The Simple Death

by Michael Duffy

  When he reached the hospice’s lobby, the lift opened and a man stepped out. He was tall and handsome, with a wave of silver hair, accompanied by a nervous-looking woman who was talking animatedly but not getting much of a response. Finally, as Troy watched, she shook the man’s hand and let him go. Troy recognised Geoffrey Davies, the federal education minister. As he left the building, the woman went into an office nearby. There was a famous story about Davies’ hair, although Troy couldn’t recall it at the moment.

  He made his way to the room where Luke had been the day before and found it empty, the bed made up, ready for the next traveller. With beating heart, Troy went out to the nurses’ station but no one was there. He made his way back to the ground floor and asked the woman behind the counter about Luke.

  ‘And you are?’ she said. The smile had dropped from her face when she’d heard what he wanted.

  ‘A friend. A close friend.’

  She looked at him closely and shook her head. ‘Father Carillo is not seeing anyone at the moment.’

  ‘So he’s all right?’

  ‘He’s alive.’ There was bitterness there. She was hiding it, but it was there. A woman let down.

  ‘Why’s he been moved?’

  ‘I have no idea. Why don’t you go home, you could give us a call tomorrow . . .’

  Troy walked off, down a corridor with a sign that said To Clancy Ward. The woman called after him but he ignored her.

  It took him almost ten minutes to find Luke, upstairs at the back of the building, in a smaller room that looked onto a yard outside the kitchen. The room smelled faintly unpleasant, although Troy couldn’t identify the odour. Luke was not sitting by the window, he was in bed and looked even older than yesterday. When he saw Troy, he opened his mouth to speak, but no words came.

  ‘They’ve changed your room,’ Troy said, coming around the bed and stating the obvious. The place was in semi-darkness and he switched on a light. Luke’s big head seemed to have lost more flesh, the eye sockets deep and dark.

  ‘My status around here has taken a drop since last night,’ the priest whispered hoarsely.

  Troy put a hand on the old man’s forearm and felt him flinch. This was new: he’d always thought of Luke as a man unfamiliar with fear. He said, ‘I want to help you, look into this.’

  ‘I don’t deserve help.’

  ‘Everyone deserves help,’ Troy said.

  It was the sort of thing Luke would say, the sort of thing that made life possible.

  In the silence, he could hear a clock ticking, although he hadn’t seen one in the room.

  ‘This business,’ Luke said. ‘I can’t talk about it anymore. I’d prefer if you didn’t come see me for a week, there’s things need to be worked out.’

  Troy was surprised. One way or another, he’d been expecting some sort of release, steeling himself for this conversation all day. But not this.

  ‘Is this man Napoli telling the truth?’

  Luke shook his head slowly, but it was not a denial of the accusation, just a refusal to talk. ‘Please go,’ he said.

  ‘You can’t just send me away.’

  ‘Come back in a week.’

  ‘I’m not going.’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘You said things need to be worked out. By who?’ Luke closed his eyes. ‘I’m going to look into this. It’s what I do.’

  ‘I beg you, don’t.’

  ‘I don’t know why you say that,’ Troy murmured. ‘You owe it to your friends to let us clear your name.’

  ‘It’s not about you.’

  ‘It is, partly. You said so yesterday.’

  ‘Please, Nick,’ said Luke, coming alive. ‘Don’t do this.’

  Troy shook his head. ‘It’s what’s best. You’ll see.’

  They looked at each other for a while, and Troy realised the smell was coming from the bed. Maybe they weren’t caring for Luke so well anymore.

  ‘Where’s Julie?’ he said, remembering the plump nurse.

  The light in Luke’s eyes seemed to die. ‘There’s no point going into it,’ he said. ‘I did it, the thing.’

  Troy felt something inside himself change. He took his hand away and stepped back. It was as though his insides had been turned to liquid, or something like that, something he hadn’t felt before. So this is it, he thought. This is where it ends. Deep breath.

  ‘Others too?’ he said, needing to know.

  Luke shook his head. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said in a flat voice. ‘Sometimes I don’t understand what’s happening. Will you just go?’

  He looked confused and Troy was suddenly angry. This was no time for evasion, at the very least Luke needed to face up to what he’d done. He thought back across all the time he’d known him, seeking clues, indications of what he’d just heard. You call yourself a detective.

  But there was nothing there. This mess was big yet he couldn’t see any part of it.

  Luke said quietly, ‘I’m sorry for you.’

  Troy had to get out. It was like the room contained an unexploded bomb.

  ‘I’ll come back,’ he said.

  He shouldn’t be leaving, he knew that. But just for the moment he had to. It was as though a great deal was finished, and he didn’t know what would happen next, how anything would happen next. If he stayed in the room, everything might freeze.

