Lethal Factor

by Gabrielle Lord

  The tall one tapped on the laptop.

  ‘I deny these allegations absolutely. I did not sexually abuse my daughter.’ I took a deep breath. ‘My ex-wife hates me and I believe this is just another one of her attempts to harm me. I’m an ex-police officer myself,’ I told them, ‘and I know that you know how many accusations turn out to be malicious.’ Under my clipped comments, an eruption was seething. Genevieve, you bitch, I was thinking.

  ‘Do you deny ever being in your daughter’s bed?’

  ‘For Heaven’s sake,’ I started. ‘Any father does that.’

  ‘Does what?’

  I was going to have to be very careful. ‘You have children?’ I asked, not waiting for an answer. ‘You sit on the bed while you’re reading a story, sometimes you lie on the bed. Sometimes the kids jumped into bed with me, with us,’ I said, ‘when I was married.’

  Thirteen years ago, Jacinta and Greg slept downstairs in a large room at the back of the house while Genevieve and I slept in the upstairs attic room before the mandatory renovations. Calm down, Jack, I told myself. An allegation has been made. It is false. That’s all you need to remember. Remain a man of science.

  ‘So there’s no truth in these allegations at all?’ asked the short one. ‘You deny ever having been in your daughter’s bed?’

  ‘In the way you’re suggesting, I deny it completely.’

  ‘There’s something you should know,’ I said. I knew they’d find this out soon enough even if Genevieve had failed to inform them. Which I couldn’t imagine. ‘I used to drink very heavily. In fact, I’m a recovered alcoholic.’

  The tall one stared at me. ‘That year,’ I said, ‘1987 was my last year of drinking. There were a few occasions where I didn’t make it upstairs. I remember sleeping on the lounge downstairs on a number of occasions, and—’ As I recalled those days, I remembered how horrible it had been, with me staggering around in the dark, trying not to wake everyone up, dreading going upstairs to Genevieve’s righteous anger. As I recalled those miserable days, the light went on. I felt relief soften my anger. I understood what Genevieve was going on about. ‘And on a few occasions,’ I said, ‘I remember getting a bit maudlin and going to make sure the kids were okay. Sometimes, I’d just make it to their room and pass out. That’s what Genevieve must be referring to.’ Surely they’d see that, too.

  But these two cynics weren’t having any of it. ‘Your wife must have been thrilled when you came home pissed,’ said Sandy Eyelashes. ‘So how do I know you weren’t going into their room to put the hard word on your little girl?’

  Sandy Eyelashes’ question stopped me like a blow to the guts. I restrained myself. ‘I did not at any stage do anything of the sort,’ I said.

  ‘We have to ask these questions,’ said the tall one.

  ‘I know that,’ I snapped back. ‘And I have to answer them. But I don’t have to fucking like it.’

  ‘So your explanation of these incidents is that they were due to drunkenness?’

  ‘There were no incidents,’ I said. ‘It was just as I’ve told you.’

  Sandy Eyelashes persisted. ‘But if you were as drunk as you say, then how can you say that no sexual activity occurred?’ This dickhead must be the only Methodist in the job, I thought, and I’ve got the bad luck to score him. Why couldn’t they have sent one of the usual pisspots out after me?

  ‘Because I know that never happened,’ I said. ‘In the same way I know I’ve never hit her. Because it did not happen. I love my daughter,’ I said, ‘and would never harm her!’ I felt my fingers cutting into the palms of my hands; I’d made fists and a red-hot current of rage was molten up my spine. ‘I’m her father, for God’s sake.’

  ‘But you say you passed out. How would you know what you were doing?’

  ‘When a drunk passes out,’ I said savagely, ‘he’s not fucking doing anything.’ You should try it some time, dickhead, I thought. See how active you are when you’re totalled.

  In a few minutes, his nimble fingers had typed my response. I watched over his shoulder as he got down the last of my denials, saved the document and printed it out into the portable printer. ‘Sign here please,’ he said. I read it and did so.

  He stood up and closed the lid of the notebook. ‘Does your daughter live at the same address we’ve now got for you in Malabar?’

  I thought fast. Marty Cash still had too many mates in the job for me to trust anyone connected to the NSW police. Even a Methodist. I shook my head. ‘She’s living with a girlfriend at the moment,’ I said. ‘I’m not even sure of the address yet.’

