Troy was confused. ‘I promise,’ he said.
‘You swear?’
‘If it’s not a crime, I swear,’ he said impatiently. ‘So, why did you leave Sydney?’
‘To get away from Luke.’
Troy stopped chewing and looked at the other man, who had just taken a bite of his sandwich, wondering how he could be so calm about this. He said, ‘I’m so sorry.’
Kalnins looked away and finished his sandwich. He seemed to like his food. When it was done he wiped his fingers slowly on a paper serviette and smiled, as though he’d just worked something out. Said, ‘This is not what you think.’
He stopped and Troy felt angry, wanted to insist he keep talking. But he knew how hard it could be to come out with something that had been a secret for a long time. Such conversations had their own rhythm, which you had to find.
He said, ‘You just told me you wanted to get away from Luke.’
‘Not me. Brigita.’
‘So she knew . . .’ Troy began, and then his mind went blank.
Tim smiled and shook his head, opened a bottle of juice and swallowed some. ‘You think Luke abused me.’
‘It’s all right, take your time.’
‘Luke wouldn’t do that. He’s my father.’
Troy hadn’t seen it coming. Maybe he should have, but he’d been locked into the other thing. Locked into his fear. Slowly placing the rest of his sandwich on the ground, he tried to think about it. After being a cop for a while, you pride yourself on having seen everything. But not this. He wondered if this was better than the other thing, or worse. It was better, of course.
‘I’m surprised,’ he said. Obviously.
Kalnins said, ‘It happens quite a bit, apparently. Or used to.’
Troy wondered how anyone would know. Bishops might, old ones at least. Maybe archbishops.
‘Your mother and Luke . . .’ he said stupidly.
Kalnins was watching him with interest. He seemed at peace with it all.
‘Yes.’
Kalnins told the story, how Luke had been a young parish priest near Gosford in the 1980s and he and Brigita, one of his parishioners, had fallen in love. When she became pregnant he said he would leave the priesthood, and she’d told him she’d have an abortion if he did. So he’d ended their relationship and moved to Sydney. And then, a few years after Tim was born, she’d followed him and they’d started sleeping together again.
‘I don’t think any of this was deliberate,’ Kalnins said. ‘I don’t think their relationship was even all that happy. But it was very intense, and it lasted on and off for over ten years.’
‘How long have you known?’
‘Mum told me when I turned twenty-one. I’d never suspected. I think that’s why we moved to Melbourne when I was twelve—she didn’t want me to find out, knew she had to make a new life for us. I was angry at first. But then,’ he shrugged, ‘it was good to have a father. Came up to Sydney a few months later, spent some time with him. We’re pretty close.’
‘You’ve seen him this time?’
‘I tried yesterday. They wouldn’t let me in, said he won’t speak to anyone.’ He smiled. ‘If I’d said I was family, it might have been different.’
Troy managed a grin. ‘You tried to ring?’
‘Dad’s voicemail is on all the time and he hasn’t returned my calls since last weekend. The switchboard won’t put me through.’ He looked around the park and said, ‘Mum asked me to tell you all this. It’s in confidence, right?’
Troy had been doing some calculations, counting the years. ‘Jesus,’ he said.
‘You’ve got to promise.’
Suddenly Troy was excited. ‘So Luke was in a physical relationship with your mother at the time he’s supposed to have seduced an eleven-year-old boy?’
Tim nodded. ‘That’s why I’m here; Mum insisted. It doesn’t add up, does it?’
Troy recalled vividly the moment yesterday when Luke had admitted to the act of abuse. None of this made sense.
He said, ‘So it was a troubled relationship?’
‘That was after I came along. In the early days, though, I think they just went for it.’
There was some bitterness there. And why not.
‘So what’s this bloke Martin Napoli on about?’
Tim looked upset for the first time. ‘I have no idea. He’s mistaken, or lying. Mum’s confused, another reason she wanted me to tell you. Luke doesn’t want anyone to know, for our sakes. But she thought you might be able to do something. In confidence.’
