by Emma Viskic
He met Frankie’s pale eyes. ‘It was someone he knew.’
She stayed silent. Sitting very still now, her hands folded in her lap.
‘Two people,’ he said. ‘Maybe three. Gaz knew how to fight, but there was no damage in the hallway. One on either side, one for his legs, straight to the back of the house, away from the neighbours. They killed the dog to shut it up, then wrecked the place. Took a fair while doing it – ripped every cushion, tipped out the drawers, smashed the TV and computer.’
What had come first, the killing or the destruction? Don’t think about Gary’s sprawled body, his blank eyes, just the room. Books strewn across it; the spray of blood across the pages.
‘They wrecked the place, then killed him. I think they made him kneel.’ A fist in his hair, the soft skin of his throat exposed. Did he plead? Bargain? A flash of silver and the cold burn of the blade. ‘He didn’t die straight away. The blood … it sprayed.’ He blinked and refocused. Frankie’s eyes were wet. ‘Why wreck the place?’ he said. ‘Why risk the time?’
‘Looking for something.’
‘They wouldn’t have had to search – Gaz would have given it to them. The kids were due home. Sharon, too. Nothing would have been more important to him than keeping them safe.’
‘Maybe the killers were sending a message.’
‘Detective Tedesco agrees with you.’
‘Smart man.’
‘Not that smart if he thinks Gaz was bent.’
She didn’t say anything, but the tapping started up again.
‘Just say it,’ he said.
‘Why did Tedesco jump straight to that?’
‘Because he’s an idiot.’
‘Mate, in thirty years on the force, I never met a stupid homicide cop. Arseholes, sure, but no idiots.’ She patted the air. ‘Settle down. I’m not saying Gary was bent, just that you should back off and let Tedesco do his job.’
‘I can’t just … I asked him to do it, Frankie. I dumped him right in the middle of it and I didn’t have a fucking clue.’ Something squeezed his throat.
‘No-one did. Because it’s not connected.’
She kept talking, but he let his gaze drift away. Words, more words, but none of them could change the truth.
She smacked his arm. ‘Fucking look at me when I’m talking to you. What are you? Three?’
‘I don’t need a pep talk, Frankie.’
‘I’m not giving you a bloody pep talk, I’m setting you straight.’ She dropped her gaze to his hands and he realised he was rubbing them on his jeans. He held them still.
‘Look,’ she said. ‘If it’ll help set your mind at ease, we can have a poke around tomorrow, ask a few questions. OK? Great. Now eat that soup so I can stop looking at it. The colour of fucking cat sick.’
A layer of grey scum had formed across the soup. He should eat it: not eating was the first sign. Then not sleeping, then not functioning. If you were lucky, it ended with a friend helping you start again in a tiny apartment with pink walls and striped orange furniture.
He forced down a mouthful. ‘Thanks.’
‘You like it? I’ve got some stale Weet-Bix for dessert.’
3.
Gary was gripping his shoulders with bloodied hands, shaking him.
‘They killed the dog, Cal. Why did you open the door?’
He wrenched awake, his breath coming in panicky gasps. Gary kept shaking him. A flailing moment trapped inside the nightmare before he worked it out: six a.m. and his pillow alarm was vibrating. Christ. He fumbled for the off-switch, then swung his legs out of bed and stumbled into his running clothes; there was no way he was getting back to sleep now.
Into the bathroom for a quick piss and a handful of water. His aids lay like tiny pink snails on the vanity. Expensive enough to put a serious dent in his bank account, small enough to hide under his hair. They changed the silence in his ears into distant sounds; blurred and directionless, like the murmurings of an underwater world. His hand hovered over them. Stupid not to use them: a chance to catch a warning horn or accelerating truck. And every other untranslatable hum and rumble. No, not yet. A long run by the river first. Nothing but footfall and breath, the cold sting of the wind in his face. He turned, almost expecting to see Kat in the doorway, eyes heavy with sleep, but carrying the clear warning to be careful on the roads. Funny how an absence could carry so much weight.
