don’t want to be harsh, but the woman who made the assessment that Amelie was mentally competent, when she clearly wasn’t, was a single woman who wasn’t particularly young or pretty or interesting.’