‘Shouldn’t be much longer,’ he said at least once a minute.
‘Thanks,’ she said in reply each time.
She took out her mobile and sent Laird a text.
Wish I was there right now.
She got up and crossed to the window. Alex was waiting in the ambulance; she could see his arm on the sill. If she couldn’t be with Laird, she wanted to
be there in the truck with Alex, rushing off to get vomited on by a drunk, or splattered with blood at a prang, or coughed on by an old man with tuberculosis. Anywhere other than here.
‘Officer Koutoufides?’
She turned. The office door was open and a square-shouldered man of about sixty smiled at her. ‘I’m Trevor Gittins. Come on in.’
Not reassured by the smile, Jane walked past
him and into the office. While he was behind her she checked the screen of her mobile but Laird hadn’t replied. The blank screen made her feel worse.
Gittins shut the door with a firm click. ‘Have a seat.’
Jane stuffed her phone in her pocket and sat. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest.
You’ve done nothing wrong, so calm the hell down.
Gittins sat behind the desk
and placed his hands flat on top of a closed manila folder. His black hair was slicked down in distinct comb lines. His uniform was starched and pressed and bore the fifteen-year service medal, something that a lot of people had but few actually wore. He smelled of deodorant.
He smiled at her again. ‘You look anxious.’
‘I’m not,’ she said. ‘I just look that way. People are always telling
me.’
He nodded as if he believed her. ‘How’s your shift been so far?’
‘Good.’
‘You like The Rocks?’
‘Yes.’
Where was this going? The service didn’t forcibly transfer people – not unless you did something
really
bad – and they didn’t promote you without you applying.
‘How’re the nightshifts there?’
‘Busy, like they are everywhere.’
She was uncomfortable
under his gaze and couldn’t read his face.
If he tries to touch me I’ll punch his lights out.
He smiled. ‘Back when I joined it wasn’t always like that. You could do your study on station, even sleep sometimes. You’ve been in twelve years, you would’ve found the same, am I right?’
‘Sort of.’
‘The kids that join nowadays have no idea.’
They’re not the only ones.
He
smiled again, then leaned a little across the desk. ‘So,’ he said conspiratorially.
Jane bunched her fists.
‘You know why you’re here, of course.’
‘No.’
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘This is us. Two foot soldiers on brief respite from the trenches. Let’s just talk it all through.’
She bet he hadn’t been in a trench for years. ‘I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re referring
to.’
‘Look.’ He tapped the service patch on his sleeve. ‘I’m on your side. I know what it’s like out there: maniacs in all directions, every one a hindrance rather than a help at scenes, and forget them pulling over in traffic.’
‘Actually, I enjoy dealing with the public.’
‘There’s no TV camera here,’ he said. ‘No bugs in the walls. I’ve been in the war zone too, remember; I
know what it’s like. The frustrations, the upset, the anger.’ He spread his hands as if in invitation. ‘You can tell me. I understand.’
‘I don’t know what you want me to say.’
Some of the light left his eyes. ‘I’m trying to help you. Giving you a chance to tell your side of the story. We can get in front of this thing.’
‘Still blank,’ she said. ‘Are you sure you’ve called in
the right person?’
Gittins opened the manila folder, took out a photo and slid it across the desk. ‘Does that help?’
She looked at it. ‘I can see it’s the back corner of a car, but I don’t recognise it and I don’t know what it has to do with me.’
‘Care to describe the damage?’
‘The tail-light’s broken and there’s a dent in the panel next to it.’ Jane pushed the photo back
to Gittins, the heat starting to build in her blood. ‘So what?’
He shook his head. ‘You’re doing yourself no favours.’
‘I don’t need any favours because I’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘Is that so?’ His voice had an edge now. He opened the folder again, licked the side of his thumb and flicked through a stapled collection of pages. ‘This says otherwise.’
Jane put out her hand.
‘May I?’
‘Not yet.’
A siren wailed outside as an ambulance sped along Balmain Road.