  I could see that neither of them believed me. ‘She’s eighteen,’ I said. ‘She can do what she likes. But I can give you a phone number.’ I wrote down the number at my place at Malabar and handed it to the short one, who pocketed it.

  ‘We’ll get back to you,’ he said, ‘after we’ve had a chat with your daughter.’

  I showed them to the door.

  ‘Your wife seemed very upset,’ said the eyebrows, ‘when she spoke to us.’

  ‘My ex-wife is always upset,’ I said. ‘The world is never the way she wants it.’

  I imagined Jacinta being questioned by the leering snoop, the way he might lean on words, suggestive, contemptuous. And my heart went even colder with fury. Genevieve didn’t care who she hurt, what she did, just so long as she could punish me. Calm down, Jack, I told myself. This will blow over like all the other attacks she’s made on you.

  ‘Your wife has told us that if you attempt to contact her about this matter,’ said the tall one, ‘she’ll take out an Apprehended Violence Order against you.’

  ‘She needn’t worry about that,’ I said, working hard to contain my fury. ‘I’d run a frigging mile if I saw her coming anywhere near me.’

  As soon as the words were out of my mouth I wished I hadn’t said it. But it seemed to soften the taller detective.

  ‘Look,’ he said. ‘We’ve got enough to do without trying to chase up thirteen-year-old allegations. Nothing I’d like better than to blow it away.’ He engaged my eyes in a frank manner. ‘You’d know from the old days.’

  I did. With the workload most police carry, the more investigations they can blow away, the better. I hoped and prayed this would be one of them.

  ‘But DOCS have to be informed these days and we’ve got to do our job,’ said Shorty in his prissy way.

  ‘Okay,’ said the tall one. ‘I think that’s enough for today. We’ll get back to you when we’ve spoken to your daughter.’

  ‘This is just vindictive vengeance,’ I said. ‘There’s no case at all.’

  This seemed to sting the short one. ‘Listen, pal,’ he said. ‘We’ll decide whether or not there’s a case. We’ve had three arseholes in the last month who’ve been sticking it to their little girls.’ The more upset he became, the more I calmed down.

  ‘We’ve had two pricks of fathers who’ve taken the kids and driven out into the bush and stuck a hose in the exhaust and killed themselves and the kids. I’ve had it up to here with arseholes of so-called fathers like that.’

  By the time he’d finished, I was almost tempted to offer him a few words of comfort. Almost.

  Eleven

  I couldn’t sit down, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything for a while after they’d gone. Gradually, my head and heart calmed down and I made a strong coffee. I recognised I was tired as well as recovering from the ugly shock. I don’t think I’d ever realised the true extent of Genevieve’s hatred for me until now. What was going on in Genevieve’s life that she was raking over the dead fires of our marriage, coming up with these grotesque accusations? How could she remember three dates from thirteen years ago? It was hard, I knew, to remember thirteen days ago, unless there were certain events that the mind was able to connect up with, like a horse to a hitching rail. Jacinta had been fiv
e. I felt ashamed that I’d married the woman who would put her own daughter through this sort of ugly mess. Ashamed of the mother I had chosen for my daughter. Jacinta deserved far better than either of us. I rang Bob but he wasn’t there so I left a message.

  I tried to look at it as if she was fair dinkum. Thirteen years ago, I was still a crime scene examiner with the NSW police. I could recall details from all of the cases I’d dealt with, if I put my mind to it. But the domestic side of my life was a different story. I hadn’t been there very much at all. In fact the atmosphere at home had been so awful that I used to apply for extra work whenever I could, not just to help the mortgage but to keep me away during daylight hours. I racked my brains trying to find something—anything—that could be taken as sexual abuse of my daughter. I drew a blank. Apart from the fights we’d had about the call-outs that disturbed her sleep, her nagging about me going for every promotion, and arguments about money, I couldn’t remember anything that might have been problematical. That was the problem. The last stages of my drinking days were largely a blur.

  I rang Charlie and told him.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ he said. ‘She’s even worse than I thought.’

  Charlie and Genevieve had never hit it off. Even when they’d first met years ago, when Genevieve was still bunging on her sweet little woman act, I remember feeling the air charged with mutual dislike.

  ‘It’s a wicked thing she’s saying. Fucking evil,’ I said, thinking of the investigations I’d undertaken of men who abused children. My soul withered at the thought.

