The Simple Death

by Michael Duffy

  Rostov liked the idea of an accident. ‘He could have fallen off under the influence of pethidine. That wall around the top decks is pretty low.’

  ‘I rang a doctor mate,’ McIver said, ‘reckons that’s possible but not likely. The effects are like heroin, so you’d think someone could lose control and topple off. But like he says, the world is full of smack users, and when did you hear one of them falling off the Manly Ferry?’ He scratched his jaw. ‘Austin’s a worry.’ Stating the obvious, but if you didn’t do that from time to time, you could lose sight of it.

  ‘A fucking druggie,’ said Rostov.

  Peters had taken one of the pens from his shirt pocket and was biting the end. He looked at Rostov, then Troy. ‘What do you reckon?’

  ‘I think Austin was telling the truth.’

  Peters frowned. ‘Maybe he killed Pearson himself, thought this would throw us off the scent. He sees the newspaper story, realises we’ll look at the CCTV and spot him, and comes up with this version.’

  ‘Why would we spot him, or link him to Pearson?’

  ‘You’re being too logical. He’s a junkie, who knows what’s in his mind?’

  ‘Why would he kill Pearson?’ said Conti.

  ‘Might have been his drug dealer, they fell out.’

  ‘They live in different parts of the city,’ she said. ‘And pethidine leads back to the hospital, not to Austin.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Peters said, and glanced at McIver. The sergeant was quiet, as though thinking of something else. Peters said to him, ‘Let’s make this a full investigation. Check all the complainants who might have it in for Pearson because of his job.’ He stood up. ‘Plus the people who were at the party in the flat last week, who might have planted the pethidine. That’s two big groups.’

  McIver nodded and made a note on the pad in front of him, and abruptly Peters walked out. Everyone in the room relaxed. It was probably a good quality in a manager, Troy thought, to make people uneasy by your mere presence.

  Mac allocated tasks. He would talk to Pearson’s parents, not that there was anything to say. Another detective was obtaining reverse call charge records for Mark and Emily. There was a brief discussion about whether to get cell dumps from the mobile phone towers at Manly and Circular Quay, rejected by McIver on grounds of expense. Other detectives were making initial inquiries of Mark’s friends. Conti and Rostov went off to talk to commuters coming off the ferry that evening, while Troy stayed to help Mac organise resources.

  ‘It’s a big job,’ Troy said, ‘for a missing person. Nothing but the best for the judiciary?’

  ‘What Peters thinks,’ McIver said flatly. He pushed across David Saunders’ phone number.

  Troy called and arranged to meet him in the morning, said, ‘There’s an issue to do with access to pethidine, too. I’d like someone to tell us if Mark could have obtained any. Speaking hypothetically.’

  ‘You’re saying Mark uses pethidine?’ Saunders had a deep voice, not without charm, but now it had gone a little dull.

  ‘That would surprise you?’

  ‘Of course.’ Then, ‘Mark Pearson, when you meet him, is a man of character. It’s not possible.’

  Troy didn’t push it; there would be time tomorrow. He said goodbye.

  ‘Can I just say,’ said Saunders before Troy could hang up, ‘Mark is a star here. He’s achieved great things in a short period.’

  ‘Thanks for that.’

  ‘I mean special. The word’s overused, but that’s Mark Pearson. The capacity for absorbing new material, the hard work, the persistence.’ Saunders was obviously used to being listened to with respect.

  Troy said, ‘I have to go now.’

  ‘You’re coming at this from the wrong—’

  Troy murmured farewell again and hung up. People had trouble adjusting to the emotional requirements of a homicide investigation. It was best to start educating them early.

  He told McIver what Saunders had said and the sergeant raised his eyebrows, no need to speak. If Mark Pearson was so good, why had he disappeared? He might be in hiding or he might be dead. Either possibility made him special, but not in the way David Saunders meant.

