by John Byron
Tuesday 15 January – noon
Porter stood in the front foyer of his house for the last time.
He had tended to his injuries and destroyed the incriminating driver’s licence and papers from the Randwick debacle. He had retrieved his go-bag, a tactical backpack stuffed with equipment, supplies and rations – including $10,000 in used banknotes – to keep him going through a range of fugitive scenarios. He had a canvas weekender with several changes of clothes, his running gear and another $50,000 in cash beneath a false bottom. The bulk of his money was spread innocuously across a dozen bank accounts in a variety of false names.
The rest he would abandon: his home, his art, even his precious New Fabrica. He had his high-quality photocopies of Volumes VI and VII, and the beautiful new edition was a liability now. He had to harden his heart to all sentiment, other than his thirst for revenge. That he would nurture, cultivate, slake.
He would honour the Master by continuing his Tribute, striking quickly in the quarter least anticipated. The police would expect him either to flee the city, or to make another attempt on Murphy’s wife, who was stable in intensive care, according to the radio. They would never predict the move he was about to make.
He collected his bags and went through the front door without a backward glance, pausing only to lock it behind him. No point making it easy for them.
Tuesday 15 January – afternoon
By unspoken agreement, Murphy and the suit in 1A ignored one another until they landed, when it was safe to exchange comradely banter about the relative merits of Sydney and Melbourne with respect to weather. Then he was first off the aircraft and straight into another cart. Within minutes of docking he was striding across the footpath through the humidity to the waiting unmarked.
‘Any progress?’ he asked Harris by way of greeting.
‘Shit, yeah.’ Harris was grimly pleased as he drove away. ‘Niko’s got a dozen really clean stills from your security video. He’s running scans with Roads now, on the driver’s licence photo bank. The Feds are searching the passports database.’
‘Same bloke from the Hordern’s footage?’
‘Niko says so, yeah.’
Murphy’s phone rang: it was Janssen. He hooked into the car’s stereo and answered. ‘Where are you?’
‘Surry Hills. But, boss: we’ve identified him.’
‘You fucken beauty! Who is he?’
‘Stephen Samuel Porter. Lives in Marrickville, works in Alexandria.’
‘Have you despatched?’
‘Nguyễn’s doing it now. Which one do you want?’
‘You’re closer to Alexandria. We’ll take Marrickville.’ Harris changed lanes accordingly.
‘17 Helena Street, off Sydenham Road,’ said Janssen. ‘And get this: he works for Denison Bank.’
‘Wait. Oh, fuck,’ said Murphy, clicking his fingers. ‘Sylvia lost her credit card on Sunday. She rang the bank to report it. Jo and I were with her.’
‘The Fort?’ asked Janssen.
‘Yes, the fucken Fort.’
‘I knew it,’ said Harris.
‘I owe you a beer, son,’ said Murphy.
But Harris was in no mood for laurels. ‘Let’s find the bastard, first.’
‘Listen, Janssen: phone Tom Adams before you go in. Tell him about this lost card angle.’
‘Might be better coming from you, Spud. I don’t really know him.’
‘I couldn’t take it, mate, he’d be all tea and sympathy. Besides, it’s your case. Protocol, remember?’
‘Fair enough. I’ll call him on the way.’
‘Any news about Sylvia?’
‘Yes, Mack spoke with them a short while ago. Critical but stable. They’re keeping her unconscious for now, to minimise brain swelling. She has a number of injuries but the main concern is the blow to the back of her head. It was quite severe.’
Murphy took a deep breath. ‘Do they think there’s permanent damage?’
‘The scans were inconclusive. Mack says there’s no way to know for sure until she wakes up and starts talking. She’s in a private room within ICU. I don’t think you can see her yet.’
‘Okay. I should wait for Jo, anyway. Have you heard from Chartier?’
‘No, her phone’s going straight to voicemail. I’ve left some messages but haven’t heard back.’
‘Keep trying.’ They hung up.
Murphy’s phone rang again immediately. It was Hollier, the Envoy journalist. Murphy took as much of the journo’s contrition as he could handle, declined a request for an exclusive follow-up and hung up.
Then the commissioner phoned. ‘We’re all thinking of your wife, Detective Murphy. She’ll be guarded around the clock, as long as she’s in hospital, and of course we’re deploying every resource to catching him. You need to know this is personal now, for all of us. You have the entire Force at your side.’
‘Thank you, commissioner; that means a lot. We have a positive ID. My team’s on the way to both residence and workplace.’
‘Yes, about that. You understand you’re off the case now, don’t you, detective?’
Murphy seethed, but kept his tone level. ‘Yes, sir, I understand.’ Harris shot him a questioning look, but Murphy waved impatiently at the road beyond the windscreen – just keep going.
‘You can stay in your office and do some desk work on the case, but Janssen’s in charge and you’re confined to barracks, do you understand?’
‘Sir.’
‘No interference, detective, or I’ll bring you out to headquarters. I mean it.’
‘Of course, sir,’ said Murphy. ‘Thank you, sir.’ He hung up before his relief made the commissioner think again.
Harris checked his mirror to change lanes. ‘So, back to the office, is it?’
‘Nah, fuck that,’ said Murphy. ‘You’re off to see where this prick lives, Detective Harris. I’m just sitting in the passenger seat. Anyway, what the brass don’t know.’ He was not about to be locked up with the bosses in the executive offices out at Parramatta, but keeping away from the investigation wasn’t an option either.
Harris returned to his original lane and put his foot down.
From then on the phone rang non-stop, with the entire police command expressing their concern. They meant well, but sweet Jesus. After the police minister’s office rang, Murphy diverted all calls except those from Homicide. Fuck’s sake. It’s not as if she’s died.
