The Tower (12 page)

‘Give him a few days,' she snapped, letting some anger into her voice. ‘If you can't do that, tell me now and I'll take you off the investigation.'

Troy took a deep breath, and told her that would not be necessary.

She said, ‘You know you'll be one of our next sergeants, when the time comes. Don't blow it, Nick. Help me solve problems, don't create them. And another thing—drop the gum.'

He stopped chewing and said, ‘What?'

‘Is it some smoking substitute?'

‘No.'

‘It's okay for a general detective, but not a Homicide sergeant. Got it?'

She disconnected before he could think of an answer. One moment they'd been talking about Stone, the next about chewing gum. He guessed that was why she was a commander.

What would McIver do? This time, unlike last night, no answer came. But that was okay, he could think for himself.

He rang Danny Chu, another senior constable from Homicide who was working an investigation up in Taree.

‘Well, well,' Chu said. ‘Quick Draw Troy.'

‘What?' Troy said.

‘We get the papers up here, you know. I guess Mac was pissed as?'

Troy smiled but said nothing in case the phone was off. You heard too many stories of police phone calls that had been recorded by some investigative unit or other. He and Chu chatted, and finally they got to Stone. Chu had already heard the news, and wasn't happy.

‘I thought Kelly promised internal promotions,' he said.

Troy told him about some of the things Stone had missed in the investigation so far. None of them was a disaster in itself, or would have been all that unusual in other parts of the police force, but in Homicide you just assumed the people around you would operate at a certain level of efficiency. He described Kelly's lack of concern.

‘What would she even know?' said Chu.

Troy said he knew Chu had a mate in Fraud. He asked him to talk to the man about Brad Stone.

‘Another thing,' Troy said, before ringing off. ‘What do you think about gum?'

‘Chewing gum?'

‘Yes.'

‘You chew gum.'

‘I know.'

‘You want an honest answer?'

‘It's very important to me.'

‘Well, it's not a great look.'

After the call, Troy drove the short distance to Missenden Road, stopped the car in a No Standing zone out the front of the hospital, and put the Police Vehicle card on the dash. He'd been here a year earlier on an investigation and thought he knew where ICU was, but his memory was out and it took him ten minutes to find McIver. There was a uniformed officer sitting in one of the chairs outside the room, and Troy showed her his ID. The woman smiled as though she knew him. He didn't recall meeting her before. Then he realised it must be the newspaper article: half the city now knew what he looked like.

She told him McIver had just come back from theatre and was still unconscious.

Troy sat down next to the bed and looked at Mac, who was breathing steadily. There was a big bandage around his left shoulder. He looked at peace, not his normal state at all, and Troy took his hand and pressed it. A nurse came in and he laid the hand down on the sheet and thought about last night, clutching McIver in that cold place high above the city. Then the shooting, as though he'd slipped through a hole in space, into a war zone. He'd acted quickly, wanting to save McIver and himself. He'd shot a man and killed him. Maybe going over it like this was some sort of nervous reaction. Maybe that was why he was feeling so angry. But then, he was an angry person, underneath. He kept it well under control and he was proud of that, but it was there. Maybe it was why he got on so well with McIver.

He wondered why none of Mac's ex-wives was there, and if he had any relatives. The sergeant was gregarious; it was strange to find him alone. There were two big baskets of flowers and Troy examined the cards: one was from the commissioner, the other from the police minister. He realised the arrangements were identical, and gave a snort of laughter. The uniform outside looked around the doorway and asked if everything was all right.

‘Everything's normal,' Troy said. ‘No visitors?'

‘His parents were here but they've gone for a coffee. Others have been turning up. I've got orders to keep everyone out.'

Troy nodded and had a flashback to last night. There was something odd about it, something that had struck him as wrong at the time but which he'd forgotten. He had an excellent memory, so he found this annoying. As he left the ICU he puzzled over it, and at last it came to him. McIver was a cowboy—it was the word people often used to describe him. Cowboy. He was a lone ranger, a man on the edge of violence, ready for action. If any cop was able to deal with a confrontation, it was McIver.

