by Alex Palmer
The Tattooed Man
( Harrigan and Grace - 2 )
Alex Palmer
Alex Palmer
The Tattooed Man
1
The dead sat at the table like those who are about to eat but never will. Dinner plates set before them contained a meal left untouched. Their rested mouths, their closed eyes, the unshifting weight of their bodies, had a finality beyond waking. A middle-aged woman sat between an older man and a teenage boy. She wore a diamond pendant that caught the glittering rays of the sun. Her sideways-tilted head, its artificial honey curls, leaned towards the teenage boy across a short but unreachable distance. The boy looked the most peaceful of them all. His head hung downwards and his black hair shone in the sun. His stained T-shirt was emblazoned with the word Nature in letters formed out of intertwined trees. In contrast, the older man had been caught out in the most unexpected surprise. He leaned backwards, mouth open, arms loose at his sides, his glasses opaque in the white light.
The fourth guest, seated at the head of the table, was naked. This corpse was mummified, its skin wrinkled, its face and body withered almost past recognition. One of its dry hands rested on a thick bound document placed beside its table setting, the blue cover stained with blood like the white cloth beneath.
Paul Harrigan thought he must be the only living person left in existence. Somehow he had walked unaided into the land of the dead, a stony landscape that gave no relief from the heat. With a movement that might have seemed an act of grieving, he squatted down beside the fourth and naked body. In the white glare of the sunlight, it grinned nothingness at him. Gently Harrigan reached forward and with his gloved hand extracted the bound booklet from beneath the dead man’s hand.
He stood up. These motionless figures created a pool of silence, but there was no quietness, only the anticipation of further violence waiting its turn. Whichever way he turned, they drained his energy out of him. They seemed to reach up and tug at his sleeve, to draw him down to sit at their table in their permanent stillness. The air carried the stench of a powerful insect repellent; he could not breathe. This was breaking point. The job did not call for more than this, not even from him.
‘Get on with it,’ he said, and stepped out of the way of the watching forensic team. They moved past him in a small crowd to resume their jobs, their footsteps clattering on the paving stones. Blue police ribbons hung lifeless in the hot air.
Harrigan turned to his 2IC who had come to stand beside him. Trevor Gabriel was a big man, round-headed and broad-shouldered with almost no neck. Harrigan was as tall but without Trevor’s bulk.
‘How long have they been here?’ he asked.
‘A bit less than twenty-four hours,’ Trevor replied. ‘That’s exactly how we found them, down to the last detail.’
‘Jesus,’ Harrigan said softly, feeling the impact rock him. ‘Come to dinner, pay with your life, and you don’t even get to eat. Take me through it one more time. Who are they?’
Trevor ran his hand over his close-cut black hair, a gesture that was the equivalent of a shrug.
‘The body at the end. Who knows? It’s got no ID, nothing. According to his credit cards, the man with the glasses is Jerome Beck. He’s not known to us. The woman is Natalie Edwards. Definitely known to us and this is her house. The boy is her son, Julian. He’s nineteen. I doubt he was an intended target. I’m told he came home early from a camping trip. Poor bloody kid. It was wrong place, wrong time for him.’
Harrigan said nothing at first. He hated this, walking in on scenes where all he could do was clean up afterwards. When did he ever stop anything like this from happening?
‘Who gave you that information?’ he asked.
‘His father. He’s sitting in the government car outside. Senator Allan Edwards, the federal Minister for Science and Technology. He’s the one who called us.’
Harrigan drew on his extensive store of Sydney scuttlebutt. The senator and Natalie Edwards, a well-known businesswoman with a dubious reputation as a money launderer, had been divorced for more than fifteen years after a short, stormy marriage. Back then, the senator had been Allan Edwards, businessman. His political ambitions had been realised only after his marriage had died.
‘I saw him when I went out to talk to the press just now,’ Harrigan said. ‘What was he doing here? His ex-wife didn’t pick up the phone and say drop by and see me.’
‘He had an appointment. It’s in her diary. He says he wants to tell us why he was here but so far he can’t put two sentences together. Can’t say I blame him.’
