The Tower (46 page)

There'd been no sign of ID in the flat where the man had died.

McIver said, ‘I'm sure the DNA will confirm we've just found the second killer of Margot Teresi. It'll be his skin under her fingernails.'

God rest her soul, Troy thought. Getting sentimental in his old age. And anyway, she could not be at peace yet because her killers were anonymous, and one of them had died an anonymous death.

McIver said slowly, ‘We could stop here.'

Troy nodded. ‘It's what they want, isn't it? I'd say it's Sidorov.'

The contractor had been released on bail of a quarter of a million dollars, after providing a written statement to the police that had admitted no guilt and told them nothing they didn't know.

‘And the elusive Jason.' Immigration had found no trace of the people smuggler. McIver said, ‘Still, after today, people are going to be happy.' He put some emphasis on the last word. ‘We know who killed Margot Teresi. We're pretty sure we know why she died—she stumbled on evidence of the illegals and was killed to keep her quiet. People are going to like all that.' He smiled at Troy. ‘It's pleasant to be popular.'

‘We still have to investigate who killed the killer.'

‘Of course. But the way things are, resources will be limited, unless we push for them. I think maybe this is a good place for this to stop. There'd be no more reason to blackmail you.'

He was staring at Troy, who looked away and thought about the offer that had just been made. At last he said, ‘No. We need to do this properly. It's not finished.'

‘Even though it could destroy your marriage?'

Troy thought about it and said, ‘Yes.'

‘You don't think you're being offered a choice here?'

‘I do,' said Troy. He'd stepped over the line, but now that McIver was offering to help him stay there, he realised it wasn't where he wanted to be. ‘I do.' He pushed himself off the bar. ‘Let's get back to work.'

When he was back in the office, Ralph Dutton called. They talked about The Tower for a minute or two. The media had got wind of the discovery of the body at Waterloo straight away; someone in the block must have tipped them off. There'd been reporters and photographers waiting when they'd got back from the pub. Lots of locals had turned up too, some bringing folding chairs and eskies so they could enjoy the show.

‘Anyway, congratulations,' said Dutton. ‘I guess this is case closed. You'll be a sergeant before too long. Look, I know you're busy, but I just wanted to know if you'd had a chance to think about that matter we discussed Sunday.'

For a moment, Troy couldn't think of what he meant. The family walk in the sun. Eating ice creams. Talk of the Duttons' American trip. Then it came back to him, slowly: information about the docks, fake car parts.

He wanted to say he didn't realise he'd been supposed to think about it, but it would sound offensive. Although, with this phone call, Dutton had gone too far, and maybe he needed to be offended. This was all new, it was a big change.

‘I've never asked you for anything like this before,' Dutton said into the silence. ‘It's very important to me.'

‘I'll call you back.'

Troy went out for a walk. After a bit he found a public phone and called his friend's mobile.

‘Your phone off?' said Dutton.

‘Who knows? Look, you know how I feel about this sort of thing. Why don't you ask someone else?'

‘I have. I wouldn't put this on you if it wasn't absolutely necessary. My job, mate. My job's on the line.'

‘Ralph—'

‘I feel terrible, take that as a given. To be honest, I've slipped up a few times here, need to pull something out of the hat. The name's Chris Sutherland, bloke runs the dock. If you could just tell me yes or no about him, one word's all I need. I heard the Gangs Squad were part of it.'

‘Ralph—'

‘If there's anything you want. I mean a lot—this is worth a great deal. Don't make me beg, mate—' The words ran on with fluency, as though they'd been road-tested before on other people.

Troy hung up. It was a hard thing to do, but it was the right thing. Now, though, the right thing didn't seem as natural as it had, because he'd lost his bearings. It was odd, but not as odd as it ought to be. He'd felt like this before, in the years after his parents died, and for a while there before he met Anna. Maybe this confusion was really his natural state.

During the afternoon he called home twice, and Anna sounded better each time. Liz was still with her, and they were preparing an early dinner for the kids. Anna's parents were coming down in two days. There was a playgroup at ChristLife the next morning, and she'd arranged to go to a friend's place afterwards.

