by Jenny Spence
There are no security cameras on our floor, so I take him through and show him Helena’s office.
“What about this other guy, the one you had lunch with?” he says.
“Brett? He seems pretty harmless.”
“Better check him out too.”
“Okay,” I say. “Whatever you think.”
He plugs memory sticks into both computers and sets to work, running from one to the other. The passwords don’t seem to hold him up for long. I retreat to my office, where I can set up the appearance of working and keep an eye on the lifts, just in case.
To pass the time, I pull my report to Derek off the cloud and try to get it finished. He’ll be pleased to hear that we’ve figured it all out and decided to hand the investigation over to the police. I can’t tell him everything the guys have been doing, so I’m carefully implying that all the things we’ve discovered were in the files on that CD. I don’t mention the contact I’ve had with Steve, either. Derek would be appalled at the notion of Steve as my self-appointed bodyguard.
I get so absorbed in the report that it takes me a second to realise that I’ve just heard a “ding” from the lift lobby.
I grab my phone and press the Last Call button.
“Someone’s coming,” I hiss.
I move as casually as I can to the door of my office, in time to see Brett stepping out of the lift. My heart stops.
“Hello!” I say. “I thought you’d gone.”
“I’ve just been for a few drinks with some mates,” he says. I can smell it on him. “And I remembered I bought a jacket today, forgot to take it with me.” He gestures towards the open office at the end of the corridor, where he has his desk.
“Oh!” I laugh. “I’m always doing that. Is it for a special occasion?” I add, backing into my office as I talk so he’s forced to move with me.
“Well, never know. Might wear it over the weekend.”
“Oh, right. Got something nice planned?” I’m not going to be able to hold him any longer.
“Nothing special.” He inclines his head. “Better grab it and get going.”
Now there’s someone coming along the corridor: a slight figure in a blue and yellow raincoat, walking quickly with his head down.
“Oh, there goes See-yu,” says Brett. “See you, See-yu.” He giggles.
The figure gives a little wave without turning his head and passes on towards the lifts. I think I might breathe again sometime soon. Brett walks carefully down the corridor to his desk.
Much later, after I get home, I call Steve.
“That was a stroke of luck, the raincoat.”
“I know. It was just hanging there on a hook. I’ve seen an Asian guy coming in and out of your office, wearing it. Thought I might get away with that.”
“Yeah, I’ll have to get it back to him somehow. Drop it off to me when you bring Miranda, and I’ll go in extra early on Monday.”
“Sure.”
“Did you get much?”
“Enough. It’ll take me a while to go through it.”
“Steve, I haven’t had a chance to tell you, but the author of that document, that Professor Bartholomew, was in a car accident a few months ago, and he’s got irreversible brain damage. That seems a bit sinister to me. It’d be good if you could find out more about it.”
“News archives?”
“I tried that, but no luck. I thought there might be some police records.”
“That’s a big ask, Elly. What happened to NO HACKING, all in caps?”
“Of course, you’re right. God knows what would happen if you get caught.”
“Elly, I won’t get caught.”
“Okay. Be careful. Oh, I suppose I don’t have to tell you that.”
“That’s right. You don’t.”
I hang up, smiling, and get into bed for a big dose of Wolf Hall. I think I’ve earned a reward for this week’s work, and I have a feeling my troubles are nearly over.
All in all, even though there’s a bit more work to be done, I’m feeling pretty pleased with myself.
The Greeks call that hubris.
31
I’m enjoying a late lunch on Saturday, papers strewn everywhere, after stocking up with good things from the Marrickville Market, when my phone trills.
“Mum? It’s me.”
“Ah, good. Look, we need to be really careful when you come up here, so I’m going to give you some instructions, and you have to follow them precisely. Are you with me?”
“I guess so.”
“We’re not going to be safe until all this is over, love. It won’t be too long now.”
“Is it . . . Mum, would I be able to get some stuff from the house? I’d only be there a minute.”
“Absolutely not! Don’t you go anywhere near the house!”
“Well, what if I got a friend to . . .”
“No, Miranda. If anyone goes to the house they could be followed, and that could lead someone back to you, and then to me. Now, when you get off the plane, this is what you’re going to do . . .”
She’s unusually meek and obedient, and I think I’ve finally got through to her regarding the danger we’re in. The thought of her going to the house gives me palpitations, and I hope I’ve got that through to her.
I go back to the Saturday papers. The real estate section confirms what Brett told me about prices, and there’s a gossipy page about who’s buying and who’s selling in the smarter suburbs. One Helena Banfield, described as the “go-getter CEO of energy consultancy Graphite Holdings” is buying a million-dollar flat in a beautiful warehouse conversion in Woollahra. Energy consultancy? This could well be the Helena Banfield I’m working for. It fits in with the designer clothes and the general impression of an ambitious woman.
Restless, I decide I have to get out and about. To be fair to Steve and his girlfriend, I start a debate via SMS about where we might go. I also warn Steve that I’m going to be wearing a blue headscarf and dark glasses: you can’t be too careful.