  He went slowly through the corridors, avoiding the staff and patients who were walking and talking as though nothing had happened. In the lobby he stood off to one side, preparing himself for the street, gazing at a statue of Mary that stood in a niche in the wall. Two men came out of the lift. They were dressed in black. The elder was bulky and in his sixties, and Troy recognised Patrick Walsh, the Archbishop of Sydney. He’d never seen him in the flesh before, and was surprised by how corpulent he was. Despite this, the man exuded authority: people in the lobby were looking at him, although pretending they weren’t. As Walsh made his way across the room, the woman who’d been with Geoffrey Davies fifteen minutes before shot out of her office and the archbishop stopped and clasped her hand. Troy figured she must be the manager here. The priest with Walsh, young and with a prominent Adam’s apple, walked slowly out the front door, taking a mobile from his pocket. Troy went after him, but stopped before he reached the entrance.

  The archbishop was saying goodbye to the woman and coming towards him now. Troy pulled out his badge and approached, not knowing quite what he was doing.

  Walsh stopped. ‘Yes?’

  Troy realised he had probably created the wrong impression, that this was ridiculous. But there was an overwhelming need to talk to someone.

  ‘Father Carillo is an old friend,’ he said.

  Walsh seemed to relax. He smiled.

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘Nicholas Troy, detective senior constable. I’m just wondering if there’s anything I can do to help.’

  The woman was hovering, outraged. ‘This is not a matter for His Eminence,’ she said. ‘If you could just wait in my office. I’m Carolyn Moore, the director.’ She made brushing movements with her hands, as though this would move him out of the way.

  ‘He’s been my friend for over fifteen years,’ Troy said. ‘I’d just like to know what happens next.’

  The archbishop looked around and lowered his voice. ‘I’m talking to the complainant tomorrow.’ His face was plump but firm and lightly tanned. Close up, the flesh looked perfectly natural, it didn’t detract at all from his authority. He smiled and his voice was sonorous, in some way it reached out to connect with Troy.

  ‘Are you a Catholic?’

  Troy said, ‘I try.’ He found himself wanting the archbishop to like him, which was absurd. Yet the feeling was strong.

  ‘Pray for Father Luke,’ said the archbishop.

>   ‘It’s very hard,’ Troy said. ‘He’s just admitted to me what he did.’ The archbishop seemed to pause, as though he’d heard something he hadn’t expected. Maybe Luke hadn’t confessed to him yet. Troy said, ‘There were others?’

  ‘No,’ Walsh croaked out. Then, clearing his throat, ‘You must forgive him. He’s a good man. That’s the great challenge now, to accept that.’

  The thin woman became agitated once more, and her moving hands brushed Troy’s coat, pushing it aside to reveal his gun. For a moment she and the archbishop stared at it.

  ‘If you’d just go to my office and wait—’

  ‘He doesn’t even want to talk to me,’ Troy said. ‘We’re very old friends.’

  ‘It’s Father Carillo’s decision,’ the archbishop said. ‘That’s the way hospices work. The staff here support his right to make such a decision. I believe he has no family?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘If things change, Dr Moore will get in touch. You can leave her your number. What part of the police do you work with?’

  ‘The Homicide Squad.’

  ‘That must be difficult.’

  You could take that as patronising, but Troy decided it wasn’t meant that way. If you were an archbishop it would be hard not to sound patronising at times.

  ‘I’ll ring tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’

  He turned away, wondering why he’d said thank you, still slightly overwhelmed. Never before had he met anyone who held such a senior position in any organisation, and he didn’t know what to make of Walsh. He’d thought he’d dislike him but the man was curiously impressive, although he couldn’t explain just how.

  Troy found his car and drove home, not bothering to turn his phone on to check for messages. When he got to Maroubra he found he had two. Belkessan from the hospital said he’d looked again and two boxes of pethidine past its use-by date were not going to make it to the incinerator. He had no idea how they’d been stolen from the pharmacy and was launching an inquiry.

  The other message was from Homicide, saying a man named Tim Kalnins had called. He said he was in Sydney and wanted to see Troy tomorrow. He’d left his number.

  The son of Luke’s housekeeper. Troy hadn’t seen him since he was ten. As he unlocked his front door, he wondered what Tim wanted to talk about, and realised he was sweating. Brian Hughes had been eleven at the time he said Luke had abused him.

  THURSDAY

  Twenty-one

  He’d had a dream about Brigita. It was just after two in the morning when he woke up, and he felt vaguely embarrassed. The message from Tim yesterday must have done it. She would have been younger than Troy was now when he’d known her at the presbytery. She’d reached through all those years and touched him, almost. He thought about her body, its paleness, and tried to remember where her parents had come from. It was Latvia.

  But soon the dream faded, unlike Luke’s revelation of last night, which was like a wound, a major trauma. For the moment there was the pain, which simply had to be endured. He knew most of it would pass, but other effects of the wounding would be with him forever.

  As he lay in the big bed he recalled the first two years he’d known Luke. He had actually lived in the presbytery only a few months, but he’d visited frequently over a longer period. He recalled the murmurs of complaint from the flower ladies at Brigita living in the same house as Luke, but they were only murmurs. No one had worried about Tim, of course. It had been before the wave of abuse allegations had crashed onto the Church. Priests were revered figures, at least in the eyes of their parishioners.

