In the night, the dream of Afghanistan, one of the dreams, the one in which I am trying to get to Cowper, liquid-eyed Cowper, who is screaming, the scream of a child, calling for me. His captain. If I can get to him, I can save him. There is no logic in this, it is a dream. I am crawling towards him, gunfire, pieces of the helicopter burning around me. I am burdened by a weight, it holds me back, I move with agonising slowness. Then I realise what the weight is: my legs are missing, a large part of my legs, well above the knees. I am having to haul my body without help from my legs. And at the moment of this realisation, pain floods through me and I know that I cannot save Cowper because I am dying very quickly.
I woke up, still there, still legless and bleeding to death on that dark Afghan plain, sat up, pushed away the blanket, felt for my knees, found them and lay back, exhausted, as wet as if I had been swimming. Eventually, I fell asleep again, but a fitful, fearful sleep this time, broken by the slam of a car door, a snarling cat skirmish, an alarm trilling far away. When I could see the dark behind the blind fading to grey, I got up, put on a tracksuit and runners and went out into the cold, near-empty world. It had been weeks and all the bits of my body that needed regular moving had stiffened up. For a while, everything hurt, my back, ankles, knees, but by the time I reached the Esplanade, I had found my stride, the pains were down to tolerable levels. And, gradually, the chemical balance in my bloodstream seemed to return to normal, my skin stopped feeling stretched like kite paper, my jaw stopped clicking.
Running, early misty rain on my face, thinking, unable to stop thinking.
Tell the Carsons it’s not an eye for an eye. We want more than an eye for an eye. Worth much more than one Carson slut. Tell all the Carson sluts that.
A grievance against the Carsons. Hatred, enough to kill an innocent girl for. Madness. Hatred turned to madness. What were the Carsons being blamed for? An eye for an eye. For a death? The death of someone in a part of the Carson empire, the diversified Carson empire, now not just a construction company but the owner of shopping centres and retail chains and big pieces of other companies? Industrial accidents? A death on a building site? Presumably there’d been many people killed over the years. Deaths for which the Carsons could be held directly responsible.
Anthea Wyllie. The Altona nurse who vanished after seeing Mark Carson. Jeremy Fisher gave Mark an alibi. Was there a family who didn’t accept that, who thought Mark was responsible? What was it that made a rich city lawyer give his services to the needy in a distant suburb? Was he in search of prey?
Did this mean Anne had been chosen simply because she was an available Carson, female Carson, because the kidnappers watched the school and followed Whitton’s car? Cars-he used three Carson cars. Chosen because she was the easiest Carson child to get to. Anne Carson was a soft target, walking down Revesdale Road alone, flushed from whatever took place in Craig’s yellow van, going into an alley. The other children were too young or too old, were elsewhere, far away. Anne’s younger sister, Vicky, went to an exclusive primary school, a walled school, driven in a minibus with five other rich children. The driver and guard came from a security firm.
That would be a hard target.
I ran out of legs on the home stretch, had to push myself, to ignore the body’s protests, to strive to hold the pace and not to weaken. Once I’d found satisfaction in that, asked it of others, demanded it of others. Not anymore. Proving yourself to yourself, to others above you and below you, that came to an end in fire and blood and broken bodies.
At the apartment, I showered and shaved, put on a shirt laundered by the Carson housekeeping staff, grey flannels cleaned and pressed. Then I drove to Acland Street, bought the papers and had breakfast, no relish in the eating of it after I saw the front-page headlines, the grainy photographs lifted from Museum Station’s security cameras. Both papers carried sequences of pictures of the wheelchair on the escalator and blurred enlargements and a police artist’s sketches of the man’s bearded face, full on and in profile.
This wasn’t going to do Detective Senior Sergeant John Ricardo Vella and the combined crews of the homicide squad any good. Fourteen, he said. They could activate all fifty-six members and it wouldn’t do any good. Take away the beard and you had nothing. I wouldn’t be able to pick him out of a lineup and nor would anyone else. Not sensibly.
And I’d seen the man in the flesh. I’d met his eyes, looked up, across a long divide, seen a pink hole of hate open in his beard. The city was full of tall men with beards. I looked out of the window, looked across the street expecting to see one. And I did, froze. Then I recognised him, he was a journalist, a football writer, he found poetry and pathos and lessons for living and dying in young men chasing a ball. At the end of his right arm was a child, fighting like a fish, padded and capped and ecstatic at being with him in the street.