Jane gestured to the window. ‘Then can we get to the point? There are things I could be doing.’
Gittins closed the folder. ‘Thursday the sixth.’
Jane said nothing.
‘You remember that day?’
‘Of course. It was only last week.’
‘You were on a dayshift,’ he said, as if
she hadn’t spoken. ‘You were driving near St Vincent’s Hospital. At three in the afternoon, at a set of traffic lights, you got out of the ambulance and abused another driver, then kicked the back of their car, causing that damage.’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘The complainant has witnesses. They each made statements.’ Gittins waggled the folder.
‘I didn’t do it.’ Jane leaned forward in
her chair. ‘I was working that day with Alex. Let me call him up here and he’ll tell you the same thing. It never happened.’
‘I’m sure he would.’
Jane felt the hackles rise. ‘What does that mean?’
‘I was working on the road when you were singing into your hairbrush at sleepovers,’ he said. ‘I know exactly how officers cover for each other.’
‘Just because you did it doesn’t
mean everyone does.’
‘Moderate your tone,’ Gittins said.
‘You moderate yours. I didn’t do it, and Alex will back me up on that because it’s true.’
‘You’re not getting off on good footing in this investigation, speaking to me in that manner and being so uncooperative.’
‘There shouldn’t be any investigation,’ Jane said. ‘How many times do I have to tell you I didn’t do it?’
Gittins slapped down the folder. ‘The complainant has threatened to go to the police and media on this, so I suggest you try to work with me.’
‘Work with you how?’
‘Admit you were in the wrong, write a statement of incident, fill out these insurance forms –’
‘I will not.’ Jane stood up.
‘Sit down.’
‘No.’ There was a buzzing in her ears and her skin was hot. ‘Who
made this complaint?’
‘Under the Service’s standing orders I can’t tell you that.’
‘How do you know it’s real?’
‘Two witnesses, the photo of the damage, and I spoke to the woman myself. I believe what she says.’
‘Woman,’ Jane said, realisation dawning. ‘She looked like me, didn’t she?’
‘I spoke to her on the phone.’
‘Her name’s Deb Bodinnar-Koutoufides, isn’t
it?’
‘No.’
‘Then that has to be one of the witnesses’ names,’ Jane said. ‘She got one of her friends to make the complaint. It’s a lie.’
‘I’ve heard that excuse before too,’ Gittins said. ‘And that name is nowhere on this report.’
‘So she’s using a fake one,’ Jane said. ‘That woman hates me and will do anything to cause me trouble. She smashed windows at my house. She phones
me up and abuses me.’
‘And did you report that to the police?’
‘No, I told my ex-husband, who’s now married to her. She’s behaving like this because she thinks we’re seeing each other,’ Jane said. ‘Police can’t fix that. I told him to tell her the truth about whatever it is he’s been doing.’
‘So you have no proof that she’s done anything.’
‘Feel free to come to my house
and see the windows I’m having repaired.’
Gittins held out a form. ‘If there’s no police report, you need to start the paperwork.’
‘No.’ Jane took out her phone with shaking hands, saw there was still no reply from Laird, switched it to speaker and called Alex.
‘Yep,’ he answered.
‘Can you come up?’
‘On my way.’
Jane ended the call and tossed her phone on the
desk in front of Gittins. ‘You heard what was just said. You have my phone. I’ll wait here until he arrives, then I’ll step outside without speaking to him. You ask him about it and see what he says, see if he doesn’t say it’s a lie too.’
‘If I wanted to speak to your colleague I would’ve called him up myself,’ he said.
She glared at him. ‘I’m not writing a single word until you ask
him the same questions you’ve asked me.’
There was a tap on the door, then it opened. The desk officer stood there on his crutches. Alex stood behind him, his eyes full of questions. Words boiled up in Jane’s throat but she said nothing.
‘Alex Churchill to see you,’ the officer said.
Gittins gestured Alex in. Jane resisted the urge to roll her eyes, the urge to shout at Gittins
and tell Alex everything, and instead waited until he was inside the room before walking out with her face blank and head high.