‘You should tell Archbishop Walsh,’ Troy said. ‘You could insist on secrecy, let him know so he’d stop the investigation.’
‘That’d only take care of the Church side. There’s still the possibility of a police inquiry. Another problem is, Mum’s husband doesn’t know anything about this. It would kill her if Larry found out. He’s a very straight guy.’
‘What does she want me to do?’
‘I was wondering, could you, you know, have a word to Napoli?’
There was nothing he’d like to do more. But if Luke was innocent, Napoli must be mad or bad. Either way, he might choose to publicise any approach by a police officer, which could make things worse for Luke. Troy explained this to Kalnins, who smiled.
‘But you could look into him a bit, couldn’t you?’
Troy shrugged. People had strange ideas about what the police could do. ‘I’ll see what I can manage.’
‘No, it’s a stupid idea. I’m sorry.’ He sounded disappointed.
‘I’ll see,’ Troy said again. ‘I want to help, I just need to work out how.’
‘Talk to Dad.’ Kalnins pulled an envelope out of his pocket and gave it to Troy, checking what was written on the outside as he did so. ‘Proof of paternity. A few years ago, before all this started, he insisted we had a DNA match done.’
‘That was when he got the cancer?’
‘Yeah. He just wanted there to be some proof, for when he died. No other reason, I think he just wanted me to know for sure. I told him it wasn’t necessary, I had Mum’s word on who my father was. But he was on the drugs by then, and doing this made him happy.’
Troy opened the envelope and saw it contained photocopies of a lab report and statutory declarations from two general practitioners, verifying they’d taken DNA samples from Luke and Tim and sent them directly to the laboratory. According to the report, Tim Kalnins was Luke Carillo’s son.
Troy wondered why Luke had gone to all this trouble.
‘How did he feel about the Church at that point?’ he said, thinking Luke might have imagined some future legal action by Tim in search of money.
‘He had more faith than ever. I don’t think he ever had any doubts, but these past few years his faith got stronger. He told his bishop about me a long time ago, and they supported him. The Church is his real family.’
Troy was surprised. ‘He told Walsh?’
‘An earlier one. But I reckon Walsh would know.’
‘You’re kidding.’ Troy ran his fingers through his hair. ‘If Walsh knew, he’d be defending him. Surely. He’d talk to Napoli, at least.’
‘I know,’ Kalnins said. He looked unhappy again. ‘That’s what I don’t understand.’
‘I’m sorry about all this,’ Troy said slowly. ‘Are you still a Catholic?’
Kalnins relaxed and grinned. ‘You must be joking.’ He checked his watch. ‘You’ve got my number. Where can I get a cab?’ He looked relieved now, as though he’d handed over a burden.
‘Oxford Street. It’s up there, I’ll walk you.’
Kalnins put a hand out, touching him on the chest, and said he’d be fine. ‘Don’t forget your promise.’ He breathed in deeply, rebuilding himself, and with a wave set off across th
e small park.
When he was gone, Troy looked around at the half-circle of terraces, wondering if there was a way through to the hospital. The row seemed impenetrable; for a moment he felt completely disoriented.
Twenty-three
That afternoon, Troy and Conti followed up Pearson’s requests for statistics. Professor Urquhart was a stout woman in her fifties, surprised and offended when she heard of Pearson’s desire to see the Paediatrics’ figures.
‘Just a stupid marketing scheme of Bellamy’s,’ she said, ‘an ombudsman. We’re already the most scrutinised people in the country, and now this. We should have gone on strike.’
‘I understand a lot of doctors were very upset by the initiative,’ said Troy.
‘Upset—’
‘Do you think any would have been angry enough to kill Mr Pearson?’
You have to take your pleasure where you can find it, Troy thought, as the professor turned red and rose from her seat as though she’d just been inflated. She proceeded to abuse Troy with verve and a vocabulary suggesting she’d done this before. Once or twice.
