Requiem for Immortals

by Lee Winter

  When she was done packing, she glanced at her phone. It had been over an hour. She had promised Natalya at least that much of a head start. She opened an email. It would take very little to get a warrant underway for Natalya’s arrest, now Alison had absolute proof.

  When the police had surged into the motorhome on Melbourne Cup day, at one point they’d taken Natalya aside to interview her. Alison had used the opportunity to ask one of the officers to take a photo with his phone of the knots on the hogtied Gunther and email it to her.

  He had.

  The knots were identical to the seven Requiem hogtied victim cases. Of course they matched—she’d not had a minute’s doubt from the second Natalya had burst in and thrown Gunther across the room, her face cold, eyes dead. But this was actual proof.

  Not that she’d shared it with anyone.

  She could now, though, and she knew Barry, despite being a bullying bastard, would not deny it. He might skate lines if there was doubt, but with actual evidence, he always did the safest, smartest thing to protect his own hide.

  She composed an email to him, attaching Natalya’s headshot and a short summary of her crimes, and wrote an outline of the proof she had. She stopped, went back up to the name field, and added the Chief Commissioner’s name.

  Even if Barry slept through the email, she knew the head of Victoria Police would be all over it. Not every day one gets the chance to collar a renowned gangland assassin. Bottom line was that someone very soon would be ordered to get moving on paperwork for warrants and police alerts to airlines.

  Alison could even narrow it down for them. Her phone also contained a snap of Natalya’s airline e-ticket print-out that she’d seen on her desk when she’d snooped around her home-office earlier in the morning.

  QF 438, leaving Melbourne at noon today. It was flying to Paris via Sydney and Dubai. So they had two chances to stop her in Australia alone.

  Her thumb wavered above the send button. She wouldn’t be doing her job if she didn’t do this. Natalya, well, Requiem, had killed thirty-four people—and those were just the ones she knew about.

  All scum, her brain whispered. Like Ken Lee. The world was a far better place for women and children without that flesh peddler selling them like dogs. Not to mention Busch. Collins. Beattie. All criminals who put countless innocent lives at risk.

  Not the point, Alison reminded herself. Requiem was a killer.

  It was the right thing to do.

  Although, her brain whispered, she’s not going to hurt anyone now.

  Requiem had sworn off killing for the immediate future, so arresting her wouldn’t prevent any crimes. All Natalya wanted to do was play cello, make music and rethink her life. Alison had seen the truth of it in her eyes.

  If Natalya returned to Melbourne, well, that would be different. But right now, what was the point? Where was the harm in letting her go—for now? Alison could catch her when she returned for her damned plant.

  She glanced at it, now sitting on her bedside table.

  Besides, hadn’t she told Natalya she wasn’t going to use anything from her visit? She was never there? The plane ticket photo was a breach of that.

  Her thumb trembled.

  Chapter 26

  Alison had known Barry Moore almost her entire life. He’d gone to her high school where he’d excelled at rugby league, disrupting class, dating her sister, and little else.

  She couldn’t remember a visit to Susan’s place that didn’t involve his puffer-fish face somewhere in the background, offering a running commentary on society’s failings.

  In the three years she’d spent butting heads with him at work, he’d tried to make her feel grateful to even be allowed to do cold cases. He’d now threatened her with actively destroying everything she loved. Barry Moore made her stomach drop every time she saw him. He always had.

  And in the blink of an eye he was gone.

  A few days after Natalya’s A380-800 had jetted off for Paris—with its full complement of passengers due to a certain email not being sent—Alison was driving across town, radio blaring. She thrummed her fingers impatiently on the steering wheel as her thoughts went where they always did.

  She hadn’t yet figured out how to escape that Darwin move, but she had thought of little else. The problem was she’d never had a Plan B. She’d just assumed when she’d started out that she’d either have claimed the scalp of an infamous assassin, or died trying. The idea that Alison would flush her out and then just let her go obviously hadn’t been on her list of hypothetical outcomes.

