by Emma Viskic
And then he saw it. Stark red against the white wall.
The bloody imprint of a hand.
6.
Caleb’s right leg was jiggling in time with the interview room’s flickering light. Strangely airless in here. The grey walls seemed to lean inwards. Tedesco had been gone a long time, more than an hour. Did that mean good news, or bad? A single handprint, no arterial spray, no signs of a struggle. Maybe Frankie had had an accident – coordination affected by a too-liquid diet. She’d be in emergency, getting her hand sewn up. She’d turn up in a couple of hours, bandaged and cranky, and smack him across the head for panicking. Please, God, he couldn’t lose her too.
He jumped as the door opened. Detective Tedesco strode in. There was something different about his walk, a stiffness to his shoulders and neck. Coming through the door behind him was a ginger-haired man in his mid-forties. Pale and heavily freckled, with a stocky-legged strut. He’d been at the police station last night, leaning against a wall, separate from the bustle of the place. The younger cops had darted nervous glances at him. A feared senior officer, perhaps. And a fellow watcher: his green eyes had followed Caleb into the interview room, followed him out, hours later.
‘Detective Sergeant McFarlane will be joining us,’ Tedesco said, without looking at the newcomer. He edged his chair slightly away as he sat down.
Shit, internal politics. That was going to slow things down.
‘Can we get you anything?’ McFarlane asked as he settled in his chair. He had oddly plump lips, like an overgrown cherub. ‘Water, coffee?’
‘No. Have you heard anything about Frankie?’
‘You’re not too cold?’
‘No. Did you call her local police station? She might have gone there.’
‘You look cold,’ McFarlane said. ‘Would you like me to turn the heating up?’
Caleb looked at Tedesco, but was met by blank, grey eyes. No help there; he was going to have to play McFarlane’s power game.
‘I’m fine.’
‘And you can follow me all right? You can understand what I’m saying?’
‘Yes.’
‘Because I’ve reviewed the interview tapes from last night and I don’t think you quite got everything, did you, Caleb? Don’t get me wrong, you did well. Really well. But maybe we should get an interpreter in here now, make sure you can keep up?’ His pale eyebrows lifted.
It was just an interview technique, the three Ds: distract, disarm, dismay. He wasn’t above using it himself when faced with a difficult interviewee. So focus on the important part: why was McFarlane using it on him?
‘I’m fine.’
‘Good, good.’ McFarlane pulled out a bound notebook, spent a bit of time finding the right page and smoothing it down. Small hands with neat, square nails. ‘Now, what exactly did Senior Constable Marsden tell you about Scott?’
‘What about Frankie? Have you looked for her?’
‘Let’s just concentrate on Scott for the moment, shall we? What did Gary tell you about him?’
‘Just what was in the text – that he was after Gary.’
‘Come on, Caleb. You don’t mind if I call you Caleb, do you? Your mate texts you, says he’s scared. You don’t just hop in your car and drive halfway across town – you ring him first. So what did he say?’ He held his pen poised above the page.
‘I can’t …’ The back of his neck burned. ‘Look, I went through this with Detective Tedesco last night.’
‘What exactly did you go through?’
The heat travelled up his neck and into his scalp. ‘I can’t use a phone.’
McFarlane nodded. ‘You know, Caleb, my old nanna’s as deaf as a post. Sharp though, wants to know what’s happening with all the kids. Makes going to a restaurant an interesting experience, I can tell you. We end up yelling all sorts of private information across the table at her. And you know what? She’s great on the phone. Just flicks the setting on her hearing aids, and she’s right to go.’
‘That’s nice for her.’
A hairline crack showed in the detective’s smile. ‘Come on, Caleb, you managed to call emergency services yesterday. You can handle a phone.’
‘I can talk, I just can’t hear.’
‘Senior Constable Marsden received a call from a phone box five minutes after he texted you. Are you saying that wasn’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Bit of a coincidence, don’t you think?’
‘Not really.’
