At the Glebe morgue, Deb introduces herself to Konrad Nordlund, who has arrived in a chauffeur-driven Bentley. He seems withdrawn, his pale face a mask.
‘This way, sir. Thanks for coming so promptly.’ She shows him into a small viewing room. The body lies on a gurney, most of it covered by sheets.
‘That’s her?’
‘You’ll notice the scars on the left arm.’
‘Yes, yes. But can I see her face?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Why?’
‘Her head was separated from her body, I’m afraid. We haven’t recovered it yet.’ They have made up the form of the head with folded towels beneath the sheet.
He frowns, as if mildly disgusted. ‘Well…it could be her, yes.’
‘Can you tell us where Amber was living?’
‘No, I can’t. She broke off contact with us—her family—over a month ago. We were concerned. We had no idea what had happened to her.’
‘Did you contact the police?’
‘We reported it, and I also made my own arrangements, hired private investigators. But they came up with nothing.’
‘I’d like to talk to them. Who were they?’
‘Let’s make sure it’s her first.’
‘You are a blood relative, Mr Nordlund?’
‘Blood? Yes, her father was my brother.’
‘If we can have a DNA sample from you, we’ll be able to confirm whether it’s Amber.’
He nods and turns away.
After Nordlund has gone, Deb feels a sudden wave of giddiness and has to lean against the wall. Through a window she sees the first glimmer of dawn in the eastern sky. She’s been on duty now for twenty-three hours, after ten punishing days since the first murders. Once, ten or twenty years ago, she would have taken it in her stride, but it’s not so easy now. She decides to get a couple of hours’ sleep before seeing Harry, and calls for a car.
She recognises the young woman behind the wheel, a driver she’s had before. Deb envies her air of cheerful competence, and imagines her having an untroubled private life outside of all this mess, with someone unconnected with the police.
‘Morning, ma’am.’
Deb gets into the front passenger seat, buckles up, sighs.
‘Where to?’
‘A drink and a bed,’ Deb says wearily and closes her eyes.
She opens them with a start. The car is stationary, in an underground car park. ‘What’s this?’
‘A drink and a bed. You nodded off and I didn’t know where else to take you.’
‘It’s a hotel?’
‘No, it’s where I live.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘I drove you before. My name’s Charity. You’re welcome to put your head down here if you want.’
‘Charity, with the nice smile.’ Deb thinks of her own place, cold and unloved since she kicked her scumbag boyfriend out. ‘Well… lead the way, Charity.’
They take a lift up to the apartment, clearly the setting of a well-ordered life. It’s apparent that no one else lives here.
‘Wine or scotch?’
‘Scotch, thanks.’ Deb sinks into a comfortable chair.
Two and a half hours later she jerks awake to the sound of her phone alarm. She is lying in a bed and at first has no recollection of how she got there. Sunlight shimmers on the blades of a venetian blind. Her clothes are lying on a chair nearby. She gets up and goes out to a bathroom, takes a shower, gets dressed.
In the dim light of the living room she makes out the pale shape of an arm. She’s seen it before, that arm, angled just so. A dismembered limb. She takes a breath, feeling her heart begin to race. Then the arm moves, and she sees that it belongs to Charity, lying beneath a doona on the sofa.
Charity stirs, struggles upright. She looks rumpled, sleepy, vulnerable. ‘Oh,’ she says, ‘I’ll drive you.’
‘No, I’ll get a cab. Thanks. And thanks for looking after me last night.’
‘It was a pleasure.’
As she goes to open the front door, Charity adds, ‘Ma’am?’
‘Yes?’
‘You should take some time off. Why don’t you come to the fair in Victoria Park today?’
‘That would be nice, but…’ Deb shrugs.
‘You’re entitled to a lunchbreak, aren’t you? I’ll look out for you.’
Deb takes the lift and steps out through a landscaped strip into a narrow street overshadowed by the block of flats. She wonders where the hell she is.
She follows the street out to a main road, solid with the morning traffic, and recognises the restaurant on the corner. King Street, Newtown. She walks for a while until she spots a cab.
