‘Just remember. You’re only human. Think about it like that.’
I do think about it. But it’s not what I want just now. I’ll tell you when I change my mind. It’s like you. You don’t have to be a policeman forever. One day you’ll change your mind.
‘I’ll still have to find a way to earn a living.’
You’re only human. Maybe you could think about it like that.
Harrigan laughed. At the same time, his beeper went.
‘Wait a second, mate. I’ve got to make a call,’ he said. Walking towards the pool, he turned on his phone. ‘Tell me that again,’ he said after some moments, his tone almost incredulous. There was a lengthy silence. ‘No, I’m still here. I’m just taking it in. I’m on my way right now.’
What is it?
‘Mate, I’ve got to go. I always do, don’t I? Let me know how things work out for your barbecue. Am I invited?’
Yeah, you and Grace. But if you come, you have to stay.
‘I’ll do my best.’
No, Dad. If you want to come along, you have to stay.
‘If that’s what you want, then I’ll stay.’
Harrigan was about to drive out of the car park when he saw a dark brown Holden station wagon pull into one of the visitor spots. A teenage girl got out, slender in jeans and a T-shirt. Her hair was a bounce of dark curls streaked with iridescent pink and she had a piercing in her nose. Emma. She was followed by an older woman whom he guessed to be her mother. He should have stopped to introduce himself but he didn’t have the time. Just think about my son, he thought as he drove away. Don’t go breaking his heart or driving him to distraction.
He drove over to Waverley Cemetery as fast as the traffic would allow. When he reached Freeman’s house, the street was full of police cars. Freeman’s neighbours crowded the tall windows of their houses, watching. Harrigan ducked under the blue ribbons. Freeman lay where he had fallen. He was surrounded by the pathologist’s team who were photographing him. For the second time in two days, Harrigan saw the huge figure of McMichael bending over another of what he sarcastically described as his clients.
Harrigan walked along the side lane. He saw Grace’s car, Rosebud, a lovingly polished 1972 red Datsun 240Z, parked beside the gate. She called it her piece of retro culture on wheels and had done out the interior in seventies kitsch, right down to the zebra-striped seat covers. A uniformed officer let him into the backyard. Trevor was standing beside the back door, talking to two of his people. Harrigan walked up to him and the two officers went inside the house.
‘Where’s Grace?’
‘She’s inside taking Frankie through what happened,’ Trevor said. ‘Do you want to talk to her?’
‘When she’s finished. What was she doing here in the first place?’
‘She says Freeman came up to her on Bondi beach. You’ll remember the Firewall investigation-Gina Farrugia and her boyfriend? Freeman killed the both of them here in his cellar. It was on his mind.’
‘Are you telling me Jerry Freeman had something on his conscience?’
‘Apparently. He was dying of heart failure. He wanted to share it with someone before he carked it.’
Harrigan believed this no more than if he’d been offered a three-dollar note and assured it was legal tender. ‘Show me where it happened,’ he said.
He followed Trevor through Freeman’s squalid house, wondering why anyone would want to live like this.
‘What happened in here?’ he asked.
‘According to Gracie, Freeman told her the place was turned over while he was in hospital. He didn’t know why. But that’s why I’m here, boss, when I’ve got other things to do. If the Ice Cream Man’s dead up at Pittwater and someone’s taking pot shots at Freeman down here, it’d be nice to know if there’s any connection. Especially when someone’s done over the place like this.’
‘Why did Grace come back here if all Freeman wanted to do was unburden himself? Did he have something he wanted to give her? Maybe something connected to the Ice Cream Man?’
‘You’d think that but she says no. She says she drove him home because he was too sick to get here by himself.’
Harrigan perceived that Trevor had as many doubts about the story as he did. If Grace had been anyone else, Trevor would have found a way to search her bag and her car, even her person if necessary. Harrigan would have expected him to. But because of who she was, Trevor wouldn’t lay a finger on her. He’d accept what she had to say and wait for her to decide to tell him the whole story.
Out on the porch, Freeman lay face down on the steps. The bulk of his body and his blood covered them. When Harrigan appeared, McMichael straightened up, raising his bushy eyebrows.
‘Harrigan. We meet again after less than twenty-four hours. You could be stalking me. Not a good idea. I only go where the dead people are.’
‘That thought had crossed my mind before today. Just tell me how he died.’
‘He took three bullets to the chest. One went straight through the heart. I’d suggest it probably shortened his life by about half an hour. He was a very sick man. He appears to have saved your lovely lady friend’s life by making himself the target instead of her. Maybe you should thank him posthumously.’
‘I’d watch what you say, Ken. You’re not sacrosanct,’ Harrigan said in the very calm voice he used only when he was genuinely angry. McMichael took the meaning and went back to work without another word.
Harrigan thought how all three of the men who had once tried to kill him were now dead. The last of them, Freeman, had just fallen through that small, immense crack between here and nowhere, pushed out by someone who wasn’t so very different from Freeman himself. Harrigan could ask himself why he’d built his life around men like this. He went back inside with Trevor.
‘Is what old Slice and Dice just said true?’ he asked.
‘Pretty much. According to Gracie, Freeman put himself between her and the gun. The gunman was riding a motorbike and he was helmeted up. All she could tell us about him was that he wasn’t a very big man. The patrol saw him turning into the lane when they were coming in the other end of the street. We’re looking for him now.’
‘Who phoned in?’
‘A woman two doors down. She didn’t hear anything. She went out to check her mail and saw Freeman all over the steps. Gracie said the gun was pretty quiet.’
‘Where is she now?’
‘Down in the cellar with Frankie. She was pretty cool, boss,’ Trevor added admiringly. ‘Anyone else would have been dead by now.’
‘Yeah,’ Harrigan replied, feeling ice all the way down his spine.
He looked down into Freeman’s filthy private graveyard, now glaringly lit. Broken rock and grey dust covered a packed earthen floor, turned almost monochrome under the white light. Grace hadn’t seen him. She had her hair tied back and was holding herself too straight. He could see the tension in her shoulders. Trevor’s senior sergeant, a sharp-tongued, sharp-minded woman, was with her. As frumpy as an unfashionable primary school teacher in her paisley blouse and ugly navy slacks, Frankie was as cynical as they came.
‘I was standing there,’ Grace was saying. Harrigan watched her point to a place under the stairs. ‘He had a South African accent. Soft voice. His exact words were: “Are you in there, man? I’ll find you. I’ll hear you breathe.” He tried to come down the stairs but they were too shaky and he couldn’t see in the dark. He would have known I had a gun and that I’d used it just a short time ago. Then he left.’
‘This was Freeman’s gun?’
‘Yes, he took it out when I got here. He was worried for his safety. He told me to hold on to it.’
‘You didn’t think that was strange?’
‘No. It fitted the man he was,’ Grace replied.
‘And you think this killer was a professional?’
‘I’d say he’s done this before. I couldn’t tell what make his gun was but it wasn’t something you’d buy cheaply. He shot left-handed as well.’ Grace folded her arms protectively about herself. ‘Is that it? Can we get out of here now?’