McFarlane turned down his thick lips like a disappointed father. ‘All right, Caleb, let’s say it wasn’t you. But immediately after he received that call, Constable Marsden made two phone calls to Resurrection Bay. Do you know who he called?’
‘No.’
‘We’re talking about your hometown, Caleb. Come on, take a guess.’
‘I don’t know – his mum? Why’s it relevant, anyway? No-one in the Bay’s got anything to do with his death.’
‘Relevant.’ McFarlane’s head bobbed. ‘That’s good. You speak really well, you know. I can hardly tell you’re disabled.’
It would be stupid, very stupid, to punch a cop in a police station.
‘Thanks. Your consonants could do with some work.’ He turned to Tedesco and caught a brief tightening at the corners of the big man’s eyes. Maybe a smile, maybe just a reaction to the flickering light. ‘Did you even look for Frankie?’
‘Yes.’ Tedesco paused as McFarlane’s head swivelled towards him. ‘No-one matching her description has been found. Alive or dead.’
McFarlane lifted a hand to hide his mouth and spoke.
Tedesco’s eyes took on a flat, unfocused quality. ‘Sir,’ he said, his lips barely moving.
A very subtle game of good cop/bad cop? More likely a real rift. Maybe there was a way to use it to get Tedesco on side.
McFarlane turned his attention back to him. ‘Right then, tell me about vinceovac.’
‘What?’
‘Vinceovac. Tell me about him.’
So a who, not a what. But he still couldn’t make sense of the words. Fuck it.
‘Can you write the name down?’
McFarlane smoothed the notebook and slowly formed each letter; large printing, as though for a child. He underlined the words and spun the notebook towards him. Vince Kovac. A familiar name, but one he hadn’t thought of in years. A tall guy, with white-blond hair and eyelashes so pale they were invisible. His personality was a little invisible, too. No reason for his name to come up in a Melbourne police station.
‘Is that who Gary called?’ he asked McFarlane.
‘What can you tell us about Mr Kovac?’
‘Not much. He’s a year or two younger than me, a quiet guy. Never really had anything to do with him.’
‘When was the last time you spoke to him?’
‘I don’t know, ten years. Maybe more.’
‘And your phone records will confirm that, will they?’
‘Yes.’
‘And your brother?’
Brother? He must have misread him. ‘Who?’
‘Your brother, Caleb. Does he know Mr Kovac?’
Both of them were fiercely focused – they’d reached something important.
‘I guess. They’re about the same age and both went to the local high school. Why do you want to know about Anton?’
McFarlane gave him the flat cop stare. Caleb waited it out by counting his freckles. A lot of sun damage for a man of his age – his Gaelic ancestors hadn’t immigrated to the kindest climate. When he reached the man’s left ear, McFarlane cracked.
‘Senior Constable Marsden was spooked enough to ring his wife and say they needed to take off. He was packing their bags – stuffing little kiddie clothes into suitcases. Soft toys, little love-heart pyjamas. But in the middle of all that, he took the time to have a chat with your brother. A minute and a half, that’s a long time when you’re shit-scared. Why would he do that?’
‘Why don’t you ask Ant?’
Mc
Farlane’s smile was unconnected to anything else happening on his face. ‘Because I’m asking you.’
‘They’re friends, I guess they talk on the phone.’ Except that Anton was friends with Gary in the way he was with everyone: with charm and ease, and no thought at all. He wouldn’t be at the top of anyone’s list in a crisis.
‘Anton. Luka. Zelic.’ Each syllable dropped from McFarlane’s fleshy lips like a ripe plum. ‘Possession, B and E, stolen goods. Cops in Resurrection Bay had a fair bit to say about him. And here’s his big brother, best pals with a cop who’s been killed in what looks suspiciously like an underworld execution.’ The smile reached his eyes this time. ‘That doesn’t smell too good, Caleb. In fact, from our side of the table, it fucking reeks.’
Caleb’s leg started jiggling again. Maybe he should call a lawyer. Maybe he should have called one a couple of hours ago.
‘What are we going to find when we go through Marsden’s financial records, do you think?’
‘Your financial records?’ Tedesco added.
