'So.' He pushed his chair back a little from his screen and looked at her. 'What did you think of Isobel Rymill?'
'She seemed even more nervous than her husband,' she said.
Gabriel pulled a USB flash device from his pocket and plugged it into his terminal, where it began downloading a large document. 'Anything else?' he asked, eyes back on his screen.
'Well, I noticed clusters of deception signals.' The words she'd learned from him yesterday seemed cumbersome.
'And they could mean . . .'
'She's hiding something. It could be guilty knowledge, something shameful, or the truth. She might be lying to us, or just holding something of importance back.' Jill felt half-curious and half-annoyed by this oral examination.
'Exactly.' He nodded and smiled slightly.
She waited for him to add something. He seemed delighted by their exchange, but as she had come to learn, he didn't always conclude his train of thoughts aloud.
She waited while he clicked on some icons on his screen, and a computerised drone started up from the terminal as it obeyed his commands. Suddenly he reached straight across her and used the mouse for her computer. His back touched her chest and her mouth was almost on his neck. She pushed her chair backwards, startled by his abrupt invasion of her space, but he continued what he was doing without heeding her movement.
'Just saved the audio MPEG to my machine,' he said, straightening up and turning to face her. 'Remember I told you that if I heard the anonymous caller again I was sure I would know her?'
Jill stared at him, the realisation raising the hairs on her arms. 'Isobel Rymill – she was the one who called and told us to investigate Henry Nguyen?'
He didn't answer, and she watched as he used the program he'd opened to compartmentalise parts of the recording they'd made of Rymill earlier that morning. He created a series of digitised sound bites and lined seven or eight of them up next to the file that held the recording of the anonymous tip-off. He then opened another program and opened two of the files with it. When he pressed 'Enter' the drone of the computer kicked up a notch. Almost immediately a coloured graph and readout appeared on the screen.
'Ninety per cent match,' he said, white teeth flashing. 'Not bad, considering the distortion from the phone call caused by her covering the receiver.'
'Wow,' said Jill, leaning close over Gabriel's shoulder. 'Where'd you get this voice recognition software? I don't think we've got anything that good at work.'
'I know. It's amateur hour in there. What are you gonna do?'
'So, we've got a clear new line of inquiry,' he continued, opening another program. 'We need to know everything about Joss Preston-Jones and Isobel Rymill, and we need to know why they so desperately want us to investigate Henry Nguyen.'
Joss had thought his day at work would never end, but he was surprised at how quickly he'd slipped into robot-mode and completed his chores for the day. He'd brushed aside the concerned comments about the fading bruises on his face, and left the office at 4.30 p.m. exactly. He called the house phone, knowing Isobel would not yet be there with Charlie – tonight Charlie had dancing lessons – and left a message indicating that he would not be home for dinner. Then he turned his mobile phone off and caught the lift down to the employees-only gym. He changed out of his work clothes and shoved them into his backpack. Imagining Isobel's face when she saw the clothes, he took the trousers out again and folded them neatly.
He went to the weight rack wearing a singlet and shorts and loaded fifteen kilos onto the hand weights. He moved rapidly through six sets of fifty bicep curls, dissociating through the pain, then hit the showers. He held his face under the water, eyes open, breathing in the steam.
He could see only Cutter.
He changed into jeans, a dark tee-shirt and runners. And for the second time in two days, Joss went back to his old world. He caught the train from Central to Cabramatta.
Isobel had grudgingly told Joss the things she'd learned about Henry Nguyen.
'I don't see why you need to know this stuff,' she'd protested. 'The police have it now.'
In Cabramatta two days before, he'd visited a medical centre. Isobel had found Cutter's medical records and they showed monthly visits to the centre, mostly on Thursday afternoons. The timing was about right, but Joss, waiting at a bus stop directly across from the front door, had seen no sign of Nguyen. He'd had no firm plan as to what he would do if he did. All he knew was that his life had changed completely since the home invasion, and he was not going to let it fall apart without doing everything he could to stop it.