When they’d returned to the corridor, Conti looked at Troy. ‘Do you think she’ll call McIver?’
‘I hope so.’
McIver had once opined that medical specialists were the second rudest people in the world. The first were their receptionists.
*
Ian Carter was a more considered type of person, but what struck Troy most was his age. He wouldn’t have been more than late thirties, which seemed young to be running Oncology. He was at the nurses’ station when they arrived, bending over some forms with a woman seated at the desk. The detectives waited, and Troy looked around the corridor, into the rooms that were visible from where he was standing. People walked past, one a man in his late twenties with two small children, the kids talking over each other, the man looking as though he’d just been struck on the back of the head.
‘Let’s go in here.’
It was Carter, shaking hands firmly and ushering them into a small room, with carpet and chairs and a picture of Kakadu on the wall. The doctor shut the door and suddenly it was very quiet. A room, Troy realised, where bad news would be given. Carter was almost slight in build but not quite. He had a trim, dark beard on sallow skin; if you looked closely enough, you could probably make out each individual hair. He yawned and told them he’d spent the week covering for a registrar who was at a conference.
Troy explained why they were there and Carter said Mark had called him not long after he’d started at the hospital, and asked for a meeting. He’d wanted to discuss how the existing complaints process worked.
‘He spoke to lots of people,’ Carter said. ‘I think I was one of the first. David Saunders might have suggested me because we’re on the same floor as the ombudsman’s office.’
‘You know Saunders?’ Troy said, wondering why a physician would have any contact with the chief financial officer.
‘Everyone knows David,’ Carter said with a brief smile. His eyes were slightly pink, perhaps from tiredness. Troy had noticed a lot of the medical staff walking around the hospital looked either sleepy or wired. ‘I ran a pilot scheme for David last year, for a new ward-management system.’
‘This is BRISTOL?’
‘Yeah. Usually the NUMs manage the wards, but this takes in a broader range of tasks and we thought it needed medico input.’
Conti said, ‘So you met Mark just the once?’
‘More than that. We’re both football fans, and we bumped into each other in the lift and talked about the World Cup. Had coffee once, he even invited me to a party last week at his house. There were other people from the hospital there.’
‘Did you know he was looking into mortality stats for Oncology?’
The doctor nodded, ran fingers through his beard. ‘I’m on the hospital mortality committee. Mark was appointed too, a few months after he started. He was interested in the problem that we have lots of stats but no one pays them much attention; he thought maybe they needed to be coordinated. He didn’t know much about it, wanted an example of some of the important stuff we receive here. I suggested he pull the Oncology figures. I offered to go over them with him.’
‘You’ve seen the stats?’
‘Not yet.’ Another yawn.
‘How do you think Mark was finding the job?’
‘I’d say he was anxious. The penny had dropped, I think.’
‘Which penny would that be?’ said Conti.
‘He talked about it briefly at his party. Mark was pretty naive, but he’d worked out by then what he was involved in—Bellamy’s shopfront scheme had gone all wrong.’
‘How did he feel about that?’
‘I’m no expert, but from the way he was talking I wondered if he was on the point of clinical depression. I suggested he see someone.’
Troy resisted the urge to glance at Conti. ‘Had you noticed this in him before?’
‘No, but I hardly knew him.’
‘Do you think Mark might have been a pethidine addict?’
Carter laughed and shrugged. Troy saw that when he wasn’t tired he would be expressive. ‘I have no idea.’
‘Do you use pethidine here?’
‘No. Morphine’s the thing for cancer.’ Carter yawned again. ‘We sometimes use it with other drugs; our nurses are very good at pain management. Almost as good as the hospice—our people are the only ones from St Thomas’ who Charity will use for casual shifts.’ He blinked. ‘Sorry, I’m rambling.’
Troy said, ‘We found pethidine ampoules in Mark’s bag and in his flat. Do you have any idea how they might have got there?’
