The Labyrinth of Drowning

by Alex Palmer

  ‘She said she wasn’t working at that place any more and she wanted to come home. That was it. I could mind my own business after that. You should have seen her at the police station. She was standing there in these clothes. She looked like a—It’s a part to her, you know? Nothing else.’

  ‘Do you and your wife live here, Duncan?’

  ‘No, we’ve got a house at Campbelltown.’

  ‘One last question. Are any members of your family dual citizens?’

  ‘All of us, my wife included and she’s Australian. Mum and Dad are from Hong Kong. He goes back there on business a couple of times a year.’

  ‘When’s he coming back?’

  ‘Tomorrow. He’s probably the best person to talk to Narelle.’

  ‘The number I gave you,’ Grace said. ‘If you think of anything, if you’re worried about anything, it doesn’t matter how trivial, ring it and ask for me by my first name.’

  ‘There’s something going on here. Narelle’s putting us all in danger, isn’t she?’

  ‘No, this is just a precaution. It’s also imperative that you keep this information within this house. This is an ongoing inquiry and confidentiality is very important.’

  ‘More important than we are? Yeah, I bet it is. I’ll see you out.’

  Grace’s next port of call was a service station on the Hume Highway. In southwest Sydney, ever since the opening of the M5 motorway had diverted the traffic, certain parts of the highway’s surrounds had taken on a run-down look. Worn buildings and struggling businesses lined the road that had once been the main corridor for southern-bound traffic out of the city. Now the traffic had a local feel: intermittent cars and aging trucks farting black smoke. The grass on the nature strips was worn thin with occasional trees struggling through the drought. At least it was quieter.

  Next to the service station was a motel offering cut-price accommodation. Grace parked her car out of the way and went into the motel. The receptionist directed her to a room just down the hallway. Borghini and Clive were waiting for her inside. When she walked in, Borghini got to his feet and held out his hand to shake.

  ‘Well done,’ he said. ‘You were impressive.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she replied.

  Clive remained seated; he was staring at her with a distant, almost absent-minded look.

  ‘Why did you tell that girl’s family they might be in danger?’

  ‘Because they may well be and they have a right to know. They’re not stupid. They could put it together themselves.’

  ‘You were in role. You’re a blackmailer who doesn’t care who lives or dies so long as you get what you want. You’re not supposed to be concerned for anyone’s welfare.’

  ‘In that case,’ Grace replied, ‘that’s how I’m covering my tracks. I’m making myself appear to be something I’m not.’

  ‘You may see it that way. Our targets may not. It’s not just their safety. It’s yours.’

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Borghini watching them intently.

  ‘Since this is your operation,’ he asked, ‘are these people under guard?’

  ‘Twenty-four-seven,’ Clive replied. ‘As Grace is well aware.’

  ‘Then they’re not mushrooms any more, are they?’ Borghini came back.

  Clive gave Borghini a needle-like glance. Probably that comment would go in his notes.

  ‘Apart from that,’ he said to Grace, ‘you did it well. There was some valuable information there, we have a hook to the boyfriend. There’s a long afternoon ahead. Better eat something.’

  There was food waiting on the table. She sat down, suddenly ravenously hungry and needing to shake her character out of her head. Clive sat down as well but didn’t eat. It was unusual for him to praise anyone; the effect was almost as disturbing as his needling.

  ‘Here’s some information for you to read over before we go visiting,’ Borghini said.

  He handed her a brief report on the guard and the driver who had been rostered on when Jirawan had supposedly escaped. Both had police records. The guard, Sophie Jovanov, and her husband had been involved in an insurance scam six years ago, resulting in him serving an eighteen-month gaol term while she had received a good behaviour bond. The driver, Arleen McKenzie, was a former ice addict with a record for theft and possession and who had once been convicted of malicious bodily harm.

  ‘Who hired them to work at Villawood?’ Grace asked.

  ‘We’re checking. Everything there is outsourced, including the transport. Their employer was a firm called Australian Secure Transport,’ Borghini said. ‘They signed their statements and got their marching orders at the same time.’

