Dark Ink Page 3

  ‘I’m pretty sure serial killers don’t work that way,’ Harry said.

  ‘Exactly. It’s weird. Whatever happened to you last year was weird. We’re desperate, but we can’t officially bring in psychics or anything like that. Which is why I’m sitting here, talking to you.’

  Harry thought of all the possible responses. Everything from outright denial to choking the shit out of Phil and going on the run. Phil read the expression.

  ‘Don’t shoot the messenger, Harry. My bosses just want your help.’

  CHAPTER 4

  The email subject line was intriguing – Unionist linked to sex workers.

  Dear Mr Hendrick,

  I’m writing to secure your assistance with a matter that I feel is of the public interest.

  My husband is Don Clack, the secretary of Australian United Workers. I have recently suspected that he has been seeing sex workers – yes, plural – under the guise of ‘working late’.

  Please contact me if you’re interested in knowing more. I’m wary of giving out too many details via email.

  Yours sincerely,

  Lee-Anne Stewart

  Harry welcomed the distraction. He’d spent most of the night tossing and turning, still stewing about his meeting with Phil. Was he being blackmailed? There was definitely an implied threat, but Phil himself had said there was no case yet, not even a suspect. Not officially, anyway. Harry wondered what sort of evidence they’d collected at the architect’s office where he’d almost taken the shot that would have ended Andrew Cardinal’s life. Did they have DNA maybe, that they hadn’t gone to the trouble of testing because they weren’t pursuing the case? Was there CCTV footage of Harry walking through the Queen Street Mall, disguised as an air conditioning repairman, that would identify him if they went to the trouble of analysing it properly?

  Thing was, he was intrigued. Phil had given him a business card with his contact details on one side and a time and date on the other, like a dental appointment. An arrangement to meet at the most recent crime scene.

  When he’d finally drifted off, he’d dreamt of the walking dead. Men with pieces of mirror sticking out of their faces, men cut in half by trains, men blowing their brains out. He fell towards the piece of mirror, saw himself reflected there, shards sticking out of his face, fell towards the piece of mirror, saw himself reflected again. Over and over, a loop of pain and fear. He woke sweaty, despite the chill, as the first rays of dawn pushed through his windows.

  Harry returned to the email. There was a contact number under Lee-Anne Stewart’s name. He picked up his phone and dialled.

  ‘Hello?’ the woman’s voice sounded sleepy.

  ‘Hi. Is that Lee-Anne Stewart?’

  ‘Yes, who’s this?’ More alert now.

  ‘Harry Hendrick. You emailed me?’

  ‘Of course. One moment.’

  There was a pause. Some muffled voices. The sound of a door closing.

  ‘He’s here… for a change.’

  ‘Ms Stewart…’

  ‘Lee, please.’

  ‘Lee. You said you didn’t want to say too much in the email. And you said it’s in the public interest.’

  ‘I’m pretty sure he’s using union fees to pay for his whores.’

  Harry blinked. Opened his mouth. Closed it again.

  Lee-Anne laughed at Harry’s silence. ‘Yeah. That’s why I emailed you. I mean, I would love to see him burn, but the thing that really pisses me off is that it’s members’ money. My dad was a metal worker. The fucking job killed him. It’s a disgrace.’

  ‘How do you know he’s using union money?’

  ‘We have a shared bank account. Have for years. I mean, he could have set up a separate account somehow, but I do the household accounts and tax returns, so I’m pretty sure I’d know.’

  ‘Have you spoken to him about it?’

  Lee-Anne laughed. ‘Nope.’

  Harry waited for her to elaborate, but when she didn’t, he pressed her. ‘You want to publicly humiliate him?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘You know you’ll be in the spotlight too, once other media organisations get their hands on this?’

  She hissed in frustration. ‘Yeah. I’m not stupid. It’s not just about humiliating him. If I confront him about it, he’ll shit bricks and then find a way to cover it up. And that’s not acceptable to me.’

  Harry considered. It could be a great story, but he didn’t want to get caught up in this woman’s vendetta against her husband. Even if the vendetta was justified.

