‘It’s whatever’s set down in that specification. We’ve had a quick look at it. None of us can understand the science, boss. We’re going to have to get someone in to tell us what it means. But if you want my opinion, that contract says it all. Two of the biggest scam merchants around, Morrissey and Edwards, in business together. Whatever this consortium is, it’s got to be bent. Which means that whoever Beck is, he’s got to be bent as well.’
Harrigan considered that if Stuart Morrissey had been sitting at the table with Natalie Edwards right now, two of the major players in the money-laundering business in his bailiwick would have been out of business permanently. A sour, if effective, way to shut down their extensive criminal and financial networks. As it was, Nattie Edwards’ death would create a gap that any number of questionable individuals would want to fill. She’d had a finger in a large number of pies, had been the source of an almost bottomless bucket of dirty money that somehow always managed to come out clean.
‘Where’s Morrissey?’ he asked. ‘Was he supposed to be here last night? Is there another body lying around the house you haven’t found yet?’
‘Come and listen to this. We think it’s him. Looks like last night’s dinner was turned on for them to celebrate signing that contract. It didn’t work out that way.’
Harrigan handed the contract to one of the forensic officers for bagging and followed Trevor through open double doors into a lounge room. An answering machine stood on a telephone table just inside.
‘Nattie. It’s me. Look, I’m sorry I couldn’t get there, I’ll tell you why when I see you. Did you sign without me? If you did, just call me. I’ll come up there today and sign whenever you want.’
‘That’s him,’ Harrigan said. ‘How come his lottery numbers came up last night of all nights?’
‘We’ll ask him. But he’s a little rat. People like him always survive.’
Not like that poor kid sitting out there. Harrigan shook away a pervasive revulsion. He looked around at the large and opulent room, the state-of-the-art sound and entertainment system, the original artworks hanging on the walls.
‘They took nothing? There’s enough here to make it worth your while.’
‘They didn’t touch a thing. You saw the stone Edwards is wearing. It’s genuine. Why not take it with you? Call it a fringe benefit. Whoever these people are, they haven’t left us a trace.’
In his mind’s eye, Harrigan saw Natalie Edwards seated at the table, her diamond gleaming in the white light. He looked back outside at the scene, unable to prevent himself from staring at the dead surrounded by their living attendants. His gaze was drawn to the naked figure at the end of the table. The ghost of a nagging possibility had entered his mind.
‘Do you want to talk to the minister now, boss?’ Trevor asked. ‘I don’t think we should keep him waiting much longer.’
‘Give me a moment,’ Harrigan replied, moving out through the doors onto the patio again.
‘Harrigan,’ a voice boomed. ‘I didn’t recognise you in your civvies. Weren’t you born wearing a suit?’ Kenneth McMichael, the pathologist, a huge and untidy man with a legendary foul temper, had buttonholed him. ‘Quite a sight, isn’t it? Makes me think of musical chairs. The music’s stopped and while there are enough chairs to go around, I’m sorry, ladies and gentlemen, it’s endgame.’
He spoke like a satirical game-show host. Harrigan felt his patience thinning dangerously.
‘It always makes me feel warm all over to see you, Ken. Do we know how that man at the end died?’
‘No. It’s impossible to tell in that state. I can tell you he took a shot to the right shoulder sometime ante-mortem but it’s hardly a mortal wound. You’ll have to wait for the autopsy if you want to know anything else.’
‘Can you get one of your technicians to give me a hand? I need to look at his left shoulder.’
‘As always, your wish is our command,’ McMichael replied with his usual glacial sarcasm.
At the pathologist’s direction, the technician stretched the shrunken skin on one arm for Harrigan to look at. It was like fine yellowed leather, ingrained with coarse sand. A small tattoo came into view, an aged caricature of Marilyn Monroe as a golden-haired smiling skeleton in a red dress and matching high heels. Two updraughts of air raised her voluminous skirts above her bony legs. There was a signature just visible beneath it: AMBRO.
Trevor was standing behind Harrigan, watching. ‘Oh, fuck me,’ he said, as soon as the tattoo came into sight. ‘Tell me it isn’t true.’
‘No one else, mate,’ Harrigan replied. ‘That’s Ambrosine’s signature. She only ever does one of any tattoo she signs. Look on the bright side. We know what’s happened to him now. We’re not chasing shadows any more.’
‘I’m guessing we have an identification,’ the pathologist said dryly.
Harrigan moved back. ‘For your information, Ken, we’ve just found the body we’ve all been looking for the last three months. That’s former Detective Senior Sergeant Michael Cassatt sitting there, otherwise known as the Ice Cream Man. Fuck knows how he ended up here.’
‘Full of surprises, Harrigan,’ McMichael said, writing down the name in his notebook. ‘I’ve often wondered what you’ve got tucked away in that head of yours. All right, we’ll chase up his dental records. Can we take him now?’
‘Be my guest.’
McMichael’s careful technicians surrounded the dead man. Watching them, Harrigan’s mind was filled with the memory of his father’s funeral, twelve years ago. He had been standing at the church door greeting the mourners as they arrived. When he turned to go inside, Mike Cassatt had come from behind and taken him by the shoulder.
‘Don’t be frightened, Paulie,’ he’d said. ‘I’m not here to hurt you. I want to show you this. Ambro put it there. I got it for old Jimbo.’ He meant Harrigan’s father. He’d pushed up the sleeve of his red polo shirt to show off the bony tattoo. ‘Like my dream girl? Isn’t she beautiful? Come dance with me…’ he’d sung while eyeballing Harrigan. ‘See you, mate.’ Then he’d walked away.
There was another echo in Harrigan’s mind: Cassatt’s voice again, just ten days after the funeral, at night-time in an alleyway in Marrickville. Joyfully vicious words uttered close into Harrigan’s face: You’re dead, mate. But not before you, Mike, he retorted down the years of wasted time. In reply, Cassatt’s death mask grinned at him across the table. Then the body was lifted away.
‘Boss? Boss, are you listening to me?’ Trevor was talking in his ear. ‘We’ve got a fucking federal government minister sitting in his car on the other side of the hedge. Cassatt’s the last thing we need here. What do we do?’
Harrigan suppressed a caustic smile. Anything to avoid the taint of the Ice Cream Man. Two months ago, he himself had signed off on the decision to declare the notoriously corrupt ex-detective missing, presumed murdered. It had started with Cassatt’s wife found shot dead in their home at Oyster Bay with the house left ransacked. Next Harrigan had received a visit from Cassatt’s solicitor, the greasiest man he’d ever dealt with. After Leanne Cassatt’s murder, the solicitor had gone to check his client’s safety deposit box and found it emptied out. Then Cassatt’s car was located burnt-out and cannibalised at a derelict factory site near Parramatta. In the boot were the charred remains of bloodstained clothing. When it was finally confirmed as the Ice Cream Man’s own blood, Harrigan was forced to conclude he must be dead. Until then, the only blood Cassatt had left behind him was always somebody else’s.
‘Boss? Talk to me.’
‘You do what you’d normally do,’ Harrigan snapped back. ‘You find out how Cassatt died and what he was doing here in the first place. What difference does it make who he is?’
‘Because it’s not going to be that straightforward. Anything about the Ice Cream Man gives the commissioner a coronary. When he hears about this, he’s going to want to put his oar in. God knows how much he’ll fuck us around. Then there’s you, boss.’ Trevor spoke more quietly. ‘There’s all those rumours out there about you and Cassatt. You’ve told me they’re shit and I accept that. But people are going to talk. The commissioner’s going to wonder what’s behind them, the way he always does. Every move we make, he’s going to be looking over our shoulders.’