  ‘You haven’t got the set-up for pedophilia,’ said Charlie in his matter-of-fact way. ‘We know enough about this now to know that it’s passed on like the vampire’s kiss.’

  ‘Yes, but most don’t pass it on,’ I countered, remembering the statistics I’d picked up somewhere.

  ‘We’re talking about those who do,’ said my pragmatic brother. ‘Or at least the ones who get caught who do.’

  ‘The thing is, Charlie,’ I said, my heart sinking even lower, ‘in September of that year I was still drinking. I had lots of blackouts. There are long periods I can’t recall. She could allege anything and I wouldn’t properly be able to defend myself.’

  ‘She hasn’t alleged anything,’ said my precise brother, ‘she’s alleged three very particular events and you have refuted them. The police can’t get a case out of that. What does Jacinta say?’

  ‘I haven’t had a chance to say anything to her yet.’

  ‘Do you want me to tell her?’

  ‘That might be an idea. I think I’m too angry to do it. I might forget myself and say something terrible about her mother.’

  ‘There’s plenty to say,’ said my brother.

  I rang off.

  It took all of my professionalism, experience and recovery to put this sick business to the back of my mind and get back to work on my investigations. I went into town, grabbed something to eat and was grateful to arrive at University House. I turned the key in the door of my rooms, my mind preoccupied with my sins of the past. I noticed that Alix had left a note propped up against the television and I picked it up. ‘I’ve bought you a really cute present and I want to see you to give it to you in person.’

  I threw the note down. The past with all its messes and muddles was closing around me. Genevieve, Alix. I didn’t like this idea of a gift. Not from Alix. Again, I wished I’d been tougher with her. I didn’t want to see her, I didn’t want her gift. I wish I knew a kind way of saying: ‘I really don’t want to see you again. Nothing personal. It’s just that I haven’t got room for anyone at the moment.’ It wasn’t quite true because even as I felt it, I knew that if Iona Seymour had written these words, I would be wondering what the gift was. I decided I’d ring Alix and head her off at the pass. I chucked the note in the bin.

  My mobile rang and it was Bob returning my call from Sydney. I told him what had happened with the two Sydney detectives.

  ‘Starsky and Hutch,’ he said. ‘Stewart Fox and Brian Hutchinson. They’re the sorts of guys who get their pistols chrome-plated. Probably their balls, too, if they could.’

  ‘I still feel sick about it,’ I said.

  ‘They won’t be able to make a case,’ said Bob. ‘What did you say?’

  I told him.

  ‘I remember you from then,’ said Bob. ‘I had to cover for you a lot.’

  ‘I know, mate,’ I said. ‘I’m not proud of those days.’

  ‘But you always had a keen eye for crime scene details. Even if it was bloodshot.’

  Bob had tried a beer once and hadn’t liked it. I’d never known him to drink at all.

  Before he rang off, I remembered something. ‘Does the name Toby Speed mean anything to you?’

  ‘Toby Speed?’ said Bob. ‘How did you meet him?”

  ‘Someone called Toby Speed rang Kenilworth Police Station looking for a favour from their old boss who’d retired. He reported an incident in the convent. Why? Do you know him?’

  ‘I knew a bloke who worked with him,’ said Bob, ‘in the Special Investigations Unit back in the late ’80s.’ I remembered a number of detectives were seconded to the SIU, set up by the Hawke government.

  ‘Wasn’t that something to do with war crimes?’ I said. Because of my behaviour in those days, the late 1980s was a bit of a mystery to me.

  ‘It was set up to investigate allegations concerning war criminals in Australia. Quite a few slipped through the net. That’s where Neil—the bloke I worked with—met Speed. I’m surprised Neil hasn’t turned up in AA. He could drink like you.’

  ‘Thanks, mate,’ I said. ‘What division was Speed with?’

  ‘He wasn’t with any division,’ said Bob.

  ‘Then who is he?’

  There was a pause on the telephone lines. ‘I don’t know what’s going on,’ said Bob, ‘and you’d better be careful. Ask yourself what the hell’s a spook doing nosing into the affairs of a convent.’

  ‘Is he Special Branch?’ I asked.

  ‘Worse,’ said Bob. ‘Toby Speed is ASIO.’

