by Robert Sims
By the time Loftus arrived Rita had changed out of her evening wear, pulled on jeans and a T-shirt, and cleaned up after Lola, who’d withdrawn to the bathroom, thrown up and taken to her bed.
As Rita filled the kettle he sat down at the kitchen table, pushing aside the empty coffee cup.
‘So,’ he said. ‘How’re you feeling?’
‘I’m fine. Ready to get back to profiling the Hacker. Why do you ask?’
‘It worries me that, because of the bedlam of the past week, you didn’t get to talk through things with a counsellor,’ he said, frowning.
‘I don’t need a counsellor.’
‘Maybe a counsellor could tell me that.’
‘Jesus, Jack. I’m telling you - as a cop, as a psychologist, as a hard bitch who’s had her share of personal traumas - I’m telling you I’m okay. And the only way I’ll go nuts is if I don’t get back on the Hacker case first thing tomorrow.’
‘Yeah, well I just needed to hear it from you.’
She put her hands on her hips and looked at him, sitting there in his scruffy weekend casuals. A frayed tartan shirt and brown cords.
He was a different person out of his formal office wear. There was a spray of sawdust on his sleeve and a smear of paint on his trouser leg. Eggshell pink.
She gave him an affectionate smile. ‘Interrupted your hobbies, have you?’
‘Redecorating the dining room,’ he said. ‘Forced labour. I bloody hate it. You’re my excuse for a break.’
It made her laugh, how often women got their way. No matter how tough a man was outside the home, inside they were often pushovers, Loftus and O’Keefe being perfect examples.
Rita poured a mug of tea and handed it to him.
‘Okay, Jack. Anything new?’
He spooned in some sugar and said, ‘I don’t think you’ll have Nash to worry about. He’s been ticked off himself. The Chief Commissioner’s pissed off with how you and O’Keefe have been treated, calling it heavy-handed. And the lawyers are convinced neither of you have a case to answer over the deaths of Kavella and Moyle. They say there’s a powerful argument of self-defence in both cases.’
‘Excellent!’ She gave him a gleeful hug. ‘And just when I was getting other job offers.’
‘Like what?’
‘Never mind.’ She clapped her hands. ‘Any more fallout from Taskforce Nero?’
‘Yes, Jim Proctor’s turned over a couple of dirty cops who were in Kavella’s pocket - both constables, one from Homicide.’
‘Just as well we stopped him when we did.’
‘Yeah, and that’s largely down to you rattling his cage - and nearly getting yourself killed in the process.’
‘I told you I’m okay. What about the crime lab - are they any further on the smartcard?’
‘No.’ He drank some of his tea. ‘But as I hinted on Friday, I’m thinking we should start from scratch with the Hacker case. If our assumptions were wrong then Kavella, his associates and his customers had nothing to do with it - and his nightclub has no bearing at all on the case. Which begs the question.’
‘Exactly.’ She reached over to her handbag and slid out the glossy Plato’s Cave card. ‘I’ve been carrying this thing around with me for weeks.’ She brandished it in front of her face like a black and silver laminated riddle. ‘It’s like one of my accessories. I shuffle it in and out of my wallet. I put it down on cafe tables. I contemplate it. I turn it over. I tap it against bottles of water. I flick sugar cubes with it. I even tried to put it in a cash machine by mistake.’ She pursed her lips and tossed the card onto the kitchen table. ‘What I can’t do is crack its secret.’
Loftus picked it up, looked at it and put it down again. ‘I’ve done some follow-up checks of my own. The brothel. The academic fellowship. Like you, I can’t find a connection. At the moment, it’s got me stumped.’ He finished his tea and pushed away the mug.
‘On that note, I’d better get back to my bloody decorating.’
‘Think of it as therapeutic,’ she said.
‘I don’t want to think of it at all.’ He got up to leave. ‘By the way, after I spoke to the guy from the fellowship he wanted to tell you something about Plato.’
‘Phillip Roxby?’
‘Yes.’ Loftus was feeling in his pockets for his car keys. ‘But I wouldn’t let him talk to you on Friday, you had enough to think about.’