He found Frankie sprawled on the couch. She’d sent him to bed around two, saying she might as well stay for the ‘few fucking hours’ sleep’ she was going to get. He was pretty sure she was snoring. Her mouth was open, hair matted: an oddly reassuring sight. Starting Trust Works with her five years before had been one of his smarter decisions – there wasn’t much in the world Frankie hadn’t already faced and survived. Possibly due to her capacity to sleep through anything.
He set her phone to go off at 7.30, added a few five-minute reminders, and bent to put it by her ear. Paused. Something wasn’t right. He could smell … He scanned the floor, then dropped to his hands and knees. Under the couch lay a bottle of Johnny Walker Red. He pulled it out: half empty. Fuck. Fuck. Six years on the wagon and she had to choose now to fall off. His fist tightened around the bottle. What now? Leave it out to confront her? Pour it down the sink? Over her head?
He shoved it back under the couch and went for a run.
They were on their way by 8.30, Frankie driving while he skim-read the case notes she’d printed out. At regular, terrifying intervals she attempted to sign with him. She’d picked up a handful of Auslan over the years, most of it profane. And slow. So slow.
‘Man good,’ she signed as she turned north onto St George’s Road. ‘Twenty years.’ She abandoned the wheel to make the X shape for ‘work’.
Probably talking about the security guard they were on their way to interview, but he wasn’t about to extend the conversation by asking.
‘Hurt. No remember. Sad head.’
Good facial expressions to accompany her signing, a big improvement. Pity it meant she was looking at him instead of the road. His foot pressed against an imaginary brake as they drifted into the path of an oncoming semitrailer.
‘We’ll both have sad heads if you don’t look at the fucking road.’
She nudged the wheel with one hand and used the other to give him the universal ‘fuck you’ sign. He was definitely driving next time. Except his car was still parked outside Gary’s house. It was going to be a while before he could face going back there for it.
‘His name …’ She wedged the wheel between her elbows and began finger-spelling at a glacial speed. One fist on top of the other – G. A stab at her middle finger – I.
He glanced at the folder: Giannopoulos. They were going to die.
‘Arnie Giannopoulos,’ he said. ‘Sixty years old. Been with City Sentry Security for twenty years. Has mild concussion and can’t remember anything about the robbery.’ He pointed out the window. ‘Thompson Street’s the next right.’
Frankie gave the road a cursory glance and turned in front of a speeding delivery van.
When he opened his eyes again, they were pulling up outside a dilapidated Californian bungalow.
‘OK if I do the talking?’ Frankie asked as they got out of the car.
Code for ‘Are you with it enough to follow two people in a conversation?’
‘Sure.’
‘Because he took a bit of a shine to me.’
‘Shit, really?’ That meant he was playing bad cop to her good, a role reversal that never sat well.
He eyed the house as they walked to the door. It needed re-stumping, re-roofing, and some serious attention paid to the weatherboards, but there were new security bars on the windows. Sawdust from the drill holes still specked the window ledges. He nodded towards them as they waited for someone to answer Frankie’s knock.
‘New locks, too,’ she said.
The sun caught her face as she turned. Frankie could usually pass for a cranky sixteen-year-old boy, bu
t every one of her fifty-seven years showed this morning: sagging skin and pink-rimmed eyes, a hollowness to her cheeks. The bottle had been gone by the time he’d returned from his run. Neither of them had mentioned it.
The door opened a few inches and a man peered at them past a security chain. His long face was a mess of yellowing bruises. One ear was swollen and butterfly tape held together the raw edges of a scar that ran from his bloodshot eye to his lip. A deliberate cut, straight and deep.
Caleb glanced at Frankie – that was a lot more damage than the single blow to the head the police report had detailed.
‘New,’ she mouthed.
‘Not the police again,’ Arnie said. Going for disgruntled impatience, but he was scanning the street behind them. A lot of twitching and blinking.
Frankie gave him an obvious once-over. ‘You’re not looking too good there, Arnie. What’s happened?’
‘Bit of an accident.’
Caleb missed Frankie’s reply, but Arnie clutched his tattered blue dressing gown to his throat. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not here. Come in.’ He unchained the door and ushered them inside, locking it securely behind them.
