Strange Ink

by Gary Kemble

  CHAPTER 18

  Harry opened his eyes. Grey light filtered through the windows. He felt dizzy, could taste beer and blood at the back of his mouth. Could smell smoke on his clothes, undercut by Kyla’s perfume. In that moment, he knew it all. He knew all about Rob’s past, his present, his future. He knew the answer. He knew what to do. But as he rose to full wakefulness, it slipped away.

  He felt the now familiar burn, this time high up on his left arm. Ignored it for a second, looking for a way to get back into the dream.

  Hey, Johnsons don’t quit, right?

  He grabbed his notebook, scribbled down the name: Rob Johnson.

  ‘Shit, I’m getting used to this,’ he croaked, then got up and looked at the new tattoo in the mirror on his wardrobe. At first he thought it was another version of the drowning man. A churning sea. Dark, stormy clouds above. But then, a break, a golden shaft of sunlight. And in the light, two swallows.

  His granddad had a swallow on the back of his hand. It was part of the reason Harry had thought about getting one. They were a symbol of fidelity, and also a talisman of good luck. Swallows always returned to the same nest, the same mate. Sailors used to get them tattooed before they went away, to increase their chances of returning home safely.

  Despite the ominous blues and greys that dominated the image, the sunbeam gave it an optimistic feel. He figured that’s what Rob wanted, and that’s what Rabs delivered. And he had a feeling, it wasn’t a memory as such, just a feeling that Kyla had this same tattoo. Was there someone else out there, going through what Harry was going through? He thought there was.

  Harry rubbed his face. He slipped out of his pyjamas, pulled on his shorts and a singlet, groped under his bed for his running shoes. Grabbed a house key and was out the door.

  ***

  Harry knew his plan had backfired the moment he pushed through the door to Swenson Constructions. He’d assumed that Brian Swenson wouldn’t spend much time at the Chermside office. Harry had been hoping to talk to Nick Swenson, Brian’s son and the general manager of Swenson Constructions. But there was no mistaking that voice, loud enough that the whole office reverberated with it.

  The receptionist looked up. She seemed flustered to start with, and visibly paled when she saw Harry. Brian Swenson had a long memory, and he apparently made sure his staff did too. At one time, Harry would have turned around and run. But he stayed. Took a deep breath. What was the worst that could happen? He stepped further into the reception area and surveyed the office. Grey walls, venetian blinds and fake pot plants. Faded leather couches and dusty brochures.

  It was a far cry from the flash website Harry had been mining for information an hour earlier. The website was still putting on a brave face.

  ‘What the fuck! What the fuck are you telling me, Nick! That we have to bend over and take this?’

  Harry didn’t want to talk to the receptionist yet, even though it looked like she wanted the distraction, and maybe an excuse to interrupt Brian before he really got going. Harry quickly turned and picked up one of the brochures. It was for a housing estate called Pine Lakes, west of Brisbane. Judging by the stack of dusty pamphlets, it hadn’t been a big hit.

  After Harry’s failed exposé, Swenson Constructions went from strength to strength. Cherry Grove – the very development that Harry had uncovered corruption on – had been a wild success, in part because of the attention the lawsuit attracted. No such thing as bad publicity, it seemed.

  Swenson’s next target was farming land in the Redlands – what used to be known as ‘Brisbane’s salad bowl’ until the farmers got sick of trying to compete with the supermarkets, and their kids decided working the land was a mug’s game.

  The property developer made a mint, so he did it again on the northside, buying up old cattle-grazing land and building a ‘mortgage belt’ as Brisbane’s population exploded and the price of property in inner-city suburbs went through the roof.

  Then Swenson Constructions won a major tender to redevelop the city’s main sports stadium in 2008, turning Lang Park with its quaint grassy ‘outer’ into a world-class 60,000-seat sporting and entertainment venue.

  And then the GFC hit. Judging by the articles Harry had been able to dig up online, 2008 was the turning point. In one article – the only article Harry could find that suggested a possible chink in the armour – Nick hinted that his dad had over-extended to win the Lang Park tender. After that, Swenson’s son toed the company line. Listening to the diatribe of which Nick was now on the receiving end, Harry could well understand why.