  In recent days she’d been toying with the idea of calling Barry’s bluff and telling Darwin she wasn’t interested. But what if he wasn’t bluffing about hurting her? God knows he had the connections.

  She’d already tried and failed to tank the Skype job interview with the Darwin chief earlier in the week and the man had just grunted something about “the more bodies on deck the better” and “Barry’s reference is good enough for me.”

  Some high standards then.

  Meanwhile Alison had found a temporary boarding kennel for Charlotte out of the bastard’s reach.

  Susan hadn’t even asked why. Her sister had minded Alison’s dog for a decade and a half and didn’t want to know why Alison had urgently rushed over one morning to rehome the pet in a kennel. Susan wasn’t stupid but denial ran deep. It was telling.

  She was just pulling up at a traffic light, when the radio news came on.

  “Victoria Police is investigating a video that was posted on several news sites today allegedly showing a senior homicide detective involved in the death of two elderly homeless brothers, and the abuse of their dog. A police media spokesman said they were looking into the authenticity of the footage which was sent to several media outlets and IBAC, the independent anti-corruption commission in Victoria. It was marked ‘Zebra.’ Sources say it appears to have been shot from the loading dock of an inner-city hotel, which has not been named.”

  Alison almost drove into the truck in front of her.

  She pulled over, turned off the engine and grabbed her phone, looking up the video. It wasn’t a long search. It was all over YouTube and had been picked up by news services worldwide. It contained grainy security footage vision of Moore stomping in the head of a homeless man, smashing his dog in the ribs with his boots and then turning on a second man. One website didn’t mince words, splashing Moore’s name and job title all over the video, with the words: “Is this Victoria Police’s finest? ARREST THIS ANIMAL!”

  She phoned the office immediately.

  “He’s not in,” Lisa, Barry’s secretary, reported. “Haven’t seen him since the video aired. I tried calling him at home but his wife says he’s disappeared. Gone when she came back from picking up their kid from some soccer thing yesterday afternoon. Bags gone, too. Not looking good that we’ll see him anytime soon.”

  So Moore had slunk away, disgraced.

  Alison called Susan, who answered with a suspicious “Hello?”

  “It’s me.”

  “Thank God. I thought you were more media. They’ve been camped out for ages already, and ringing all hours.”

  “Christ! Why didn’t you call?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Susan?”

  “I thought you’d say ‘I told you so.’ I just…I didn’t want to hear it. I know Barry’s a creep, okay? I’ve known it since a week after we married, but it’s humiliating seeing this everywhere. And everyone’s acting like I should have known what he did. How could I? And the last thing I needed was you giving me crap, too.”

  “I never would have rubbed it in, come on!”

  “Even so, I’d know you were thinking it. I’ve had Mum on the phone all morning, raging about what the neighbours will think. She does remember she doesn’t actually like her neighbours, right?”

  Alison laughed. “Well, I don’t know about that,” she said, thinking about her mother’s outings with Mr Strickland. “I don’t suppose you know
where your husband ran off to?”

  “Like I told those investigators, hell if I know,” Susan sniffed. “Does that make me a terrible wife?”

  “A normal one, probably,” Alison said with a small snort. She paused. “Is Hailey okay?”

  “She will be. I know it sounds weird but I get the impression that she’s glad he’s gone. She was always like that whenever he went off fishing with his mates, like she was hoping he wouldn’t hurry home. Oh hell—that’s probably where he is right now. At the old fishing shack! Want the address?”

  So much for solidarity with her husband.

  “Sure,” Alison said. “I’ll pass it along to whoever our new boss is, because I’m sure Barry’s about half a second away from being fired and having everything in the book thrown at him. They’ll want to screw over the asshole who makes every cop look bad. Because, Jesus, who the hell kicks old homeless people to death? And that poor dog!”

