The Tribute

by John Byron

  ‘Oh!’ said Jo, snapping her fingers. ‘Fingerprint activation!’

  ‘Bingo.’ Nguyễn smiled. ‘He’s getting into their phones using their fingerprints.’

  ‘I thought that didn’t work once you’re dead,’ said Chartier.

  ‘Yes, something to do with skin conductivity,’ said Janssen.

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Nguyễn. ‘He has them unconscious first.’

  ‘So he gets into their phones before he kills them,’ said Chartier.

  ‘Nice thinking, Nguyễn,’ said Janssen.

  She shrugged. ‘I just had to get out of my own way. So I came in on Saturday and went back through all the victims’ text messages and emails and calendar entries around time of death, and I found a bunch that looked pretty suss.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘So, Laura Newman, for instance. Curl Curl. Friday morning she sends a couple of texts to cancel her plans for the Queen’s Birthday long weekend, which was mountain-biking and wine-tasting up the Hunter. She’s got the flu. Just like that, her weekend’s freed up. Those friends leave her alone because they think she’s sick and everyone else thinks she’s away. So she’s alone with him until her ex drops in on Monday night to see if she needs anything.’

  ‘That’s brilliant.’

  ‘You can’t be completely sure it’s him, because the texts have to sound like the vics for it to work. But the final messages are about clearing the time ahead, without fail, all sent within the window for estimated time of death. Then radio silence.’

  ‘How did we not pick this up? Didn’t the uniforms go over these already?’

  ‘Yeah, they did, and Niko had a look too, but all our victims are forever rearranging things. It didn’t look out of the ordinary. This last one for Brendan Evans looks obvious now, once you think of it, but in context it just looked typical.’

  ‘So you’ve tracked them down for all the vics?’

  ‘Yeah, I came back in yesterday and went through the rest. Most are texts and emails, so we have those, but there weren’t any at all for Henley. Then I remembered that Hall emailed his assistant asking her to clear his diary: he’s crook as Rookwood; doctor says he needs the rest of the week off. I realised the work diary could be cleared manually in the phone app, which would explain Henley.’

  ‘So he’s deleting diary commitments just before he kills them. Genius.’

  ‘Yeah, or adding red herrings to account for their absence from work. We can’t be sure until we get the time stamps for those electronic updates from their employers.’

  ‘This is bloody good work, Nguyễn,’ said Chartier. Jo agreed.

  ‘It’s excellent,’ said Janssen. ‘Although it won’t lead us to him, unfortunately.’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ said Jo. ‘I mean, he already knows at least some of their plans before he arrives. That’s a privileged position.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Nguyễn. ‘Newman for instance. She worked from home every Friday, and that’s when he went in. He knew she’d be there.’

  ‘And presumably he knew about the Hunter Valley plans, so he could exploit them,’ said Chartier. ‘That’s got to help narrow down who he could be.’

  ‘Well done, Nguyễn,’ said Janssen. ‘Why don’t you go home for some proper sleep? You’ve done your bit.’

  ‘No, I’ll stick around to brief the boss. Where is he, anyway?’

  ‘He had to drop Sylvia at the doctor’s,’ said Jo.

  ‘No worries, I have to write it up anyway,’ said Nguyễn. ‘And I want to follow up the calendar amendments with the companies.’

  ‘Okay, if you’re sure,’ said Janssen. ‘This is your baby now.’

  ‘Bloody oath it is!’ She accepted a fist bump from Chartier, then took another Iced VoVo as a reward.

  Saturday 24 November – afternoon

  When Jo couldn’t take any more, Amy drew back and blew gently, watching her pulsate with pleasure, then wriggled up the bed and draped her arm across her lover’s heaving torso. ‘Happy birthday, love,’ Amy said.

  ‘Bloody hell, Amy,’ Jo said, when she’d recovered the power of speech, ‘you certainly know your way around a cunt.’

  Amy laughed. ‘Years and years of dedicated practice.’

  ‘Ten thousand hours, do you reckon?’

  ‘At least. I’ve been in constant training since the year nine tennis camp.’

  ‘I’m impressed. Maybe you could help me get my hours up?’