‘I love you,' Troy whispered into the phone.

She told him she loved him too.

The office was full of noise. People were making arrangements to go out after work to celebrate the discovery of the shooter. They still needed to find out who'd killed him, though. It had to be done. Troy picked up his phone and rang Peter Wood at Multiplex.

The executive was out visiting a site, and eventually returned Troy's call from his car. When Troy explained what he wanted, the other man grunted. ‘I heard it on the radio, you've caught the other bloke who killed Teresi's daughter. Congratulations.'

‘Well, we're not sure—'

‘You seemed in a hurry last time, so I figured you had what you needed,' he said. ‘But I was thinking of ringing you anyway. Margot did give me a call, and I gave her the name of a quantity surveyor who used to work for us. Retired guy, name of Des Ferguson.'

‘Does he look anything like the man in the pictures we gave to the media?'

‘I wouldn't know. We've been at our place near Orange, no television there.'

‘Tall, balding, late fifties?'

‘Yeah, but older.'

‘Did Margot say why she wanted to speak to him?'

‘She thought her father had been ripped off when he sold The Tower. The issue was what materials had been delivered and paid for before the date of the contract. She wanted someone who could make an informed judgement about certain costs. Ferguson's an expert at that sort of thing.'

‘Do you think Tony Teresi was ripped off?'

‘How long's a piece of string?' Wood laughed sourly. ‘Do you want Ferguson's number?'

Troy rang it immediately and got an answering machine. He used his computer to get the address that matched Ferguson's phone number: a house in Turramurra. Then he called the locals and asked them to have someone drop by as soon as possible. He was worried about Ferguson.

Half an hour later, a uniformed officer rang. Des Ferguson and his wife had left for Europe suddenly, last Monday. The day after Margot died.

‘Does the neighbour know where in Europe?' Troy said.

‘No.'

‘Any children?'

‘An adult daughter, Cheryl. Lives in New York.'

‘Got an address?'

‘No. But the neighbour has two phone numbers, in case of an emergency.'

‘I don't suppose you took them down?'

‘Have you got a pen?'

Again using his computer, Troy submitted an IASK request for Ferguson's flight details. He marked it urgent and sat thinking until the answer came back. Ferguson and his wife had indeed flown out the previous Monday, but not to Europe. They'd gone to Los Angeles, and there was no onward flight. No return one, either. Troy thought for a moment, and clicked on the program that gave foreign times. It was very early morning on the east coast of the United States. Good, he thought: Cheryl Ferguson should be asleep.

As he was dialling, Troy saw Ron Siegert come into the office with Bruce Little. He could tell from their expressions that something was up. They seemed happy—everyone in the office was happy this afternoon—but it was more than that. They went into McIver's office and Troy's attention was distracted by the voicemail message he'd just got. It sounded like he'd called her work number, and she was employed by some sort of bank. Troy left a message and called the other number. While waiting he saw Siegert come out of McIver's office and walk out of the room. He was still smiling, in a grim kind of way.

Cheryl Ferguson answered the phone, sounding sleepy. Troy explained who he was and what he wanted, and she said her parents were in Europe on holiday. She asked him which police station he was calling from, and he told her and hung up. Five minutes later a call came to him from the switch.

‘I'm sorry,' Cheryl said, ‘but Dad made me promise to be careful. A stranger rang yesterday at work, said he was a cop too.'

He wondered how long she'd been in New York. She had a soft American accent.

‘I need to talk to your father urgently,' he said.

‘He'll be calling me tomorrow. Today. I'll ask him to call you. He might not.'

‘Tell him things have developed over here,' Troy said, giving her his home number and his email address. ‘And you take care.'

‘Should I be worried?'

‘Not if he talks to us soon.'

He hung up just as McIver and Little came out of the office. They were laughing. As they approached his desk, McIver dropped back and shook his head gently at Troy, preparing him for a surprise.

