After dropping Jenny off at Nicole’s house and witnessing the tearful reunion with her baby, Bob returns to Surry Hills. He speaks to the leader of the crime scene team who confirms his reading of the situation—no fight, no violence, just a very thorough search by intruders who were careful enough to wear gloves and probably overshoes too.
‘There’s one message on the house phone,’ she says. ‘It might mean something to you.’
He listens to the call, notes the name, Bernard, and the number, then tries to ring it. It goes straight to voicemail. Bob thinks for a moment, then calls Deb.
‘Velasco.’
‘Deb, Bob Marshall here. I picked Jenny Belltree up as we agreed and brought her to her house in Surry Hills, where she was expecting to meet Harry. He’s not here and we found the place broken into and turned over. Nothing to do with you, is it?’
‘No, Bob, not me.’
‘You looking for Harry?’
‘I’d like to talk to him about the Grimshaw murder, but so far he’s not on our wanted list. I didn’t know he was back in the country. I think he’s trying to avoid me.’
‘Yeah, I guess so. There’s one message on the phone here, someone called Bernard asking Harry to meet him at his apartment. Could you track it down for me? I’d get onto the TIB myself, but I’d have to go through channels. You can do it quicker.’
‘Sure, Bob. I’ll get right back to you.’
He feels humiliated having to ask Deb to do this, wonders if he shouldn’t have bothered.
She rings back fifteen minutes later. ‘Unregistered mobile, Bob. At the moment it’s on a property out near Dural, a place called Doggylands Boarding Kennels. Jenny has a seeing-eye dog, right? They’re probably giving it a holiday.’
‘Oh, right.’
‘Sorry, not much help. You know Harry, Bob. He’ll show up when it suits him.’
He rings Jenny’s sister’s number. Nicole answers and he asks to speak to Jenny.
‘We’re just going to bed, Bob,’ Jenny says. ‘Thanks so much for looking after me. It feels so wonderful to have Abigail in my arms again. Is there any news of Harry?’
‘No, I’m afraid not. Listen, you have a dog, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Were you planning to put it in the kennels?’
‘No. Why?’
‘Oh, just that someone left a message on your phone at Surry Hills from a place called Doggylands Boarding Kennels.’
‘I’ve never heard of it, Bob. Harry must have been in touch with them. Our Labrador has been staying with my mother. Maybe he wanted to give her a break.’
‘Yes, that must be it. The man said his name was Bernard. Ring any bells?’
‘The only Bernard I can think of is Bernard Nordlund. Harry met him a couple of times, I think. But it couldn’t be him, could it?’
‘No, guess not.’
82
He wakes with pain in his arm and shoulder, lying awkwardly on the hard ground. Tries to lift his head and chokes back a wave of nausea. It’s pitch dark, but he’s not alone. He can make out sounds: heavy breathing, grunts, a muffled snore.
As he tries to sit up there’s a metallic clunk and a rattling noise as his foot strikes something hard, then faint sounds of movement around him. He reaches a hand to the obstacle and realises it’s a metal bucket. When he slides his hand over the lip he touches water, fresh and cool. He struggles upright, cups water in his hands and splashes his face, takes a cautious sip, then a grateful gulp. Something makes him look up suddenly and his eyes meet another pair, unblinking, very close.
He says, ‘Hello?’ and is answered by a deep growl. Beneath the eyes he can make out two rows of large white fangs, bared.
He backs away, feeling the hard concrete beneath his palms. His watch, his shoes and socks are gone, and everything from his pockets. He lies back and tries to focus. His brain isn’t functioning properly. This is a dream, right?
83
Kelly blinks at the illuminated numbers on the clock, 3:22 am. She gets up from the couch where she’s fallen asleep, fires up the computer and logs into the Times online and begins searching. Nothing in the headlines or main stories. Eventually she finds it, under local politics, a short article beneath a picture of Husam Roshed, ‘Consternation in State Parliament’. The tone is humorous, mocking Roshed’s reputation for wild claims, in this case that a government minister has been having a sexual relationship with a member of a developer’s family. In a press statement the premier has laughingly dismissed the claim as ‘lurid nonsense’. There is no mention of Susan Aguilar, Konrad Nordlund or Kelly Pool. The author is the paper’s political editor, Maurie Stevens.
