Game Theory

by Barry Jonsberg

  Summer bit her lip and nodded. She’d tidied herself up at some stage during the night, even put on a little bit of make-up. I noticed that the skin around her eyebrow piercing was red and raw. It looked painful. We settled into our chairs as best we could and watched the clock on the wall as its hands crept in glacial fashion towards noon.

  I suspect we all held our breath as the minute hand clicked onto twelve. Two hands merged into one but the phone didn’t ring. It wasn’t until five past that the call came in. I was embarrassed by my ring tone. Its cheeriness was an affront. Why hadn’t I changed it to something more appropriate? Because I had other things on my mind. Gardner gestured to me to answer it. My finger trembled as I swiped the pulsing icon.

  ‘Hello?’ I was appalled by the poverty of the opening. There was that silence again. I was starting to understand that there are different textures to silence. This was not the absence of noise. It was something more solid, weighty. The absence of noise wrapped in something thick and buried underground.

  ‘Not busy, I hope?’ said the mechanical voice.

  ‘No.’

  ‘That’s good, Jamie. Now. Tell me where you are and who’s with you.’

  I glanced at Gardner who nodded.

  ‘I am at the police station, in an interview room. With me are my Mum and Dad, my sister Summerlee and Detective Inspector Gardner and Detective Moss.’

  ‘Good. You are on speakerphone or Bluetooth, I can tell. Good afternoon, Detective Gardner.’

  ‘Good afternoon.’

  ‘You are the officer in charge?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Excellent. I want you to listen carefully. All of you. First things first. Phoebe is fine. Obviously she is scared and misses her family. But I am looking after all her needs. She has eaten, though not much I must admit. She is hydrated. She got some sleep last night. Physically, she is in good shape. I have not harmed her and I will not harm her, provided you do what is necessary. Is that understood?’

  ‘Perfectly,’ said Gardner. ‘Is it possible to speak to her so that she can confirm what you’ve told us?’

  ‘Not now. Possibly later. In the meantime you will have to take my word.’

  ‘That’s not fair on her family,’ said Gardner. ‘As you know, they are distraught with worry. This would be a small gesture of good faith on your behalf.’

  ‘Possibly later.’

  Mum made as if she was about to say something, but Moss placed a hand lightly on her shoulder and she shrank back into her chair. I could tell something was building inside and the pressure was becoming unbearable.

  The voice continued.

  ‘Here is one piece of information I am prepared to give you about me. I once worked briefly for a mobile phone provider. I was exceptionally good at my job. In fact, I am confident there are very few people in Australia who know more about the technology of communications than I do. If you have any notions of tracking me through these conversations, then I advise you to forget them right now. It will not happen. No GPS. No triangulation of signals or any of that nonsense. You will be searching for Phoebe and, of course, me. I understand and respect that. But you will not find me through phone conversations. I’m trying to save you time. I’m being cooperative in the hope you will reciprocate.’

  He paused again.

  ‘Summerlee Delaware won seven million, five hundred thous- and dollars recently on Ozlotto. My price for returning Phoebe Delaware is two million dollars in cash. Once I receive that I will release her unharmed. I will not ask for more money. Two million is sufficient for my needs and I am professional. I think it would be better for all concerned if we considered this a straightforward business arrangement. Are we clear so far?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Gardner.

  ‘Okay. Here is the last point. I will no longer talk to anyone except Jamie Delaware. This is not open for negotiation and I will hang up if anyone else attempts to talk to me. This includes, in fact it especially applies to, the police. Obviously I cannot control what is happening at your end of the phone and I imagine Jamie will want to have the advice and support of experts whilst I am talking to him. This is fine by me. But no one else is to talk. If I even hear another voice in the background I will hang up and the release of Phoebe will be, at best, delayed. Understood?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Gardner, and the line went dead. ‘Shit,’ he muttered and rubbed his brow. He looked up at us sheepishly and for a moment I thought he was going to try to explain. I didn’t realise he meant starting now. The room was quiet.