‘Police?’ Caleb signed to Frankie as they followed the guard down a dark hallway. Former Sergeant Francesca Reynolds just grinned.
Arnie led them into a dimly lit living room and slumped into an armchair. The room smelled of ancient potpourri and unwashed skin. China kittens and puppies crowded the mantelpiece and framed tapestries of farmyard scenes lined the walls. Even the lounge suite continued the theme: cows and horses, a gentle sunrise across green pastures. Either Arnie had once had a wife, or he was struggling with a split personality.
The guard was mid-rant, his arms crossed awkwardly across his chest ‘… to be … people and … got rights …’
Shit. He’d miss half the conversation in this light. Time to put his bad-cop powers to good use. He crossed the room and stood over Arnie. He held the guard’s blinking gaze, bent down and switched on a table lamp. A rosy glow illuminated Arnie’s face. Not quite the intimidating wattage he’d envisaged. The kittens on the lampshade didn’t help much, either. Avoiding Frankie’s eye, he went to lean against the mantelpiece.
‘Sorry, Arnie,’ Frankie said. ‘Do you mind if I sit down? It was a long day yesterday.’
‘Oh.’ Arnie lowered his arms. ‘Sorry, love, of course. You’re in a hard job for a girl, eh, lady.’
Frankie smiled demurely and settled herself next to the guard. ‘Not as hard as yours. You look like you’ve been in the wars since I saw you.’
Her sweet-little-thing act always freaked Caleb out: he kept expecting her head to rotate 360 degrees. He let her work her dark magic while he watched Arnie. Short, choppy sentences, dry lips pecking at his words like a hen’s beak. Clear consonants apart from the dropped Gs. An easy read, but why the nerves? Most men settled quickly on the rare occasions Frankie opted for charm, but Arnie looked ready to cry. Be interesting to see how he’d respond to a little snooping. He watched for a few more sentences, then peeled himself from the mantelpiece and wandered from the room. Arnie shifted restlessly in his chair, but made no move to stop him.
Master bedroom first. More cutesy figurines on the dressing table. He picked up a dense-looking shepherd, then wiped a thick layer of dust from his fingers. Not the treasured shrine to a long-gone wife then, just the belongings of a man who couldn’t find the energy to change unwanted surroundings. Moving right along – no personal comparisons to be made here. Wardrobe next. No wall safe behind the sour-smelling clothes or scuffed shoes. None behind the tapestry of gambolling lambs. Into the kitchen. An ancient stove and fridge, no microwave. If Arnie was on the take, he was being remarkably disciplined about spending the money.
He moved towards the back door, then stopped. A paler patch shone on the floorboards. An area the size of a man’s body had been scrubbed clean. Dark stripes still showed where something had seeped between the planks. This was where Arnie’s attackers had caught up with him. A lot of blood for one cut. Maybe Arnie was a bleeder. A cold sweat broke out across his forehead. He took a moment, then shoved his hands in his pockets and strolled back into the living room. Frankie looked at him and frowned.
He took up his place by the mantelpiece and focused on Arnie.
‘… last Tuesday,’ the guard was saying. ‘Just a stupid accident. Had a few drinks down the pub with me mate, Pearose. Can’t hold it like I used to. Fell over on the way home. Flat on me face, blood everywhere. Pearose reckons it’s lucky I didn’t kill meself.’
Pearose? That couldn’t be right. He made a mental note to check it with Frankie.
‘You went drinking two days after the robbery?’ Frankie asked.
‘Yeah, couple of drinks with a mate. Nothing wrong with that.’
‘While you were concussed?’
Arnie’s mouth hung open for a moment ‘Mild concussion.’ He attempted a smile. ‘I’ve got a thick skull.’
Frankie shook her head. ‘Arnie, we know what happened – someone bashed you. You witnessed something during the robbery and someone hurt you to shut you up.’
‘No, I …’
‘He really hurt you, didn’t he? Punched you, kicked you.’ She laid her hand on the guard’s. ‘Used a knife.’
‘No.’ Arnie clutched the neck of his dressing gown. ‘I fell. I fell and, and there was, there was glass.’
Enough.