Harrigan looked around. This was a private place for a killing: a large house in the leafy, far northern waterside suburbs of Sydney. The patio was a contained circle surrounded by the thick barrier of a tall silver-green hedge. A narrow archway gave a view onto Pittwater, dotted with yachts and pleasure craft on this hot Sunday afternoon in early December. The place would not stay so self-contained for long. The dead had become a public exhibit to be dissected with a painstaking scrutiny. An enthusiastic audience in the shape of the media was already outside on the street, beating at the front gate.
‘How did they die?’ he asked.
‘Leaving out our man on the end there, one shot only to the back of the head for each of them sometime between eight and eleven last night. It was very clean shooting by somebody who knew how to do it. It was all over in a few seconds.’
Clean wasn’t a word Harrigan would have used just then. He had been dragged out here during the first days of his summer leave, travelling the distance across greater Sydney to see this grotesquery.
‘How many killers? One, or more than one?’ he asked.
‘Impossible to say. Could be just one person. We’re looking at a teenage boy and two middle-aged people, all soft targets.’
‘Is this a ritual killing, or an execution, or both?’
‘Whatever it is, it’s professional and they must have used silencers. Otherwise they’d have woken up the neighbours.’
‘Considerate bunch, aren’t they?’ Harrigan grinned blackly. ‘And they brought the mummy at the head of the table with them?’
‘Had to have. He wasn’t lying around the house for them to use.’
Harrigan couldn’t prevent a harsh, short laugh. ‘Who are these people? Why do this?’
He became aware that he still held the bloodstained booklet in his hand. He began to leaf through the thick bound document. It was a detailed and complex scientific specification fronted by an equally complex-looking contract. Each page, the cover included, was marked with the same identifying number.
‘Is this the only copy? When you’re signing a contract like this, aren’t there usually two of them?’
‘That’s the only one we’ve found so far. You’d have to say they wanted us to find it. It couldn’t have been more obvious if they’d nailed it to the fucking front door.’
Harrigan read over the preamble. Agricultural produce grown according to the attached scientific specification was to be supplied by the International Agricultural Research Consortium to an organisation called World Food and Crop Providers. The address on the contract placed the latter’s offices in Johannesburg, South Africa. Their CEO had already signed; a name unknown to Harrigan. In contrast, the spaces beside the printed names of the three principals for the Consortium were blank. Two of the unsigned names were only too well known to him.
‘Jerome Beck, Natalie Edwards and Stuart Morrissey, all directors of this consortium,’ he said. ‘Head offices, York Street, Sydney. That’s Morrissey’s business address. What would Edwards and Morrissey be doing involved in agricultural research?’
‘Old Stewie did grow up on a farm,’ Trevor replied.
‘That was decade
s ago. As far as I know, he hasn’t been home for years.’ Harrigan located the sums specified for payment on delivery and whistled. ‘There’s enough money on offer. What was this consortium supplying? Wheat, tobacco, rice, white yam. Why are they so expensive? Why send them to Johannesburg?’
‘It’s whatever’s set down in that specification. We’ve had a quick look at it. None of us can understand the science, boss. We’re going to have to get someone in to tell us what it means. But if you want my opinion, that contract says it all. Two of the biggest scam merchants around, Morrissey and Edwards, in business together. Whatever this consortium is, it’s got to be bent. Which means that whoever Beck is, he’s got to be bent as well.’
Harrigan considered that if Stuart Morrissey had been sitting at the table with Natalie Edwards right now, two of the major players in the money-laundering business in his bailiwick would have been out of business permanently. A sour, if effective, way to shut down their extensive criminal and financial networks. As it was, Nattie Edwards’ death would create a gap that any number of questionable individuals would want to fill. She’d had a finger in a large number of pies, had been the source of an almost bottomless bucket of dirty money that somehow always managed to come out clean.
‘Where’s Morrissey?’ he asked. ‘Was he supposed to be here last night? Is there another body lying around the house you haven’t found yet?’
‘Come and listen to this. We think it’s him. Looks like last night’s dinner was turned on for them to celebrate signing that contract. It didn’t work out that way.’