  TUESDAY

  Eight

  Troy was on the beach by five thirty, avoiding the slop of wet sand at the water’s edge, seeking the firmer surface that would allow him to run as fast as possible. It was difficult, made you realise why you had ankles, but when he was in a certain frame of mind, usually at the start of an investigation, it was more satisfying than running footpaths.

  After half an hour he was soaked in sweat and plunged into the sea, swimming strongly out beyond the waves, which were too feeble today for body surfing. Lay on his back a while, felt the ocean’s subdued pulse. It was as though the early-morning heat had sucked the energy from the water.

  He turned over and swam parallel to the beach, taking advantage of the flat conditions to push himself from one end to the other. There was no rip today, no danger. From his time on surf patrol he knew the water’s moods here intimately. He had pulled people from its clutches, knew where the rare shark was likely to appear, had travelled its surface on a surf ski and in a motorised inflatable, and as a rower in the club surfboat. But swimming was best, because you were in the element. As he walked out of the water he felt good: a dawn spent like this, you had a head start.

  Or, that was how it had used to be. Now he walked up the hill, and with every step dreaded the return to the empty house. A year ago he’d been happily married, even if he hadn’t appreciated it at the time. The little bloke was eighteen months old and Anna had been suffering postnatal depression, refusing to even talk about it. Troy had let it get to him more than he should have. Your mind becomes hemmed in without knowing it. They hadn’t slept together for almost two years by the time he broke and went to a prostitute. Could have had an affair at work, hadn’t wanted the complication. Anna found out and left him.

  When he summarised it like that it sounded sordid, ordinary. But it wasn’t like that at all; it was his life.

  The empty house was like a reprimand, which was one reason he wanted to change it. Just last Saturday he’d had three builders along to prepare quotes. He’d told Anna but she hadn’t said anything. Even though they talked regularly he had no idea how she felt. Lately he didn’t know how he felt about it himself.

  Fortunately there was always work. If he’d been a clerk or a tradesman it mightn’t have been so good, but the intensity of Homicide took him out of himself. And today he had something to celebrate, because last night McIver had decided to put Rostov in charge of looking into the St Thomas’ complainants.

  ‘Bloke moaned he was senior to you, ought to be out and about,’ McIver had confided to Troy. ‘Man’s a competent drone, but as for the great outdoors, I wouldn’t let him walk my dog.’

  Eight officers drawn from surrounding police stations were starting this morning, in a room provided by the hospital. It was central to the investigation but tedious work, and Troy was glad to have no part of it. Glad too of the chance to spend more time with Susan Conti, who had also been spared the paper factory. Wondered if McIver was doing him a favour.

  Two hours later he parked his car near St Thomas’, where Mac and he were going to meet David Saunders. First he wanted to drop in on Luke. Although part of the hospital, the Charity Hospice was half a kilometre away, an old building taking up a whole block, with a pleasant garden surrounded by a high wall. Luke had been here once before, but the cancer had mysteriously retreated, and he’d gone back to his parish. Then the sickness had returned. It’s playing with me, he’d said when he called the other day.

  As Troy walked he thought about the television last night. Not only was there footage of Austin leaving the wharf, someone else had filmed a few minutes of the chase across the harbour on a mobile phone. The quality of th
e second film was not so good, but what was happening was clear enough once you knew the situation. According to the radio that morning, the footage was a minor hit on the internet.

  Troy found a message from McIver on his phone, saying he’d repeated history. Part of the city’s most famous crime, the Shark Arm Murder, had involved police chasing a cocaine smuggler in a motorboat around the harbour. ‘Mind you,’ the message ended, ‘they didn’t have YouTube in 1935.’

  He found he was approaching the hospice from a side he hadn’t seen before, was surprised by how big it was from this angle, three storeys high. That represented a lot of love, and a lot of pain and dying. He located the front entrance and went in. He didn’t like the place, had to force himself to enter, and when he did it felt as though his body had doubled in weight, it was harder to move. People who were dying, he had no experience, didn’t know what to say or do. His parents had died suddenly in a car accident and he’d had only one surviving grandparent. She’d gone soon after. It wasn’t something he was proud of, the way he felt now, but there was no way he could shake it. Made him think of Anna and Matt’s absence: if he had family to go back to, it might make this place easier to cope with.