Kelly calls Catherine Meiklejohn’s mobile. A sleepy male voice answers. ‘Hello?’
‘Can I speak to Catherine, please?’
‘Look, she’s just got to sleep. Can it wait?’
There’s a sound of a voice in the background, a muffled conversation and then Catherine comes on. ‘Kelly. You’ve seen the paper?’
‘Yes, I—’
‘I would have spoken to you but you’d gone by the time we made the decision, and I thought it could wait till morning. I’m sorry, but it was a political story, not a crime, and Maurie was adamant there was nothing in it.’
‘But the photographs.’
‘Who took them? How credible are they? How do we know some teenage geek didn’t cook them up on his computer? There’s just nothing to substantiate them, Kelly. I’m sorry, but you were a bit out of your depth on this one. Stick to crime.’
Kelly rings off, chilled by the change in Catherine. There’s been pressure, she thinks, from above. She dials Roshed’s number. ‘Husam? I’m sorry, I’ve just seen the Times online. I’m furious.’
‘It’s okay, Kelly, I’ve seen it—it’s kind of what I expected.’
‘What shall we do now?’
‘It’s already done. Keep an eye on the Post.’
‘You’ve given it to them?’
‘Yep.’
‘You should have talked to me first, Husam. I can’t have my name on an article in another paper.’
‘It won’t be in your name, Kelly, don’t worry. They’ll write the piece, use the pictures. They won’t mention you.’
‘But…it’s my material! It’s my story! You shouldn’t have made a copy of what was on that memory stick.’
‘Your paper got first shot at it and wouldn’t play ball. Not surprising when Konrad Nordlund sits on your board. This is the only way to play it. If you want to take credit for the pictures, be my guest.’
‘I can’t do that.’
She rings off, tight with anger and frustration. Stick to crime, Catherine told her. It’s what she wants to do, what she was doing. So what now?
84
A pale light slowly grows. Harry gets clumsily to his feet, legs cramped, and tries to make out his surroundings. His eyes begin to identify features in the dimness—steel posts and frames, dark bodies huddled on the paler concrete. His fingers clutch chain-link and he realises that he is in a cage, one of a row disappearing into the gloom. His cage has a steel-framed gate. It resembles a temporary holding prison they built at the base in Kandahar. There is a strong smell of urine. He begins to do exercises to get his body moving once again.
The light grows and he sees that he is inside an industrial shed. Sounds can be heard from outside the building, a vehicle starting up, a radio. Now he sees that all the huddled bodies in the cages around him are large dogs. The nearest ones stare at him malevolently.
Eventually a door opens with a clang at one end of the shed, letting in a shaft of morning sunlight. The figure of a man appears, pushing a wheelbarrow. The animals stir and begin squealing and barking with excitement. The man stops at the first cage in the row and scoops something from the barrow, then continues, stopping at each cage in turn. When he reaches Harry he sneers. Harry recognises Kylie McVea’s son Gavin, who fills the scoop and tips it through a hole at the bottom of
the cage.
‘Here’s ya breakfast, dog,’ he says, and laughs, moving on to the next cage. Harry sees a pile of dried dog food lying on the concrete.
When Gavin has reached the end of the row he turns back, and as he passes Harry’s cage he says, ‘If ya want a shit, go out there.’ He points to a hatch in the wall at the back of Harry’s cell. When the shed door bangs shut again Harry goes to the hatch and slides the cover up. Crouching, he sees a patch of dirt outside, surrounded by a high chain-link fence. He crawls out and sees three dogs in the yard. They stare at him, snarl, then one charges, followed by the others. Harry ducks back into the cage and slams the cover down as the animal throws itself against it.
85
Deb wakes slowly, reluctantly. Stretching out a hand, she feels the bed beside her empty, cold. She sighs and closes her eyes again.
Lying there, still only half awake, she finds her thoughts drifting to Bob Marshall. Poor Bob. Sad. She wishes she could help him, but there’s no way—office politics saw to that. If Dick Blake thought she was in touch with his predecessor he’d think she was undermining his authority, leaking information.