  There was a hiss of breath and Alison reviewed what she’d just said. Her sister had married that man.

  “Oh,” she muttered. “Sorry, Susie.”

  “Me, too. Shit, Emily. That total bastard.”

  * * *

  As it turned out, Barry Moore wasn’t quickly caught, but a warrant was issued for his arrest, which quieted the worst of the fury from politicians and social media desk jockeys.

  A new broom was lined up to sweep through the Homicide Squad. Alison had seen more men in suits in the past week than she had at a politician’s funeral. They swept in and out, talking an impressive array of buzzwords, mouthing slogans about stopping the rot, cleaning up embedded corruption, and getting the department back on track.

  The Premier suddenly discovered he wanted something done about entrenched organised crime and the “disturbing gangland situation” which had been “left to fester on Moore’s watch.”

  Well, that was a new one. Now the people cared about gangs?

  Alison’s department had been summoned to a meeting—a so-called “frank exchange of ideas” with the Premier’s minders and the Victoria Police Chief Commissioner. It was also a chance to meet the new head of Homicide.

  Alison sat at the back of the room, not hugely interested, knowing that when this topic and Moore’s public disgrace had faded off the front page, so, too, would any appetite to fix the underworld problem.

  Besides, as the lecturing and hectoring droned on, she found she was more interested in Facebook. Or to be specific, a curious new post.

  She’d received an email alert on her way into the meeting. A Facebook user calling themselves “Harry Partch,” from Paris, had tagged her in a link. The picture next to the name showed female hands holding a bow against a cello.

  She could virtually picture Natalya’s mocking voice, saying, “Who else would get your attention?”

  She’d clicked the user’s photo which brought up a Facebook page that was now deleted.

  What the hell?

  “You investigate these homicides—only barely—but don’t even ask the right questions. Are the killers affiliated with a gang? Which crime family? Why were the victims killed—was it gang related or otherwise?” The Chief Commissioner was thundering across the room.

  “These are the questions we should be asking. Where do these people live? Who do they associate with? Do any of you people even know? Do you get how this looks for us? Do any of you care? Do you have the first clue?”

  Alison went back to the original Facebook email alert and clicked on the hyperlink she’d been sent. It brought up a Google+ page which, again, had the user name “Harry Partch.” The link led to a photo post. Chocolate. She peered closer at her phone. With fudge centres? They looked like Whitestars brand, her favourites. How the hell did Natalya know about that?

  There were no captions, nothing else on the photo at all. Just gooey, gorgeous choc fudge.

  “I’m sorry, Detective, are we keeping you from something?”

  Alison almost dropped her phone. The police chief’s voice was suddenly no longer thundering and the room was eerily quiet. All eyes were on her. She flushed and looked around. “Sorry,” she said. “I was pursuing a lead. What did you want to know?”

  A tall man with greying hair and sharp eyes leaned forward. The new Homicide Squad boss. Burns. He’d been flown in from Sydney and had a formidable reputation. Oh, and scuttlebutt had it that if you mocked his name, you would be flayed alive.

  His first name was Frank. So, not a M*A*S*H fan, then.

  He leaned forward and with deceptive softness said: “The Commissioner wants to know what, if anything, Homicide knows about the crime families, because it seems to him that you’re all incompetent. I would appreciate it if someone could answer his request and prove him incorrect.”

  His tone dared her to say just one wrong thing.

  Alison licked her lips anxiously as she considered her answers. “Which crime family? I have a complete timeline on all of them, dating back to 1998 when the wars started. Chronologies and family trees on each prominent member and basics on the rest. Do you want names of spouses and mistresses as well? Only the enforcers and standover men whose crimes relate to Homicide? Or all of the members, whose crimes cover all departments?”

  Burns blinked once in surprise. And then a small, intrigued glint entered his eyes.

  “I’ve been looking into this for the past two years,” Alison added by way of explanation when no one spoke. “Um, i-in my own time.”