He considered staking out Cutter's grandmother's house. When they were kids, he, Fuzzy and Esterhase had dropped Cutter there at around five one morning using a car they'd stolen the night before. Half asleep, they'd driven the car over a couple of streets and dumped it at a soccer field before walking home. Joss remembered that he'd helped his drunken mum from the lounge up to her bed before he'd gone to bed for the rest of the day. He shook his head. What a way to grow up.
He decided against the trip to Cutter's old home. He could think of no obvious information he could get from the family at this point. It was unlikely Cutter still lived there anyway. Joss needed to know more about his associates – who he hung out with now. Maybe he could find out the name of the arsehole that'd stood on his head at Andy Wu's house.
He got off the train at Cabramatta station and the smells of his past slapped him in the face. The area had been predominantly Italian when he was a kid, but since then Asian, and particularly Vietnamese, communities had been steadily migrating to the suburb. Now, most shop signs were in both English and Vietnamese. The rest were in Vietnamese only.
He made his way to the pub closest to the station. Back then, he and his friends had sold stolen watches and cameras, typewriters and aftershave to the patrons of this pub. It could be that some of the old crew still came here.
The ground felt gummy out the front of the hotel. Because of too many broken heads from the bashings and paralytic falls, the council had replaced the pavement with the rubber material used in children's playgrounds.
Joss left the last of the warm twilight behind him and stepped inside the pub. Like most hotels, it was always the same time once you entered those doors. Ten a.m. or midnight, it all felt the same, with the aim of aiding the punters to forget the troubles of the outside world, kick back for a while, lose some more money.
Cigarette smoke already impregnating his tee-shirt and whispering its way down his lungs, he took a seat at the end of the main bar, facing the door. Determined to ask for a light beer and sit back to sip it slowly, he found himself instead ordering a schooner of full-strength VB. Ten minutes later he asked for the same again and for two packets of chips. He hoped the grease would counteract some of the alcohol.
Tragedy performed a series of vignettes around the hotel. A woman sat with two men, her features sliding off her face with her lipstick, gazing with naked desperation from one man to the other as they spoke the inscrutable language of the drunk. Her expression altered to one of begging appeasement when she had their attention. He twice watched her flinch when one of the men moved his arm suddenly to sneeze, to make a point.
A bloke in the fluorescent shirt that was the uniform of unskilled labourers kicked his workboot in disgust against the base of the poker machine he was feeding. When he stood up from his stool, Joss was surprised to see he looked no older than twenty or so. He made his way to the front of the room, but instead of leaving, he withdrew two fifties from the ATM near the door. He returned to his stool, slid in a note, his jaw slack, his eyes on fire, as though he was watching pornography.
A wizened man laughed into his glass on a stool next to Joss. A section of greasy hair that had long abandoned its comb-over position slipped in and out of his beer as he drank. The bald spot on his head was beaded with sweat, despite the refrigerated air. A dark area at his groin signalled that he'd found the trip to the toilet a waste of good drinking time. He's
probably a digger, thought Joss, draining the last of his beer. The thought made him want to order another, but he figured he'd use the toilet instead. He swayed a little when he got off the stool.
He splashed his face with cold water before leaving the bathroom.
Eyes always on the door, he saw a face from his past walk into the pub.
Fuck, what was his name?
The man walked towards the bar, not looking in Joss's direction. Joss ordered another beer and took it back to a small table; he angled his chair towards the bar. The man looked around the room after he'd ordered his drink. His eyes moved past Joss, then whipped back again, his obvious movement almost comical to someone trained in surveillance.
Joss sipped.
'Hey, man,' the bloke had his drink and was making his way over. What was his frigging name? 'Aren't you Joss?'
'Yeah. Rodney Harris?' said Joss, remembering at the very last moment.
'Yeah, man! How the fuck have you been? What are you doing back in Cabra, dog?'
