“Whitehead.”
“Whitehead?”
“Whitehead Institute, MIT.” Julian clears his throat. “I interned there six months before returning. Forensic science.”
Marco’s good eye widens. “Very impressive. Top honours?”
Julian nods modestly.
“So what’s a top-notch scholar doing with a petty forgery case?”
“Well,” Julian looks around his desk for his papers. “Detail and data collection is first, had my first contact with suspect this morning. Did first cut testing of allegations, heard his tone, read his body language. Then I’ll have to list the data I need to plug the gaps before I establish the predication and start external investigation. Now I’m still refining the case theory and—”
Marco holds out his hand and stops him. “You’re well over the challenge, my friend, and you need something better. You with Roland and Syafie?”
“Yes.”
“Good, then you’re on my team.” Marco crushes the greased paper and dumps it in Julian’s wastepaper bin. “Here we put the right brains in the right places. I’ll assign you a fatter case, one with a higher profile; looks good on paper if you’re climbing the ladder.”
“Appreciate that, but I’d like to start slow, get my bearings right.”
Marco puts on a dramatic display of surprise. “Commendable! We’re in short of sensible rookies like you these days.”
Julian smiles out of a cheek.
“You’ll go far.” Marco pulls tissue paper from a box on Julian’s desk. “But I’m going to hang if DSP knows what you’re doing. These forgery cases are for semi-retired jugs like me who can’t even shit squatting. They go easier on the heart.”
“I’d like to solve my first case,” says Julian. “It shouldn’t take long.”
“Don’t underestimate such cases, my friend. They appear light but they aren’t easy when it comes to prosecution. There are many lawyers doing dirty work. Your case might get stuck on you like gum in your hair. Better me than you.”
“I’m willing to take my chances. The facts are adding up.”
“Oh, tons of opportunities for that.” Marco shouts across the office at someone. “Hey Thai! Come over and give an update on the Kovan case.”
Seconds later a dark, bony veteran jogs along the corridor, turns the corner and comes up beside Marco with a pink paper folder. He greets Julian with a solemn nod.
“Triple suicide.” Marco hands Julian the document. “But we think it’s murder, period.”
Julian scans the page and Marco watches him out of his good eye. “You okay with bad smells and ugly faces?”
“I’m in forensics.”
“Good, cause you can smell the house from the street. Three had to rot in bed while the fourth was on a carpet that soaked up all the nasty stuff. We believe drugs are involved so the K-nines will be coming in.”
Julian returns the case. “Really appreciate that but I’d like to keep the forgery.”
Marco chooses not to hear him and turns instead to Thai. “The bodies been shifted?”
“Still at the morgue.”
“Good,” Marco winks his good eye at Julian. “For a start you might want to look at them. Not sure what you could find though, they’re almost a week old.” He then slips off Julian’s desk, grabs his foam cup and pats Thai heavily on the shoulders. “Show him around the morgue. This guy’s forensics, treat him well and bring him up to speed.”
Landon passes into the illumination of a streetlamp. Behind him the lights of FourBees go off. The thin scent of frangipanis lingers. The night is so still the crunch of leaves under his feet could wake the dead.
Loewen Lodge glows with soft, warm light from within. Its lawn is empty, its folks probably in bed or mulling over a final round of checkers. Landon steps into the reception area on the first floor. There is a counter to the left and couches against the beige walls. Shade-tolerant palms and ferns in white cylindrical pots adorn the simple space. A timed air freshener dispenses a floral scent. At the counter an attendant looks up from her tablet.
“Hi, I came by this afternoon,” says Landon. “I heard that Pam would be in for the night shift.”
“Pam’s on leave, sir,” says the attendant.
He sighs and lets his shoulders fall. “Do you know someone named Clara? She’s supposed to have someone here who’s close to her.”
“Everyone does, sir.” The attendant consults a photo-chart pinned on a wall and then a register on the desk. “But we haven’t got anyone named Clara working here.”
“Well, she ah… deposits someone here.”
The attendant dons a sad look. “I wish I could help, sir. But we cannot disclose the names of our guests and contributors.”
“You’ve only got twenty-eight beds, could you run them through and see if there’s someone named Clara? Please, it’s kind of an emergency.”
To his surprise the attendant throws him an uncertain glance and starts tapping obligingly on her keyboard. He sees her eyes shift up and down as she reads. “No Clara, sir. Perhaps you could give me her full name?”
“I don’t have it,” says Landon. “She’s more like a recent acquaintance. Do you happen to have Pam’s number, perhaps I could—”
She shakes her head again before Landon can finish. “I’m sorry sir, we don’t divulge personal particulars of our staff.”
“All right, I’ll check in some other time.” He pulls out a pen and scribbles something on a notepad. “I’m leaving my name and number. Please ask Pam to give me a call as soon as she comes in.”
On the journey home Landon stares at his own reflection in the bus window, trying to rationalise the whole affair. What is the darn mystery behind John and Clara? Are their names even John and Clara? Why do they have to act all enigmatic and mysterious? Maybe it’s about me. Maybe they’re in it together and it’s nothing but a sick, mortifying joke.
When he gets home he closes the wrought iron gates so hard they rattle on their hinges. He flips a Bakelite switch. The thing sparks before coming on, startling him. He curses profusely at everything in the old house.
Landon throws his bag on the couch and streaks upstairs to the bedroom. The headlights of a passing car comes through the window shutters and travels across the ceiling. He flicks another switch and the lone bulb feebly illuminates a shelf full of journals. More volumes are stacked inside a mouldering leather trunk at the foot of the red silk gown.
He dives into the pile with the urgency of a cocaine addict, tossing one journal away and starting another. Voraciously he reads, flipping page after page, running his finger along the lines until it stops at a spot.
20th January 1972, Thursday
My name is Arthur. Lawyer dropped by with the new deed. Got it vested in the new name. In about thirteen years Arthur will be dead. Though I think I am already dead—my heart, at least. Hannah’s been gone for almost five years now. I thought forgetting was easy.
Count to Landon: 8 of 5,475.
No more Hannah after that entry; that was five decades ago. Landon finds tons of earlier entries with Hannah in them. He must have been infatuated with her because he wouldn’t write this much about someone unless she meant something to him. People are always entering and leaving his life in passing and they always end up in his journals like little notes on a grocery list. After the last mention of Hannah, the journal entries become steadily shorter. He realises how selective of his memories he has become.
No Clara, no John. And now I’ve got a “Hannah” to deal with.
He sprawls across the floorboards and stares at the naked light bulb hanging from the ceiling. Outside, the hallway is so dark he feels like he’d catch sight of a ghost if he stared long enough.