She hears the bang of the front door closing, then Charity is there, flushed with health and exercise, in her running shoes, shorts, T-shirt, her phone strapped to her arm. ‘Morning,’ she says. ‘I’ll make some tea.’
When she returns with the mugs she has a newspaper tucked under her arm. She tosses it to Deb. ‘Look at this. You’ll love it.’
It’s the Post, a rag Deb never buys. ‘I was lucky to get a copy,’ Charity says. ‘Everyone was buying them.’
She points to the picture on the front page under the single-word headline Screwed. ‘What a shocker,’ she says cheerfully. ‘Poor Susan.’
But it isn’t Susan Aguilar Deb is staring at, it’s her boyfriend’s wrist and hand, caressing her cheek—the Rolex watch and the thick gold band on the middle finger. Ryan Nordlund.
‘Do you have to go in to work today, love?’ Charity says. ‘It’s a beautiful day. We could take a ferry, have a picnic?’
‘I wish. It won’t always be like this. It’s just there’s a mountain of stuff waiting, and I have to be there to deal with it all.’ She reaches out her hand for Charity’s. ‘Soon, I promise. I’ll take leave. Where would you like to go? Bali? Fiji? There’s this great resort in Thailand someone told me about.’
But when? Since Fogarty’s confession they’ve let her back in to the Slaughter Park investigation, which is a never-ending data-grind now, with no prospect of an arrest in sight. She looks again at the Rolex watch in the picture. If only life were that simple, she thinks.
86
Bob rises late, feeling at odds with himself. He makes breakfast, low carbs, fruit, because he’s been putting on weight, sitting on his arse behind a desk all day. He wonders what he can do with himself this Saturday morning. Bit of shopping, get a haircut, lunch in that little place that’s just opened. Or he could go into the office and do some work on the budget report. He groans. Not like the old glory days in homicide, when Betty was alive. Then the days were always busy, full of something new, feeling fulfilled.
‘Jeez, Bob,’ he mutters. ‘Stop feeling sorry for yourself. And stop talking to yourself, will you? People’ll think you’re senile.’
Doggylands. Stupid name. Keeps scratching at his brain. Has he heard it before? He gets his computer going and looks it up. Proprietor Kylie McVea. That Kylie McVea? Monster half-sister of Frank bloody Capp? Now he’s got it.
‘Might just go out there and take a look this afternoon. What do you reckon?’
87
Kelly is thinking about Harry. She hasn’t seen or heard from him since parting at Port Vila. Is he still out there? Or has he returned and is he right now opening the Post and wondering where those pictures on Maturiki came from? She owes him an explanation big time. The least she can do is try to explain. Maybe Jenny’s sister has heard something.
Nicole answers her call. ‘Hi, Kelly, how are you?’
‘I’m fine. I just wondered if you’d had any news of Harry or Jenny.’
‘Yes! Jenny’s right here.’
‘Jenny?’
‘Yes, wonderful news. She’s in the clear. I’ll let her tell you herself.’
Jenny comes on the line. ‘Yes, Kelly, it’s true. The police arrested me yesterday and then released me. Apparently they now believe what I told them about Terry Palfreyman’s murder.’
‘But how come?’
‘That man Fogarty I recognised at Terry’s house? It seems he confessed to murdering Terry with another detective called Grimshaw.’
Kelly is startled. ‘What? I’ve heard nothing of this.’
‘No,’ Jenny says, ‘I think they’re keeping it quiet at the moment.’
Not for long, Kelly thinks. Catherine told her to concentrate on crime, and this is it. The Palfreyman murder, her baby.
‘Tell me the whole story,’ she says, and Jenny does. When she’s finished, Kelly says, ‘But what about Harry?’
‘Yes, I’m worried sick. When Bob Marshall took me home to Surry Hills, Harry wasn’t there, and the house had been broken into and ransacked. I haven’t heard from him since.’
‘That’s terrible. You have no idea where he might be?’
‘No. The only thing Bob could find was an odd message on our phone from a dog kennels somewhere.’
‘Dog kennels?’