‘One of his mates held you down while he cut you,’ Caleb said.
Arnie’s eyes locked on his. ‘What?’
‘In your own home. Where you thought you were safe. What do you think he’ll do to you when he finds out that you’ve informed on him?’
‘W-what?’
‘Because that’s what I’m going to do the minute we leave here – put the word around that you’re a dog. Those shiny, new bars on the window won’t stop him. Or the expensive new locks. A sledgehammer to the door, down the hallway, and he’s in your room. With that knife.’
Arnie’s hand twitched towards his cheek. ‘I fell over.’
‘I’ve seen what he can do with a blade, Arnie. He killed a cop yesterday, a friend of mine. Slit his throat. Did it nice and slow, so Gaz knew what was happening. So he could watch his blood pump all over the walls and the ceiling. All over his kids’ toys.’ And he was somehow across the room, leaning over the cowering guard. ‘Do you know what that looks like, Arnie? What it fucking smells like?’
A pain in his wrist: Frankie pulling him away. He stepped back, his breath heaving in his chest. Frankie shot him a back-the-fuck-off look, but Arnie was reaching a hand towards him.
‘Please, you can’t tell him. He’ll kill me.’
‘Who, Arnie? We can’t protect you if you don’t tell us.’
The guard shook his head like a cornered animal.
‘We won’t tell anyone it came from you, Arnie. Not your employers, not the police. No-one.’
Arnie jerked back. ‘You’re not cops?’
Shit. Amateur fucking mistake.
The guard struggled to his feet. ‘Bastards, coming around here. Get out.’
Frankie was speaking, her hands making soothing motions.
‘Get out. Get the fuck out.’ Spit flecked Arnie’s mouth. He flung an arm towards the door and his dressing gown fell open to reveal a pale and hairless chest. A red scar marred his skin, a hand-span wide. He yanked the gown closed, but not before Caleb had made sense of the mark. Bile rose in his throat.
Someone had carved the letter S into Arnie’s chest.
4.
He’d made a serious misjudgement with the cafe, taken the flying ducks and formica tables as tongue-in-cheek kitsch when they were obviously original fittings. Probably bought around the same time the coffee machine had last been cleaned. Not happy sitting with his back to half the room, either: a dozen people behind him, including a group of young mums wielding enormous prams. Odds were, at least one of them would scare the crap out of him by creeping up in his blind spo
t.
Frankie’s mouth puckered as she tried her latte. ‘Jesus. My choice of cafes next time, country boy.’ She nudged it away from her. ‘What’s your take on Arnie?’
‘A follower, not too bright. No obvious new money. If he’s working for Scott, he’s low on the food chain and very well trained. You almost had him there. Sorry for the fuck-up.’
‘Yeah. Remind me to smack you for that later.’ She rubbed absently at her breastbone. ‘Branded. Fuck.’
‘Yeah, that’s weird.’
‘Weird? It’s fucking perverted.’
‘Assumed that was a given. I mean the timing’s weird. If Scott did it to warn Arnie to keep quiet, why do it two days after the robbery? Why not do it on the night?’
‘Maybe Arnie did something afterwards – talked to someone, or tried to blackmail Scott. Huh. Do you think Gary …? I mean, no stupid ideas, right?’
‘There are definitely stupid ideas, and that’s one of them.’
‘Then why kill him? Arnie’s obviously in trouble with Scott, but he’s still alive.’
Gary as a ten year old, back in Resurrection Bay. Always by his side, even when the local mouth-breathers decided it was bash-the-retard time again. Twig-armed and trembling, but never backing down.
‘Because Gaz wouldn’t scare off.’
Frankie took another sip of her coffee and grimaced. There was a film of sweat on her forehead. Either her latte was even worse than his long black, or she was feeling the effects of half a bottle of Johnny Walker. They’d never discussed her drinking. Never talked about her battle to get dry, her brief foray into painkillers, her broken marriage. Most of it had happened before his time, but he’d gone into their partnership knowing the stories.
‘You OK?’ he asked.
‘Mate, I’m not the one yelling at witnesses.’
Fair point. ‘Did you talk to the other guard? The one from the first burglary?’