‘Did he say anything else?’
‘He asked if you could call him over the weekend. I only said maybe.’
She called Roxby straightaway but he wouldn’t talk over the phone.
He wanted to meet.
‘Why?’ she said.
‘Plato’s Cave,’ he answered. ‘You want to know about it?’
She bit her lip and wondered. Was he toying with her? Or did he really have something to say? And if so, what? She had to find out.
‘Okay.’
‘Great. Let’s do lunch.’
‘Where?’ she asked.
‘There’s an old Edwardian pub in Abbotsford. The Retreat.’
‘I know it,’ she said.
‘I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. I’ll get a table in the snug.’
She hung up abruptly and bowed her head. This was an unexpected date. But what exactly was he up to? Perhaps just another mind game.
When she arrived he was sitting there, looking urbane in his blazer, blue cotton shirt and neat navy trousers. She was still in T-shirt, jeans and tennis shoes. The place had the quaint, cosy atmosphere of a bygone age. Lunches in the dining room. Couples chatting over glasses of beer. Sunday drinkers propped on stools along the curving bar with its serving hatches, brass rail and beer pumps. Stained-glass windows and glazed tile walls. Framed photos from the horse and buggy era.
He stood up as she came in. ‘I’m glad we could get together,’ he said, waiting for her to get comfortable before resuming his seat.
‘Last time we met was a bit alarming. I didn’t respond very well.’
She gave him a level look. ‘What do you want to tell me?’
He held up a finger and said, ‘First, let’s order lunch.’
He went for nachos and a glass of chardonnay. She asked for a lime and soda.
‘Isn’t it nice to have a rendezvous here?’ he went on wistfully. ‘I once brought my ex-wife to this pub way back when we were courting. Long before the divorce turned my life to shit.’
‘Is that so?’
The sentiment drained from his face. ‘Another strange paradox, isn’t it, how love can turn into hate. How we build our lives on illusions. How nothing we take for granted is real.’
She tried to interrupt, ‘What specifically -‘
But he kept on. ‘How fantasy dominates our minds. How people who appear to be rational, and function perfectly in society, are objectively insane.’
She moved uneasily in her chair. ‘I don’t need a lesson in psychology.’
‘You want to know about Plato’s Cave?’ he said sharply. ‘Well, I’m telling you.’
She couldn’t guess where he was leading. ‘What are you saying?’
‘I was less than candid when you came to see me on campus.
You asked me a question but I didn’t respond appropriately.’
She sat back, her pulse beating a little faster. What was coming next? ‘Go on,’ she said.
‘I had trouble collecting my thoughts. Doesn’t happen very often.’
He blew out a sigh. ‘Just around certain types of women.’
She caught the accusation in his eyes, and the self-pity, then looked away.
‘I read about you in the papers.’ His voice more subdued.
‘How you shot dead the man who ran the nightclub, the man we spoke about, and how the hunt’s still on for the guy maiming hookers. I realised then I could’ve been more helpful. Given you a straight answer.’
‘To which question?’ she asked.
‘You asked me the meaning of Plato’s Cave. That question.’ He took a d
eep breath, and explained, ‘Your question is about the foundation of western thought - back there, among those ancient Greeks …’
‘Am I about to hear one of your lectures?’
‘Bear with me,’ he insisted. ‘Plato says the citizens of the cave believe the fake images projected around them are real. Well that still applies today. If anything, it’s more valid than ever in our media-saturated, celebrity-obsessed, consumer-driven mass culture. We all inhabit the cave. We’re all deluded, believing the cinema-screen version of reality - unless we can get up, and turn around, and see the projector.’
A thought struck her. Something Barbie had been going on about.
She said hesitantly, ‘And he who controls the projector …’
‘… controls social reality.’ He nodded. ‘Projecting phoney images onto the walls of our collective mind. But I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. Plato gives us a way out.’
‘I’ve read The Republic.’
