Resurrection Bay

by Emma Viskic

  ‘Yeah, he was a last-minute ring-in.’ She reached for a paper napkin and began shredding it. ‘I checked – there’s no way he could have known he’d be at the warehouse that night. And a witness has the truck rolling through the warehouse gates about fifteen minutes after he left.’

  A thump. He swallowed a startled ‘fuck’ and turned around. A harried-looking mother was trying to push her pram past his chair, while clutching a screaming baby. He returned her grimace-like smile and moved his chair. Something to be said for not registering higher frequencies.

  ‘Reliable witness?’ he asked Frankie.

  ‘Shift worker getting home. Said he took note of the time because they’ve been fighting the warehouse about noise. The truck came in at 1.06.’

  ‘So our guys knew how to disable the CCTV and alarm system, knew the guards’ schedules, and had keys to the warehouse doors. What are you thinking? An insider at the warehouse or at the security company?’

  ‘Warehouse,’ she said. ‘The security firm feels solid. It’s a small firm called City Sentry, been around for about twenty years. The manager thinks he’s better than Jesus, but he runs a tight organisation. The guards don’t have the alarm codes or keys to warehouse doors. And …’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And Gary was looking into the warehouse when he was killed.’

  A thump. Shit, another pram. Should have been prepared for that; they always travelled in pairs. He checked over his shoulder to make sure the remaining mothers weren’t carrying out stealth manoeuvres behind him.

  Frankie tapped the table to get his attention. ‘You want to move?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then stop twitching, I feel like the Gestapo’s after us. Any chance we can get our hands on Gary’s laptop? It’d cut out a lot of work if we had his notes.’

  ‘The police haven’t got it – they kept asking me about it.’

  She abandoned her napkin and started in on his. ‘Then I guess we’ll just have to talk to everyone at the warehouse again. You right to start on that by yourself? I want to chat to a few mates, see if I can find out anything about Scott.’

  A lot of new people. Some with moustaches or accents; gum-chewers and smokers. And in a noisy environment, the soft murmur of voices lost as his aids amplified every revving engine and clanging pipe. Probably have to turn them off. Hard to speak without them, even harder to lip-read.

  ‘Sure,’ he said.

  ‘Great. Have you found your phone yet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Jesus. Can’t you do a GPS search or something?’

  ‘I haven’t got location services on. Remember that little chat we had about cyber security?’ He could probably pinpoint where it was without GPS, anyway: in the back pocket of his jeans, which were currently being bulldozed into the Reservoir tip.

  ‘For fuck’s sake. Well, get yourself a pre-paid until you find it. I don’t want you wandering around without any means of communication.’ She scattered the napkin pieces on the table and poked at them. There was a faint tremble to her hand.

  An uncomfortable thought wormed its way into his brain. Was she really going to spend the day talking to old colleagues, or was she planning another drinking session?

  ‘Frankie.’

  ‘Yep?’

  ‘I saw the bottle.’

  A slow flush crept up her neck. ‘Just a slip. Won’t happen again.’

  ‘It hasn’t happened in a long time.’

  ‘Exactly.’ She glanced at her watch and stood up. ‘See you back at the office around six. Actually, why don’t you go straight there instead of the warehouse? You could get some paperwork done.’

  He stiffened. ‘Why?’

  ‘The warehouse is pretty noisy. And it’s a lot of new people for you to follow – eighteen including the cleaners.’

  ‘You saying I’m not up to the job?’

  ‘I’m saying your abilities would be of more use elsewhere.’

  Abilities. He loosened his jaw. ‘Are you unhappy with the standard of my work?’

  She buttoned her jacket, took a bit of time on the bottom hole.

  ‘Frankie? Do you have a problem with the quality of my work? With my abilities?’

  Pink-rimmed eyes met his. ‘No, Caleb, you’re doing fine.’

  He watched her go, a hollowness in his chest. Doing fine. He took a swig of cold coffee to rinse the bitter taste from his mouth. Eighteen people. If he got a move on, he could get them all done today. He pushed back his chair, felt it slam into something solid. Another fucking pram.

  A tiny woman with two enormous babies. She scowled at him.

  ‘… the hell’s wrong with you?’