  Mum started crying. It was a stifled sob at first but then it got messy and loud. She hunched over in her chair and really let rip. Her pain, I realised, had been an avalanche waiting to happen. The drift of one snowflake would set it into unstoppable motion.

  A snowflake had drifted in that mechanical voice.

  It was difficult to believe a body so small could contain such anguish, and I wondered if it would physically tear her apart. Dad tried to help. He really tried. But the only strategy he had at his disposal was an arm around her shoulders, and it didn’t work. He looked at Summerlee and his face was filled with helplessness. I was learning much about my family. Mum’s explosive energy, her determination to act, was a thin veneer, a film protecting a deep, possibly bottomless, pit of fear. Dad was simply out of his depth. Summerlee had chosen her path and every step took her further and further away from the family. Phoebe had always been the best of us. But Phoebe wasn’t here.

  Detective Moss took over.

  ‘I know this is hard,’ she said, ‘but I would like a favour from all of you. Can you all, independently, write a list of anyone – and I mean anyone – who could conceivably wish you harm?’

  Mum jumped in and her voice, though shaky, was strong enough. Barely.

  ‘But this is just about money, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘I mean, that’s what the voice said. Two million dollars. Not about doing us harm. Not about harming my baby . . .’ Her voice broke once more.

  ‘I’m sure it is,’ said Moss. She put her hands flat on the table as if somehow that was reassuring. ‘But we have to explore all possibilities, Ms Delaware. It won’t do any harm and might, conceivably, give us another lead to work on. Can you do that for us? Please?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Dad.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Moss.

  The meeting finished soon after that. Gardner practically ejected Mum and Dad through the police station’s main door and Summer and I followed. But before we left, Gardner took me by the arm and pulled me to one side.

  ‘When he rings again, I want you to contact me immediately. Understand?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said.

  ‘Day or night. Any time, okay?’

  ‘Sure.’

  He nodded, but kept his eyes on mine for longer than strictly necessary as if, for indeterminate reasons, I might be lying. He gave me a card with his mobile number on it.

  ‘Get some sleep,’ he said, not unkindly. ‘You look like shit.’ Even that wasn’t unkind. And I felt certain it was true because I absolutely felt like shit.

  It was only when we were in the car park that we realised no one had arranged a lift home for us. Dad took the opportunity to rail against the inefficiencies and lack of consideration of the police and used his mobile to call a taxi. He stormed into the road, his back to us, and rang while glancing up and down the main street. I might have pointed out that the detectives were hopefully busy doing their jobs and that we were still capable of finding our own way home, but I kept quiet. I knew enough to know Dad needed indignation right then. It was performing a similar function to the whisky. Mum had calmed down a little and Summer was hugging her close. When she broke off, I tapped Summer on the arm and she moved with me a couple of metres away.

  ‘I’m going for a walk,’ I said. ‘I’ll be home later. Tell Mum.’

  ‘You can’t just leave us, Jamie,’ she replied. ‘What if he rings again?’

  ‘Then I’ll ring you guys immediately
.’

  She looked as if she might argue, but then she shrugged. Even under these circumstances she couldn’t bring herself to consider me as anything other than an irrelevance. I stepped into the road and turned left. Dad was talking on his phone and raising a hand towards a taxi that was quite obviously already occupied. He didn’t see me and I was grateful.

  CHAPTER 16

  I had no idea I was going to school until I got there. And I didn’t know I was tracking Gutless down until I went to Mr Monkhouse’s classroom to find him.

  I knocked on the door and waited. Mr Monkhouse could get grumpy if someone just burst into his classroom. It interrupted his flow, he said, and he liked flow. I did too. When Mr M was chasing after a mathematical idea it was kinda beautiful, even if very few of his students were able to follow the mental path he was beating. He didn’t mind that. In the end he often taught to an audience of one – himself – and if others were able to join in, that was fine. It just wasn’t obligatory.

