No Free Man

by Graham Potts

  Harper arrived back in Australia in a coffin, and Elliot greeted him at the airport. He was marched slowly off the back of a plane while faceless men in pressed uniforms and slouch hats stood and watched. She watched too but she could hardly stand. She saw a man in a pine box that wasn’t big enough to hold his soul, his mortal remains draped in a flag. Men with medals spoke of his courage and bravery. He had believed. And he had believed in her. They had heaped earth upon her last chance to be a part of something, to be a person again. Then they all went home to their families and left her behind, alone again.

  Nikolay knows something that I could never believe.

  Two familiar faces peered out from the second photograph. It was a happy couple in shy embrace, her fingers just touching his hand. They were digitally frozen at a Christmas party, trapped in the past where they would always stay.

  The photograph blurred and Elliot raised a finger to her eye. She wiped her cheek with the back of her hand before shoving the photographs into her pocket.

  There was only one reason why Nikolay Korolev would not send Stepan Volkov to kill someone. It wasn’t trust, it wasn’t competence, it wasn’t money and it wasn’t risk.

  Stephen still cares for me.

  CANBERRA, AUSTRALIA FRIDAY 16 SEPTEMBER 6:02 AM AEST

  Emily Hartigan closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

  The debrief had been short. It had involved Lee Singh shouting at her while she was wrapped in a blanket in the back of an ambulance. She couldn’t remember much of what was said, but he had thrust a pistol into her hand and told her to keep it with her at all times, adding “make sure you know how to work the fucking thing”. Her stay at hospital was slightly longer than the debriefing. The paperwork was stamped DAMA—discharge against medical advice.

  Hartigan had gone home and ended up erratically pacing her apartment. She had eventually forced herself to stand still, and spent two hours standing in the middle of her kitchen, staring into the sink. Sleep eluded her. Her mind was raw noise, thoughts crashing over each other like waves against a cliff. It was violent, unrelenting, and she couldn’t escape. The waves kept coming and coming, higher, louder, hissing and booming.

  “Your order?”

  Who said that?

  “Miss, your order?”

  Hartigan’s eyes sharpened, the world coming into focus. “Um, sorry.” She glanced unsteadily at the barista. “Long black, please.”

  It was too early to go to work, she had reasoned, so she had stopped at her favourite coffee shop, a block away from headquarters.

  I just need some personal time. Peace and quiet, and I can watch the sun rise.

  Another wave crashed against the cliff.

  Six hours to go.

  To Hartigan, dawn was a time for those who enjoyed their solitude. The sun was dependable and eternal. Today, however, everything seemed different. The sky was bleeding, the colour pooling in the clouds and dripping to the earth. The sun seemed mortal, and she felt like the only person in the world who had noticed.

  Hartigan jumped when the barista’s coffee machine clunked and whirred. She closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead, flinching when the shop’s door slammed.

  She tried to concentrate but only sensed fragments: a tradesman in a fluorescent windbreaker with a weathered smile; the waitress cackling; a man chewing a muffin with his mouth open; a woman’s bracelets clattering on her wrist; a curse and dabbing at spilled coffee with a napkin.

  “Miss?”

  Hartigan jumped again, her hand on her chest.

  “Your long black.”

  She snatched her cup from the counter and grabbed a newspaper from the rack, retreating to a corner table. She immediately opened the newspaper to the puzzles, cracking the pages and folding the paper. Hartigan found a pen in her bag and studied the cryptic crossword.

  Five across: Fool, one taken in by her dressmaker? Eight letters.

  Hartigan tapped her pen against her lips.

  Ten across: Forgotten old man on street. Four letters.

  She sipped from her cup and it burned her mouth and throat, leaving her tongue feeling prickly, her chest aching.

  Old man, like a father, like her father. Pa. And the abbreviation for street. The solution was “past”. My father has a past. No, he has a history. He is legendary, a hero. He would never hesitate. He was never afraid. I will never be the cop that he was.

  Hartigan shook her head and filled in the squares before gnawing on her pen.

  Fifteen across. Understudy with good reputation. Eight letters.

  Understudy. Like a replacement, a reserve, a stand-in.

  A fraud, a fake, a liar, a…

  She groaned in frustration. “Stand-in” followed by “g” for “good” gives “standing”. She penned in the answer.

  “Agent Hartigan?”

  She started and felt for the pistol under her jacket, looking up from her crossword to see a man in a flannel suit. He was in his early thirties but his hair was silver around his temples, his shirt open at the collar.

  “I’m David Frost,” he said, placing his hands on the chair in front of him.

  Her heart was pounding in her chest and she took a deep breath. “Frost?” she asked shakily.

  “You called me about the Angela James case,” he added.

  “Oh.” She narrowed her eyes. “How did you find me?” He cleared his throat. “I called your office and they said you like to come here before work.”

  She shifted in her seat. “I see.”

  “I wanted to talk to you in private.” He patted the backrest of the chair. “May I?”

  She felt for her pistol again and nodded.

  “That bruise on your head looks terrible,” Frost said, pulling his chair closer to the table. “Are you okay?”

  She touched the bruise on her hairline and cringed. “I’m fine.”