  He was back in the city by five. He paid the taxi driver and stood on the footpath, an iron band squeezing his forehead. Eighteen interviews and all he’d gained was confirmation that warehouses were noisy, and some very specific directions on how he could go fuck himself. There was obviously a bit of pilfering going on at the place, but no-one had struck him as a criminal mastermind and no-one had blinked at the name Scott.

  He looked up at the darkened office windows. An hour until he had to meet Frankie. Sixty minutes of silence, maybe a couple of beers. Or, seeing as he’d achieved fuck-all today, he could walk the two blocks to Lonsdale Street and catch City Sentry’s manager before he left for the day.

  ‘If your best isn’t good enough, try harder.’

  His father’s voice. The low rumble of it still in his head, even after all these years. One of a handful of auditory memories, along with whole sections of Chopin’s Études. Fucking strange, the human brain.

  He headed up the hill for Lonsdale Street.

  City Sentry’s reception area ran to faux-wood panelling and nylon carpet, but a glimpse of the open-plan office beyond showed state-of-the-art computers. The place was empty except for a young receptionist with metallic-red hair and awe-inspiring nails. According to her star-shaped badge, her name was Elle and she was happy to help him.

  ‘Sean?’ she said to his request to speak to the manager. ‘Yeah, he’s still here, hang on.’ She phoned through, giving Caleb a little wave as she caught him watching her nails.

  ‘You like?’ She wriggled her fingers, making the embedded crystals glint.

  ‘They’re great.’

  ‘A friend of mine did them for free. They’d cost a packet otherwise.’

  He edged a hip against the desk. ‘Handy friend.’

  ‘I know, right? She’s the nail technician at the hairdressers’ I did my apprenticeship with.’

  ‘You’re a hairdresser?’

  ‘Nah, it was so boring.’ An expressive roll of her mascara-caked eyes. ‘All I ever did was wash hair and sweep floors, you know?’

  ‘You like it better here?’

  ‘It’s a bit quiet, but Sean says I can do some other stuff when I’ve been here longer.’ She tapped a nail against the desk. ‘Your accent – can I ask, are you Danish or something?’

  It happened when he was tired; all those hours of speech therapy, slipping from his tongue. His brother called it his cotton wool voice.

  ‘Good guess,’ he enunciated.

  ‘My boyfriend’s mum’s from there. She’s got more of an accent, but. You must’ve been here a while.’

  ‘Years.’ Since a bout of meningitis as a five-year-old. A very observant young woman, the fluffed and painted Elle. Definitely worth talking to again.

  She bestowed a brilliant smile on someone behind him. ‘Sean. Caleb Zelic from Trust Works for you.’

  Sean Fleming was in his late forties, with a body that had seen some serious time in the gym. His skin glowed orange against the white of his shirt and he’d brushed his hair forward to disguise the beginnings of a receding hairline. He winked at Elle and encased Caleb’s hand in a knuckle-bruising grip.

  ‘Caleb, mmmm mmmmm?’ A thin stream of sound escaped his rigid lips.

  The band around Caleb’s head tightened. Shit, a letterbox-mouth.

 
‘Just a few follow-up questions about the Altona warehouse robberies, Sean.’

  The manager glanced at Elle and folded his arms across his chest, tucking in his hands to make his biceps bulge. ‘Mmmm finished with that?’

  A big swinging dick. Step up or step back? A big swinging dick playing up in front of a pretty young audience? Better step back.

  He opened his hands, palms outwards. ‘Yeah, sorry, we’re getting a bit of heat from the bosses. Insurance companies, you know. Don’t like parting with their money.’

  ‘Mmm mmmmm, Frankie mmmm.’

  His left eye gave a dull throb. ‘Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that.’

  ‘Frankie Reynolds said mmm mmmm OK.’

  Christ. He nodded, scratched his head, and flicked up the volume on his good ear. It wouldn’t make Sean’s words any clearer, but at least they’d be audible. The manager was looking at his ear, frowning slightly. That was sharp: not many people would have caught the move; even fewer would have spotted the pale plastic through his hair. He braced himself for the usual flustered response, but instead, Sean’s shoulders loosened and a faint smirk lifted his mouth. Relieved. Which meant he had something to hide.

  Caleb suddenly wasn’t tired any more.

  ‘Just a few quick questions, Sean.’

  ‘Right. Sure.’