Harrigan handed the contract to one of the forensic officers for bagging and followed Trevor through open double doors into a lounge room. An answering machine stood on a telephone table just inside.
‘Nattie. It’s me. Look, I’m sorry I couldn’t get there, I’ll tell you why when I see you. Did you sign without me? If you did, just call me. I’ll come up there today and sign whenever you want.’
‘That’s him,’ Harrigan said. ‘How come his lottery numbers came up last night of all nights?’
‘We’ll ask him. But he’s a little rat. People like him always survive.’
Not like that poor kid sitting out there. Harrigan shook away a pervasive revulsion. He looked around at the large and opulent room, the state-of-the-art sound and entertainment system, the original artworks hanging on the walls.
‘They took nothing? There’s enough here to make it worth your while.’
‘They didn’t touch a thing. You saw the stone Edwards is wearing. It’s genuine. Why not take it with you? Call it a fringe benefit. Whoever these people are, they haven’t left us a trace.’
In his mind’s eye, Harrigan saw Natalie Edwards seated at the table, her diamond gleaming in the white light. He looked back outside at the scene, unable to prevent himself from staring at the dead surrounded by their living attendants. His gaze was drawn to the naked figure at the end of the table. The ghost of a nagging possibility had entered his mind.
‘Do you want to talk to the minister now, boss?’ Trevor asked. ‘I don’t think we should keep him waiting much longer.’
‘Give me a moment,’ Harrigan replied, moving out through the doors onto the patio again.
‘Harrigan,’ a voice boomed. ‘I didn’t recognise you in your civvies. Weren’t you born wearing a suit?’ Kenneth McMichael, the pathologist, a huge and untidy man with a legendary foul temper, had buttonholed him. ‘Quite a sight, isn’t it? Makes me think of musical chairs. The music’s stopped and while there are enough chairs to go around, I’m sorry, ladies and gentlemen, it’s endgame.’
He spoke like a satirical game-show host. Harrigan felt his patience thinning dangerously.
‘It always makes me feel warm all over to see you, Ken. Do we know how that man at the end died?’
‘No. It’s impossible to tell in that state. I can tell you he took a shot to the right shoulder sometime ante-mortem but it’s hardly a mortal wound. You’ll have to wait for the autopsy if you want to know anything else.’
‘Can you get one of your technicians to give me a hand? I need to look at his left shoulder.’
‘As always, your wish is our command,’ McMichael replied with his usual glacial sarcasm.
At the pathologist’s direction, the technician stretched the shrunken skin on one arm for Harrigan to look at. It was like fine yellowed leather, ingrained with coarse sand. A small tattoo came into view, an aged caricature of Marilyn Monroe as a golden-haired smiling skeleton in a red dress and matching high heels. Two updraughts of air raised her voluminous skirts above her bony legs. There was a signature just visible beneath it: AMBRO.
Trevor was standing behind Harrigan, watching. ‘Oh, fuck me,’ he said, as soon as the tattoo came into sight. ‘Tell me it isn’t true.’
‘No one else, mate,’ Harrigan replied. ‘That’s Ambrosine’s signature. She only ever does one of any tattoo she signs. Look on the bright side. We know what’s happened to him now. We’re not chasing shadows any more.’
‘I’m guessing we have an identification,’ the pathologist said dryly.
Harrigan moved back. ‘For your information, Ken, we’ve just found the body we’ve all been looking for the last three months. That’s former Detective Senior Sergeant Michael Cassatt sitting there, otherwise known as the Ice Cream Man. Fuck knows how he ended up here.’
‘Full of surprises, Harrigan,’ McMichael said, writing down the name in his notebook. ‘I’ve often wondered what you’ve got tucked away in that head of yours. All right, we’ll chase up his dental records. Can we take him now?’
‘Be my guest.’
McMichael’s careful technicians surrounded the dead man. Watching them, Harrigan’s mind was filled with the memory of his father’s funeral, twelve years ago. He had been standing at the church door greeting the mourners as they arrived. When he turned to go inside, Mike Cassatt had come from behind and taken him by the shoulder.