  ‘Looking for volunteers, are you?’

  ‘Always.’ Jo blushed suddenly. ‘That sounds pretty slutty, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Not to me.’ Amy laughed. ‘I’m in no position to judge.’

  ‘Do tell?’

  ‘I have my moments. But surely you haven’t been on a desert island yourself?’

  ‘Almost, actually, until recently.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah, I spent the last eighteen months in my cave, with the odd foray into the wild. I wasn’t fit for consumption; the whole marriage catastrophe did my head in.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘The romantic-industrial complex. Lachlan’s a decent man, but all that coupledom shit made me miserable. Made us both miserable.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve been there. Not for me. The romantic-industrial complex – I like that.’

  ‘Red roses, diamond rings, Valentine’s Day, candlelit dinners, silk lingerie. Weaponising love for profit.’

  ‘Woah, too far. Back up, sister.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘You cannot seriously be against silk underwear.’

  ‘Fair call, I take that back. But I stand by the rest of it. And the whole construct is just toxic for women, even though we’re the ones expected to police it.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know about that.’

  ‘You’ve never been with a bloke?’ Jo asked.

  ‘Nup. I had a male flatmate once, closest I’ll ever get. He was a complete pig.’

  ‘Bet you did all the washing up.’

  ‘Yeah I did,’ Amy said, laughing. She propped herself up on her elbow and looked down at Jo. ‘So you got divorced and you’ve left the convent and now you want to explore.’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Good on you, Jo.’

  ‘What about you? Are you seeing anyone else?’

  ‘I have a few friends. And I don’t mind a little novelty now and then.’

  ‘Sounds all right to me.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s nice. But you have to work at keeping it low drama. Doesn’t stay that way by itself.’

  ‘That’s what I mean about the culture.’

  ‘So what about men?’ Amy asked.

  ‘There is one, at the moment.’

  ‘And what about men’s expectations?’

  ‘I’m just being really clear. I define myself socially, but not inside a unit of two.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s it. It’s like, I have lots of friends I have sex with …’

  ‘Just how many of us do you have on the go?’ Jo laughed, pushing Amy onto her back. ‘A round number will do.’

  ‘It’s not like that,’ Amy said, smiling. ‘My point is that nobody has a claim on me.’

  ‘I want to be able go with whatever feels right. It’s not like it’s always about sex, but I don’t want to arbitrarily rule it out either, you know?’

  ‘Yeah. I love that spark, and it doesn’t care who else I’m fucking, that’s for sure.’

  ‘So why are we expected to only explore it with one person at a time?’

  ‘The romantic-industrial complex,’ said Amy.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘So, this man; does he know about us?’

  ‘No. He knows I’m seeing someone else, but that’s all.’ Jo didn’t like keeping secrets from Amy and Thijs, but in each case they’d instinctively known to keep the relationship quiet, at least while Jo was seconded to the squad. Amy wasn’t going to press her for the man’s identity while expecting Jo to keep her ow
n name out of despatches. It was the same for Thijs. Keeping faith with those tacit undertakings avoided the whole awkwardness issue, too. But it wasn’t ideal.

  ‘What is it, hun?’

  Jo realised she’d been staring out the window. ‘Does that bother you?’ she asked Amy. ‘That I’m seeing a man?’

  ‘You don’t need my permission.’

  ‘I know, I’m not asking for that. But how do you feel about it?’

  ‘It’s your choice, Jo. I don’t get a say. I don’t want a say.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Jo shook her head. ‘I’m not quite used to it yet, sorry.’

  ‘It’s not going to scare me off, if that’s what’s worrying you,’ said Amy, rolling onto Jo’s chest. ‘Even if I don’t need cock like you do.’

  Jo laughed. She kissed Amy and slid her hands down the length of her back to cradle her arse. ‘I don’t need cock, honey. Not when I’m with you.’

  ‘For an anti-romantic you say the sweetest things.’

  Jo rolled them over so she was on top. ‘It’s not just talk, you know.’

  ‘Whatever could you mean?’

  ‘Allow me to demonstrate,’ said Jo, heading south.