  ‘Does anyone at City Sentry have the code to the warehouse alarm?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And the guards only have keys for the perimeter gate?’

  Sean’s attention wandered to Elle. ‘Mmmm mmm.’

  Do it. Suck it up and play the game. ‘Sorry, I didn’t catch that.’

  Another knowing grin. ‘Yeah, just the keys to the gates.’

  ‘But not to the warehouse?’

  ‘No.’ Sean’s eyes were on Elle again.

  ‘What can you tell me about Scott?’

  The manager’s attention shot back to him. ‘What?’

  ‘Scott. What can you tell me about him?’ Easy smile, open hands.

  ‘I don’t know any Scott.’

  ‘Oh sorry, I thought they said …’ He pulled out his notebook and found an old shopping list. ‘Yeah, here it is – they all said, “Ask Sean Fleming at City Sentry about Scott.”’

  ‘Sorry, Caleb, I don’t know any Scott.’ The manager was finally speaking clearly.

  ‘We believe his gang robbed the warehouse.’

  ‘First I’ve heard of it. Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got work to do.’ He was turning away.

  ‘How many of your clients’ properties has Scott hit?’

  Sean swivelled back. The condescending smile was gone. In its place was the same snake-eyed look Caleb used to see on the kids who cornered him in the playground. Boys driven by fear and testosterone and a fierce desire to crush.

  ‘They not working, mate?’ He jerked his chin towards Caleb’s ear. ‘I said, I don’t know any Scott.’

  Big swinging dick: step back.

  Caleb lifted his hands. ‘Sure, sure. But a guy like you, you’d be on top of everything, you’d know what’s going on in the industry. Have any of your competitors been targeted by his gang?’

  Sean stepped in too close. The smell of sweat fought with his musk deodorant. Elle raised a hand to her mouth and gnawed on a thumbnail.

  ‘Still having trouble hearing me?’ Sean’s voice rose to a painful level. ‘HOW ABOUT NOW?’

  Step back.

  ‘Just point me in the right direction and I’ll get out of your …’

  ‘I. Don’t. Know. Any. Scott.’ The manager prodded Caleb’s chest with each syllable.

  He was going to snap off that finger and shove it up Sean’s arse.

  Step back.

  ‘Do. You. Under. Stand?’

  ‘I understand that you’re fucked, Sean. Going by your reaction I’d say he’s hit your clients multiple times. And you’ve let it happen. What’d he do to make you so scared? Call you names? Tease you about your bald patch?’

  Sean rocked onto the balls of his feet, fists bunched.

  Caleb tensed for the blow. From the corner of his eye, he saw Elle’s mouth move. A single word. Sean’s knuckles whitened, then released and he exhaled with deliberate slowness.

  ‘Sorry I couldn’t be of more help, Caleb.’ He strode to the door and shoved it open. ‘Bye now.’

  As he left, Caleb caught a glimpse of Elle’s fingers lifting in a sparkling wave.

  5.

  He bought a cheap phone on the way back to the office and tried to program it as he walked. No point in reading the instructions – they were written in a language that looked a lot like English, but clearly wasn’t. By the time he’d reached their block he’d managed to text Frankie his new number, a process he wasn’t entirely sure he could repeat.

  The office was empty and mercifully quiet. He edged around his desk to Frankie’s and banged an elbow on a filing cabinet. They’d rented rooms in a soulless tower block in order to attract corporate clients, but the lease was calculated with a complex algorithm, which took into account glass and chrome, but ignored square footage.

  He wedged himself behind the biohazard of Frankie’s desk and moved a mouldy banana from the mouse-mat so he could bring up her file on City Sentry. Pages of dry and thorough detail about credit ratings, employees and reputation. How could such a slob produce such painstaking work? It was one of the great mysteries of the world. According to her research, Sean had been with City Sentry for twelve years. He’d worked his way up from general dogsbody and survived a recent change of ownership even though a third of the staff were made redundant. So the man was an arsehole, but he was good at his job. Which left two very large questions: what did he know about Scott, and why was he hiding it?

  Caleb sat back. What could silence a man like Sean? That fake tan and sad haircut – maybe the threat of humiliation? Financial woes, a gay lover, a bad sex tape. No. Everything about this case was dark. It was in Arnie’s trembling hands and Sean’s vicious expression. It had seeped between the tiles in Gary’s kitchen and into his family’s lives. So what darkness had touched Sean?