  “I’m glad.” He grinned crookedly, wringing his hands in front of him. “Before we begin, I have to ask—”

  “He’s my father,” she said.

  “Oh.” Frost became tense. “Then you might not like what I have to say.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be a constable?” Hartigan asked, reaching for her coffee.

  “I left the police force after the James case.”

  “Why?”

  “Your order, sir?” a waiter asked, hovering near their table.

  “Nothing, thank you,” he said, shooing the boy away.

  Hartigan sipped from her cup and eyed Frost sceptically. “Mr Frost—”

  “Professor.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “It’s Professor Frost, now,” he said, beaming proudly. “I work at the university and lecture in criminology.”

  “I see,” she said slowly.

  “I read your thesis,” he added. “It was excellent.”

  Hartigan sighed impatiently. “Professor Frost.”

  “David, please.”

  “Enough!” she snapped. The other customers in the store glanced at her but quickly looked away. “I’m running out of patience, Professor David Frost.”

  Frost absently scratched the back of his hand. “I’ll get to the point,” he said.

  Hartigan nodded. “Start by telling me about the case.”

  “I think I should start by telling you about Angela James,” Frost said. “You’ll understand why, once I’m done.”

  “Fine. Tell me about James.”

  “She was the adopted daughter of a media mogul. Her parents loved her but weren’t always there for her. She was in a car accident a couple of years before her death and injured her shoulder. She suffered from chronic pain every day after that.”

  Hartigan scrawled a note beneath her crossword. “Go on.”

  “She tried codeine, and that worked for a while. When that wasn’t enough, she moved on to morphine. When that stopped working…” He took a deep breath. “Heroin.”

  “Be serious.”

  “I am deadly serious, Agent Hartigan,”
Frost said. “After that, it was all downhill. She had a miscarriage, a broken marriage, hepatitis, and no job. Her parents abandoned her.”

  “Where does Simone Elliot fit in?”

  “Elliot returned to the country after a job in the UAE and visited her old orphanage. It was abandoned but she found James huddled on the steps. She was homeless.”

  Hartigan leaned forward.

  “Elliot bought her an apartment and helped her clean up. Everything was going okay.”

  “And then James disappeared.” Hartigan poured the last of her coffee past her lips.

  “We found the apartment clean, no evidence of foul play, not even a fingerprint. Your father was convinced it was murder.”

  “I heard it was her dealer.”

  Frost shook his head. “That’s just the story they used to cover it up.”

  Hartigan sat up and folded her arms across her chest. “What are you talking about?”

  “Simone Elliot was the suspect.” Hartigan shook her head. “No, that’s not right.”

  “She killed James’ dealer and we caught her and dragged her back to the station.” He cleared his throat. “She didn’t say a word while she was in custody. Your dad was furious. He was convinced that she was the killer. Then she escaped during the night and killed just about every cop on shift. She’s the one who put your dad in hospital.” He stared at the table.

  “This doesn’t make any sense.” Hartigan tried to scrawl another note on her newspaper but her hand was unsteady. “Why didn’t this make the papers? Why did they sell the dealer to the press?”

  He shook his head, finally finding the courage to look her in the eye. “Like I said, your dad was furious. When she was in custody, he bound her wrists and hung her from a rafter. He stripped her naked and doused her in ice-water.”

  “That’s it,” Hartigan said, standing up. “I’ve heard enough.” She tossed some money on the table and shouldered her bag.

  “Wait, Emily,” Frost cried, blocking her path.

  Hartigan bowled past him and rammed through the exit, her lungs aching as she inhaled the frigid morning air.

  “Emily, wait,” Frost called out. He was holding a DVD. “I knew you wouldn’t believe me so I brought this.”

  “A snuff film?”

  “It’s evidence,” he said slowly. “Look, you’re not the first to pretend this didn’t happen. Your dad was an old-fashioned cop. He got things done but times changed. Your dad didn’t.”

  “You’re telling me my father tortured a suspect,” Hartigan hissed, her eyes burning.

  “Yes, I am,” he said, his voice trembling. “I was there. I tried to stop it. I wanted to stop it.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I used a hidden camera and took it to Internal Affairs. They hushed it up and retired your dad quietly.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “Because of James’ adoptive father,” Frost said. “He wanted this to happen to Elliot.” Frost held the DVD up in the air. “He wanted justice.”

  Hartigan stared at the disc.

  “Look, it was a mess. They tried to beat a confession out of Elliot but she escaped and then lashed out. A lot of cops died and the chief inspector wanted it tied off. The dealer was the best scapegoat because he was dead.”

  “Why didn’t you take this to the media?” Hartigan asked, nodding at the disc. “Someone other than James’ father.”

  “I was paid off,” he said quietly.

  Her nostrils flared. “You’re as bad as the rest of them.”

  “I was finished as a constable. I needed to start over.” He pushed the disc into her hand. “Watch it,” he begged. “Do something.” Hartigan folded her fingers around the disc. “Were you there the night she escaped?”

  “Yes.”

  “But she didn’t kill you.”

  “I never laid a hand on her.”

  “So why didn’t she kill my dad?”