  The rest of the Homicide Squad stared at her and their eyes widened with disbelief as she then launched into detailed answers on every question for the next hour. She knew these people inside and out and didn’t need any notes, which was good, because she hadn’t brought any. With every answer, she could see the shadowy faces of the men and women who had become her life for two years.

  At the end of the session, when the rest of her squad packed up and left the meeting room, Detective Senior Sergeant Burns came over.

  “Where have you been hiding?” he asked. “Especially given that your detailed knowledge of the families runs rings around the rest of those clowns propping up your department. And it’s better intel than anything in the official files I’ve read.”

  “I’ve been doing cold cases.”

  “Why?” he asked suspiciously. “What did you do to get sidelined?”

  Alison folded her arms. “You’re asking me why a disgraced and corrupt Homicide Squad Chief would sideline the only member of his team who knows all about the gangland families? Seriously?”

  Burns gave a sharp bark of laughter. “Good answer. Right, come with me. What’s your name again?”

  “Ryan.”

  “Right, Ryan. The Premier and Police Chief Commissioner want to talk to you about a special little project they have in mind.”

  A month later Alison found herself sitting at a new desk which had a gleaming sign on it. (Det) Alison Ryan, Head of Gangland Operations Unit.

  She even had her own team of three. Okay, one was an office assistant. But still.

  Yeah, it was funny how life worked out sometimes.

  Chapter 27

  “Harry Partch” was not one for chatting. Or posting often. Or saying much of anything.

  All Partch had done so far was post that one fudgey photo on Google+.

  She wondered why Natalya had not put it up on Facebook since she’d clearly, briefly, had an account.

  She downloaded the photo, saved it and zoomed in, wondering if there was some sort of code hidden in the pixels.

  Nope. Nothing.

  She went back to the Google account only to find the fudge photo had now been deleted. What on earth? Was this some sort of weird “thinking of you” from Natalya?

  Pfft. As if that would happen.

  She did an internet search and, for want of a better idea, looked up “hidden things in photos” and discovered that pictures could contain something called metadata. This could store information about the photo, such as who took it, where, when, and the camera
used. It was used for copyright, apparently.

  She also discovered that this metadata detail was stripped out of any photos loaded on Facebook. But, crucially, it was retained on Google+. So—that had to mean something, right? Was the Facebook post just a way to anonymously get her attention in the first place since she knew Alison had a Facebook page? Like a wave?

  Heart racing, Alison followed the instructions to open the fudge photo’s properties and find the metadata.

  She saw a list appear:

  Source: Simon Monaghan

  Location: 190 Sunshine Rd, Footscray, Victoria

  Date taken: November 25.

  The date was set in the future. Two days’ time. And the named person was no photographer; she recognised him as a brutal thug who worked for the gaming criminal Carlo Trioli.

  She tapped the address into her mapping screen which brought up a dubious-looking warehouse.

  So Natalya had just given her a place and time to find a man who was one of Melbourne’s most lethal, wanted enforcers. How useful.

  And given Natalya had since deleted the source photo from Google+, she’d removed the paper trail back to her. In fact, had Alison shown the downloaded copy of it to anyone, she couldn’t even prove she hadn’t changed the metadata herself.

  It was so clever. A little, isolated clue bomb made for one.

  * * *

  Two days later, on page twenty-nine of the Herald Sun, the paper announced the arrest of gangland killer, Simon Monaghan, on seven charges. It was a small story, with only a few lines about some of his victims—all criminals—and a court date. But it was the first win for the GOU.

  Four days later Alison discovered Harry Partch had posted a photo of a scenic bistro in Paris. The metadata in this one contained enough details to arrest Santos’s most prolific enforcer, as well as two of High Street’s top drug makers.

  The men couldn’t have looked more stunned as they were led away.

  That arrest was reported on page seventeen and included a photo of the killer. She heard through the grapevine that his capture had caused unease among all four crime families, who wondered how he’d been found.