Where was he yesterday, in the afternoon? Parking a people-mover in a parking bay for the disabled near Museum Station?
I didn’t read the newspapers’ text. What could they tell me that I didn’t know or didn’t want to know? The last segment of toast and poached egg, I left it on the plate, ordered coffee, went outside and rang Detective Senior Sergeant Vella. He answered with a sound made in his throat, the sound an animal might make, rolling over in a narrow and dark cave heated by its own blood, a sleeping animal disturbed by something.
‘I didn’t think about Noyce’s mobile,’ I said. ‘Nor did anyone else. How’s that for being sharp?’
‘What?’
‘They rang last night, said, “Tell the Carsons it’s not an eye for an eye. We want more than an eye for an eye. Worth much more than one Carson slut. Tell all the Carson sluts that.”’
A silence.
‘Say it again.’ The animal was fully awake.
I said it again.
‘Eye for an eye?’
‘Eye for an eye.’
Silence. ‘Means what? In your judgment?’
‘I presume that they blame the Carsons for a death. You’d want to be checking all deaths in the empire since at least 1990. Can’t be that many.’
He coughed. ‘Four at one go on the Coniston House site. Crane fell over. That’d be ’91, ’92, around then. Where are you?’
‘Borscht in Acland Street. Something else. There’s a woman, a nurse, Anthea Wyllie, disappeared in Altona in 1988. Last seen talking to Mark Carson. I’d look at the family, friends. Hard.’
‘Wyllie? Spell that.’
I did so.
‘Don’t go away. Someone will come for the mobile. The beard.
False, you reckon?’
‘The bathroom fittings bloke in Revesdale Road says the driver who pissed him off had a beard. The young offsider says the man next to the Tarago in the lane had a big moustache.’
‘Bloke who sold the Tarago says a beard. So it would have to be full beard, moustache only, back to full beard. If it’s the same bloke, that says you saw a false beard.’
‘It’s possible. Like some bad cop movie.’
‘My life’s a bad cop movie. Not improved by people like you.’
I went inside and drank lukewarm coffee and waited. Not long.
A green Falcon double-parked outside and the passenger came in, a woman in black who looked like a tired netball player. She walked straight to my table, knew me. I gave her Noyce’s vibrating phone.
‘It needs a charge,’ I said.
‘Don’t we all.’ She took it and left.
My phone rang. I went outside. Running my life from a place that served breakfast.
‘Frank?’
Corin.
How can you identify someone from one word they say?
Probably by intonation, a Tone and Break problem.
‘I’ve been meaning to ring,’ I said.
‘That wasn’t you on television last night, was it? At Museum Station?’
Her tone was tentative. She wanted me to say: No, that wasn’t me. Wasn’t it awful?
‘I’m afraid so,’ I said. ‘That job’s over.’
As I said it, I thought, the matter-of-fact, just-another-day-atthe-office attitude, that’s a bad mistake.
She didn’t say anything. I could hear her breathing and I knew what she was thinking: How do I extricate myself from this? I don’t want to offend this person, he might…
‘I’m going to the country this afternoon,’ she said. ‘My brother’s got a few acres, he’s planted vines. Somehow, I’m in charge of them, I’m the de facto viticulturist, he’s too busy, too tired, too hungover.’
‘Good,’ I said. ‘That sounds nice. Enjoy yourself. I’ll give you a ring some time. Or you could give me a ring.’
‘Can you come?’
A man popping up like a cork, breaking the surface, tanks shrugged off, weightbelt jettisoned, taking air into empty lungs, ‘Today? Let me think, yes, I think I can fit that in.’
‘It’s staying over,’ she said. ‘Tonight. Pretty primitive.’
‘Primitive? No spa bath?’
‘No.’
‘Well, I don’t know. That sort of back-to-nature stuff has its appeal for me. What time? My vehicle or yours?’
‘Around four-thirty. It’s the bulk-manure mover, I’m afraid. I’ve got to take bags of things. What’s your address?’
For a second, the sky lightened, it seemed as if the sun was coming out. In the midst of death, we are in life. Not a sentiment my mother would have approved of.