  Frost sunk his hands into his pockets. “I’ve always wondered that myself, Emily.”

  CANBERRA, AUSTRALIA FRIDAY 16 SEPTEMBER 7:35 AM AEST

  “I’m not seeing any students today,” Sharon Little said over her shoulder.

  “I’m not a student, Ms Little. I’ve come to see you about something personal.”

  Little swivelled on her chair and faced the woman in her doorway. She looked the visitor up and down before taking her glasses off. “Who are you?”

  “My name’s Simone Elliot.”

  Little’s jaw fell open and she rose slowly from her chair. “My God,” she said. “How did you find me?”

  “I found your name on one of my brother’s things,” Elliot said quickly. “I would’ve called but—”

  Little swallowed Elliot with her heavy arms but quickly pulled back as Elliot squirmed. She put a hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry, I completely forgot. Darren told me years ago that you don’t like being touched.”

  Elliot gave her a crooked smile. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “No, I’m really sorry,” she said. “I’m just so happy to meet you.”

  “So you know who I am?” Elliot asked, struggling to remember the woman in front of her.

  Little nodded vigorously. “I saw your photograph every day while I was deployed with your brother. I’m surprised I didn’t recognise you as soon as you walked through the door.”

  “I guess time changes people.” Little gestured for Elliot to sit. “I was looking forward to meeting you when I got back but I never got the chance.”

  Elliot picked up a stack of books from a chair and placed them on the floor before sitting down and surveying Little’s office.

  “I went into full-time study after the war and now I teach,” Little explained.

  “History and military strategy?” Hardcover tomes were stacked on dusty shelves, with wrinkled tags jutting from the pages. Paperbacks littered the floor, their spines broken and pages pasted in highlighter. Her desk was blanketed with essays and papers from her students.

  “We try to understand the mistakes so we can prevent them from occurring again,” she said wistfully. “Of course, it only helps if those in command of the military are interested.”

  “I imagine that doesn’t happen very often.” Elliot caught a glimpse of the photographs on her desk. “Little. Now I remember you,” she said, pointing to a photograph.

  A young woman in camouflage fatigues was propped against a signpost in a dusty town. Her sinewy arms had been baked by the sun and her curly caramel hair framed a delicate face, her eyes squinted at the camera. Her rifle was slung over her shoulder and her webbing was at her feet. Elliot remembered that young woman from the airport when she had waved her brother goodbye.

  Little tilted her head, gauging Elliot’s reaction. “Like you said, time changes people.”

  Once, the woman in front of her had been lean in body and wisdom, trudging through the desert to fight a war, but she’d left that behind. Little was no longer marching through mud to defend an idea, she was crawling through history to find one, any one, that would give her mind rest.

  I understand.

  Elliot cleared her throat. “I’ve wanted to talk to someone.” She stopped and shifted in her seat. “Needed to, I guess. I, uh.”

  Little nodded slowly, pointing to the books on her shelves. “Sometimes it’s hard to ask questions when you’re afraid of the answers. Sometimes, we focus on the wrong questions so we get the answers we want.”

  Elliot wrung her hands. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come.” She grabbed the arms of her chair and stood up.

  “Stay.”

  Elliot cringed. The chair sighed when she sat down. “This is hard.”

  “I know,” Little said softly.

  “When his coffin came home, I left it all behind.” Her shoulders sagged. “I don’t think I was ready to hear it.”

  “I understand,” Little said softly.

  I need to know.

  “I loved your brother,” Little said. “I was just a baby and he lo
oked out for me.”

  Elliot peered up at her.

  “I was over there as a linguist,” she began. “I sometimes went on patrol with the soldiers to translate. I was mostly there to talk with the women, to find out what they knew, and to keep our men from talking to them to keep the peace.” She opened a desk drawer, burrowing down until she found what she was looking for. She handed Elliot a stack of photographs. “I usually went with the regular army patrols but I tagged along with your brother’s specialist unit on a few different occasions.”

  Elliot thumbed through the photographs. Little was there, posing with bronzed men, all of them wearing dark sunglasses and dusty boots. She recognised her brother and she recognised Murphy. Both men were smiling and Harper’s arm was around Murphy’s shoulders.

  “They usually did search and destroy missions,” Little explained. “They used to hunt down the enemy and kill them where they slept. On one occasion, they attacked a camp and found three young girls who had been taken from their homes, so they returned them to their tribe.” She shifted in her seat. “The militants used to marry into the tribes to gain a foothold. They would slowly take over a village and take advantage of their cultural hospitality. They’d take food, medicine, and sometimes women. The more they married, the more integrated they were into the tribe, the more they could get the locals to do what they wished.

  “One chief, going against all traditional practice, refused to allow it and he kicked the militants out. One night, they came back and stole the young girls they believed they were entitled to marry. Darren’s unit stumbled into the middle of it.”

  “The village would’ve been happy to see them back alive.”

  “Yes and no,” Little said. “The traditionalists thought the chief was breaking the rules. They believed they were culturally obligated to provide the hospitality the chief had refused to give. The more superstitious believed they would be punished by God for not allowing the marriages.”