The officer closed the door behind her and hobbled back to his chair. Jane paced the carpet before his desk, her hands opening and closing at her sides, hearing the low rumble of voices inside the office. She hated that Gittins wouldn’t listen to reason, and equally
hated that with her phone inside she couldn’t call up Steve or the witch herself and vent her feelings.
She faced the desk. ‘How do you cope, working for him?’
‘I don’t. I’ve asked to be moved.’ He pushed a block of sticky notes towards her and lowered his voice. ‘Write down your mobile number.’
She did so without hesitation. He peeled off the sheet and stuffed it into his shirt
pocket as the voices in the office grew louder, and when the door flew open he was frowning at the keyboard again.
‘Jane,’ Gittins said brusquely.
Jane went in. Alex stood with his arms folded and his face like thunder.
Gittins again slid the form across the desk, this time adding a pen. ‘You said you wouldn’t fill it in until I listened to your partner’s answers. I’ve listened,
so now you write.’
‘I just told you I was driving that day, and nothing like that happened,’ Alex said. ‘If you don’t believe me, why won’t you call Control and get them to check the case records?’
Gittins kept his eyes on Jane. ‘You need to write your denial.’
‘I’m not writing a thing,’ Jane said. ‘I’m going back to station, I’m checking the case sheets to see if we were even
in the vicinity of St Vincent’s that day, and I’m calling Control and asking them to fax you our truck’s records.’ She picked up her mobile and jammed it into her pocket. ‘I suggest you read all that, talk to the supposed complainant once more, then contact me again if you still want to go ahead. But next time, I’ll be asking the union to send along a solicitor.’
‘This will go in your file,’
Gittins said.
‘And then I’ll be formally requesting that it be removed.’
Jane stalked out. Alex followed. The desk officer glanced up but said nothing, Gittins’s office door open behind him.
Down in the ambulance, Jane turned the aircon up high. She undid her top button and fanned her neck. ‘That bastard.’
‘What’s his problem?’ Alex said. ‘Why wouldn’t he listen to reason?’
‘He reckons he knows we all back each other up no matter what.’
‘Moron.’
Jane’s mobile beeped. She didn’t recognise the texter’s number, but the message read
Complainant Simone Walsh
followed by a mobile number she knew only too well from the days before Deb learned how to hide it.
‘It’s Deb all right. The desk guy just sent me the details.’ She texted back
Thanks
.
‘She must know that she wouldn’t get away with it,’ Alex said.
‘She’s never been one for clear thinking.’ Jane tapped her fingers on the sill. ‘Can we go back via Annandale?’
Alex looked at her. ‘You don’t want to make this worse.’
‘I’ve asked Steve to talk to her, but either he’s not doing it or it’s not working. So maybe it’s time I tried.’
‘She smashed your windows,’
Alex said. ‘And you just said yourself she’s not big on the clear thinking.’
‘All I want is a quiet word,’ Jane said. ‘How can that make things worse?’
He narrowed his eyes. ‘You’re kidding, right?’
‘Would you please just drive?’
NINE
T
he offices of Holder and Byron were in a five-storey red-brick building. Ella parked down Commonwealth Street and they walked back up. The early afternoon sky was an even pale grey, and the cool air smelled clean and damp. The rain had stopped, but water dripped from the scrawny trees along the footpath and the corners of air conditioners jutting from windows. Murray
strode with energy and enthusiasm, but Ella didn’t even try to dodge the drips. Her ham and salad sandwich sat like a hard lump in her stomach. Worse than Callum’s words in that phone conversation had been his tone. So flat. So dead. The tone of a man who’s made up his mind and for whom there’s no going back. It felt wrong that he might decide they shouldn’t try any more. Didn’t she get a say
in it at all? Didn’t her feelings count for anything?
She yanked open the building’s front door and stomped into an empty lobby where the air was stale and smelled faintly of old cigarette smoke. The only furniture was a blue vinyl chair pushed up against the wall and piled high with a tilting stack of free local newspapers.