‘Drug money?’
‘Prostitution …’
‘… laundering.’
‘Blackmail …’
They bounced the words between them; impossible to follow.
Caleb let his gaze drift to the wall. ‘I’d like to speak to a lawyer.’
McFarlane leaned across the table and snapped his fingers in his face. His breath smelled of coffee and peppermint mouthwash.
‘Pay attention, Caleb, because a lawyer isn’t going to help you now. Do you know what they did to your mate before they killed him? They broke his fingers. Every one of them.’
Caleb stopped breathing. ‘What?’
‘Then they sliced him open. Eleven separate wounds. I was at the autopsy this afternoon – he was a mess. Laid open like a carcass.’
‘Don’t. Just, just don’t.’
‘You’d better hope the same guy hasn’t got Frankie Reynolds, because whoever carved him up is very handy with a knife.’
Caleb closed his eyes, but the images were behind his eyelids. His leg jiggled faster.
McFarlane’s stubby fingers pressed a business card into his hand. ‘Have a little think about the kind of people you’ve pissed off, Caleb. Give us a call when you realise just how fucking scared you should be.’
Caleb pushed back his chair and walked out. The floor was unsteady beneath his feet.
7.
He caught a taxi back to his apartment. Somehow managed to pay the driver, drag himself up the three flights of stairs.
‘… sliced him open …’
The light on the landing flicked off as he reached his door. Slow. Could usually do that with seconds to spare. He switched it back on, but it still took a few attempts to get the key in the lock.
‘Laid open like a carcass.’
He opened the door and dropped his wallet and keys on the hall table. Stopped. The flat was dark, but the air felt wrong: the scent of stale cigarettes and cheap deodorant.
Someone was there.
He turned to run. Hands grabbed him, dragging him back. An arm crushing his throat. Air. He needed air. Solid muscle behind him, another man in front, light from the landing throwing shadows across his thin, grey face. Mouth moving fast. Yelling. Questions? Orders? Just noise, too dark to read. The arm jerked tighter against his neck. He pulled uselessly at it: blood pounding in his skull. Another squeeze and the pressure eased. He sucked in a breath.
Grey-face spat more words at him.
‘Don’t. Understand.’
The man raised his arm, a flash of silver in his hand – a knife. Christ. Get a weapon, something sharp. Keys on the hall table. He flung out a hand and scrabbled blindly for them. Fuck, where were they? His fingertips touched something cold and smooth – the paint tin Frankie had given him. Ten litres, that’d do a bit of damage. Stinging pain as Grey-face smacked him. Blood in his mouth. Another blow. Now. He let himself sag towards the table, felt his captor’s weight shift. There, the tin’s handle. He grasped it and heaved it over his head. Jarring contact. A gush of cigarette breath and his throat was released. He sunk an elbow into the man’s groin and threw himself sideways as Grey-face lunged. Fuck, wrong direction, should have run for the door. He sprinted into the living room, towards the bathroom. A razor in there, scissors, a lock on the door.
The light on the landing flicked off.
Empty darkness, the stuff of childhood nightmares. Cold, clutching panic. He stumbled backwards and fell against the edge of the couch. A breeze as Grey-face swiped. Get away, crawl. Behind the couch. His chest was heaving. How loud was his breathing? Could Grey-face hear it? Was he creeping up behind him, following the sound of his gasping? He pressed himself against the floor and held his breath. A dull thud vibrated against his cheek, and another. Footsteps, but where? Moving closer? Further away? Be still, feel it. Another thud, fainter now; must be moving towards the bedroom. Not enough movement for two people; the guy he’d hit must still be down. What was in the room? Paper, chairs, coffee table, books. Table. A glass-topped thing; solid, but light enough for him to lift.