  A mumbling voice. Nick, Harry assumed.

  ‘The guy is a fucking psychopath! Buying up his little heritage projects here and there, and now he wants to steal mine too! Fuck him! Fuck! Him! Listen to me. We need that fucking water tower. We need to tear that fucker down and replace it with some prime real estate.’

  Harry felt as much as saw his approach. A giant shadow emerged from a corridor behind the receptionist’s desk. She flinched when he burst into the room.

  Brian Swenson was in his early sixties, overweight, with a ruddy complexion suggesting he needed to watch his cholesterol and stay off the grog and smokes, although maybe he struggled to do that. Shirt and tie, pants that were tight around the waist but billowed around his skinny legs. One hand clutched his briefcase, the other a copy of the Chronicle.

  He looked at Harry, dismissed him, then looked again. He stopped halfway across the room. A wave of body odour washed over Harry. He was instantly transported to that day in the Vice Chancellor’s office, flanked by his lecturer and a UQ lawyer. That day, Swenson accepted Harry’s apology, then delivered a forty-minute rant on defamation law and the importance of the property sector.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ Swenson said. He tapped the newspaper against his leg. ‘Harry fucking Hendrick. Your timing is impeccable.’

  He switched the newspaper to his briefcase hand, offered the other. Harry shook it. Felt like he was going to be sick. The backache he’d woken up with intensified, sending waves of pain up his spine and through his tattoos.

  Brian put down his briefcase and unfolded the newspaper. ‘Water fight’, in big black letters, and a picture of Bill and Fred clinking champagne glasses under the Paddington water tower.

  ‘I was, ah, I was just looking at this article you’ve written,’ Swenson said. ‘I was quite surprised to see your byline on that story, Harry. Quite surprised.’

  Harry rolled his eyes. ‘Come off it, Brian. It was massive news. Covered by the Brisbane Mail. The Oz. ABC. The whole deal. Why are you surprised we covered it?’

  ‘I thought you might have learnt your lesson.’

  Harry’s fear turned to anger. He pulled out his phone, opened the voice recorder app, held it out in front of him.

  ‘Do you want an interview? Because there are some questions I’m dying to ask you. I’m working on a follow-up, about the Cherry Grove deal.’

  Swenson swatted the iPhone away. ‘Don’t fuck with me, Harry. I’ve got lawyers poring over everything you’ve written about The Towers project.’

  ‘Is that a threat, Brian? Are you threatening me?’

  Swenson’s face turned bright red. He bared his teeth. Then stopped himself. He took a deep breath. Forced out a laugh.

  ‘Of course not, Harry! Of course not! But here’s a word of advice. If you’re planning on doing any more stories on The Towers, give my son a call – he’ll get our girl to whip up a press release for you. Okay?’

  He didn’t wait for an answer, instead retrieving the briefcase and pushing through the door. Heat and the stench of pollution wafted inside.

  Harry opened and closed his fists, breathing deeply. The receptionist was trying hard not to notice. He put his phone away and opened his notebook, jotted down a quick note: Cardinal buying up heritage sites?

  ‘Is Nick in?’ Harry asked.

  The receptionist looked up. ‘I’ll just check for you. One moment. Your name?’

  Harry laughe
d. ‘Harry. Harry Hendrick.’

  But before she could buzz Nick, he was in the room. Young, tanned, black hair combed back. His smart white shirt and dark pants were simple yet well cut, but the gold chain around his neck seemed a bit much.

  ‘Mr Hendrick, I presume.’ He offered his hand, and Harry shook it.

  ***

  Nick’s office was basic. Black desk. Abysmal modern art print on the wall behind his head. Bookshelves with business manuals and property magazines. Harry scanned his desk, saw reports with lots of red writing in the margins.

  ‘So, Harry, where do you stand on this water tower business?’

  ‘I’m an objective observ. . .’

  ‘Bullshit. Come on. Where do you stand?’

  Harry chose his words very carefully. ‘I was surprised that the locals were mobilising to save the tower. . . and I was really surprised that Andrew Cardinal put himself out on a limb over it. I think everyone was. People have to live somewhere, right?’