Rodney Harris was a wannabe back in the day. He would try to hang around whenever he saw Joss and his friends, and sometimes they'd let him. Other times they'd tell him to piss off, or make him steal them some food before he could stay. Today, his features were blurred, his once-blond hair thin, translucent. He spoke in the nasal gaol-whine of the streets. The heels of his shoes were rounded with wear.
'Oh, you know, nothin,' Joss tried to dumb down. 'Thought I'd come see if there's any action around here, you know.'
Harris looked at him sidelong, and took a sip of his dark-coloured drink.
Joss pushed out the chair opposite with his foot. 'You're not still drinking Jackies are ya?' he said.
Harris laughed. 'Yeah, man, always.' He took the seat.
'So what have you been doing?' Joss asked before the other man could. 'I haven't seen you for years.'
'Since we were kids, dog. Not since Fuzzy died. How fucked up was that, man?'
'Yeah.'
'I've been doing shit. You know, this and that. I got a coupla kids.' He put his hand-rolled cigarette on the edge of an ashtray on the table, pulled out a flat, shredding wallet and showed Joss a green-tinged laminated photo of a young girl and boy. 'Course they'd be older than this now,' he said, looking at the photo. 'Their slut mum took off with them to Queensland when I was inside.'
'Yeah?' said Joss. 'Bitch. They're all the fuckin' same.'
'Too right, dog.' They drank together. 'So what about you? Where'd you piss off to? We heard your mum killed herself. Sorry, man.'
'Nah. Crazy bitch. She just threw herself in front of a car, but she survived. Probably dead now though, for all I know. Who cares? I got locked up for being uncontrollable.'
'No waaay.' Harris laughed. 'Unlucky. So what brings you back to the 'hood?'
Joss inwardly cringed at the American gangster-speak. Didn't these idiots ever grow up? Harris drained his drink, crunched the ice.
'Let me get you another one, man.' Joss stood and made his way over to the bar. He shouldn't have another, but this was a critical point. He had to ask about Cutter. He ordered another beer, and, overly careful, carried the drinks back to the table. The rigid walk of the almost drunk.
'It's a spinout to see you, Rod,' he said when he got back to the table. 'Do any of the old boys still hang around here?'
'Yeah, man.' Harris listed off a few names, all of them familiar, none of them the right one.
'So where do you go to score now?' Joss lowered his voice.
Big smile. 'What are you into?'
'I just want some pot, maybe some pills.'
'You know who's selling some great shit right now? Simon Esterhase. Remember him?'
Yeah, you could say that. 'Bullshit. Esterhase? I haven't seen him for ages. Does he still hang around with, ah, what was his name . . . Cutter?'
Harris's mouth turned down at the name. 'Yeah, man.' He looked around the room. 'Crazy motherfucker.'
'Does he come around here much?'
'Who? Cutter? Nah. I see him around the station sometimes. I think he still goes over to his olds' house a lot. That's when he's not inside.'
Joss laughed hollowly.
'Yeah?' he gathered himself together, spoke calmly, a pulse ticking in his temple. 'You know I wouldn't mind catching up with them again, now I'm doing the whole memory lane thing. You wouldn't know how I could reach them, would ya?'
'I got Esterhase's number right here. I go see him whenever I can afford it. You wanna go out there tonight?'
'Maybe. What about Cutter's number, have you got that?'
'What do you want his number for, man? Don't you remember him? Well, he's a lot worse than that now.' He pulled from his wallet a worn, folded sheet of paper, torn from an exercise book. 'Got a pen? Don't tell Cutter I gave you this, man.'
Joss copied the numbers, both mobiles, onto a coaster and dropped it into his backpack. He'd had half of his latest beer and needed the toilet again. The woman sitting with the two men began crying loudly, but there were no tears in her eyes. She stopped when one of the men raised a fist.
Joss stood, suddenly exhausted. His head buzzed and his hands felt filthy. He looked down at them and they seemed hazy, indistinct. He went to the toilet. When he returned Harris was crunching ice again, looking up at him expectantly, eager to continue the party.