As a result, although I never actually catch sight of them, they accompany me on a ferry ride to Cockatoo Island, where we take in an avant garde installation of video art, a quick visit to the Art Gallery, which is about to close, and a surprisingly good blockbuster action movie in the expensive seats at the Entertainment Quarter. After that I manage to find a bus back to Newtown, where I’m not the only passenger still wearing dark glasses after sundown. I send Steve a last message:
You can do what you like now. I’m not going to stir again.
On Sunday morning Miranda arrives at my apartment in a state of high excitement. She has dressed for the occasion in a trench-coat newly acquired from Savers, our favourite second-hand clothes shop, and a red beret. Like my workmates, she’s finding this great fun.
Later, she tells me all about her cloak-and-dagger journey from the airport. She followed my instructions to the letter, catching the airport train and sending a text to the number I gave her. “Second carriage from back”, it read. Then she snapped a picture of herself and sent that to the same number.
“When we stopped at Circular Quay,” she tells me, “this Asian kid got on and sat next to me. Honestly, Mum, I never thought he’d be the connection! I was looking round for someone like, you know, Johnny Depp. Then he whispered in my ear, like, ‘Do what I do. Stay a few metres behind.’ ”
They get off the train at Town Hall, switch to another platform and take the next train. He says: “Get off at Newtown and turn left,” then disappears. She doesn’t see him again until she’s wandering, uncertain, along King Street. He walks briskly towards her from the opposite direction, now wearing a blue and yellow raincoat with the hood up. As they’re about to come face-to-face he turns into a narrow side street. She hesitates.
“Come on,” he whispers.
They arrive at my place together. Miranda shrieks when she sees me, and I grab her for a hug and then introduce them properly. I don’t usually mix my work and private lives, and Derek is the
only person from work Miranda’s met before.
Miranda exclaims about my clothes and hair as Steve watches on nonplussed.
“She’s not used to me looking like this,” I explain to him.
“I love it!” she says. “It makes you look so much younger. It’s a bit freaky. But if you’re going to go that way you should have the hair even shorter, and – you know – really, really blonde. Like Annie Lennox.”
“I don’t think so!” I say, putting the kettle on. “I’m growing it back as soon as I can. I want to be me again.”
Once we’re all sipping tea I ask Steve, “Did you get much on Friday night?”
“Yes.”
“Any ideas?” I prompt.
“Yes.”
“Well?”
“Too soon yet,” he says with a shrug, and I know I’m not going to get any more out of him.
Miranda looks from one of us to the other.
“Do you mind telling me what you’re talking about?” she inquires.
“Don’t you worry,” I say. “You’ve come here for a holiday. I promise I’ll tell you the whole story when it’s over.”
Steve finishes his tea and rinses the cup. “Enjoy Sydney, Miranda.”
“I will. Thanks for the escort.” She gives him her brightest smile, and he’s gone.
“So, do you want to hit the streets?” I ask Miranda.
We prepare to go out for coffee, and Miranda insists on refining my disguise. To my consternation she’s brought a couple of wigs that belong to a friend. I think they look awfully fake, but once I’m wearing the long chestnut one with her trench coat and beret it doesn’t look too bad. She completes the effect with some bright red lipstick, which makes my whole face look startlingly different.
Coffee stretches to lunch, then Miranda wants to stroll up and down, window-shopping. There are tempting winter sales on everywhere. I go along with her, feeling absurdly safe behind the über-chic veneer that’s so unlike me. Miranda is appalled to find that I won’t use my credit card, and I’m careful not to let her know that I’ve still got a substantial amount of cash. She does coax me into trying on a clingy knitted dress in a beautiful cobalt blue.
“Mum, if you don’t buy that dress I’m never going to speak to you again,” she declares. Amazed at how good it looks, I buy the dress and squeeze out the money for some boots Miranda’s fallen in love with; which of course was part of her strategy.
All afternoon Miranda keeps me laughing with stories about Augusta Creek, the kids at the school, the other teachers and the inhabitants of the town.
“What happened to Gareth?” I ask. “You didn’t mention him after the first day.”
“Oh yeah, Gareth,” she smiles. “He wasn’t bad looking, and the kids loved him. Course, he’s got a bit to learn about discipline. He’s not as tough as me.”
“It’s all that bar work,” I say, hanging on every syllable.
“I suppose you had me teamed up with him?” she says.
“Course not!”
“Mum, he’s engaged.”
“Drat!” I give her a shove. “You’re not looking hard enough.”
We giggle like schoolgirls, tottering along the footpath.
“I can picture you at work now,” she says, as we make our way back towards my flat. “Are there many guys like Steve?”
“In what sense like him?”
“You know, running round doing your bidding?”
“Doing my bidding? I don’t tell him what to do. We work together.”
“Oh, I thought you were his boss. It must be just your bossy manner.”
“What! Who are you talking about? I’m the least bossy person I know.”
“Yeah, right!” She’s laughing. “You’re a total control freak.”
“So I suppose I should have let you run across the road when you were little, just to show I was a nice laid-back hippie mum like your Grandma?”