  Nick held one hand to his mouth. Peered at Harry for a moment. ‘I can’t go on the record, okay? I’ll email you the press release.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Off the record now. . .’

  ‘Yeah, off the record,’ Harry said. He tried to look relaxed. Every journalistic nerve in his body was telling him this was a man he could not afford to go off the record with, but he needed information.

  ‘Off the record, this thing Cardinal is trying to pull is going to completely fuck us over. I mean, we’ve put a lot of money into The Towers. A lot. And, you know, with the GFC and shit, we can’t afford to lose this project.

  ‘Dad’s angry. He and Cardinal go back a ways. But fuck me – I’ve got a lot more to lose from this than he does, if you get what I mean.’

  Harry nodded.

  Outside, lightning cracked through the sky. Nick flinched, rubbed his face.

  ‘Look, I know it’s nothing to you, one way or the other,’ Nick said. ‘The tower goes, the tower stays. You get a bunch of stories either way. But I’m telling you, Cardinal is holding a knife to our fucking necks.’

  ‘What do you think his angle is?’

  Nick shrugged. ‘Property developers – easy target, right? His spin doctors have probably told him he looks like too much of a hard-arse, with his military super-spy background. They want him to look like he gives a shit.

  ‘Cardinal never cared about heritage. Then a few years ago he starts buying up all these quirky properties around Brisbane, lending his support to these fucking NIMBY arseholes.’

  Nick shook his head.

  ‘What was that you were saying, about your dad and Cardinal going back?’ Harry said.

  ‘Ah, you know. They did some business deals a while back. Cardinal had some money he wanted to invest. Dad showed him how to do it right. Cardinal made a packet. I reckon that’s how he got into politics, you know? Using that nest egg that Dad helped him build.

  ‘And then, after that, Dad used to call Cardinal when he was about to redevelop some old dump. Dad would let him have a snoop around before the wreckers moved in.’

  ‘Why?’

  Nick shrugged. ‘Dunno. Like I said, he became a nostalgia geek all of a sudden. Saw him one time, coming out of the old Regent site clutching some old movie posters and a brass light fitting. Weird.’

  Harry nodded. So far, just about everything Nick had told Harry was on the public record. But it was interesting to hear it from Nick. The one thing that wasn’t widely known was how close Swenson Constructions was to the precipice. And Cardinal’s bizarre interest in old buildings may not have been criminal but it was, as Nick noted, weird.

  ‘So what exactly do you want me to do?’ Harry said.

  Nick held out his hands. ‘If people knew how close we are to going broke. . .’

  ‘You could win a lot of sympathy. Your dad, for all his faults and failings, is an icon around here. And, you know, coming from me that’s saying something. But you need to go on the record.’

  ‘I can’t. Dad would kill me.’

  Harry considered. ‘Well, you need to help me out. You need to give me something to get me started.’

  Nick looked up from his desk. ‘Okay. I’ll think about it.’

  * * *

  Back at the office Harry sat in front of his computer, opened Google and typed ‘Register of Member’s Interests Andrew Cardinal’. Hit ‘Enter’. It brought up the Australian Parliament House website, with links to every MP’s Register of Interests form.

  He clicked on the link.

  Cardinal had listed their home on the southside as a residence. Half a dozen other addresses as ‘investment properties’. A similar number were listed for his wife. He printed out the form. The register only required the MPs to list the suburb, so he had more work to do. But it was a start.

  He glanced down at his notebook, and saw the note he’d scrawled this morning, just after he woke. Rob Johnson. He picked up the phone, dialled a number.

  ‘Queensland Police Media. Phil speaking.’

  ‘Hey, Phil, it’s Harry.’

  ‘Hazza! How’s things? How was the wedding?’

  Harry tried to remember. It seemed so long ago now. He was on the head table. He danced with Leela. Despite Simmo’s attempts to get him drunk and set him up with her, he left the reception relatively early.

  ‘Yeah, it was okay.’

  ‘You get your end away?’ Phil laughed.

  ‘I don’t kiss and tell,’ Harry said, thinking about coming home to his pitch-black house, cursing himself for not leaving a light on. Somehow that made it worse. The darkness. It seemed to radiate from under the house, like fire in reverse. He had stood on the doorstep, key in lock. Listening to the night. Music blared from a party down the road. Powderfinger. Harry experienced a moment of deja vu, then shook it off and went inside.