‘Which tells us we can crawl out of the cave and into the dazzling light of truth.’ Roxby gave a sniff of satisfaction. The same as when he delivered a punchline to an auditorium full of students, no doubt.
‘And there’s one other thing. That card you showed me. I’ve been thinking about it. Have you worked out what it represents?’
‘If you can tell me,’ she said soberly, ‘I might not put you on file.’
‘What an offer.’ He scooped up some spicy topping with a tortilla chip and waved it, as if to tantalise her. ‘You’ve been looking in the wrong places. The club, the brothel, the fellowship. It’s not a business card. It’s a token. A talisman. An emblem of private membership.
Like a key that unlocks an exclusive fantasyland.’
‘Don’t suppose you can point out which one?’
‘Sorry, I’m giving you a philosophic profile. The geographic one I’ll leave to you.’
‘For the sake of argument,’ she said, ‘let’s assume you’re right.
Now there’s a basic premise of profiling - decipher what the serial offender is dreaming when he indulges in ritualistic violence and you know where he’s coming from. You can formulate his background, his motives and his strategy.’
‘And what you’ve stumbled on, Detective Sergeant, is a secret dreamland.’
‘So, logically, the Plato’s Cave I’m looking for has no sign over the door, no phone number, no website, no public face,’ she said,
‘which is what I have to assume with Kavella’s operation apparently ruled out.’ For all that she disliked him, Roxby was pointing her in the same direction as Jack Loftus, the same direction now of her own reasoning. ‘And while that makes it harder to find, it doesn’t alter a basic fact that shows this case is different in a fundamental way.’
‘Okay, I’ll play Glaucon to your Socrates,’ said Roxby. ‘What way?’
‘The context of this killer’s dreaming is somehow outside his own head. It’s external. It’s objectively real, my dear Glaucon,’ she surmised.
‘It has a smartcard as a key.’
It was late Sunday morning and Flynn could hear church bells ringing when he got the summons from Barbie.
‘I’m sending a limo to pick you up. It’ll be there in half an hour.’
As Flynn put down the phone he couldn’t help smiling. Despite the fractious relationship between them, he’d been expecting an invitation from his boss to receive his reward for delivering the game. After shaving and showering, he dressed in smart chinos and a blue silk shirt as befitted such a meeting on a bright and sunny morning. He was ready when the chauffeur-driven limousine arrived at his apartment block. The drive to Brighton took little more than ten minutes, but instead of delivering him to the beachfront mansion the chauffeur dropped him off at a cafe-bar nearby - the Half Moon. This was where Barbie went on Sundays when there was no urgent business to attend to and he felt like a holiday from his professional image.
He was sitting at a window table looking as relaxed as a post-coital lizard, lounging behind a bacon and egg breakfast, knife and fork in hand, wearing beach shorts, sandals, a faded Eagles T-shirt and a pair of Clooney sunglasses. A Sunday newspaper was spread open on the table. Flynn immediately felt overdressed. This wasn’t the reception he’d anticipated. Not when you were in line for a big bonus - and the kudos you deserved.
Barbie gave a lazy wave towards the chair opposite. ‘Thanks for coming at short notice,’ he said. ‘But I thought I should tell you in person.’
‘Tell me what?’
‘Xanthus. I’m shutting it down.’
Flynn couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘Why, for fuck’s sake?’
‘It’s done its job. I got the deal I wanted. Time to move on to frontiers new.’ Barbie cut a piece of fried bread and chewed on it.
‘I’ll retain various rights, of course - and the profits. But the assets will be sold off. I’ll make the announcement next month.’
‘What happens to me?’
‘I’ll buy out the rest of your contract, of course. Then it’s back on the job market - like everyone else at the company.’ He brushed a crumb from his lip. ‘But the experience you’ve gained will be invaluable - as long as you don’t breach any commercial secrets or copyrights.’
Flynn read the threat with disgust. ‘You mean keep my mouth shut.
What about the recognition? What about the bonus I deserve?’
Barbie put down his knife and fork. ‘There was never any mention of a bonus. Besides, you’re just one member of a changing line-up.