‘Charming,’ she said.
‘What’s with you?’ Murray said.
‘Nothing.’
A board by the lift listed the building’s tenants without giving any indication of what they did. Holder and Byron occupied one of twelve offices all up, and one of four on the second floor. Murray pushed the lift button. Ella folded her arms and listened to the working of the machinery behind the closed metal doors, forcing Callum out of her head, trying to focus on what
they might be about to learn.
The lift doors opened onto an empty hallway with thin beige carpet one shade darker than the walls. They stepped out and looked left and right. One of the glass doors to the left had a logo put together from the letters H and B, while the other was blank, the office behind it dark. The doors to the right belonged respectively to Clifford Distribution and MSL
Associates.
Murray pushed open the HB door. An unoccupied desk stood near the right wall, a small silver bell and a wedge of business cards in a plastic holder on the top. Three closed doors were visible down a short corridor. The walls were empty of everything except one painted-on HB logo. The place smelled of fresh paint and felt empty. They listened to the silence for a moment, and Ella
took a business card and stuffed it into her pocket, then hit the bell.
A chair creaked behind one of the closed doors, then a woman of about forty in a grey business suit looked out. ‘Can I help you?’
They held up their badges. ‘Detectives Shakespeare and Marconi,’ Murray said. ‘And you are?’
‘Miriam Holder,’ the woman said. ‘Is there a problem?’
She came three steps closer,
then stood with her feet apart and her long hands on her hips. Her fingernails were painted bright red and her eyebrows were high and taut. Her dark hair was held off her face with combs.
‘Is anyone else here?’ Ella asked.
‘Just me,’ Holder said. ‘My colleagues are out.’
‘How many?’ Ella got out her notebook.
‘Two. Juliana Scholler and Shing Wei.’ She spelled the names.
‘Who’s Byron?’
‘My ex-partner,’ she said. ‘He left. I bought him out and kept the name.’
‘What is it that Holder and Byron do?’ Murray asked.
‘We’re accountants.’
‘Who are your clients?’
‘That’s confidential.’ Miriam Holder smiled, but her grey eyes held no warmth.
‘Who was here in the office at ten twenty this morning?’ Ella said.
‘We all were.’
‘Did you yourself make or receive a phone call at that time?’
Her smile widened and her eyes grew colder. ‘What is this about?’
‘It’s a simple enough question,’ Murray said.
‘I don’t recall what time I was on the phone,’ she said. ‘I’m not in the habit of keeping track.’
Ella thought she heard a sound behind one of the other closed doors. ‘You’re sure nobody else is
here?’
‘Of course I’m sure.’
‘Where exactly are your colleagues?’
‘Out, as I said. In meetings with clients.’
Ella looked around. ‘I can see why you go out to meet. You don’t have the most stylish surroundings.’
Holder gave the worst pretend laugh Ella had ever heard. ‘We prefer to keep our money working, not slapped onto walls or spent on comfy chairs.’
‘When
will your colleagues be in the office again?’ Murray asked.
‘Not for the rest of the day.’
‘We’ll come back tomorrow then.’
‘I’m looking forward to it already,’ Holder said.
They left the office and walked down the hall, Murray in front.
Ella said to his back, ‘Did you hear that noise?’
‘Which noise?’
‘When I asked if there was anyone else there,’ she
said. ‘Pay attention.’
‘All right, okay. I didn’t hear a thing. You think someone was there? You want to go back in?’
‘No.’ She pushed the lift button to go down. ‘I have a plan.’
Once in the lobby, she took out her mobile and the business card and called the office number. ‘Let’s see who answers.’
It rang at length then voicemail picked up. ‘
You’ve reached the office of
Holder and Byron. All our staff are busy at the moment. Please leave a message after the tone.
’
‘Voicemail.’ She hung up and jabbed the lift button. ‘I bet she’s busy calling someone about our visit.’
The doors opened immediately and they got back in. She felt better. There was nothing like the prospect of catching somebody out to lift your mood.