  ‘I can pay you,’ she said.

  ‘I’m not sure that would be ethical.’

  ‘Ha! You sure you’re a journalist? Look, it says on your website that you’re crowdfunding, right?’

  ‘Well, yeah, but…’

  ‘There’s no strings attached to this money, Harry. All I’m saying is, do a little digging. I don’t care how you write the story. If you don’t end up writing the story, I won’t be asking for my money back.’

  Harry sighed.

  ‘Harry. It’s a piece of piss. I’ll text you when he’s next “working late”. You follow him. See what happens.’

  Harry nodded, even though she couldn’t see him. ‘Okay. I… I’ll look into it.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ve got to go make Lothario here his breakfast. See you, Harry.’

  CHAPTER 5

  It was a cold morning but Harry sat outside anyway. He pulled his coat up around his chin. From where he sat he could see the set of stairs that led from the bookshop into the cafe. He felt like he needed some strategic advantage. He’d been thinking about the unionist Don Clack all the way over. He didn’t know much about him other than what he’d seen in the news. He was a strident unionist, not militant – the days of militant unionism were over. Some touted Clack as fodder for the federal Labor Party at some point down the track, but others said he was too much of a firebrand, even though he’d toned things down significantly since his glory days in the nineties. The most recent blow-up had been when someone had secretly recorded him at an ALP fundraiser, telling the cheering crowd that the captains of industry should be tied to the stake and burnt alive. But that was a couple of years back. He’d been keeping a low profile since then.

  Harry had been so caught up thinking about what Lee-Anne had told him that he hadn’t really had time to think about Bec. But now he was sitting outside in the cold, playing with his phone and waiting for her to arrive. The sound system went quiet, then fired up with Jonathan Wilson’s ‘Ballad of the Pines’. He wanted to see her so badly. He wanted to hold her hand and kiss her. But he also felt angry, even though he accepted their breakup was as much his doing as hers. They had been in a rut. Well, Harry had been in a rut. He had been taking her for granted for months before the break-up. He never would have admitted that at the time, but it was so clear to him now. Bec pulled the trigger, but Harry loaded the gun. And he was scared. He remembered the uncontrollable sobbing as he packed his things from her place. And even though it wasn’t fair, he remembered what had happened after they had split. He didn’t think he could bear being hurt that badly again.

  And there she was. Bec paused for a moment at the bottom of the steps, looking around for Harry. She’d had her hair cut short; it suited her. Her cheeks were rosy from the cold. She wore jeans, a dark jacket and a rainbow scarf. It seemed a bit bohemian for the Bec he knew, but he liked it. Maybe she had changed too? Harry felt his heart stutter in his chest, followed by a rush of borderline panic. What if she didn’t feel the same way? What if she just wanted to touch base? Be ‘friends’? Then she saw him, through the glass, and her face lit up with a smile. Harry wasn’t sure he could stand, but he did anyway, holding onto the table for support. He tried to smile back. It felt as though his face was cracking.

  She pushed through the door, came out onto the deck.

  ‘Hey, Harry!’

  One of the things Harry had been obsessing about since she called was how they would greet each other. A wave? K
iss on the cheek? Handshake? It seemed ridiculous and yet so much seemed to be riding on it. But in the end Bec crossed the distance and wrapped her arms around him before he could think about it. He hugged her back. Smelt her hair and her perfume. Their coats, and the brevity of the embrace, kept it just shy of intimate. And then Bec backed off, shuffling slightly on her feet, not looking at Harry, as though worried she’d gone too far.

  ‘It’s good to see you, Bec,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah! You too.’ She gestured to the counter. ‘Have you ordered?’

  ‘No, I’ll…’ Harry reached for his wallet.

  ‘I’ll get it. You still on the flat whites?’ she said.

  ‘No. Just straight bourbon these days.’

  She looked at him for a beat then laughed. ‘Right. I’ll see what I can do.’

  She pushed back through the door and Harry watched her go to the counter, then collapsed into his chair. By the time she’d returned he’d calmed himself.

  ‘They said they’d bring it out,’ she said. ‘I got you a double.’