'I'm gonna go, Rod,' he said, leaving his beer.
'Nah, dog, where are you going?'
Joss was already halfway to the door.
He salivated with the scent of coriander, rice and fried garlic as he hit the night air. Isobel would've left him some dinner, of course, but he had to eat now. He remembered there used to be a good noodle house around here somewhere. He wondered if it would still be there.
The streets were quiet. A few late travellers made their way home from work, but it seemed that most people were indoors now, cooking up the smells that were driving him crazy. He turned a corner that seemed familiar and pulled his wallet from his pocket, hoping he had some cash left. He had to walk over to a street light to see the inside of his wallet.
Friends since kindergarten, Frankie Danang and Tua Lataafa had always played together well. Whispered, when it was certain they were nowhere listening, their classmates called them Quick and Thick. On the footy field, Frankie ran faster than anyone, and when it came to defence, no one could get past Tua, who was bigger than all of the teachers by Year Six. Today, at eighteen, and already done with school for five years, most people in Cabramatta ducked into a shop, crossed a street or hailed a cab when they spotted Tua and Frankie in the distance. If you got off at the station and saw them sitting there, most people knew it was best to hop back on the train, catch the bus back from the next stop. Better half an hour late for dinner, than the next three days in Fairfield Hospital.
Frankie and Tua had rolling down pat. They averaged five hundred bucks a day, but three grand was their record. Frankie used a knife and Tua his fists. Sometimes a boot was required, but most people were quite obliging within a minute or two. They'd never gone much for excessive violence; had never seen the need, really.
The strategy was simple: approach and ask for a smoke; Frankie – twenty centimetre switchblade punched into the thigh; Tua – king-hit to the face: nose, jaw, depended on the angle as they dropped, really. They used to relive the action highlights over a beer afterwards, but the novelty had mostly worn off by now, and they tended to talk more about football and girls.
Tua spotted this one. He touched Frankie on the arm, nodded his head in the man's direction. The day had been slow. They'd met up pretty late this arvo, and there'd been no one in the quiet spots around Cabra this evening. Frankie had recommended a trip to the Quay, and they had been heading to the station.
Frankie scanned their environment. Perfect. He'd lost count of their hits in this alley. And the guy had a slight lean on. He wouldn't even know his leg had a hole in it until the ambos told him in half an hour or so. No one around, should be sweet.
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Still, he didn't give Tua the signal straight away. There was something. Could this guy be a cop? Something about the way he held himself? He didn't seem to have any idea they were there, but . . .
Tua was staring at Frankie. What? His eyebrows asked.
Frankie shrugged. The blade snicked out by his thigh, a scissor snip in the night.
The signal.
Joss checked his wallet under the streetlight, but its contents didn't register. Nothing in his face or posture had altered, but he was now completely sober. He put a seemingly steadying hand upon the pole and bent awkwardly, pulling at his shoe as though to dislodge a stone. The angle widened his peripheral vision, and he was now certain that one of them was carrying. Gun or knife? The answer was essential in determining his first move. He couldn't tell – the knuckles on the hand holding the weapon were pointed down, but still, it could be either.
Eight metres, seven. Make a decision.
Most places in Sydney, chances were this would be a knife. Guns were relatively scarce, but this was Cabramatta after all, and if there was going to be a gun, it would be here.
Six metres.
He was going to guess knife. Something about the hang of the kid's shoulders, the grip on the object, the fist closed hard, pumping it up. No need to do that with a gun.
Five metres.
Okay, come.
'Hey, you got a smoke there, mate?'
The big one spoke (to distract), the little one moved closer (to strike).
Joss drew in a deep, delicious draught of night air. The effect was soporific, but his senses could not have been more acute. A sensation of peace came with a feeling of alignment. Sometimes in life it was much more difficult to play nice than to just be real. Just you and me, boys. The violence was hot behind his eyes.
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