  ‘Wasn’t expecting your call,’ Phil said.

  Every week, Harry did his police rounds call on a Wednesday. Unless something big happened, which was never.

  ‘Yeah, something’s come up. It’s a bit left-field.’

  ‘I can do left-field.’

  ‘Can you see if there’s an ongoing investigation into the murder of someone called Rob Johnson,’ Harry said. He spelled out the name, then realised he didn’t know for sure if that was the name. ‘Could be Johnston. Something like that.’

  ‘Rob Johnson or Johnston. Right. Whereabouts. Chermside?’

  ‘I don’t think so, maybe Paddington, around there. Inner West.’

  ‘Uh-huh. When was this?’

  Harry rubbed his face. ‘I don’t know, to be honest. Recent. Past ten years. Definitely after 2001.’

  ‘Sounds shaky, Harry.’

  ‘I know. Humour me.’

  ‘Okay. But you owe me.’

  ‘I’ll buy you a drink at the Christmas party.’

  ‘Ha! You’re on.’

  Harry hung up. He typed in ‘Andrew Cardinal urban exploring’. He wasn’t expecting a hit, but he got one. There was a photo of Cardinal in a tunnel, with a hard hat and high-vis vest. If Harry had a dollar for every time Cardinal had been photographed like this, or with his shirt off, he’d be a rich man.

  Cardinal gets down and dirty, the headline read.

  The story was a feature, written just after Cardinal won preselection for the seat he went on to win.

  Don’t be surprised if you see a rising Labor star digging the dirt, or prowling around some of Brisbane’s derelict landmarks, the story kicked off, and went on to explain how Cardinal had discovered his love of urban exploring after returning from the rough and tumble of Afghanistan.

  While not condoning illegal entry to private property, Cardinal said he could well understand the buzz urban explorers got, and had even started buying up some properties around Brisbane so he could preserve some of Brisbane’s crumbling icons.

  Harry jotted down some notes, stared out the window.

  ***

  When Harry got home the old yellowing folder
still sat there on the table.

  ‘Ah, fuck it,’ he said.

  The rubber bands came away in his hands, and the folder flipped open. The legal letters from Swenson’s lawyers were on top, as well as the responses from the university’s legal team. He set them to one side. Print-outs of his drafts followed. One was covered in red pen: his lecturer, marking the points at which Harry needed to provide evidence to back his claims. There were two copies of the front page. One was his. He remembered looking at it the day it came out. His first front-page lead. He’d intended to get it framed. There was one more in there, from his dad. He’d posted Harry the article. There was a Post-it note stuck to the front: ‘Go get ’em, Scoops!’ Seeing it dropped a great weight on his chest. His dad had been supportive, but in his eyes, the lawyers were always right. He thought Harry must’ve done something wrong.

  He set copies of the front page to one side. Tunnelled back through time. The company searches. Media releases on the Cherry Grove development. Articles in the Brisbane Mail. Transcripts from a report on the ABC’s AM radio current affairs program. Harry laid out every piece of paper on the desk, and looked at them all. There was pain associated with each one, but over time he became desensitised. Numb.

  The thing that had intrigued Harry most about the story were the front companies. Feeder companies that had directed the money to the councillor, so that there was never any link from Swenson to the money the councillor received. Bright Wing Holdings. Orange Water Pty Ltd. Circle Diagnostics Inc. It seemed overly elaborate for the sums of money involved.

  But maybe, if what Bill was saying was true, Cherry Grove wasn’t just a one-off.

  CHAPTER 19

  The taxi glided through the suburban streets, a light rain pattering down, just enough to piss off the driver and make the streets extra steamy. Harry sat in the back seat, sweaty, feeling sick. The houses they passed looked old and stale, dusty in spite of the rain. Overgrown lawns, broken letterboxes, flaking paint. The property boom hadn’t touched this area. On their right, a glowing beacon loomed out out of the darkness: Christmas lights hanging from the fence and the house; a light-up Santa in the middle of the lawn, tending his light-up reindeer and sleigh. The taxi driver shook his head.