‘None at all.’
‘Did you see anyone acting suspiciously at the party on Wednesday?’
‘No. One of your colleagues rang me about that. It was a pleasant evening, they were good hosts.’
When the interview finished, Carter pushed himself out of his chair, and Troy and Conti said they’d be in touch if they needed anything more.
‘Be quick,’ Carter said. ‘I’m off to the States in a few weeks.’ Troy raised his eyebrows politely. ‘I won a management award for the pilot scheme for BRISTOL. One year at Johns Hopkins.’
‘That’s good?’
‘It’s one of the best hospitals in the world.’
‘Congratulations.’
Carter smiled and was about to say something when he was overtaken by another yawn.
Twenty-four
Driving to Julie’s house, Leila needs music. She has a good sound system in the BMW, and at the moment Richter’s Beethoven sonatas and Lou Reed’s 1973 concert at Howard Stein’s Academy of Music are on high rotation. She settles for the Richter, figuring it’ll get her there in a more settled frame of mind.
Julie lives in a semi in Summer Hill, an old suburb full of small houses encrusted with fancy bricks and tiles. When Leila arrives there is no sign of Stuart, so she puts the seat back and replaces the Richter with the Lou Reed. It’s important to distract herself from thoughts of Ben Farrell threatening to report her. As the music fills the car, she recalls her visit to the Getty, some of the paintings she saw. It is what her life has become, the pursuit of the recollection of emotion in tranquillity. Maybe she deserves to turn forty.
Her mother liked art too, but it was mainly a social thing, to distinguish herself and her friends from other people. With Leila it might have started like that, but in recent years has become an almost embarrassing passion, maybe a new addiction. The music consoles her. On the way over she was worrying about everything, even the dress she is wearing, a sleeveless cotton number in dull red with green flowers. Elizabeth once said it was too young for her, but Leila thinks she still has the figure to carry it off. The music allows her to see she’s right, it provides support.
A knock sounds on the roof and she sits up. Stuart is standing outside, in a navy blazer and striped tie. She opens the door and the heat pours in like hot water.
‘Hello Leila,’ he says. ‘Listening along to some of your music?’
‘My music?’
‘Your mother used to . . . talk about it. Anything more from your GP?’
She’s told him about Ben Farrell.
‘No.’
Stuart’s upset. Last night when she called him, he didn’t want to come. She asked why and he wouldn’t say. Now his big round face is slightly flushed and there is sweat already on his bald spot. She locks the car’s doors and turns to the house, a small place rendered in concrete years before, with a green tinge that could be paint going or mildew coming. The tiny front yard is made of concrete too, weeds breaking through the cracks.
‘Let’s get this over,’ she says, opening the tiny gate that leads to a short path.
‘Don’t worry. Carl and Julie are good people.’
‘I’m not worried.’
He blinks in the strong sunlight and puts a hand up to shield his eyes from the glare, a man not built for Australian conditions. She walks up the path and knocks on the door, then turns and sees him waiting on the footpath outside. He comes stiffly up to the door, not looking at her legs. Because of the dress, they are on display. She realises he is putting a lot of effort into not looking at her legs. She knocks again.
‘No one home?’
Don’t be obvious, Stuart, she hears her mother’s voice say.
He removes his glasses and proceeds to rub them on a large white handkerchief. Leila pulls out her phone and calls Julie. It goes through to voicemail, and she hangs up without leaving a message. Stepping off the porch, she walks to the side of the house and looks down the passage. It is blocked by a large green wheelie bin, which she drags out. The bin is light. After looking around once more, she makes her way down the side of the house. Stuart is just behind, trying to keep his clothes from touching the fence or the concrete wall.
The back of the house has double doors giving onto a small yard. Through the glass they see Julie, lying on a sofa. At first Leila thinks she’s asleep. Then she sees that her eyes are open and she is very still.
The Simple Death Page 16