‘That is possible, I suppose, although it’s a very complex job. An analysis like that won’t be quick.’
The sound of the traffic outside was muted through the tinted, double-glazed windows. Millennium Forensic Technologies was in Alexandria, in a plain, grey-green building that had once been a factory for manufacturing cardboard boxes. The scientist was tapping his pen on a notepad on the bench. He knew Harrigan well; had done work for him often enough before.
‘Are we going to be in danger doing this work?’ he asked.
‘You will be if it’s known you have these specimens.’
‘Who’s going to be paying for this?’
‘The police service. I want you to send the invoices directly to me. I guarantee you’ll be paid.’
‘And contact you personally when the results are in?’
‘Yes.’
‘All right,’ the scientist said after some moments. ‘I’ll take control of this job myself. Is there any backup in case someone does come knocking on my door?’
Harrigan handed over his card. ‘I’m contactable day and night if there are any issues, problems, anything.’
‘If there are, I’ll call.’
Harrigan left to go to his meeting with the minister, pleased that he had something else to occupy his mind. Otherwise caught on this rack, he would have gone mad. Mechanical speech and everyday actions were all that was possible. Everything else was closed down. Like Edwards, he thought, briefly caught with the irony of it all.
22
When, in the morning, the phone rang next to Grace’s bed, she hoped it was Harrigan.
Instead, the whispered voice was one she had first heard only a few days ago.
‘Grace,’ Daniel Brinsmead said. ‘I hope I’m not disturbing you.’
‘No,’ she said, sitting up in bed and glancing at the clock. It was 11 a.m. ‘How are you?’
‘I wondered if you had any spare time this afternoon. I wanted to talk to you about something.’
‘What?’
‘The police have released a sketch to the media, someone who’s implicated in kidnapping the commander’s son. I’m ringing you because I know him.’
‘You should call the police and talk to them,’ Grace said. ‘If you know where to find him, you have to tell them that immediately.’
‘I haven’t seen him for a number of years. I have a history relating to him. He’s responsible for the way I look now. This is more about my past than your companion’s son.’
‘You should still talk to the police.’
‘I would talk to the commander, but he must have other things on his mind right now and I wondered if you might be prepared to be a bridge between us. This is a personal story. Would you be prepared to come and see me? I don’t usually go out except to go to work so that means coming to where I live. It’s close to the city. I promise you, you’ll be completely safe. I’m not in a position to hurt a fly.’
When the phone rang, Grace had been lying in bed thinking that what she most wanted was for Harrigan to be here with her and for them to make love. The way things were, maybe they never would again. She thought of the gun in her bottom drawer and then tried to think why Daniel Brinsmead might mean her harm. What reason could he have? She was in a mood to walk out on that tightrope once again. It would make her feel better.
‘If it’s important, I can come and talk to you.’ ‘I think it is,’ he said. ‘I should warn you, I’m not much of a housekeeper. But I can make us some coffee.’
‘It’ll be fine. We can just talk. When?’ ‘Early afternoon. I’ll give you the address.’
Grace’s taxi dropped her outside an older-style apartment building up on the hill overlooking Rushcutters Bay Park. The entrance was a wooden-framed double glass door next to a bank of mailboxes. She buzzed the intercom and waited.
‘Grace?’
‘Yes, I’m downstairs.’
‘I’m in the penthouse. I’ll buzz you in.’
An old lift hauled her up slowly to the roof. On stepping out of the iron cage, the view was spectacular. The penthouse took up the western side of the top floor and looked across the harbour in the direction of the heads. Grace stopped to look over the railings at the park below. Crowds of tiny people covered the grass on the summer’s day. Around them, the city was spread out as an interwoven and chaotic pattern. To the west and the north, high-rises studded the foreshore. The harbour glittered, the Rushcutters Bay marina was packed with pleasure craft.
Close by was a rooftop swimming pool, emptied out by the city’s water restrictions in the continuing drought. Dead pot plants lined the pool’s fence and the gate was locked with a closed sign hung on it. She walked past it to reach the penthouse’s front door. Despite the spectacular view and the bright sunlight, all its curtains were drawn. It was some moments after she had rung the bell that Daniel Brinsmead opened the door. The sight of his face still had the power to shock.
‘Hi,’ she said.
‘Grace. Thanks for coming. I’m afraid the place is a mess and it’s dark as well. I have difficulty with the light. Believe me, I’m not trying to frighten you.’
‘You’re not.’
Even if he had, her gun was within reach in her shoulder bag. Dressed as he was in a white shirt and trousers, there seemed to be no place where he could have concealed a weapon. Through the light fabric she could see that his torso and the full length of his left arm were covered in dressings. At the hem of his trousers, the bandages from another dressing on his left leg were also visible.
She walked inside. He shut the front door behind her but left it on the latch; she could walk out any time she wanted to. His feet were covered with white ankle socks, which also had a medical look, and he moved awkwardly. A short entranceway took them through to a spacious lounge room that was partially lit by a standard lamp casting a soft light. A high bar stood between this room and a kitchen where the blinds were also drawn and a dull overhead light was on. No one had cleaned up from the last meal and the dishes were piled beside the sink despite there being a dishwasher. To her left, the lounge opened onto a hallway, again partially dark. She saw a row of three closed doors, with a fourth at the end of the hall facing towards the lounge. The apartment was silent. The air was cool, almost chill.
‘I keep the air conditioning up very high, I find it more comfortable that way,’ he said. ‘I hope it’s not too cold. Please sit down. Would you like a drink? Tea? A soft drink?’
‘No, I’m fine, thanks.’
She sat in a damask armchair, taking it for its proximity to the entranceway and the front door. The penthouse had the look of a place that was no one’s home. Sometime ago it had been furnished for hire with an expensive if impersonal veneer, now grubby with use. Used cups and old newspapers had been left lying on any spare surface, including the floor. On the sofa was a pile of car magazines. A stained and empty wine glass and a mobile phone stood on the coffee table. An unfinished game of two-pack patience was laid out on a nearby table. Brinsmead sat on the sofa beside the car magazines, pushing them out of his way.
‘This must look bad,’ he said. ‘I seem to have reached a point in my life where nothing that’s external to me matters. I have a carer who comes in and dresses my left side. She does that in the bathroom and makes sure it’s clean. But outside of that, I don’t seem to care. Unfortunately I’m in pain a lot of the time. The question is whether it’s bearable or not.’
‘It’s very impressive that you should be running the LPS signature project under those circumstances.’
‘Running that project doesn’t weigh me down as you might think it could. The opposite: it helps. I have to occupy my mind.’
‘I read in your resume you were in the army once. So was my father. He was a professional soldier. A brigadier.’
‘I was at Sandhurst. I didn’t last that long. I was very young and realised I wasn’t cut out for it. I had the idea that I was going to save the world. The army wasn’t the right place for that, I found out. Also I was very bad at taking orders. I went back to science. I have a doctorate from Durham University. I’ve worked in research institutes most of my working life, mainly in London.’