  Friday 30 November – afternoon

  Murphy stalked towards the briefing area. He made no sound, but his intensity produced its own gravitational field. Jo had sensed it from the moment he’d put his office phone down: she had a finely calibrated radar for her brother’s moods, and it seemed his detectives were almost as sensitised. He stood looking at the incident board while everyone assembled to hear the bad news.

  ‘I just had a call from Commissioner Carr,’ said Murphy when he turned around. ‘The media unit says the Sydney Envoy is going to give us a touch-up on the front page tomorrow morning.’ That wasn’t good, but it wasn’t surprising either. The case had been running for seven months without a significant breakthrough. Media criticism had been building, and a major serve in the newspaper was only a matter of time. In some respects it was overdue.

  But Murphy’s next remark explained his displeasure. ‘The yarn’s going to be framed around a big scoop on the killer’s use of fingerprints to access the victims’ mobile phones.’ He looked pointedly at Nguyễn.

  ‘I never spoke to anyone at the Envoy, boss,’ she said in a quavering voice.

  ‘So I understand, Nguyễn, and it’s just as fucken well. Because anyone who talks to a journalist about a case without my explicit approval gets transferred to the Back of Bourke West fucken dog-catching unit. No exceptions, no second chances. Does everyone understand me?’

  There was a murmur of concurrence. Jo felt it best to mumble along.

  ‘My old mate Hollier says some fucken graduate punk trying to steal his crime patch got the story from Recondite Technologies.’

  Nguyễn flushed all over again. Recondite Technologies was Damien Henley’s employer – she’d obtained from them the update history for his electronic diary scheduler.

  ‘I don’t …’ Nguyễn began. ‘How could …?’ Then she stopped cold.

  ‘They might have worked out the fingerprint angle themselves,’ suggested Chartier. ‘It’s not such a leap from the data request.’

  ‘Yeah, they might’ve,’ said Murphy, gazing levelly at Nguyễn. ‘Did they?’

  ‘No, boss,’ she admitted miserably. She’d shared her theory with Henley’s boss while sweet-talking him into giving her the data.

  Murphy softened his tone – an honest confession went a long way with him. ‘Look, I realise we need to give people something to get their cooperation. That’s the reality. But we’re on a fucken hair-trigger here, and the media will use any pretext to murder us.’

  ‘It’s dishonest of them to use an inspired piece of police work to frame an attack about lack of progress,’ observed Janssen.

  ‘It’s fucken horribly ironic is what it is, and it’s grossly unfair, but that’s how it works,’ said Murphy. ‘They’re going for all-out panic – the story will suggest that anyone in Sydney who cancels an appointment electronically could be the next victim. The despatch team is bracing for a surge of 000 false alarms.’

  Nguyễn groaned.

  ‘The ambos and the fireys are going to love us,’ said Nikolaidis.

  ‘At least they’re not editorialising against us yet,’ said Murphy. ‘The commissioner reckons one more victim and they’ll let rip. You think I’m pissed off, you should hear him. He was off to tell the minister about it next, soon as he finished giving me six of the best. Fuck knows what mood he’s in by now.’

  ‘Where to from here, boss?’ asked Harris, who had broken out in a cold sweat of sympathy. Thank fuck it wasn’t me this time was written all over his face.

  ‘From now on we go full cone of silence. Commissioner’s orders. No pillow talk, no front-bar chat, no locker-room banter – no matter how trivial. No exceptions, at all. Not your missus, not your mistress, not your priest. Even the morgue: keep it to absolute essentials only. Jo, you’re inside the tent, and Mack’s cleared, but otherwise it’s sworn police only. That clear?’

  Everyone muttered in assent.

  ‘Nguyễn, I’m not holding you personally responsible – it could have been any of you – but this is the last time it happens.’

  ‘Yes, boss. Thank you.’

  ‘After this story breaks tomorrow you’ll be quizzed by everyone from the lowest-life fucken gutter-press hack camped in your backyard shithouse to your Uncle Fuck-Knuckle at your next family piss-up. It doesn’t matter what they ask you, there is only one right answer and it only has two words. What are they, Janssen?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Correct: no fucken comment. Now back to work, the lot of you. And if you run into the commissioner having brunch this weekend I suggest you try another cafe.’ Murphy turned and stalked off to his office.