Back up on the second floor,
they found the HB office door locked. The lights inside were still on, and the internal office doors were closed. Ella banged on the glass with the flat of an angry hand. ‘Is she hiding or has she done a runner?’
Murray went along the corridor to the offices of Clifford Distribution and MSL Associates. ‘There’re fire stairs here.’
‘I’ll go.’ Ella pushed open the heavy door and paused
to listen and peer up and down the bare concrete stairwell. No sound or movement. She started down the wide flights, her heart pounding in her ears. If Holder went down here she’d done it mighty quick, which meant she had a good reason to want to avoid them.
I knew she was hiding something.
On the ground floor, she shoved open the door onto the footpath and found herself around the
corner from the lobby. She let the door close and looked up and down the street, then checked around the corner too, but there was no sign of Holder.
Shit.
Back upstairs, she found Murray talking with a young woman at the front desk of MSL Associates.
‘She went past a few minutes ago,’ the woman was saying. ‘I waved but I don’t think she saw me. I thought it was odd that she
went for the stairs not the lift, but then I thought maybe she wanted a little exercise.’
‘And you’re sure it was her,’ Murray said.
The woman nodded. ‘I’ve known her for like six months, ever since I started working here. We’re sometimes in the lift together. She seems like a nice lady; we have a bit of a chat.’
‘Do you know the other people who work there?’ Ella asked.
‘Julie something and the Chinese guy,’ she said. ‘She’s a bit snobby. He seems okay.’
‘Do you know what kind of cars any of them drive?’
‘Sorry.’
‘Where do you park around here?’
‘On the street, if you’re lucky enough to find a space,’ she said. ‘The building has no parking of its own. Most people get the bus anyway.’
‘Including Miriam Holder?’
‘I don’t know,
sorry.’ The phone on the desk rang and the young woman put her hand on it. ‘I have to get this.’
‘Thanks for your help,’ Murray said, and they went into the corridor. Ella heard the woman say, ‘MSL Associates, can I help you?’ in a high and chirpy voice before the door closed.
‘No sign of Holder on the street,’ she said.
Murray dug his hands into his pockets. ‘Nobody in the other
office saw anything.’
‘Let’s go and see Weaver, squeeze the situation from the other side,’ Ella said. He’d better be ready: she was going to squeeze him hard.
*
Bill Weaver lay in a curtained cubicle at Sydney Hospital, red marks and bruising around his flabby neck, chunky fingers clasped over his belly, his gaze fixed on his feet under the white cotton blanket.
The nurse
put the buzzer into his hand, said, ‘Press it if you need me,’ then pulled the curtain closed.
Ella and Murray stepped up to the side of the bed.
‘How’re you feeling?’ Ella asked.
Weaver stared at his feet and said nothing. She wondered how long he’d wait before calling the nurse and having them kicked out.
‘You’re not even going to say thanks?’ Murray said. ‘This woman
saved your life.’
A flush crept up Weaver’s jowls.
‘Maybe they didn’t tell you,’ Murray went on, ‘but she reached around the door and sawed through your tie with a fruit knife.’
The flush deepened.
‘Her wrist’s still sore.’ Murray clapped a hand on Ella’s shoulder. ‘She deserves a medal really, but at the very least your thanks. And an explanation.’
Ella felt embarrassed
and wanted to twist out from under Murray’s hand, but Weaver finally made eye contact.
‘Wanted to die,’ he rasped. ‘Not thanking anyone.’
‘Come off it,’ Murray said. ‘If you were serious, you’d have left the office and done it where you wouldn’t be disturbed.’
Ella trod on his foot to shut him up, then leaned on the side of the bed. ‘Okay, Bill. I get that you’re annoyed, that
you thought you’d be waking up wherever you believe you’d go, or not waking up, or whatever. The fact is, you’re still here, and Marko Meixner’s dead. We know that you and he were having clandestine little chats in the office hallways. What were they about?’
‘I have no recollection of that.’