‘Don’t be frightened, Paulie,’ he’d said. ‘I’m not here to hurt you. I want to show you this. Ambro put it there. I got it for old Jimbo.’ He meant Harrigan’s father. He’d pushed up the sleeve of his red polo shirt to show off the bony tattoo. ‘Like my dream girl? Isn’t she beautiful? Come dance with me…’ he’d sung while eyeballing Harrigan. ‘See you, mate.’ Then he’d walked away.
There was another echo in Harrigan’s mind: Cassatt’s voice again, just ten days after the funeral, at night-time in an alleyway in Marrickville. Joyfully vicious words uttered close into Harrigan’s face: You’re dead, mate. But not before you, Mike, he retorted down the years of wasted time. In reply, Cassatt’s death mask grinned at him across the table. Then the body was lifted away.
‘Boss? Boss, are you listening to me?’ Trevor was talking in his ear. ‘We’ve got a fucking federal government minister sitting in his car on the other side of the hedge. Cassatt’s the last thing we need here. What do we do?’
Harrigan suppressed a caustic smile. Anything to avoid the taint of the Ice Cream Man. Two months ago, he himself had signed off on the decision to declare the notoriously corrupt ex-detective missing, presumed murdered. It had started with Cassatt’s wife found shot dead in their home at Oyster Bay with the house left ransacked. Next Harrigan had received a visit from Cassatt’s solicitor, the greasiest man he’d ever dealt with. After Leanne Cassatt’s murder, the solicitor had gone to check his client’s safety deposit box and found it emptied out. Then Cassatt’s car was located burnt-out and cannibalised at a derelict factory site near Parramatta. In the boot were the charred remains of bloodstained clothing. When it was finally confirmed as the Ice Cream Man’s own blood, Harrigan was forced to conclude he must be dead. Until then, the only blood Cassatt had left behind him was always somebody else’s.
‘Boss? Talk to me.’
‘You do what you’d normally do,’ Harrigan snapped back. ‘You find out how Cassatt died and what he was doing here in the first place. What difference does it make who he is?’
‘Because it’s not going to be that straightforward. Anything about the Ice Cream Man gives the commissioner a coronary. When he hears about this, he’s going to want to put his oar in. God knows how much he’ll fuck us around. Then there’s you, boss.’ Trevor spoke more quietly. ‘There’s all those rumours out there about you and Cassatt. You’ve told me they’re shit and I accept that. But people are going to talk. The commissioner’s going to wonder what’s behind them, the way he always does. Every move we make, he’s going to be looking over our shoulders.’
‘Let him,’ Harrigan replied savagely. ‘You can handle it. That’s what you’re paid for.’
He peeled off his gloves. Sweat prickled across his forehead. He felt a growing impatience needling at his self-control. ‘Let’s go talk to the minister. It’s time I introduced myself.’
They found Senator Allan Edwards at the front of the house, sitting at a garden table and stroking a pedigree Rottweiler that sat with its head on his knees. Not far from his feet, a flock of tiny fairy wrens, their feathers satin-purple and bright powder-blue in the sunlight, picked their quick, indifferent way through the garden beds. Parked on the gravel, Harrigan saw the minister’s white government car, his driver standing beside it, smoking a cigarette and staring at the ground. The high walls surrounding the house and garden had turned this space near the garages into an artificial oasis, creating a sense not so much of calm as of stretched and tense inaction.
‘Senator Edwards? I’m Commander Paul Harrigan. New South Wales Police. I’m in charge of the Homicide and Violent Crime Command. My people are running this investigation. You’ve met my inspector, Trevor Gabriel. I’d like to give you our deepest sympathy for what’s happened here. I want to assure you we’ll do everything we possibly can to find whoever is responsible for this outrage and put them away.’
Harrigan’s professional etiquette, his passionless voice, were doing the talking for him. In this job, detachment was his protection. While he spoke, he watched the politician watch him. Edwards must have been close to sixty. His cheeks were a mat of broken veins while his eyes had an aged, liquid white glaze to them. He might have accumulated an extra ten years in the last few hours. He didn’t offer his hand. Harrigan could see that it was trembling. The dog looked up with innocent eyes and then sat at the senator’s feet.