‘You are not going to believe this,' Little said. ‘Sean Randall, the bloke who runs security in The Tower?'

Troy nodded; he knew who Sean Randall was.

‘Our uniforms have just arrested him in a hotel room with two Ukrainian hookers and a bag of coke.'

Troy felt his eyes opening wide. He looked at McIver, who was shrugging. Even he couldn't have organised something like this so soon.

‘We were talking about Randall only a while ago,' he said to Little.

‘They were having a party,' said McIver. ‘The music got too loud and the guests in the next room complained. Hotel security went up and one of the ladies threw an ashtray at him. One thing led to another.'

‘A party,' Troy said. ‘At four in the afternoon.'

‘The girls aren't saying anything,' said Little. ‘We're holding them until we get some ID. Good-looking women.'

‘Superintendent Siegert has kindly agreed we can deal with Mr Randall,' McIver told Troy. ‘I've explained we'd be grateful for a bit of leverage, that we're not entirely happy with what he's been telling us.' He looked at Little. ‘Why don't you deal with the Ukrainian lasses?'

Little grinned and went off to his desk. They could hear him whistling.

McIver said, ‘I like to see a man enjoying his work.'

‘This is quite a coincidence,' Troy said.

‘Maybe not. First the shooter and now this. You believe in God, don't you?'

Troy hadn't prayed at all about the blackmail, because it hadn't seemed right. But maybe Randall's arrest was some sort of sign. He told McIver about Des Ferguson and the sergeant's eyes gleamed.

‘Not a word to a soul until you've found out what he knows. Now, Siegert says Randall wants to speak to you. I'm thinking we'll let him stew.'

Troy nodded, reluctantly.

McIver said, ‘How you holding up?'

‘Better than I should be, most of the time. Sometimes worse. It's hard to take in.'

McIver looked around and lowered his voice. ‘You want to change your mind?'

‘No.'

‘Look on the bright side. We found the bad guy today. It doesn't happen very often.'

‘But someone else found him first.'

‘One step at a time. We'll sort out your problem. Hang tough. What you're going through, it's like punctuated equilibrium.'

‘I was thinking the same.'

‘It's a theory about evolution. Says nothing much happens most of the time, then bang—there's a big change. In my experience, life's like that. Calm or storms, but not often much in the middle.'

McIver walked away and Troy stared after him. The difference between McIver and him was McIver liked the storms.

Later, they went to the cells to interview Randall about his cocaine party.

Troy said, ‘I still think it's a coincidence, Sean falling into our lap like this.'

‘Coincidences happen,' McIver said, ‘don't knock it. Prostitutes, drugs—strike you as extreme behaviour from him?'

It was not a question that required any reflection.

‘No.'

‘Well then.'

‘How are we going to do this?'

‘I go in alone,' McIver said, ‘ask him the name of his dealer. He doesn't tell me, I say we're going to charge him with supply, intend to give it maximum publicity because there's some sort of government push on. Then bang, change direction, tell him if he explains what happened to you, he walks free now.'

They reached the cells.

Troy said, ‘He wants to talk to me.'

‘I bet he does, but he can't,' said McIver. ‘That's how all this started. Remember?'

While he waited, Troy called home. Anna sounded tired and he said he'd get some takeaway for dinner. They discussed the preparations for her parents' visit, and then Matt started to cry in the background. Anna kept talking, about bed linen.

‘Isn't that Matt?' Troy said, interrupting her.

‘Oh yes,' she said slowly. ‘Yes, it is.'

‘Is he okay?'

‘He's fine. He's just tired.'

‘Do you think you'd better go to him?'

There was a pause.

‘I'd better go, Nick. See you soon.'

Troy waited some more but there was no sign of McIver. Eventually he returned to the office, deserted by now, and sat down to do some paperwork. It was a while before McIver came back from the cells.

‘Pub,' he said to Troy.

‘I have to get home—' ‘Pub,' McIver said, leading the way.

As soon as they had their drinks and were seated, he began to talk. ‘The bloke's terrified. It didn't take much to get him to open up.'