  As he walked heavily towards the desk in the lobby, a nurse came by and he recognised her from his last visit. A kind face, short blonde hair, tall and solid. Like all the staff here, she did not wear a uniform. She seemed to recognise him and smiled, and he racked his mind for her name.

  ‘Julie Cornish,’ she said.

  ‘Of course. Nicholas Troy. Is Father Carillo all right?’

  ‘Never better. Well,’ she blushed, ‘you know.’ There was still a big Catholic influence here, and Troy could imagine a lot of the staff felt betrayed as well as disgusted by the news of what Luke was supposed to have done. She said, ‘Innocent until proven guilty, that’s what I say.’ He smiled his thanks. ‘Let me take you to him.’

  She led the way down a hall and up some stairs, chatting as she went. She was making it easy for him to be here and his spirits lifted a little with the unexpected kindness. She was obviously busy, taking the steps two at a time, checking to see he was keeping up.

  Luke had his own room, a bright space with a big window down one side looking out at trees.

  ‘Visitor for you, Father,’ Cornish said, going in and smoothing the bedclothes.

  Luke was in an armchair facing the window, and looked around awkwardly so he could see them. Troy put his hand on the priest’s shoulder.

  Ignoring him for the moment, Luke said, ‘I need more meat, Sister. Will you tell them?’

  Troy saw a flicker of impatience on her face.

  ‘I’ll do that. I have to go now, there’s a problem with Mr Isaacs; Dr Prasad has asked me to have a talk to him. Here’s Nicholas for you.’

  ‘I can see that,’ Luke said. ‘I’m dying of cancer, I’m not blind. Call yourself a nurse.’

  They were grinning at each other and then she was off, and Troy walked over to the window.

  ‘She runs the place,’ Luke said. ‘It’s good to see you.’

  He tried to stand, but the effort was too much and he sank back, dropping some photographs that had been lying in his lap. His hands grabbed the arms of the chair tightly, as though unaware he was seated again. Maybe he just needed to hold on to something: anything.

  Troy went to pick up the photos and he rasped, ‘Leave the bloody things.’

  Luke still appeared strong, if you ignored his pink eyes and his skin, which had turned the colour of old ivory. He was not a tall man but he was barrel-chested and had an enormous, close-shaved head. Troy remembered facing up to him in the ring fifteen years ago, wearing boxing gloves for the first time and terrified of what the big man might do to him. Luke had been about fifty then, too physically powerful to be a priest. Or so Troy had thought, not knowing priests. His parents had not been Catholic.

  Luke had educated him about violence, and anger. Troy had known violence but he hadn’t understood it, and Luke had taught him about good force and bad force, control. Looking at him now, thinking about the allegations, Troy told himself those lessons had come from somewhere. They’d come from a man who couldn’t do this thing he was accused of. He knew Luke, more than he knew almost anyone. If he didn’t know Luke, he didn’t know anything. This made him vulnerable, but it was one of those times when you had to take a stand, because otherwise a part of you would die.

  He reached down and picked up the photos, saw himself in a boxing ring, and went through the others, looking for Sam. He was not there, but he found Brigita Kalnins and her son Tim. They were standing in the backyard of the presbytery. Her hair was held back by a rubber band, the bright light exaggerating the north European planes of her face. She was wearing an old cardigan over a shapeless dress that did a good job of hiding her body. It was, he knew, a good body, not made to hide. Sam had given him a look through the hole he’d made in the bathroom wall. Troy could still recall the moment: the heat of the house, the combination of shame at what he was doing and complete absorption, as though he’d just discovered something he knew was going to be really important to him. Brigita had white skin, heavy breasts and short legs. She was the first woman he’d seen naked since he’d reached puberty. After she’d finished drying herself she’d stood in front of the mirror for a while, just looking into her own eyes. Troy had been too enthralled to move, until Sam jabbed him in the ribs and forced him aside.