But he hadn't. He'd had his gun taken from him by two unarmed men, and then he'd been shot with it. This was deeply unsettling. Troy realised he'd been worrying about himself too much this morning; Mac was going to have much more trouble getting over what had happened.

His phone rang. It was Ferris from Internal Affairs. He sounded upset, asked if Troy had shown his statement to anyone in the media. Troy told him he hadn't. The information in the press reports could have come from other sources, apart from one line in the
Telegraph
where the journalist hadn't changed the wording sufficiently. Troy wondered if Ferris would bring this up but he didn't, so he figured the sergeant was just going through the motions. The call ended and Troy allowed himself to relax a little. The media stunt seemed to be working out.

He knew he owed Anna a call, and was just about to dial her when the phone rang again. It was Sean Randall, wanting to apologise once more for running away last night.

Troy wished he wouldn't go on about it. He'd found himself liking the guy, and maybe there was even a sort of bond there from what they'd been through together. Georgie had told him he had to respond to what had happened as a human being and not as a policeman. Listen to his emotions. So instead of telling Randall to go away, he let him go on for a while. It was strangely soothing, but finally he had to interrupt.

‘Don't worry about it. Let's have a drink some time.'

‘I'll keep you to that,' said the engineer. ‘And don't forget: anything you need to know about the building, I'm at the end of the line.'

As they disconnected, Troy realised he was comfortable with the other man's gratitude. He admired Randall for being able to throw massive towers up into the sky. Randall admired him for being able to deal with situations like last night. This was all good. But mainly it was what had happened to them; until McIver woke up, Randall was the only person who had any idea what it had been like up there. None of his friends could understand that.

Their messages were still in his phone, over thirty of them now. Anna had called, too, and he rang her back, apologising for leaving without telling her.

She sounded upset, but just said, ‘You'll be home soon?'

‘Soon. There's a few things they need to check.'

‘Just come home soon,' she said, and hung up.

He hadn't dared tell her he was back on the investigation.

He'd stopped walking while he talked on the phone, and noticed he was in some sort of lobby with a prayer room nearby. Stepping inside he looked around and saw that it was empty and dim. There was a picture of a beach on one wall, and fresh flowers in a vase on a table that wasn't really an altar. Once he shut the door behind him it was quiet, and he sat down and closed his eyes for a few moments, letting things go, wanting to see what would be left if he just stopped moving for a while.

He found himself thinking about an old friend, a priest named Luke Carillo. He'd known him for a long time, longer than just about anyone. He'd been fourteen when his parents died, and because they'd had no living relatives, he and Georgie had been placed in foster homes. It hadn't worked out for Troy, who'd finally run away and spent a few years living rough. One afternoon he'd been walking along a street near Liverpool and came to a brick church with a wooden hall down the back. He'd stopped because he was tired; he'd taken some speed the night before and had only just woken up. From the hall came the sound of thumping, and he'd stood listening to it for a while. It was like someone was being whacked, the noise regular but not perfectly so, not machine-like. More like the beating of a heart.

He'd approached the hall, something he wouldn't have done if he hadn't been so dopey, and stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame, a kid whose whole life was before him and whose whole life was empty. He didn't eat properly, he didn't wash. There'd been personal hygiene issues he didn't like to think about, even now. From the doorway he'd seen Luke, a short man in his late middle age but still powerful, leaning into a punching bag while a scrawny Aboriginal kid paid it some serious attention. Luke turned and saw him standing in the doorway, but the kid had kept punching. After a while, Troy had taken a few steps into the hall. That was when things had started to improve for him. As though his life had stopped when his parents died and then, that evening in the hall, it had started again.