Over the past three years, fifteen different faces have filled the core team and, while I appreciate your contribution, it was the work of my project manager, Josh Barrett, that ensured we met the deadline.
And let’s face it, your histrionics tended to get in the way, so I feel I’ve done more than enough for you. I’m the one who carried the entire burden of risk, so I reap the rewards.’
‘Hog all the credit, you mean.’
‘Yes, well, don’t let it bug you,’ said Barbie, sipping from a glass of cranberry juice. ‘ Sic gloria transit mundi. ‘
‘Sick is right. I should be in line for an ex gratia pay-off.’
‘Get real.’ Barbie took off his glasses so Flynn could see the look in his eyes. ‘You can’t afford to be bitter, my friend. I don’t want to deal with any repercussions, if you see what I mean.’ He swallowed the rest of his juice and stood up. ‘By the way, don’t have anything to do with that woman cop. I saw you talking to her at the party.
She’s dangerous. Sees beneath the surface of people. I don’t want to have to deal with her either.’ He picked up a Sunday paper and turned to go. ‘I’ll send in the chauffeur to drive you home.’
Flynn didn’t say anything. When the chauffeur came in he told him, ‘Get lost.’ Then he ordered a large whisky and drank it neat.
Then he ordered another and sat there contemplating his plight, trying to pinpoint the blame. It wasn’t a pleasant exercise.
As he drank more whisky he felt his emotions flicker back and forth between rage and anxiety. The rage centred on Barbie, who’d used Flynn’s brilliance to make himself hundreds of millions of dollars.
And in return? No reward. No recognition. It was unacceptable.
That meant he had to do something about it - and that’s where the anxiety kicked in. It centred on Detective Sergeant Van Hassel.
She could be used for revenge - but how much was he going to divulge? He was still undecided when he took her card out of his wallet and phoned her.
Rita drove along the highway, past upmarket car dealerships and turned into the leafy streets of Brighton. The houses here were substantial, the gardens fastidiously neat, the two combining to exude an air of respectability and money. Among its residents it could count one Martin Barbie - so it was intriguing to be invited for an ‘off-the-record’ chat with Eddy Flynn, who said he was ready to
‘dump the dirt’ on this epitome of bourgeois success.
Even the m
ain shopping strip had an exclusive feel to it, with people in refined casual mode enjoying the pavement cafes or browsing at the expensive shop windows. Rita found a parking space beside the copper-steepled church and joined the promenade past fashion boutiques and patisseries, a bookshop called Thesaurus and a Victorian post office now selling Laura Ashley. The place she was looking for was opposite the railway station. She went in and spied Flynn at a window table downing a drink. He looked distracted and uncomfortable among the rest of the customers - mothers with babies; well-groomed men; immaculate women, invariably blonde.
‘Okay, I’m here.’ She sat at his table. ‘And I’m all ears.’
‘Good,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a few things to tell you about the man I’ve been working for.’
She’d only met Eddy Flynn twice before. On both occasions he’d been assertive if not aggressive. Almost theatrical in his managerial role. Today he was quite different. Subdued. Deflated. An intelligent young man wrestling with disappointment. He was holding it in, but not very well.
‘Fine. I’m off-duty and this is off the record.’
She glanced around but no one was paying them any attention.
Two infants were squawking in highchairs nearby, their mothers spooning froth into their mouths from babycinos. At other tables couples grazed over late lunches, the women flicking through Sunday magazines, the men with their faces in the sports pages. Under umbrellas outside sleek females with perfect tans and faces older than their figures exchanged gossip over salads. A man walked by with a pair of Afghan hounds on leads. The railway gates started clanging. The coffee machine growled.
‘I’m not completely the arrogant bastard I seem,’ Flynn began.
‘Some of it’s just an act.’
‘I know.’
‘My way of getting people’s attention, motivating them.’ He clasped his hands. ‘Getting the job done.’
‘The secret of your success,’ she said.
‘Until today.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘Barbie - the evil fuck - has sacked me. At this table. Less than an hour ago.’ Flynn put his head in his hands.
‘Why?’ she asked.