  I tried to make sense of this new information and Genevieve’s allegations were pushed further back in my mind, where they stayed, seething unpleasantly under the surface. My own past experience and knowledge of some of the intrigues of ASIO, Special Branch, and other covert authorities made me want to be very sure I didn’t get caught up in something of that nature. Life is tricky enough, without me blundering into a black operation that I know nothing about. Yet I could hardly imagine the Convent of the Assumption harbouring war criminals. Although when I recalled Sister Celestine who taught me in First Class, I had to admit she had everything necessary to make a first class special operations officer.

  I decided to stay the night in Canberra. I was tired out, not only because of my workload. I felt drained and sad. I rang my daughter to check on her and Charlie said she was fine. He hadn’t had a chance to talk with Jacinta about her mother’s allegations because she’d gone to the pictures with friends. He’d checked them out.

  Next morning, I woke with Genevieve’s ugly accusations clouding my thoughts. So I took myself off to Nikos’s where I had a good breakfast and glanced through the paper. On the drive to work, to get Genevieve out of my mind, I tried to make sense of an ASIO operative being involved in the goings-on at the Convent of the Assumption.

  When I got to work, I took the labelled packet containing the plaster fragments I’d found on Sister Gertrude’s clothing and the other larger crumbs that the crime scene people had found on the floor together with the bagged miraculous crucifix into an examination room. Even though my gloved fingers shook at the fineness of the task, I was able to match up three perfect physical fits with tweezers; tiny slices of painted plaster that closed over tiny bald patches in the floral surface of the crucifix. I took digital pictures ‘
before’ and ‘after’ showing the almost perfect fits and highly magnified views of the damage. Almost perfect, because pulverisation had destroyed some of it forever, and the other missing fragments were no doubt embedded in the black woollen fabric of the nun’s habit. This refined jigsaw puzzle work was one of the best things to put before a jury. If we were to find the killer and the clothes he wore while he did his work, we would inevitably find the same tiny missing fragments of the painted cross embedded in the fabric of his clothes, or in his shoes. Together with the fine, almost invisible, spray of blood mist that I’d noticed on the nun’s habit. This sort of physical evidence cannot lie, cannot perjure itself. It locks the offender into the picture; puts him back at the crime, no matter how much he denies being there.

  I was writing up my notes when Jane returned with wipe samples from the Worthington places and the sorting areas of the local post office. ‘If we get positives from there,’ I said, ‘the sorters in those areas should immediately start antibiotics. Spores must have escaped the package sent to Tony Bonning for Natalie Haynes to be infected.’

  ‘The Health Department has already done that,’ Jane said. ‘Offered them to the sorting staff. Although their people say they haven’t found any trace of BA there.’ Her voice and manner were quiet, almost sad.

  I was relieved that had already been covered. And as Jane walked away, it occurred to me that I’d never seen or heard her like this. She was usually a bouncing sort of person. Livvy’s death was affecting us all. I remember an old crime scene detective telling me years ago, ‘One time’s bad luck, two times is tragic, three’s a pattern.’ We were still at the tragic stage, I thought, despite Natalie Haynes. She hadn’t been targeted like the other two.

  I sat at the desk, freeing my mind of crucifixes and spooks and, as far as I could, Genevieve’s vicious allegations, making notes for myself on the anthrax cases. Two fatalities both from the deadly pathogen, delivered in a similar way, via a poisoned gift but with the seat of infection differing. Why? This was a telling detail. If I could work out why the killer had used the same system of delivery yet had targeted Tony Bonning’s gut and Livvy Worthington’s lungs, I might find myself with valuable information. I drew up one column and wrote ‘personal malice’ at the top. Then another headed: ‘terrorist release’. If Dr Bonning and Digby Worthington had been targeted by someone with a personal axe to grind against both of them, our job as investigators would be a little easier. If, however, they had simply fallen victim to a random terrorist release, or some lunatic wanting to punish scientists in general, the net we would have to cast as investigators would be huge. It would involve international crime agencies, certainly the US as well as Federal and State authorities. I knew that Bacillus anthracis had been the weapon of choice for the insane members of the Japanese Aum Shinrikyo group who, after testing their poisons on unfortunate sheep in Western Australia, went on to release untold billions of milled and aerosoled anthrax spores into the Tokyo underground. It was just sheer good luck that the strain of BA this group of psychopaths had worked with was a relatively harmless one and so they’d switched to sarin gas.