  Harry smiled.

  ‘So, what’s happening?’ she said.

  Harry considered trying to tell Bec about everything that had happened, not just in the past couple of days, but in the previous few months, as he struggled to pull himself back together after the Rob incident. He felt exhausted just thinking about it. He didn’t want to go back through all that pain right now. Not when he didn’t know what was going on here, and how she felt about him.

  ‘Bec, let’s not fuck around,’ he said and stopped. He’d surprised himself.

  Now she did look at him.

  ‘I can’t pretend that everything that happened between us didn’t happen. I just can’t.’

  ‘Oh. Okay. Shit. I thought we’d at least get to drink our coffee first.’ She smiled. It was a genuine smile, but it faded when she saw Harry wasn’t yet ready to share the joke.

  ‘I’m sorry…’

  ‘No, that’s not…’ Harry shook his head. ‘I’m not fishing for apologies. Shit. If anyone owes apologies, it’s me. I didn’t realise what I had with you. But…’

  The waitress appeared with their drinks and placed them on the table. Harry raised his glass to his mouth and tasted whisky. Bec grinned.

  ‘Sorry. No bourbon, but I got them to put a shot of whisky in it for you.’

  Harry laughed. ‘Well played.’

  Bec glanced at the table, then back at Harry. Those eyes! She reached out and put her hand on his.

  ‘Harry, the truth is, I don’t know. But I know that I missed you. I still miss you. That’s why I called you. But I don’t know where this is headed. I can’t make any promises. I know this sounds corny, but I feel like I’ve changed. I feel like you’ve changed. I just want the opportunity to get to know you again.’ She sipped her coffee. ‘Okay?’

  Harry took time to think about it, then nodded. It was worth the risk. ‘Okay.’

  There was a brief, awkward silence, filled by wind whistling through the eaves, and traffic on Latrobe Terrace. Then, bit by bit, they started talking again. They had a lot to catch up on. Harry gave Bec the short version of all that had gone on last year. He didn’t tell her everything. He hoped that some day he would be able to, but that time wasn’t now. In return, Bec told him about Paul, the former fiancé. She told him it was a rebound, that it was obviously a rebound, in hindsight, but Harry got the feeling that she wasn’t telling him everything, either.

  ‘So, how’s the freelancing going?’ she said, moving them back into safer territory.

  ‘Yeah, there’s a bit on.’ He paused as images of the dead bodies rose unbidden to his mind. ‘I’m working on something with Queensland Police,’ he said. ‘I can’t really go into too much detail yet. It may be nothing.’ He tapped the side of his nose, smiled to hide the feeling that he wasn’t being honest with her. ‘And I had the strangest conversation this morning.’ He recounted the phone call with the unionist’s wife, playing it for laughs. He’d forgotten how much he loved to hear her laugh.

  ‘So, I may be visiting a few brothels in the not-too-distant future – just for research.’

  ‘Of course! You can probably claim it on tax.’

  They both laughed this time, and Harry realised he hadn’t felt so good for a long time.

  ‘How about you? How’s your work going?’

  ‘Ah, you know. Same old, same old. Trying to do more with less. My boss wants me to go on one of those leadership camp things.’

  ‘Leadership camp? Isn’t that what you do in high school?’

  ‘Basically, except probably about a thousand times more expensive.’

  ‘Are you going to do it?’

  Bec sighed. ‘I’ll probably have to. Try and keep all those fucking Millennials in their place.’

  Harry grinned. ‘They’ve got nothing on you.’ He drained the last of his coffee, gestured to the counter. ‘Going again?’

  Bec checked the time on her phone. ‘Nah. Better not. The apartment looks like a bomb has hit it. And I’ve got to get shopping done.’ She stared at her empty cup. There was another awkward silence. ‘But it’s been fun, Harry. Just…’ She stopped, waved it away.

  ‘What?’ Harry said, not sure if he actually wanted an answer.

  ‘Nothing. I was going to say, “Just like old times.” But I think it’s been better than that. Do you know what I mean?’

  Harry nodded. He remembered the last couple of months of their relationship. It was like they were both on autopilot.