40
She shows her ID at the police station, speaks to the duty sergeant.
‘I’ve come to interview Harry Belltree.’
‘Yes, ma’am. He’s had a mug of tea and a sandwich. Want someone to sit in with you?’
‘No, I’ll do it on my own. Has he said anything?’
‘Asked me if I’d let him know if there were any new reports of a murder or abduction in the city. None that I know of. There’s a bloke from TIB here to see you.’
He shows her into a small office where the man from the TIB, the telecommunications interception branch at Potts Hill, is waiting for her, fiddling with an iPad. Harry’s phone is on the desk in front of him.
Deb shakes hands. ‘Morning. Anything?’
He picks up Harry’s phone. ‘This is an encrypted Blackphone, but I’ve got this.’ He slides across a sheet of paper with a list of phone numbers, times and duration of calls. He taps at his iPad and points at the first number on the list.
‘This phone is currently located at the offices of the Times newspaper in Darling Harbour.’
‘Right.’
‘The next is at number 27 Worthington Avenue, Hornsby. The address belongs to a Robert Marshall. A serving officer, I understand—a detective superintendent.’
‘Okay.’
‘Now this one is all over the place, in a vehicle moving around the city, currently on Southern Cross Drive heading for the airport… international terminal, looks like.’
Deb picks up her phone and gives instructions to intercept, then gets to her feet. ‘Thanks for your help. Much appreciated.’
‘No worries.’
She picks up Harry’s phone. ‘I’ll return this to him and let him go. I’d like you to keep a close watch on it.’
‘Sure.’
She goes back outside and gives Harry’s phone to the sergeant. ‘You can return this to him with the rest of his stuff when we let him go. I wouldn’t mind a mug of tea and a sandwich myself.’
She’s eating when Harry’s brought into the interview room. He sits down quietly, watches her.
She finishes, wipes her mouth. ‘They tell me you’ve had your breakfast.’
He nods. ‘You’re looking tired, Deb. Pushing yourself too hard.’
‘Mm. So what’s the story, Harry? What were you doing in Slater Park?’
‘Got a tip-off that another body had turned up there, old burn scars on the left arm. I remembered Amber Nordlund’s injuries at Ash Island and thought I’d better check.’
‘Really? Just like that?’
‘Just like that.’
‘Where was Amber staying?’
Harry lowers his eyes, doesn’t reply.
Deb leans forward. ‘Where, Harry? Tell me or I swear I’ll have you locked away for another month.’
‘A boarding house at 32 Mont Street, Redfern. Little room at the top of the house. There’s another body up there.’
Deb looks at him, says gently, ‘Is it Jenny?’
Harry shakes his head. ‘Man, late thirties, in the bed. He was very sick, maybe AIDS. But I doubt he died of that.’
‘Who is he?’
‘Called himself James Zuckermann, friend of Luke Santini—Ash Island again, remember? But Zuckermann may have been an American called Sol Fleischer, on the run from US
authorities on arson and murder charges. Amber took refuge with him after something happened to her in Vanuatu. She claimed Nordlund’s two sons raped her.’
Deb looks doubtful. ‘Where does Jenny come in?’
‘Jenny?’
‘Yes, Jenny. After you recognised Amber’s body you got straight on the phone. You were heard saying, “Run, Jenny, run.” Was she hiding with Amber and Zuckermann?’
‘No.’
‘Then where is she? You’ve been helping her, Harry, haven’t you? Sheltering a fugitive. I’ll put you away for years.’
‘Deb, you have to understand that Jenny didn’t kill Palfreyman. She’s been framed.’
‘Oh, really? I think I may have heard this one before. About a thousand times.’
There’s a knock on the door and an officer comes in, whispers something in Deb’s ear. She nods, gets to her feet. ‘Try to come up with something more original before I come back, Harry. Like the truth.’
She goes out to another interview room where two local area detectives are waiting with a third man, an Indian.
‘This is Girish Jaggi, ma’am, of the Agarwal Taxi Consortium,’ one of the detectives says. ‘And this is the phone you asked us to track down.’ He hands Deb a mobile. ‘We stopped Mr Jaggi’s taxi at the international terminal and found the phone tucked into the back seat.’