‘Yes, called Doggylands. Silly name. Someone said they wanted to meet Harry. I don’t know what that was about.’
But Kelly does. She says, ‘Do you have Bob Marshall’s mobile number, Jenny? I might chase him up, see if I can learn more.’
‘Okay, I have it here.’
Bob answers her call with the cop brush-off voice he reserves for the press. ‘Yes, I remember you, Kelly. You gave Deb Velasco some grief if I remember, and got into a bit of trouble yourself. Sorry, bad time. Can’t talk now. On my way out.’
‘To Doggylands?’ Kelly says.
Silence on the line. Then he says, not very convincingly, ‘What are you talking about, Kelly?’
‘Kylie McVea. I’m coming too.’
‘Not a chance.’
‘I’ve been there, Bob, to the kennels. I can help you. She has a son, not too bright, loves guns, and two muscle men, Amal and Khalil Haddad, nephews of the sergeant-at-arms of the Crows who was killed at the Swagman Hotel last year. Remember?’
Of course you remember, Kelly thinks, because you were in charge of the Crucifixion Creek mess.
Another silence. ‘Where are you, Kelly?’
She gives him the address and he says, ‘I’ll pick you up in an hour.’
88
The sun is high overhead now, sending patterns of light through the dirty windows of the shed. The dogs have gone, let loose into the pens, leaving behind a pungent animal smell and the sound of barking.
Some cocktail, Zelda. He wonders what was in it, can still feel the effects—an ache in his head and an uncoordinated clumsiness in his movements.
With a screech the door at the end of the shed opens and a waft of country air gusts in. Two men, identical, huge bulky upper bodies and arms, shaved heads, Middle Eastern complexion. They roll up to his gate and slide the bolt. ‘Out.’
Harry stays where he is, sitting on the concrete floor, back to the shutter.
One of them comes in, turning sideways to fit his shoulders through the opening. ‘I said out. Git on ya fuckin’ feet.’
Harry gazes blankly up at him, still doesn’t move. The man steps closer to deliver a kick, and as it comes Harry grabs the foot and yanks it hard, tipping the man back against the wire side of the cage with a crash. As the other man rushes in, Harry jumps up and punches him hard in the face, ducks to one side, hits him again in the ribs and trips him down onto his companion.
He runs towards the external door, where he is confronted by a third man holding a shotgun pointed at Harry’s chest. The man has staring eyes, a wild grin, as
his finger tightens on the trigger. Harry stops, raises his hands, and a blow from behind throws him to the ground, out cold.
He wakes spluttering, water running down his face. A man, one of the Lebs, is standing in front of him holding a bucket, a nasty expression on his face. Harry’s arms are stretched above him. He looks up and sees rope around his wrists tied to the roof truss of another shed, a workshop by the look of it, bits of equipment scattered around. The man drops the bucket with a clang and punches Harry hard in the belly. Harry gasps, trying to get breath. The man steps forward, hisses, ‘Fuckin’ dog. Have ta train ya.’ He moves back and his look-alike steps forward and kicks Harry in the crotch.
The beating goes on for a while, the two men taking turns, until they’ve had enough and walk away, leaving Harry hanging there, licking the blood running down from his nose, willing the pain to ease.
Eventually someone else comes into the workshop, his figure silhouetted against the glare of light at the far end so that Harry can’t make out his face at first.
‘My God, Harry. What have they done to you?’ A familiar voice.
‘That was some cocktail, Bernie,’ Harry mutters, spitting blood as he speaks. One eye has swollen closed, but he can still see Bernard’s pink plump face, full of concern.
‘You mustn’t provoke them, Harry,’ Bernard says, whispering close to Harry’s ear. ‘This is all so unnecessary. Just tell me where the photograph is, and where we can find Joseph, and that’ll be the end of the matter. They’ll let you go and won’t bother you again, I promise.’
‘So you’re in charge, are you, Bernard? You were behind it all.’
‘No, no, not exactly. In some ways I’m as much a victim in all this as you are. I just wanted a quiet, spoilt life, like everyone does, but I’m…implicated, and I have to play the part allotted to me, as do we all.’
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