  He brought up the manager’s Facebook page: good security settings, but his profile picture showed him with his arms around a child. A boy of around six years, with the same stocky build and straight brown hair as Sean. Caleb fixed on Sean’s face. He was smiling at his son, his I’m-too-sexy grin replaced by something open and vulnerable. The nightmare of the security worker: ‘Do what I want or I’ll hurt the ones you love.’ Eighteen months separated, divorce papers waiting in a drawer, and that particular horror still visited him in his dreams. He closed the page and scrubbed his face: they wouldn’t be getting anything more out of Sean.

  A weight dragged at him. So tired. He needed Frankie to get here so he could debrief, then go home and crash. He checked his watch: 7.30. She was an hour and a half late, but hadn’t bothered to text him to explain why. Fuck it, was he going to have to babysit her now? Make sure she stayed sober, took her vitamins, didn’t get hurt? Hurt … Something cold slithered into his heart.

  He shot to his feet.

  There were lights on inside Frankie’s house, but no-one answered his knock. Nothing to freak out about – the door was shut; no damage to the mortice lock. He did a quick tour of the building: a detached red-brick Edwardian Frankie had bought back in the days when houses in Brunswick could be had for a spit and a promise. The peeling windowsills were at his eye height. All closed, blinds down. Slivers of light appeared at the edges, but there were no shadows moving inside. The small courtyard held two dead pot plants and an empty washing line. Security lights flicked on as he approached the back door. Securely locked. He looped back to the front door and gave it another bash. Would it be overstepping the bonds of friendship to use the spare key she’d given him? He didn’t care.

  A faint tremble to his hand as he opened the door. The air felt cold, un-breathed.

  ‘Frankie, it’s me. You OK?’

  Bedrooms to each side; jumbled c
lothing and sheets. Past the bathroom, down the hall. No-one in the study or kitchen, the living room. Haphazard piles of papers and books on every surface, clothing dumped on chairs. But no friend lying dead, no blood pooling on the floor. On the coffee table lay an empty bottle of Johnny Walker and an upended glass. Christ. He’d just put himself through seven hells because Frankie had gone for a fucking grog run.

  He lowered himself onto the couch. When he was sure he wasn’t going to throw up, he shifted to remove the book he’d been sitting on. Not a book; a photo album. It was open to a page of wedding photos: a much younger Frankie smiling up at him. She was clutching a bouquet and looking unusually elegant in a cream dress and with shoulder-length honey-blonde hair. The grinning boy next to her was just recognisable as her ex-husband. A small cast of people were gathered around them, including a teenage girl with Frankie’s blonde hair and crooked smile. A sister. How could Frankie never have mentioned she had a sister? And it was definitely Frankie’s fault, because otherwise he’d have to examine why, after working with her for five years, he hadn’t known a pretty basic fact about her.

  So she’d been drinking while reminiscing over old wedding photos. Maudlin behaviour he was embarrassingly familiar with, but wouldn’t have picked for Frankie. What had set her off? And when? Frankie had the cleaning habits of a fourteen-year-old – nothing was put away that could be dumped, nothing washed that could be rested – but the house was looking chaotic even for her. There were at least two weeks’ worth of dirty clothes strewn around the room, and more than that in newspapers. Could he have missed the signs of her drinking? Not noticed her bloodshot eyes or booze-laced sweat? No.

  But there were other ways to dull pain.

  He fought the decision, then went to the bathroom and searched the cupboard, ran his hand along its dusty top. It wasn’t the first time he’d checked a bathroom cabinet; he was a real fucking hoot at parties. Nothing in the vanity or shelves, nothing in the bedroom. Where did his brother keep his stash? Living alone, no need to hide things … top of the fridge. The kitchen was disorganised, but relatively clean. No little bottles of pills on the fridge or bench tops. Nothing except a single plate and spoon lying on the draining board. A sudden flush of shame at his snooping. Poor bloody Frankie: trying so hard and still he doubted her. No wonder she’d smacked him down this morning; she must have had dozens of self-righteous pricks casting judgement on her through the years. Some of them probably featured in that photo album of hers. One of them was definitely in this room. Time to go.