  They stood. There was that awkward moment again, when they weren’t quite sure how to say goodbye. In the end, Harry leant forward awkwardly and put an arm around Bec, and gave her a peck on the cheek. Then he followed her back inside, up the stairs, into the bookshop. Out the front of the shop, they paused.

  ‘I’m this way,’ she said, pointing away from the city.

  ‘Okay,’ Harry said. ‘Do you… do you want to catch up again?’

  Bec smiled. ‘Yeah, sure. I’d like that. See you, Harry.’ She gave him a small wave, then walked away.

  Harry watched her go for a while, then walked back to where he’d parked his car.

  CHAPTER 6

  Phil pulled up outside the house. Beige walls, big white garage doors. Police tape still roped around the colonnade holding up the portico above the front door.

  ‘Are you ready to do this?’ he said, pulling on the handbrake and turning off the engine.

  Harry looked at the house. His stomach was doing slow, queasy rolls. ‘Not really. And I don’t really see the point.’

  ‘Let’s just get it done,’ Phil said.

  He got out of the car and Harry followed, his feet like lead. He watched them crunch over the dry grass and folded his arms against the cold. Phil unlocked the black gate.

  ‘His wife’s taken their daughter out of school. They’re spending some time up the coast, at their holiday home.’

  Harry grunted. Despite the chill, he could feel sweat beading on his scalp. He ran a hand through his hair, then wiped it on his jeans. At the end of the pathway, Phil snapped the police tape. It drifted to the ground.

  ‘Scenes of Crime have finished with this place. Cleaners are coming tomorrow. So this is the only chance we’ve got.’

  He unlocked the front door and stepped inside. The smell hit Harry first: the coppery tang of blood. He could only imagine how much worse it would have been if Godwin had killed himself in summer. He glanced at the faded welcome mat outside the front door. It looked out of place at the entrance to such a grand house.

  In the hallway, Harry noticed the shoes by the front door. The girl’s – pink Sketcher sneakers. A set of black pumps for the wife. Shiny brown brogues for Mr Godwin. Harry started slipping his shoes off; Phil rolled his eyes.

  ‘Sorry,’ Harry mumbled, leaving his shoes on and taking in the blood-stained carpet.

  The house was unusually quiet. It was more than empty. There was something palpable about the atmosphere. It see
med heavy and humid despite the cold. Outside, a crow cawed.

  ‘Is this your first crime scene?’ Phil said.

  ‘Yeah. I mean, a couple of years ago when I was with the Chronicle, there was a body dumped out at Boondall Wetlands. But I only got within a couple of hundred metres.’

  ‘That was that drug dealer guy – what was his name?’

  Harry couldn’t remember. ‘How about you?’

  ‘I’ve seen a few. As part of the media unit training they take us out to a few crime scenes to show us how it all works,’ Phil said. ‘I think the real reason is that they want us to appreciate some of the awful things police have to deal with.’

  Harry shoved his hands in his pockets. ‘So what exactly do you want me to do?’

  ‘Just have a look around. I’ll wait here.’

  ‘Gee, thanks.’

  Harry didn’t know where to start. His anger at being coerced into this was being replaced by grim humour at the ridiculousness of the situation. Maybe this was the real story – that police were so desperate to solve these crimes, and so clueless (literally) that they hoped Harry could come up with some supernatural solution. The Brisbane Mail would be all over it. But then what? End up facing charges of attempted murder? The Brisbane Mail would love that too. It could have been paranoia, but he felt as though many in the media industry were just waiting for him to fail.

  He walked into the dining room, where the frame of the mirror still hung. It hadn’t just been smashed: the glass had been repeatedly hit so that not one scrap of it remained. The frame and the wall around it were smeared with dried blood. Harry got down on his haunches and examined the floor. More blood here – round drops and smeared footprints.

  ‘Would forensics have swept the floor or anything like that?’ Harry said.

  Phil looked up from his phone. ‘No, they may have taken some of the shards away to look at, but that’s about it.’

  ‘There’s no broken mirror on the floor.’

  Phil turned back to his phone.