‘What about today then? After we talked to you, you shooed Peter out of your office, called
Holder and Byron in Surry Hills, then sat yourself down behind the door. We’ve just been to Holder and Byron, where we talked at some length to Miriam Holder. Now we’re giving you a chance to tell us your version of events.’
Weaver shook his head. He fitted his thumb to the red button on the buzzer, but didn’t press.
‘Peter told us about your phone conversations too,’ Murray said.
Weaver shrugged his meaty shoulders. ‘On the phone all bloody day,’ he whispered hoarsely.
‘I’m talking about the phone calls that don’t make you very happy. The ones made to your office from numbers that our colleagues are tracing as we speak.’
Another shrug. ‘GFC. Nobody’s happy.’
‘Is that why you tried to kill yourself?’ Ella said.
He shook his head and closed his
eyes, thumb still resting on the button. ‘Personal.’
Flesh bulged either side of his gold wedding band. Ella tried to picture him and the bony Miriam Holder having an affair. ‘What’s your wife’s name?’
‘Irrelevant.’
‘This is a homicide investigation,’ Murray said. ‘Nothing’s irrelevant. And in fact –’
But Weaver pressed the buzzer, and before Murray could finish his sentence
the nurse bustled in. ‘That’s enough now. Let him rest.’
Ella looked at Weaver, but his eyes were still shut. She and Murray left the cubicle, the nurse yanking the curtain closed behind them.
They made their way through the hospital and walked outside into a cool drizzle.
‘Interesting that it was the mention of his wife that made him clam up,’ she said.
‘One more person
to look into,’ Murray said.
It was ten past two. Ella figured they had time to check out Miriam Holder’s home, in case she’d scuttled off there, and maybe Weaver’s wife as well before they had to be back at the office for the next meeting.
‘No,’ Langley said, his voice crackly over Murray’s speakerphone. ‘Lee’s hurt his knee and had to sign off, so Hossain’s back here in the office.
Holder and the wife can wait. I want you two to check out the parole officer before she knocks off and then see Canning.’
‘Weaver’s clearly lying,’ Murray said.
‘And he’ll no doubt still be lying tomorrow,’ Langley said. ‘It’s the probation and parole office in Chatswood for you. The officer on Canning’s case is Grace Michaels.’ He gave them an address on the Pacific Highway. ‘You
better hurry. Meeting’s at five sharp.’ He hung up.
Ella cranked the key hard. ‘Stats, times, numbers.’
‘He wants this all wrapped up today,’ Murray said. ‘Any money that tomorrow it’ll be just you and me.’
She sighed. ‘I don’t bet when there’re no odds.’
*
‘Anywhere along here,’ Jane said, and Alex pulled into the kerb.
They were in a wide and leafy street
in Annandale. Shops lined the footpaths, with small offices dotted here and there among them. People walked past and glanced at the ambulance curiously. The road was still wet and the tyres of passing cars threw up a light mist that glistened on their bumpers in the weak sunlight.
Jane grasped the handle but didn’t open the door. The glass front of Annandale Architects was three shops along
and she stared at it, thinking. Could this make things worse?
‘You really going in?’ Alex said.
‘Yes.’
No. I don’t know.
But what else could she do? Her appeals to Steve were getting her nowhere, and perhaps this latest debacle meant the time had come for the direct approach. Some people didn’t listen until you confronted them yourself, she reasoned. There was a chance
this would work. And there were two other good things about it: she wouldn’t still be waiting for Steve to act, and she wasn’t troubling the cops. She knew how busy they were. She really didn’t want to call on them until she’d tried everything herself.
‘If you’re not sure –’ Alex began.
‘I’ll just go in and tell her the facts,’ Jane said. ‘We’ll have a polite dialogue. I’ll explain
that she’s doing the wrong thing. I’ll appeal to her morals and ask her to put herself in my shoes and get her to see that she needs to stop.’
Alex looked doubtful.
‘It’ll be fine,’ Jane said.
I hope
.
The phone calls were one thing, the glass smashing worse, but something about the complaint hinted at a whole other level of mental issues.