In the silence of the prayer room he took out his phone and rang Luke, who answered. This was a minor miracle: the priest kept his phone switched off when he was with people, and this meant it was hardly ever on, because he was the busiest person Troy knew. He had a church near Campbelltown now and, due to the shrinking number of priests, ran three parishes. The masses weren't so bad—no one came to mass anymore—but everyone who called themselves Catholic still expected a priest to marry or bury them, or baptise their children.

‘Photos,' Luke had once said. ‘That's what the Church has become—a photo opportunity.'

But he did what people wanted. He gave the sacraments, attended hospitals and nursing homes, helped at the local schools. There was so much to do.

‘You been to confession lately?' Luke said on the phone.

His voice retained traces of Brooklyn; his mother had been a war bride, gone to the States in 1946, come home with her young son when the marriage went bad ten years later.

‘No,' Troy said.

He told Luke about the shooting. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned, he thought. I have killed a man. But what he said aloud was more like the police statement.

‘Sounds to me like you couldn't have acted otherwise.'

Luke's accent had actually thickened in the past few years, and Troy wondered if it had anything to do with the fact he had cancer. Not the cancer itself, of course, but the effects of it on his mind and character. He was in his late sixties, and until a few years back had seemed like a much younger man. Now he'd slowed down, sometimes seemed to lose track of things. It was the medication, he told Troy, though Anna said it might be the boxing, his brain might have been affected. Luke hadn't boxed in a long time, but maybe it caught up with you. His manner, the way he dealt with people, was changing. Little gaps and omissions of politeness you wouldn't notice if you hadn't known him before.

‘I didn't warn him,' said Troy. ‘We don't have to, but maybe if I had, he'd still be alive.'

‘The guy was going to kill you, there was no time.'

Troy wasn't sure how much he cared about it. Maybe he'd just raised it because he thought Luke would be interested in the moral angle. Their relationship was deeper than this sort of conversation, but this was the sort of conversation they had.

He told Luke about the media business, and Internal Affairs.

‘You need to trust your fellow man more,' Luke said.

Bullshit, Troy thought. Then the priest added, ‘But not in this case.'

They laughed together, then the priest said, ‘You okay?'

‘I'm almost there.'

‘It's Jon you should worry about.'

‘I do.'

‘I mean psychologically. I know a bloke or two's been shot. They're not the same afterwards.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Just keep an eye on him.'

Troy could hear Luke's house phone ringing in the background. He knew only a few people had that number: the bishop, the local cops and the hospital. He didn't have it himself.

‘Well—' he said, but Luke had already hung up without saying goodbye.

The squad sometimes used a jeweller in the CBD and Troy decided to get an opinion on the bracelet the victim had been wearing, since Fundis had been so insistent. He drove down Broadway into the city, heading for the Dymocks Building, where businesses such as small jewellers could still afford to rent premises. He deliberately didn't look up at The Tower on his right. Instead, he just stared at the people in the street, the mix of ethnic students around Railway Square, then the Chinese at the Haymarket and the increase of suits and high heels once he passed Bathurst. The variety of the city still moved him: almost a third of its people didn't speak English at home. This created situations that were interesting. He loved the texture of the streets, and knew it was important to keep up-to-date. Part of being a cop was sensing when things stood out, which required a strong feel for the background, for what was normal. It wasn't something you could learn in a hurry. You had to immerse yourself in the subject so it became part of you.

Troy believed that places mattered. Anna wanted to move to Brisbane, where her parents lived. They had had several conversations about this over the past six months. He felt a little betrayed—it was not something she'd ever mentioned before. It had only been discussions so far, not arguments. But he'd failed to convince her just how important his feeling for Sydney was to his work. She'd said he could learn another city, it wasn't all that different: people were people, wherever you went. This was not the way he saw it. He'd told her for him to work in Brisbane would be like expecting a lawyer to work as a doctor. That sounded clumsy, but at least it conveyed the impossibility of what she was proposing. She'd told him not to be ridiculous. ‘If you don't want to move to Brisbane that's okay,' she said, ‘but don't make out that it's on some other planet.'