  He turned the photo over and looked at the next one. It was Tim by himself, wearing a T-shirt and shorts and grinning shyly. He’d been a good kid, quiet but interested in what was going on. Troy flicked through the rest of the pictures, some showed parishioners, and couples Luke had married. There was one of Anna and himself, Anna looking gorgeous. Happy. He put them back in a shoe box he found on the bed.

  ‘I saw someone who looked like Sam yesterday,’ he said.

  ‘The pervert.’

  ‘He was only a kid.’

  ‘It was our house, though. And after all the things Brigita did for him.’

  Troy wondered why Luke was so warm on this. As someone who’d been around in the days when confessions involved listing all your sins, he must have heard much worse.

  Luke said, ‘Sam lives in the land of Nod now.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Griffith. The jail.’

  Land of Nod must be some Biblical reference. Luke had always been keen on the Old Testament, he said it had more poetry in it than the New. He took words seriously, maybe too much so.

  Troy had been seventeen when he’d last seen Sam. There’d been an old Springsteen cassette they’d both been keen on and Luke had confiscated it, he hadn’t liked the lyrics. One song in particular upset him, ‘Prove It All Night’. Luke had thought the boys might take it too literally. That was how Troy remembered him from back then: a man who didn’t understand some things, and understood others more than any adult he’d met. A man who tried his best every minute of the day.

  The room grew silent and the sense of mild panic he’d felt when he entered the hospice came back.

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘The drugs are good.’

  Luke said the cancer was on the advance again, and he might be having another operation. He started to ramble and Troy didn’t quite follow the details, still unsure why Luke was in the hospice instead of the hospital a few streets away. But he didn’t push it, because the priest got upset if you took much interest in his medical condition. Although these days he talked of little else. Troy had worked out that reason, the normal rhythm of conversation, were best left at the door on these visits. If you did that, the time passed less slowly.

  Something moved down on the floor and Troy almost jumped. It was a cat, a tortoiseshell, which leapt onto Luke’s lap and appeared to fall asleep immediately. Luke patted the cat on the head, said, ‘Dex.’<
br />
  ‘That’s a name?’

  ‘As in dextromethorphan.’

  ‘Cute.’

  ‘You’ve heard from Anna?’

  ‘I flew up to see Matt last month.’

  Luke sighed. ‘It is not good that the man should be alone. Be patient.’

  Troy, who’d once done a Bible class with him, came back with, ‘Hope deferred maketh the heart sick.’

  ‘The maid is not dead, but sleepeth.’ Luke smiled. ‘The boy’s well?’

  ‘Well enough.’

  Matt had asthma. One good thing about the split was that Anna had had to get a new doctor when she moved to Brisbane, and he was much more relaxed than the woman she’d been taking Matt to in Sydney. Anna used to treat the boy like an invalid, but there were signs this was changing.

  Troy dragged a chair over and sat down, looking out the window, at the trees and the top of a row of terraces visible above the wall outside. The room was full of light, filtered through some sort of screen attached to the outside wall. It was peaceful, which he guessed was the idea.

  ‘I know you didn’t do this thing,’ he said.

  The room was quiet, even quieter than before, and Troy realised he was holding his breath. Gently he emptied his lungs and forced himself to inhale.

  Luke said, ‘You can’t know that.’

  ‘I think I can.’

  ‘How can you?’

  ‘I know you, so I know that.’

  The priest smiled grimly and looked at the trees, not at Troy.

  ‘Do you love me, Nick?’

  Troy shifted in his chair. But it was the form of words that made him uneasy, not the sentiment.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Would you still love me if I had done it?’

  Troy shifted again, and blinked. This was important, but it was not what he’d hoped Luke would say.

  ‘I think so,’ he said at last.

  There was more silence, and then Luke headed off in another direction. ‘I married Anna and you,’ he said. ‘I baptised Matt. If I did this thing, it besmirches part of your lives.’