  ‘We’ve asked for their financial records but it’s hard to believe whoever is behind this would leave any obvious footprint,’ Clive said. ‘Their backgrounds mean they’ll have limited credibility regardless of what they say.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re ready for another interview this afternoon?’ Borghini asked Grace. ‘Is your head in the right place?’

  ‘Yeah, I can deal with it.’

  She had been rolling her shoulders to relax some tension. There was too little time between these interviews. But the timeline Clive had put in place, the forty-eight hours she had given Narelle, left them with no choice. She glanced at him; he was staring at her, that same distant look on his face. It was disturbing enough for her to look away.

  ‘Now you’ve both finished eating, here’s something else for you to look at,’ Clive said. ‘Our IT people broke into Kidd’s computer. He liked to take pictures of himself with the children from the orphanage. Not a smart thing to do for a man with his sexual tastes.’

  Grace looked through the photographs quickly and handed them to Borghini. Once she would have been able to deal with this, her mind would have been focused on tracking down the people responsible. Now she could barely look at these pictures. The thought of the children brought her too close to her daughter. There were things she couldn’t bear to have in her mind.

  ‘Can’t you cope with this?’ Clive asked. He was still watching her.

  ‘I’ve seen as much of them as I need to.’

  He was about to say something else then stopped.

  ‘He’s a piece of shit, isn’t he?’ Borghini said evenly, handing them back.

  ‘He’s useful to us.’ Clive’s reply was matter-of-fact. ‘When you talk to him, Grace, you don’t want money. You want in on his scam. See if you can find out who’s bleeding him.’

  ‘How did I get hold of that information in the first place?’ she asked. ‘Could I have got it from the people who are blackmailing him?’

  ‘That’s a dangerous approach. We don’t know who these people are or how likely that is. I think you’ll have to keep him guessing. If you have to, you got these through your work, but again you’re sitting on them for your own personal gain. Tell Kidd it’s your decision how these pictures get used. If you choose to, you can turn him into an informant and protect him that way. That should be enough of a hook to get him onside. Right now, you’d both better get to your afternoon appointment.’

  ‘Will it be on these women’s minds that they sent a young woman to her death?’ Grace asked, almost to herself.

  Borghini was getting to his feet. ‘I’m feeling privileged, mate,’ he said sarcastically to Clive. ‘You’re letting me do something.’

  Clive seemed to start a little. He said nothing, but in Grace’s experience he wouldn’t forget the comment. She and Borghini left, each taking their own car. The next act was about to begin.

  11

  When Grace arrived at the Jovanovs’ house in Canley Heights, she saw a dark blue Audi, luxurious and expensive, parked outside. Pulling up behind Borghini, she saw him get out of his car talking on his phone.

  ‘Registered to a Joel Griffin at Bondi Junction,’ he said to Grace when she came up. ‘We both know that name. He was representing Chris Newell when he got snatched.’

  Grace heard the name Newell withou
t so much as a blink. ‘Looks like now he’s representing the Jovanovs. He picks his cases.’

  ‘Is he any good?’

  ‘My information is he’s very good. But if he is, why is he here? There’s not much money in it by the look of things.’

  ‘Newell wouldn’t have had any money either,’ Borghini said. ‘Let’s go find out what the deal is.’

  The Jovanovs’ home was a double-storeyed brick house with an untidy hedge out the front. An old Ford Falcon was parked in the driveway. Oil splatters on the pale cement suggested it leaked, badly. Like the car, the house was run-down. The lawn was unmowed and the big bins filled to overflowing. Two damaged children’s bikes lay tossed on their sides near the front door. Grace knocked. The door was opened by a dark-haired man of about forty who barely spoke before ushering them inside. They followed him through to the lounge, a room with fake wood-panelled walls, grey-blue carpet and furnished with a brown velveteen lounge suite. A tall, well-dressed man got to his feet and smiled at them.