  *

  The next time he woke it was light. After breakfast he rang the hospice to ask if he could see Luke before work, hoping to ask him about Tim, but was told the priest was asleep and wanted no visitors. They’d call if there was any change. So Troy got to work early, reaching Room 233 before anyone else, and decided to bring himself up to date with the rest of the investigation. By now they had a database of all the people in Mark Pearson’s life, divided into categories: family, friends, those at his current job and his last one, people with whom he’d shared his interests in football and art. Troy wanted to go through them all and see if any links appeared. The computer was programmed to cross-reference facts such as names and dates, but it couldn’t do everything.

  He read for a few hours but found nothing, was working through a list of the documents found in Pearson’s office when McIver rang. Parramatta had found Greg Gillies, the homeless man suspected of killing Jim Austin. They’d just finished interviewing him.

  ‘He’s the stabber?’

  ‘Says not. But Durack’s people searched his place and found a shirt with blood on the sleeve. When Durack told him, he changed his story, a bit. Said he went to Austin’s house to talk to him about the debt, found him dead on the floor of the bedroom. Extracted the wallet from his trousers, getting blood on his sleeve in the process. Removed two notes to the value of thirty dollars, which was all that was there. And left.’

  ‘And Jim subsequently floated out to the shed.’

  ‘This problem was raised with Mr Gillies. He proceeded to say anything was possible in the squats, because they’re haunted. Apparently it’s a well-known fact.’ Troy groaned. ‘But he did tell us where he’d ditched the wallet, and we got it. So the truth is in there. Somewhere.’

  Looking at his screen, Troy said, ‘When we searched Pearson’s office, we found copies of requests to Medical Admin for statistics for two of the wards here. He submitted them a week before he died. Anyone followed that up?’

  ‘I’ll see.’ Mac went away from the phone, came back. ‘No. Should have.’

  Troy felt a twinge of concern: it was not like Mac to overlook something like this. He said, ‘What stats did he want to see?’

  ‘I’ll get someone to drag out the request forms.’

  Troy went to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. Back at his desk he considered calling Admin about the statistics, then looked at the piece of paper with Tim Kalnins’ number on it. He rang and listened as Tim said hello and asked if they could meet today: he had something important to tell Troy.

  ‘Are you sure I’m the right person?’ Troy said. The man on the other end of the connection didn’t sound at all like the boy he’d known many years ago. He could be anyone.

  ‘Yes,’ said Kalnins. ‘I’m up from Melbourne on business, going back tonight. Can I see you at one?’

  Didn’t sound too distraught, but Troy knew the way people reacted to abuse over the long term varied hugely. He gave him the hospital’s address and hung up.

  He went to his email box and printed off the scans of the two stats requests Manly had just sent. Pearson had been interested in the average time patients spent in Paediatrics, and the number of deaths in Oncology. It took Troy a moment to remember oncology meant cancer. He pulled out the internal phone directory and called Paula Williams, asked if either request rang any bells. She said they didn’t: Mark was always getting stats on one thing or another, sometimes after they’d had several complaints about the same department. Part of his job was to keep an eye out for systemic problems. She asked if he wanted her to chase up the stats and he said yes. Then he called the departments, arranged to talk later that day to the people in charge, Maria Urquhart and Ian Carter. Ran the names through e@gle.i and found Carter had been at the party on Wednesday night. Wrote a note for Conti, yawned and looked at his watch. His body was pretending to be tired but he wasn’t really. It was time to meet Tim Kalnins.

  Twenty-two

  Brigita’s son had grown into a short, broad man who could afford a well-cut suit. Troy saw him standing on the footpath outside the hospital and almost didn’t recognise him. But Kalnins made him immediately, and his face lit up as he approached with his right arm extended. He seemed cheerful enough.

  ‘You look just like you
r photo,’ he said. ‘I read about that stuff at The Tower. They give you a promotion?’ His nose was quite big and his lips were full, and Troy guessed his father had not been Latvian. He wondered if Tim even knew who his dad was.

  ‘How’s your mum?’

  ‘She’s great, got herself a husband down in Geelong. Nice bloke.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I’m good. A funds manager in super, just back from a year in London. Getting married next month.’

  As they walked and talked about the imminent wedding, Troy noted that Tim’s eyes were clear and the skin around his eyes smooth, as though he slept well. There was some nervousness there but it seemed well under control. Maybe he’d got over what had happened to him when he was a boy. Troy’s chest was tight and he forced himself to take in more air, preparing himself for what he was about to hear.

  They went into a shop and ordered sandwiches. While they waited, Kalnins asked Troy about the state of The Tower case, and he gave the short version. Homicide’s role had ended long ago, the people it had been chasing all dead. The investigation into the use of the building for money-laundering was still active. Immigration had tracked down the people smuggler involved, who was being extradited from Indonesia. The case had created a mini-industry of investigations and prosecutions.

  When the sandwiches were ready, they took them to a park nearby, a neat place ringed with modern townhouses built to resemble the suburb’s old terraces. They sat beneath a tree, Kalnins placing a large handkerchief on the grass before sitting down.

  Unable to restrain himself any longer, Troy said, ‘Why did you move to Melbourne?’

  ‘I want to tell you, but you have to promise to keep it a secret. Mum insists on it.’

  ‘I can’t hide a crime.’

  Tim smiled. ‘It’s not a crime.’