“Grandma was cool,” she says. “Wouldn’t she have loved this?” She waves her hand around. We’re just passing a tiny triangular park with a miniature bandstand, where a folksy band is playing with more enthusiasm than skill. I think one of those instruments is a sitar. An unshaven man wearing a dress is swaying to the music, his eyes shut, oblivious to his surroundings. There are girls walking by in Indian dresses with tinkling bells, wafting incense. A couple of young families with strollers and dogs have stopped to listen. Two men in their sixties with long grey hair, one sporting a beard and a woven headband, are locked in an earnest discussion, waving their hands around. The sun is low in the sky, and a rich golden light slants across the scene.
We stroll back with our arms around each other. After another cup of tea she gets her bags and I take her to the station and put her on the train with far too many instructions.
“It’s okay, Mum, I know how to get there,” she says patiently.
“Okay, give my love to Sarah and don’t stay out too late at night.”
“Mum!”
When our children were young, Diana and I agreed that if one of us died, the other would take responsibility for her children. We put it in our wills. It was the only option that made sense, and Miranda and Harry were like brother and sister anyway. As for Chloe – in those dark days when she first disappeared I felt it very keenly, being a kind of standby parent, and I know I’ll never be entirely free of her.
But now our kids are all over twenty-one, and theoretically they’re on their own. As the train carries Miranda into the night and the bond that holds us together stretches thin, the fear that stalked me in Melbourne returns for a moment, and I look around uneasily for CCTV cameras. At least she’s out of it.
32
Monday promises to be a long day, especially as I go in early to return the raincoat. As I had predicted, the office is empty at eight o’clock in the morning.
I work doggedly on the environmental impact sections of the application, going through long lists of plants and checking the spelling of botanical names. Whenever I get to a descriptive bit I ponder it, looking for anything odd, but everything I find seems to be above board.
My phone is stubbornly silent. I keep checking news sites on the net, just in case.
At ten-thirty I go out for a coffee. On the way back my phone vibrates. It’s an SMS from Steve: Have you seen news The lift takes an eternity. My screen has locked and it takes a couple of goes to get my password right. At last, I see the headline:
“Human remains found in Yarra Ranges National Park”
It’s a brand new story and there are hardly any details yet, but at least it says the “remains” – I hate that word – were found by searchers, not by bushwalkers, or accidentally in some other way. So Lewis did send someone up there to look, I muse, breathless with excitement. I start pointlessly trawling through every news site on the net, but of course they all have exactly the same story, with exactly the same lack of detail.
I send an SMS to Steve:
It’s got to be him. Can’t wait for more info.
But wait we must. As the day wears on the story gradually takes shape. The gender of the body is not known. Speculation grows about the hiker missing since late last year. Talbot is named eventually and the story of his disappearance is rehashed. The police refuse to confirm or deny anything, nor is there anything specific about where the body was found. But I know it’s Talbot and I feel a weight starting to lift off me.
At lunchtime Steve and I buy sandwiches and adjourn to Hyde Park for lunch. I find a nice spot in semi-shade on the grass with my back to a tree, while he prefers to sit on a park bench about thirty metres away. We talk on the phone while we eat.
“What about your James Bond mission?” I ask. “What did you find out?”
“I think Brett’s clean,” he says. “But I don’t know about Helena.”
“Why? What did you find?”
“She doesn’t keep many files on that machine. She’s careful. But I think she’s working for that consortium.”
“That wouldn’t surprise me.”
“I’m gonna tap her email.”
“Oh God, Steve, you can’t do that!”
“Only way to find out what she’s up to.”
“Did you find out anything about the professor’s accident?”
“Yeah,” he says. “It was on the F2, the main freeway north, in the first week of February. Lost control of the car, went over the edge. There are places where there’s quite a drop, but some trees broke his fall, and he survived.”
“Nasty, though.”
“Alcohol involved.”
“Was he alone in the car?”
“Apparently.”
“What did you say the date was?”
“February sixth or seventh, I think.”
“He signed off the document on the fourth,” I say.
“Fishy.”
“What it looks like,” I muse, “is that he wrote something different, something they didn’t like, and signed it off. So then he had his accident, and it left them free to substitute this other stuff before everything got reviewed and finalised.”
“‘Them’ being?” he asks.
“Don’t know. Somehow, I think it’s not Brett, but I’m not so sure about Helena.”
“You think she wrote the dodgy bit?”
“Possibly, but it’s like – it’s quite cleverly done, like it was done by a professional writer.”
“Like you?”
“Exactly,” I say. “I’m ashamed to tell you this, but I got manoeuvred into creating a fake document once. The company I was working for was financed by an R & D grant, and they hadn’t done the research. Then someone found out they were getting a flying visit from the auditors, like, the next day.”
“Tricky.”
“Yes, so I had to put together this fifty-page research paper. I just got a list of the vocabulary that would be in it and pulled stuff off the net, more or less at random. I made sure each paragraph started well, peppered it with the right words and formatted it beautifully.”