  The detectives all returned to their desks except Nguyễn, who just stood there, mortified.

  ‘I’m going out for a coffee, Liệu,’ said Jo. ‘You want to come?’

  Nguyễn smiled gratefully ‘Thanks, mate.’ They headed for the stairs.

  Friday, 30 November – evening

  Sylvia was slicing onions when she heard the front door open and close. ‘Hi, Dave!’ she sang out. There was no answer. She stopped cutting and stood still, but there was only silence. She had definitely heard the front door, though. She was suddenly aware of how vulnerable she was, and how alone.

  She approached the hall cautiously, long knife in hand, and turned into the doorway just as Murphy came through it. They very nearly collided.

  ‘Jesus, Sylvia, what the fuck?’ exclaimed Murphy. ‘Be careful with that thing!’

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, lowering the knife. ‘You didn’t answer.’

  ‘Who’d you expect it to be?’ He stalked into the kitchen and deposited his revolver in its drawer, slamming it shut. He leaned back against the bench, rubbing his temples with his eyes screwed shut.

  ‘I’m sorry, Dave,’ she repeated. She set the knife down on the chopping board.

  ‘Sorry’s not much help if you disembowel me, is it?’

  She decided against asking about his day, going with the old reliable fallback. ‘Would you like a drink?’

  ‘I’d fucken love one.’ He sighed, taking off his tie.

  Sylvia moved to the sideboard and uncorked the Lagavulin. ‘Whisky?’

  ‘How about a G&T?’

  She swapped the malt for a bottle of Four Pillars and pulled out a glass.

  ‘Have one with me.’ His voice had a little gravel in it now.

  ‘I’m good,’ she replied. ‘I’ll have wine with dinner.’

  ‘Not very sociable to let someone drink alone.’ It was not a suggestion.

  She withdrew another glass, filled both with ice, then free-poured a shot into each, one long and one short. She added the tonic water then went back to the kitchen, where Murphy was still leaning against the bench. ‘Why don’t you sit down,’ she said. ‘I’ll bri
ng it to you.’ She selected a lime from the fruit bowl on the kitchen bench.

  ‘I’m fine here.’

  ‘Excuse me, then.’ He moved aside slightly, and she opened the top drawer and reached in for the old paring knife she always used for slicing limes. A long-dead great aunt had introduced Sylvia to gin when she’d visited her in Tasmania the summer she’d finished university. She’d given Sylvia the knife to remember her by.

  Her hand found the knife, but before she could pull it out Murphy leaned against the drawer, hard, crushing her fingers above the second knuckle and trapping them there. She cried out in pain, tears springing immediately to her eyes.

  ‘What’s up, love?’ he asked, eyes front.

  ‘Dave, please,’ she whimpered.

  Murphy made a show of looking down at her hand in the drawer. ‘Oh, how’d you manage that, darlin’?’ He pushed off the drawer with a bounce. She opened it with her left hand and extracted the wounded right. There were unhealthy white stripes across the indented flesh, and swollen purple flesh beyond the compression points. ‘I bet that smarts,’ said Murphy as he cut a wedge of lime for his drink.

  Her fingers throbbed visibly, and it hurt to move them even slightly. At least they seemed intact this time, although she could already tell she’d need an X-ray. She concentrated on her breathing, not trusting herself to speak.

  ‘You need to take more care around the kitchen, Sylvia.’ Murphy took his glass to the living room. ‘They’re dangerous places, you know.’ He sprawled on the sofa and reached for the remote. ‘And you are a bit prone to accidents.’ He turned on the television and flicked until he found a grand prix replay.

  Sylvia stood still for a few minutes with her back to her husband, her head resting on a cupboard. She ran the tap and found a gentle tepid stream that seemed to help. She held her hand under it until the throbbing subsided and some tactile sensation returned. She remembered her gin and downed it in one go, the warmth spreading across her chest and numbing the pain a little.