  ‘Joel Griffin,’ he said. ‘My card. I’m here representing my client.’

  His client had to be the woman sitting on the lounge with her hands clasped in front of her. The man who had shown them in sat down next to her. There was a large coffee table in front of them, positioned like a protective barrier.

  ‘Your client’s expecting us. We’re just here to ask a few questions.’ Borghini was returning Griffin’s favour with his own card. ‘That shouldn’t cause a problem.’

  ‘I’ll be answering any questions you have on my client’s behalf.’

  ‘I’m sure Mrs Jovanov can speak for herself,’ Grace said.

  ‘Not if she doesn’t want to.’

  Griffin accepted her card, one that said she was with the New South Wales police, with a quick glance from the card to her. She saw him take in the scar on her neck and just prevented herself from covering it with her hand. Alone, she did sometimes touch the scar, almost against her own will. It was a reflex reaction, a private soothing of the cut she could still feel.

  ‘If you’d like to get started with your questions. Sophie has her life to get on with as well,’ Griffin said.

  Even during the introductions, Sophie kept staring down at the carpet, only glancing up and nodding briefly when her name was spoken. Neither she nor her husband seemed prepared to open their mouths.

  ‘Mrs Jovanov, Sophie,’ Grace said. ‘How long have you been a guard with Australian Secure Transport?’

  Sophie refused to meet her eye. She was a strongly built woman with thick curly black hair. Her bulk seemed to be muscle, not fat. In uniform she would have looked intimidating. As he’d promised, Griffin spoke for her.

  ‘Sophie was with them for nine months. If you check her record, you’ll see she’s had a career as a prison guard and in security generally.’

  ‘Then you’re experienced,’ Grace said.

  ‘Sophie is a very dedicated officer. My belief is that she’s been treated unfairly by her former employer.’

  ‘Are you going to undertake legal action on her behalf in that case?’

  ‘If I receive instruction to do so, yes.’

  ‘And what would be your advice to her?’ Grace asked.

  ‘That has nothing to do with this interview,’ Griffin replied.

  ‘You must have been very shocked, Mrs Jovanov, when you heard what had happened to your charge.’ Borghini spoke in a sympathetic voice.

  ‘Sophie was deeply shocked, going so far as to blame herself. I told her she could not be held responsible for the criminal actions of others, including those of the young woman who unlawfully escaped from her custody.’

  ‘Why was this young woman so lightly guarded?’ Borghini asked.

  ‘The information Sophie’s employer received was that the young woman was going to be moved into alternative accommodation. Neither Sophie nor the driver were expecting her to attempt an escape.’

  ‘Sophie,’ Grace said, ‘I want to make it clear to you that we need to know whatever you may have to tell us. Any detail at all, however small. Because this is what we’re trying track down. The person who did this. No one is blaming you for this because you couldn’t know it was going to happen. But I want to find the person who did this. If you can help us, we can help you and your family, and I promise you we will.’

  Grace slid the photograph of Jirawan’s battered body across the coffee table. Sophie looked at it and covered her face.

  ‘That’s harassment,’ Griffin said quickly.

  ‘I don’t want to be a part of this any more,’ Sophie said. She had tears in her eyes. She stood up and ran out of the room.

  Before anyone could speak, her husband was on his feet. He picked up the photograph and pushed it at Grace. ‘You can take that back. My wife has nothing to do with any of these things. You can all get out. We don’t want anything to do with any of you, including you.’ He was speaking to Griffin.

  ‘If you want me to go, I’m happy to leave,’ Griffin said. ‘We have each other’s contact details. If I need to, I can be here at your house very quickly. One thing I’m not doing is leaving until the police go. I still have to protect your wife.’

  ‘I’ll protect her,’ Jovanov said.

  ‘You may need to,’ Griffin replied.

  ‘We’re on our way,’ Borghini said. ‘But we may have to ask your wife to come in for questioning at some stage.’