Deb asks Jaggi to tell her about his shift.
‘I came on at midnight,’ he says. ‘I took over from Kumar, who was exhausted, poor fellow.’
Deb interrupts him. ‘About three am, where were you then?’
‘Let me think…About two-thirty I picked up a couple from Star City Casino and took them to an address in Marrickville. Then I continued along Marrickville Road and at the junction with Illawarra Road I was flagged down by three men. They had been drinking, most certainly, quite rowdy and boisterous, I must say. As they were climbing into the cab this lady came out of nowhere and threw herself all over the two men who were in the back seat! They were amazingly surprised, I can tell you! Then they were delighted, because she was quite a young, attractive lady, and I think they must have thought their wishes had all come true. She had trouble getting them to behave, and I thought I might have to stop and eject them all, but the man in the front told them to calm down. He asked the lady where she was going, and she said, “Where are you going?” and he said, “Woollahra,” and she said, “That will do.” They all became quite jolly at that point, handing round a bottle, for which I had to reprimand them, and—’
‘So you took her to Woollahra?’
‘Well, no. I was about to explain. After fifteen minutes or so she suddenly demanded that I stop, and she got out, with some difficulty, because the men were very disappointed and tried to restrain her. But she ran away.’
‘Where was this?’
‘Waterloo, at Elizabeth Street.’
‘You’ll have all this on your taxi camera?’
‘Yes, certainly.’
They retrieve the memory card and view the sequence with the three men. At first Deb is disappointed to see the images of a woman with straight, dark hair, but as the cab moves into a patch of bright light the woman turns her face towards the camera and Deb recognises Jenny.
Seven hours have passed since she left the cab. Deb orders detectives and forensics to the address in Mont Street, and a general alert for a woman of Jenny’s description. Then she returns to Harry.
‘All right, Harry. Time for the truth.’
He tells her Jenny’s story, the encounter with Palfreyman at the shareholders’ meeting, going to Blackheath, the car outside his cottage, the two intruders, her flight. He doesn’t mention Fogarty.
‘That’s it?’ Deb shakes her head. ‘Hell, what’s happened to you, Harry? Blinded by love? Grief? Her story makes no sense. If she witnessed the men in the house, why didn’t she call us? Why didn’t she run to the nearest cop shop?’
Harry leans across the table and whispers something.
‘What?’ She bends forward.
‘Turn off the tape.’
She looks at him as if he’s gone mad. In fact he does look manic. Haggard, damaged—this isn’t the Harry she used to know.
He whispers again, ‘Please.’
She folds her arms, decides to stop this and arrange a psychiatric assessment.
‘I’m terminating this interview,’ she says, and stands up. She calls for him to be taken back to the cells.
The duty sergeant is outside in the corridor, hurrying towards her. ‘Ma’am, we’ve had a report from Mont Street. Body of a man.’
‘Okay, I’d better get over there.’
‘There’s a car outside…’
For one brief second as she hurries out she allows herself to wonder if the driver will be Charity. But of course it isn’t. She jumps in the back and gets to work on her phone.
41
Kelly joins a horde of journalists and camera crews outside the mansion on the harbour promontory of Vaucluse. Catherine Meiklejohn has sent her here. ‘You’ve got a thing about Konrad Nordlund, haven’t you, Kelly?’ she said. ‘He’s giving a press conference outside the family home later this morning.’ Kelly peers over the front wall at the windows of the upper floor of the house, wondering if Karen Schaefer’s face might appear there.
Nordlund opens the front gate. He is in a pale grey suit. Behind him, in black, is his lawyer Nathaniel Horn. The press shuffles closer.
Nordlund unfolds a piece of paper and reads. ‘Earlier this morning I was asked by police to attend the Glebe morgue to view the body of a young woman, murdered last night in Slater Park.’
Muffled exclamations from the journalists are stifled as Nordlund gives them a bleak stare.
‘Although a final confirmation will not be available until later today, there is no doubt in my mind that the young woman was my niece Amber Nordlund.’
