Harris and Jardine were plain-clothed detectives at Central police station. They'd written up the deaths of these men, and Jill had called them to let them know she and Scotty were coming out to talk. Jardine sounded as pleased as Scotty was about the meeting. He and Harris drank with Elvis. Jill had had to hold Scotty back at a work function one night when the three of them, pissed, had eyeballed each other across the room.
Scotty was scowling behind the wheel. Jill sat straight in her seat for once, her face white. She'd taken one of the tablets the doctor had given her for pain, and she felt muffled, dull. Scotty didn't seem in the mood to talk either, so Jill closed her eyes, relaxed into the seat a little. She slept.
Back in the basement. The little girl with white eyes was screaming again. The one with the big hands was burning her. When Jill had been kidnapped, and the pain and the fear had become unbearable, part of her had somehow shut off, or maybe separated. Suddenly it was like there were two girls in the basement – the white-eyed girl who took the pain, and a secret, hidden girl, who watched in muffled silence.
In the car with Scotty, Jill moaned in her sleep, trying to swim up through the waves of the drug, to wake up, break the nightmare, get out of the basement. Her thoughts were syrupy, her head too heavy. She couldn't rupture the dream. Resignedly, she looked around the basement. The perspective seemed different. She wasn't watching from the ceiling this time. For the first time she thought she could see the big one's face.
If I just move closer, she thought, get closer to the little girl.
Don't look at what he's doing, don't look down there.
His face. I think I can see his face.
Red eyes burned into her own. Jill stared into the horned face of the devil. She screamed.
Scotty pulled over on Cleveland Street. 'You okay?' He was smoothing her hair. She pushed him away and almost threw up with the pain.
'Sorry,' she croaked, her head in her hands. 'Nightmare.'
'No kidding,' he said, immobile behind the wheel.
'Why are we stopped?' she asked.
'I should take you home, Jill. You shouldn't be working today.'
Her tongue was furry. Even with all the drugs, her head still ached.
'I'm fine. Let's go,' she looked at Scotty. 'I just need another coffee.' The meeting with Harris and Jardine had been brief. Scotty, perhaps realising that Jill was not up to coping with aggression, led the conversation with the two detectives in a cordial manner. There was little discussed about the murdered men that Scotty and Jill did not already know. When the meeting finished, they left their car parked under the station and walked the couple of blocks down to Chinatown for lunch. Jill took it slowly, but she found the walk cleared her head a little.
They took a seat at an outdoor table in a small restaurant. The shopfronts provided some shade. The mall was full of office workers, locals and tourists.
Jill started summarising the case as soon as they sat down. She put her spiral bound notebook on the small table between them.
'Right. Let's run through the names we've got connected to these guys.' Scotty poured them each a green tea from the pot their waitress had brought over. He took a sip. 'Okay. Manzi was bashed to death by a claw hammer in the company of Jamaal Mahmoud.'
'And Mahmoud works for Alejandro Sebastian, who's been selling kids for at least ten years, and is number one on our hit list so far.' Jill circled his name in the notepad.
'According to Honey.' Scotty drank more tea.
'What's your point?'
'Well, you're putting a lot of faith in her version of events,' Scotty replied casually, his sunglasses reflecting back the red of a Chinese New Year flag hanging in a doorway next to their table.
Jill fidgeted with a menu. It was true that Honey had not always been completely straight up with her.
'Look,' she said finally. 'Sebastian's a squirrel. And I guarantee we're going to find he knows both these men.'
'So let's go talk to him,' Scotty was still looking at the menu. 'What do you reckon about Peking Duck?'
'I'm not really hungry.'
Jill felt irritated talking about food; the bitter medicinal paste of the painkillers still coated her tongue.
Their waitress stood a few paces from their table, smilingly trying to tempt others into the restaurant. Scotty cleared his throat, trying to catch her eye. She ran over to their table when he moved to get up from the tiny outdoor table. He ordered steamed pork dumplings, the duck, and deep-fried ice cream for both of them. Jill asked the waitress to swap her dessert for a ginger ale.
'I don't think we should talk to him yet,' said Jill broodingly, again bent over the notebook.
'Huh?' Scotty was chewing his coaster, watching the woman and two kids at the next table enjoying a huge spread of food.
'It's impossible working with you at lunchtime,' Jill gave a short laugh. 'I hope they hurry up with the food.'
'Yeah, me too,' said Scotty earnestly.
Jill smiled, and tried again.
'Scott.' Maybe using his real name would catch his attention, she thought. 'I reckon we should leave Mr Sebastian for now. He's clever and very guarded. I don't want him closing up shop before we can get anything on him.'
'Yeah. Okay.' Scotty tore his eyes away from the next table and studied the notebook. 'So what about Bobby Anglia? Known associate of Dennis Rocla. Rocla lived with him when his wife kicked him out. He's doing eighteen months at Long Bay.'
'Yeah? I'll set it up.' Jill already had her mobile out; if she hurried she could organise a trip to the prison that afternoon.
18
Mercy leaned back in the chair and sighed, rubbed her gritty eyes. She looked at the others in the group. They all looked alert and pleased to be there. Most mental health professionals usually had to fight to get supervision; Mercy was forced to attend.
She used to enjoy these meetings. Conducted by clinical psychologist Dr Noah Griffen, they were attended by two psychiatrists, a psych registrar, another psychologist, and Mercy. Each member of the group discussed their progress in therapy for the week, and one person brought a more detailed case for group discussion. The group members offered suggestions for difficult patients. Also encouraged was insight into personal feelings, and reactions the clinicians might be experiencing in therapy with their clients. Members were expected to bring to the group their feelings of frustration, anger, sadness, even lust, elicited during treatment sessions. Most of the therapists taped their sessions and each week an excerpt of a session was played to the members, who dissected its content. Mercy had learned lessons of great value in past groups.
Today, she tried to hide. She shifted in her seat, pulling her suit jacket down over her bulging stomach. Under the cover of her jacket, she popped the button on the fly of her pants, and a roll of fat eased out. God, that felt better. Worry about her ever-increasing weight rose from the swamp of her consciousness, but she forced the thoughts back below the surface. Blocking such mundane concerns grew easier every day.
She became aware of the woman next to her nudging Mercy's foot with her own, trying to attract her attention.
'Dr Merris. Mercy.' Noah Griffen was staring at her expectantly. 'Do you have your presentation ready?'
Mercy nodded and handed around the single-page summary of the case she'd brought for discussion today. She presented the case with her head down. She'd deliberately chosen one of her few non sex-abuse cases. She gave intelligible responses to the comments and questions and stood to leave as soon as the session started to wrap up.
She was first at the door when she heard her name called.