  The door opened and a different teacher stood there. He was short, bald, and sported a salt-and-pepper beard, trimmed close. My mouth opened and closed again. Mr Monkhouse was always in class. Some students reckoned he slept there.

  ‘Can I help you?’ said the man.

  ‘I was looking for Mr Monkhouse,’ I said.

  ‘He’s off sick. I’m the relief teacher.’ He went to close the door so I put the flat of my hand against it. The teacher regarded me for a moment and any trace of friendliness evaporated. There wasn’t much to start with.

  ‘I need to see Gutless Geraghty,’ I said. ‘It’s an emergency.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Sean. Sean Geraghty. He’s a student in this class.’

  ‘And do you have a note from reception?’

  ‘No. It’s just that . . .’

  ‘Then I suggest you get to class, young man. The students here are working.’ This time, the door closed with unmistakable finality.

  I went out into the pale and sickly sunshine and sat down on the grass bank overlooking the basketball court. The entire school was deserted.

  Sick. Mr Monkhouse was sick. I remembered a time when Mr M broke his arm and didn’t miss a day. He had one of the students write on the board for him. I pulled my phone from my pocket and found his number in contacts. He’d given it to me a year back, when it became clear I was his best student. Hell, I’d even been round to his house for personal tuition a couple of times. I rang and didn’t feel the slightest bit guilty. He might be ill, but there was a thought rattling around at the back of my head and I wanted to talk to him. The phone rang and rang, and just when I was sure it was going to voicemail, he answered.

  ‘Hello?’ It’s only one word, I know, but he didn’t sound sick.

  ‘Mr Monkhouse. It’s me, Jamie Delaware.’

  There was a pause, like he was trying to place me. ‘Jamie,’ he said. ‘Look, I’m sorry, but I’m not in school at the moment. I’m not well.’

  ‘What’s the problem, Mr Monkhouse?’

  Another pause.

  ‘That’s none of your damn business, Jamie. Don’t ring me again.’ The line went dead.

  I put the phone away and got to my feet. Something strange was going on.

  Mr Monkhouse was nearly always patient. I had seen him explaining something to a student, carefully and meticulously, though he must have wanted to scream at the lack of understanding, the apparent inability to grasp the obvious. Mr Monkhouse was the gentlest man I had ever known.

  Our conversation had not been gentle. He had been brusque, insensitive, and he sounded stressed out rather than sick. True, there was no reason he would know about Phoebe. There’d been nothing on the news, so I shouldn’t have been expecting sympathy or any consideration for my feelings. But, still . . . he liked me, or I always thought he did, and I was ringing to check on his wellbeing. Why would he be so rude?

  His house was a five-minute walk from the school. Maybe he’d bought it to cut down on the time spent away from the classroom. Who knows, who cares? I got to his place in three minutes and sat on a wall opposite his front door in the shade of a large tree.

  Every curtain in his house was drawn closed. I spent half an hour watching and a curtain didn’t so much as twitch. I could have knocked on his door – why should I worry about other people’s sensibilities when they didn’t worry about mine? But I didn’t. I sat and thought. Detective Moss had given me much to think about.

  My phone buzzed. Text message. I didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed that it was from Gutless.

  Dude. u wantd 2 see me. dooshbag relf teacher. fuck him. meet greesyspoon in 20. Da Horse.

  I texted back. Make it 45. At some stage I would have to have another word with Gutless about his text messages. Who wrote shit like that? He signed off as The Horse because someone had once pointed out his initials were gee-gee, a tacker’s name for a horse. Gutless is undoubtedly pitiful and I probably won’t be able to change him. Maybe that’s okay.

  Just as I was about to leave, Mr Monkhouse’s front door opened and the man himself stepped into the yard. I shrank back against the bole of the tree, though there was little chance of being spotted anyway.

  Mr M took a cigarette from a pack and lit up. He doesn’t smoke. I’ve never seen him smoke, which I know doesn’t mean a great deal. What you do in your own house is your own business. But I would have smelled it on him, even if he was a light smoker. He smoked it down to a stub, then tossed the butt into the garden and went back inside. I watched him for between five and ten minutes. He didn’t seem sick, he seemed agitated. Why would he be agitated?