  ‘She’s already given a written statement so she’s not obliged to. And she certainly won’t be there without me being present,’ Griffin said, with a sharp glance at Jovanov. ‘Now I think we should all leave.’

  They walked out, all three, hearing the door shut hard behind them. Grace was surprised to find Griffin in step with her in the driveway. Borghini, who was ahead and already almost at his car, turned to watch the exchange.

  ‘I met your partner the other day outside the law courts,’ Griffin said.

  ‘He told me.’

  ‘Nice to put a real face to the name.’

  ‘Is it?’ Grace said.

  ‘It’s always interesting to see who people really are.’ He seemed to be looking closely into her face. ‘Your photographs don’t do you justice. I hope we meet again.’

  Grace stopped where she was. Close by, Borghini was listening intently.

  ‘You were very protective of your client in there,’ she said. ‘Is Arleen McKenzie your client as well?’

  ‘No, Arleen didn’t want my services. If that’s where you’re going now, you won’t be seeing me. You seemed genuinely concerned for my client’s welfare in there. Are you always like that?’

  ‘I just do my job. I guess it’s goodbye now. You must have places to go and I don’t think we’ll be seeing each other again.’

  ‘You just do your job,’ he repeated. ‘I don’t know if that’s true. Maybe you actually care about things. My bet is we will meet again. I’ll be looking forward to it.’

  And he was gone, into his car and away down the street.

  Borghini came to speak to her. ‘What was all that about?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘He seemed to want to make sure I knew who he was.’

  ‘Are you sure you’ve never met him before? He was looking at you in there like he knew you.’

  ‘This is the first time I’ve laid eyes on him. He doesn’t know who I am.’ Whatever Newell might have told him. ‘I guess he’s made his point, whatever it was. Time we went and saw Arleen.’

  ‘I’ll meet you there.’

  Arleen McKenzie lived in Fairfield, in one side of a rented white fibro house that had been split into two self-contained halves. The house seemed a small island amongst the large blocks of units that lined the streets roundabout. Arleen’s patch of ground looked half cared for. Junk mail littered the grass around the base of the mailbox while flowering red geraniums in weeded garden beds grew in a line under one of the windows. The front door was off to the side and reached through a small partially enclosed porch. Borghini kn
ocked and then knocked again. There was no answer.

  ‘She was expecting us,’ Grace said.

  He tried the door. It opened for him.

  ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘I don’t like this.’

  He pushed the door open slowly. Grace followed him inside. They walked into a cheaply furnished lounge. There was a smell of old food and the house looked dirty.

  ‘Anyone here?’ Borghini called.

  ‘In the kitchen,’ Grace said.

  Arleen was staring at them from a chair, her hands resting on the table. In front of her was a quantity of white crystals in a plastic packet and a pipe. It looked as if Arleen McKenzie had been about to smoke crystal methamphetamine when she died. There was blood on her shoulders, her clothes, the floor and the table. The back door, although closed, was directly behind her.

  ‘Shot in the back of the head,’ Grace said. ‘It would have taken a half-second. In through the back door and gone again.’

  ‘I rang her before we left the motel to confirm our appointment. Would she be smoking ice when she knew we were coming calling?’

  ‘As soon as we were gone, maybe. But I thought she was supposed to be clean. It’s more likely this is a setup.’

  ‘Whoever it was, they’re gone now,’ he said. ‘I’ll call the troops in.’

  He took out his phone and began to call the people he needed to. Grace walked out of the kitchen through the living room to the front door. A concrete path continued past the door to the back of the house. There was no way to see this path from the kitchen; the laundry blocked the view. She walked around to the back of the house, a small concreted area enclosed by a high wooden fence, and saw the back door. From where she stood, the road was thirty seconds’ walk away.

  She came back inside and looked around the living room. The woman’s dead wide-eyed gaze seemed to follow her while Borghini talked on his phone. Whoever, whatever, she had been as a person, Arleen hadn’t had much interest in house cleaning. It was fair to say the surroundings were filthy with ingrained dirt. Amongst the other odours was the smell of a dirty toilet.