He got to his feet and felt for the light switch. Flicked it. A searing light flooded the room. A man doubled over by the front door, Grey-face running from the bedroom. Get to the table – heavier than he’d remembered. Grey-face was nearly on him. He heaved the table up and flipped it over. Shattering glass, flailing limbs. And Grey-face was down. He sprinted for the door, then skidded to a halt: the guy he’d hit was blocking it, hands clasped to his groin. A broad face, with a flattened nose like a boxer. Blood dripping down his forehead, looking a little groggy. A flick-knife on the floor by his knee. No way he could get past before Boxer reached it. A movement in the corner of his eye; Grey-face was getting to his feet. Fuck. Do something.
The light on the landing flicked on: someone coming up the stairs. Make a noise, scream. Couldn’t remember how. He tried again, got something out. A young man holding a six-pack of VB appeared in the doorway. Grey-face stepped back into the bedroom.
VB was looking at Boxer, his mouth moving. Jesus, asking if Boxer was all right.
‘Get the police,’ Caleb yelled.
The young man’s head jerked up. ‘What?’
‘Police. Get the police.’
VB shuffled backwards, but he was pulling out his phone.
Boxer still hadn’t gone for the knife. Maybe he didn’t want to commit murder in front of a witness. Maybe he was waiting for Caleb to get closer. Only one way to find out. He sprinted past. Out through the door, down the corridor, banging on doors. He should yell. Not enough breath, just run. Down the stairs, two at a time. Footsteps pounding behind him. Had to be Grey-face, Boxer couldn’t be up and running yet. Out onto the street. He needed people, a crowd. He turned the corner into Nicholson Street. Shit, where was everyone? Major thoroughfare – empty.
He ran south, pressing a hand to his side. A stitch, he had a fucking stitch. Unbelievable. A quick backwards glance. No sign of anyone. Down an alleyway. Dead end. Fuck. He slipped behind a bank of rubbish skips. Was Grey-face still following him? Creeping down the alley, knife in hand? Wouldn’t feel his footsteps on the concrete. Wouldn’t know anything until he appeared in front of him. A slow count to fifty, then he risked a look. No-one. He leaned against the wall and let out his breath. Thank God he’d learned to fight dirty as a kid.
‘Go for the nose and kidneys,’ his father had always said. ‘But never the privates. No-one will respect you for that.’
Something like a laugh in his throat. Or maybe a sob.
That knife. Was it the same one that slit Gary’s – no. No good could come from that line of thinking. The pain in his side was getting worse. He pressed his hand to it. Wet. How could it be wet? He lifted his fingers and peered at them in the dim light. Blood. A vision of Gary’s mutilated flesh swam before him. All right, get it together. He’d know if the knife had done any major damage. Wouldn’t he? Shit. He slowly lifted his top. The cut ran long and
deep along his ribs, but his intestines seemed to be tucked safely away where they belonged. He lowered himself to the ground and concentrated on breathing for a while.
Cold now, a misting rain settling on his hair and clothes. He should get up and go to the cops. Another round of questioning, another round of accusations. McFarlane’s punchable smile. Go to a hotel, face it all in the morning. Except that his wallet was back at the flat with Grey-face and Boxer. Fucked. Just totally fucked. Where could he go? And the answer, when it finally came, was blindingly obvious: Kat. Kat would help him, no matter how much she hated him.
He was pretty sure.
8.
He caught the 86 tram to Collingwood, his appearance gaining him no extra personal space. Wild hair, crazed eyes, blood-stained clothing – nothing new to the late-night Smith Street tram experience. Kat’s house was one of a small row of not-quite dilapidated Victorian maidens on a quiet side street. The tiled veranda lay directly behind a hip-high brick fence, deep and smudged with purple shadows. Why didn’t she have a globe in the outdoor light? Anyone could lie in wait behind the fence or the potted palm in the corner. A lurking junkie; a mugger. Worse.
A bell hung by the door. Hand-cast by Kat, no doubt. Solid brass, with what felt like a filigreed pattern around its scalloped edge. A thing of beauty. And nothing any home of his could have. He rang it and pressed his hand to the door. After a moment he felt the thud of footsteps against his palm, the even rhythm of a long, smooth gait.
He waited until they stopped and called, ‘Kat, it’s Caleb.’
A beat, two, three, four.