‘No, he knows I do. It’s one of five. The other four were in a bag on the chair. He took them with him.’
‘Grace, you’re in real danger.’
‘Wait,’ she said. ‘There are other things you need to know. Today’s gunman is the same person who turned over Freeman’s house. He didn’t find the tape but he did find copies of the photos on the CD. He told me that today when I was in the cellar. He was trying to cajole me into coming out.’
‘You shouldn’t have been there.’
‘It’s okay. I handled it. According to Freeman, this man must have killed the Ice Cream Man because Cassatt was the only other person who knew this information existed. Also, Sam Jonas was there today. She must have been watching the house and seen me arrive with Freeman. She walked up to ask me what I was doing there. She knew who I was and that something was going to happen. She drove away and left us there to get shot.’
‘Christ,’ Harrigan said, still staring at the photograph. ‘You’ve got to have protection.’
‘No. I don’t want people breathing down my neck. Look, for all the gunman knows, I’ve given this tape to the police or to you. Which I have. Why would he think I’ve kept it? If he was going to try and get to me, it would be to ask that single question: where is it?’
Harrigan tossed the picture onto the car seat and almost slammed the door. ‘Why did you put yourself in danger like that? Why didn’t you tell Freeman to wait until you could get in touch with me?’
‘He was dying.’
‘He was scum!’
‘I can’t call him scum, not now. He saved my life,’ she said.
‘I’m supposed to feel grateful to the man who almost killed me! Grace, you have to come back to my place. If you won’t have protection, I’ve got to keep you safe.’
‘I can look after myself here.’
‘You don’t have a gun. I’ve got one I can give you,’ he said, his tone heated.
‘I don’t need a gun from you.’
‘Why? Have you got one? I didn’t think you did.’
‘No, I don’t,’ she said angrily, looking away.
Harrigan hated guns; he always had, despite the fact that his work revolved around them and he had carried them often enough. Nothing filled him with more contempt than the sight of new officers-men or women-whose egos swelled as soon as they put on their firearms for the first time. It disturbed him to think she might have a gun when he didn’t know about it.
‘I’ve got to listen to this tape,’ he said. ‘Come back with me. We’ll be safer together.’
‘Then I’ll be stranded. I don’t have my car. You’ve taken it in. The police garage will keep it from here till eternity.’
‘I had to do that. You know that.’ Suddenly Harrigan was angry as well. ‘You shouldn’t have spoken to me like that in front of my people. It looked bad.’
‘Can’t you handle it? Not everyone jumps when you say jump.’ She turned to him. He couldn’t recall the last time she’d looked so angry. ‘I knew what I was doing today. I’m a professional. I trusted my judgement and I was right to do so. I have the training to deal with that situation and I did deal with it.’
‘No, Grace. I know you. You like to take risks. You take them whenever you’re upset. That’s what you were doing today and you almost got shot! It doesn’t matter how professional you are, one day your judgement’s going to be wrong. It has to be. I’ve got a reconstructed jaw to prove it.’
‘I did what I did because I thought it would help you. You can’t say it won’t. All that information is invaluable and you know it.’
‘I’d never ask you to do anything like that for me.’
‘Then maybe I won’t in future. See you.’
She walked off quickly. Exasperated, he went after her.
‘That wasn’t an insult. I know how valuable this information is. That goes without saying. All I meant is that you don’t have to risk your life for me.’
She was at the door to the stairs, opened it. ‘I need to think. I’ll talk to you later.’
‘All right, whatever you want.’ He’d had enough. ‘My door is open if you want to come and see me tonight. If you don’t, fine, but that’s your decision. I want you there. If you don’t want to be there, that’s up to you. I’ll see you.’
The door to the stairs slammed shut. She was gone. He drove out of the garage into the late afternoon with a sense of finality, of leaving and never coming back. She could come to him if she wanted him this time. There were times when there was nothing else to do but leave it to her. He drove towards the city feeling drained of any emotion.
12
The television blared at the crowded waiting room in Coolemon District Hospital, a news update being broadcast during a break in the one-day cricket match. A smiling blonde-haired woman appeared sitting at the desk.
‘Police have released no further details concerning the second unnamed man found dead in the house of businesswoman Natalie Edwards, despite the release on the internet of photographs of the victims earlier today. John Makaris begins our exclusive coverage at the scene. A warning that some viewers may find the following scenes disturbing.’
It was the first time Harold had seen the photograph. He had no computer and hadn’t turned on his television that day. It shocked him so much he forgot briefly the pain of his burned hands. Jerome, a dead man at the table, stared out at him from the television screen. The name of the other dead man, ex-Detective Senior Sergeant Michael Cassatt, was repeated with endless close-ups of his mummified body.
‘Harold Morrissey.’
The doctor was calling him in his impenetrable accent. Originally from Glasgow, William Campbell had been despatched to the isolated confines of Coolemon District Hospital for four years by the Department of Immigration as a condition of his permanent residence in Australia. It had been said that when he first arrived, people needed subtitles to understand his dialect. Still, they’d found him to be a good doctor and trusted him.
He swabbed Harold’s hands clean and examined them.
‘How did you do this? Did you touch any kind of acid or corrosive substance today?’
‘I don’t know what caused it, Doc. Something out on the farm I picked up.’
‘Didn’t you notice at the time?’
‘No.’
‘That’s hard to believe. Whatever it was, it’s burned through the skin almost down to the flesh. You’d have very hard hands normally, wouldn’t you?’
‘I’ve been a farmer all my life. They’re not soft.’
‘I don’t know what state your hands would be in now if they were. I’ve not seen anything like this before. It’s beyond the treatment I can give you here. You need to see a burns specialist.’
‘I can’t leave my farm,’ Harold said.
‘You’ll have to,’ the young man replied firmly. ‘I’ll make the arrangements. In the meantime, I’ll prescribe you painkillers and we’ll get those wounds dressed. I’ll give you some sleeping tablets as well. The pain might keep you awake tonight.’
It was a lengthy process. Harold’s hands were photographed and samples taken of the burnt skin. When he was finished, the doctor handed him a letter with the details of his appointment at the burns unit at Concord Hospital within the week. Harold could barely thank him. A trip to Sydney was the last thing he had time for right now.
‘You have to go,’ the doctor reiterated. ‘How did you get here today?’
‘My neighbours. She drove me in their car and he drove my ute for me.’
‘You’re not going to drive home!’
‘I have to, Doc. I can’t live where I do and not drive. You’ve just shot me full of painkillers and I’ve got a whole packet here. I’ve got to use my hands.’
The doctor admitted defeat. ‘If you need more, ring me. Try to be as careful as you can. And keep that appointment.’
Harold left the hospital and drove back to Yaralla. His progress was slow; even with painkillers it was difficult to drive. Eventually Naradhan Creek came into view, marked by a thick line of old red gums and low scrub. He crossed the creek, but instead of going straight ahead through his main gate, he turned left onto the Creek Lane. He was visiting Ambrosine.