He pauses, the crowd stunned, utterly silent.
‘I accuse Husam Roshed, the member of parliament for Campsie, of inciting this murderous violence against my family by his slanderous and malicious attack upon me yesterday under cover of parliamentary privilege. His appalling suggestion that I was in some way responsible for the Slater Park murders has rebounded in the most tragic way. Amber was the gentlest and most caring of people, adored by all her family and friends. Her murder is an obscenity which cannot go unpunished. I call upon Mr Roshed to resign immediately from public office and face the consequences of his inflammatory words.’
The crowd erupts as Nordlund turns away and Horn steps forward, raising his hand for silence. ‘Mr Nordlund and his family are in deep shock, mourning the loss of their beloved Amber. We ask that you respect their privacy and leave them in peace. Thank you, that is all.’
He closes the gate and returns with Nordlund to the house. Kelly moves to the back of the commotion, feeling sick. She tries Roshed’s number and leaves a message.
42
‘Bruises on his arms. My guess would be that he was held down and smothered with the pillow.’
Rebecca Jardine, the pathologist, stands beside Deb in the doorway of the attic room as the crime scene team works inside.
‘Time?’
‘From the state of rigor I’d say similar to the girl in the park—around midnight.’
They return to the ground floor, where a detective approaches Deb.
‘Neighbours say that the house is normally occupied by Chinese students, dozens of them, they say. No sign of any of them, nor of a man they call Ben who usually sits on the sofa outside with a dog and a bird in a cage selling drugs.’
‘Clever bird,’ Deb says. She feels a little light-headed. ‘Okay. I’m going back to Strike Force Spider headquarters. You can reach me there.’
In the empty warehouse on the edge of Slater Park that serves as their major incident room, she examines the big map on the wall with today’s updates marked. Col, the task force manager, stands by her side, pointing to the areas being given priority in the fingerti
p searches of the ground, which began at dawn. So far nothing has been discovered. It’s all too familiar. A call comes through from the local police station, the psychiatrist they brought in at Deb’s request to examine Harry.
‘I’ve carried out my assessment, inspector,’ the woman says, ‘but I just wanted to confirm a few issues of fact. He says his wife is missing, is that right?’
‘Yes, she is missing. We’ve been looking for her for eleven days now.’
‘And she’s wanted for murder?’
‘Again, yes.’
‘Oh, I thought…Well, he’s obviously experiencing a major life crisis at the present time. The first impression he gives is that of calm control, but underneath he’s in great distress. I think he’s holding himself together with difficulty, and I’m concerned at the possibility of self-harm, or of violence against those he believes are obstructing him. I propose to section him.’
‘I see. What will happen to him?’
‘He’ll be given another assessment at the hospital. If he’s found to be mentally disordered, he’ll be kept there for up to three days. If found to be mentally ill, they’ll keep him until he can be assessed by the Mental Health Review Tribunal to determine a course of treatment.’
Deb thinks about this. ‘He has a baby.’
‘Yes. He told me his wife’s sister is looking after it. I’ll make sure she’s notified. She seems to be the next of kin. His parents were killed in that crash, of course, and he says he doesn’t have any other close relatives.’
‘Right. Keep me up to date, could you?’
‘Certainly. I’ll go ahead then, shall I?’
Deb hesitates a moment, then says firmly, ‘Yes, do that.’
43
People are coming into the incident room with rolls, drinks, takeaway orders, and Deb feels suddenly hungry. She checks her watch, 1:15 pm. ‘I’m going out for an hour, Col,’ she says. ‘Clear my head.’
‘Good idea,’ he says. ‘Beautiful day outside, so they tell me.’ Col is unshakeable, an anchor.
She calls a cab, which arrives at the gates of Slater Park as she gets there. As they approach Victoria Park she hears the amplified music, sees crowds converging. There are people and their dogs in fancy dress, jugglers, a group playing on a stage, stalls, the smell of hot food. Deb wanders around for a while, eyes searching, but sees no sign of Charity. There are so many people that it seems unlikely their paths will cross. She checks the faces as they pass, asking herself, Are you Cador Penberthy?
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