  Ten minutes later I was outside the supermarket where Phoebe had been taken.

  I didn’t want to go there. In fact, when I arrived, I had to stand for a few minutes and fight against something heavy and churning in my chest. I took long, regular breaths because I knew I was on the verge of hyperventilating. Even when I’d regained control, it was still a massive effort to go through the automatic doors and approach the customer service desk. The air inside was heavy with loss and I felt like throwing up again. I put both hands on the counter and swallowed hard.

  Eventually, a young girl with bad skin and a mouthful of chewing gum approached me. I wondered if she was Summerlee’s replacement. Her eyes were a touch glassy, but maybe that came with working in a supermarket. Summer’s eyes were normally glassy, but that was probably due to what she smoked.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘I wondered if it was possible to have a word with the store manager, Ms Abbott,’ I said. My voice sounded relatively normal, but my heart was pounding. I needed to get out of there.

  ‘Are you a rep?’ She didn’t stop the gum-chewing.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘A rep. Are you selling something?’

  ‘Oh, no. It’s personal.’

  She picked up a phone, tapped a number, mumbled something and then put the phone down. ‘Ms Abbott will be with you shortly,’ she said. I smiled but she didn’t smile back, just watched me, her mouth working continuously. Fortunately, I didn’t have to endure the uninterested spotlight of her glare for long because Ms Abbott rocked up in less than a minute. She took one look at me and recognition swam into her eyes.

  ‘You’re the brother of that little girl,’ she said.

  ‘Phoebe,’ I said. ‘Her name’s Phoebe. And I’m Jamie.’

  She put a hand flat against her chest. ‘Is there any news?’

  I tilted my head towards the gum-chewing employee.

  ‘Any chance of a word in private?’ I said.

  ‘Of course. Please follow me.’

  It was strange walking through the supermarket aisles, and a wave of nausea hit me as we went past the deli counter. It was even stranger being back in that office. I remembered the plate of biscuits and the pale tea and the female police officer. But it was as if all that had happened in some other era to some other person. My stomach clenched.

  ‘Is there any news?’
repeated Ms Abbott, sitting behind her desk.

  ‘Nothing so far.’

  ‘I’m so sorry. If there’s anything I can do . . .’

  ‘Well, actually there is.’ I hadn’t sat down. Maybe I’d entertained some stupid idea of exerting dominance by towering above her, but suddenly I wanted to sit. I wasn’t sure my legs would support me for much longer. ‘Could you explain how Phoebe left this store without any of the security cameras picking her up?’

  Ms Abbott frowned. ‘I really have no idea. I told the police that as far as I know . . .’

  ‘But you must know which parts of this supermarket are blind spots for the cameras,’ I said. I tried to smile but I think it came out wrong. ‘The police told me there were plenty, so I’d really appreciate it if you walked me through the place. You know, so I can better understand.’

  Ms Abbott’s frown deepened and she placed both hands flat on the desk.

  ‘I don’t want to be unhelpful,’ she said, in a tone of voice that indicated she was about to be just that, ‘but I think the police have all the relevant information. Perhaps you should talk to them.’

  ‘But I did talk to them. I just told you. Now I’m talking to you.’

  Ms Abbott brushed imaginary specks of dust from the surface of the desk. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but I can’t simply show people – even you – potential security breaches at work. I really am sorry, James, but you should talk to the police.’

  ‘It’s Jamie.’

  ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘My name. Jamie. Brother of Phoebe and also Summerlee Delaware. You probably remember Summerlee.’

  That got a reaction, though she tried to hide it. For a fleeting moment her face filled with loathing.

  ‘Of course I remember Summerlee. How is she?’

  I ignored her. ‘Perhaps you could let me know if there are any staff members who might have a grudge against my sister?’ I said. I tried that smile again. ‘She rubs some people up the wrong way, as you probably recall.’