Porter’s place was fifty metres down from Sydenham Road on a T-intersection supervised by a quiet neighbourhood pub. It was a modest brown-brick house from the thirties with geometric stained-glass casement windows, a deep front verandah and a roof of lichened terracotta tiles.
The block was cordoned off by half a dozen patrol cars and a swarm of uniforms. A tactical unit executed an orthodox frontal assault. Murphy was third man in, even though he wasn’t officially there.
They found the house unoccupied and cleared out. Murphy phoned Mack.
‘I hear Niko identified him?’ said Mack.
‘Yeah, I’m at his house now. Dunno what you’re gunna find; it’s freakishly tidy. Looks like he’s shot through.’
‘If he lived in it, we’ll find plenty.’
Murphy had his doubts, but just grunted.
‘Spud, I’m so sorry about Sylvia,’ said Mack.
‘Thanks, Mack. I appreciate you keeping up with her condition.’
‘No bother at all. Head of Emergency’s an old mate. We interned together in Tamworth.’
‘I’d be grateful if you could keep tabs on her, Mack. I’m going to have my hands full trying to catch this bastard.’
‘Of course, Spud.’
‘Can you give me a bit more detail? What’s with this head injury?’
‘Well, it isn’t good, but they’re saying it isn’t terrible.’ Mack clearly hoped to leave it there.
‘Come on, Mack. Do you want me to read about it in the Tele?’
The medico drew a deep breath. ‘She’s in an ind
uced coma, Spud. She had a lot of head trauma, so the main worries are swelling and the risk of a bleed. So far the scans are clear but anything can still happen. Staying under in ICU gives her the best chance of stabilising.’
‘And then what? Will there be any brain damage?’
‘It’s hard to tell yet but I’m told the prospects are good, as long as there’s no bleeding.’
‘What else did he do to her?’
‘She had multiple facial fractures including a badly broken nose. A few broken ribs, a couple of broken fingers. Dislocated right shoulder and right thumb. And that nasty occipital fracture.’ Mack cut himself short.
Murphy wasn’t having it. ‘Come on, Mack, what else? Did he put her under?’
‘No, she avoided the midazolam.’
‘Then what?’
‘Just …’ Mack hesitated. ‘He pounded her head into the concrete, Spud. Your neighbour saw. After he knew it was all over. He took the time to break her skull before he ran off.’
‘Fucking … cunt.’ Murphy smashed a fist into the kitchen bench beneath him, then went quiet for a long time. Porter had broken the rules, turning his clinical little parlour game into a violent common assault. On his fucken wife. It was personal now.
Murphy eventually tuned back in, sensing Mack’s distress at the other end. ‘Thanks, Mack. Let me know of any changes, will you?’
‘Of course.’
Murphy hung up and calmed himself down, then rang Janssen. ‘Nothing here at his house,’ Murphy said.
‘Same at his work,’ his deputy replied. ‘He’s not rostered on until Friday. They’ll detain him if he comes in.’
‘Is their security detail up for that? A fugitive serial killer?’
‘They’ve got a guard who’s ex-British SAS. Adams says he was in Belfast during the Troubles.’
‘Okay. But surely we’ve blown it now anyway. Porter won’t show up.’
‘I think you’re right. There were cars and uniforms all over the place, everyone at the windows.’
‘Might as well go public, then. Throw out the net.’
‘I’ll get the media unit on it.’
‘What did Adams say about the lost card theory?’
‘He’s concerned about the bank’s liability. He’s going to phone you about it.’
‘Any idea of Jo’s whereabouts?’
‘No, I still can’t reach her – or Chartier.’
‘Keep trying. See you back at the ranch.’
Twenty minutes later, Murphy and Harris were standing in the unit’s briefing area with the rest of the detectives, minus Amy Chartier. Nikolaidis projected three crisp colour photographs of the same man: a corporate head shot, a still from Murphy’s security camera and a passport photo. Nikolaidis added the best still from the Hordern’s CCTV footage for comparison.
‘Our perp’s a middle-aged Caucasian male, you’ll be shocked to hear. Name of Stephen Samuel Porter, forty-four years of age, as of two weeks ago. Works in Alexandria, lives in Marrickville, alone as far as anyone knows.’ Nikolaidis raised his eyebrows at Murphy and Harris, who both shrugged and nodded.
‘No whereabouts as yet. We’ll watch his house and his workplace, but the media unit is hitting the TV and radio bulletins, so we’re not expecting him to turn up.’
‘What about his use of the bank’s computer system?’ asked Janssen.
‘We’re preparing a seizure brief now for his access records,’ said Nikolaidis.
‘No need for seizure,’ said Murphy. ‘We’ll sort it out with Tom Adams. The bank’ll want to position Porter as a rogue player.’
‘Fucken oath they will,’ said Harris. ‘An employee bumping off customers …’
‘It’s a PR nightmare,’ finished Nguyễn.
Nikolaidis continued. ‘There’s nothing on him in CrimTrac. He has a sister in Wagga but we haven’t been able to reach her. We’ve got locals there on it.’
A phone rang and Nguyễn picked up. ‘Homicide … Oh, Christ … Thanks, Gately.’ She hung up and turned to Murphy. ‘Chartier found Jo. They’re on their way up.’
‘Does she know about Sylvia?’ asked Nikolaidis.
Murphy shook his head. ‘Just that there’s another crime scene. Get on with it, everyone, but don’t stray too far. Janssen, come with me.’
Tuesday 15 January – afternoon
Porter observed the raid on his home from the front bar of the Ern Malley Hotel, an odious public house whose sole virtue was its affordance of an unobstructed view along the length of his street. He’d spent several hours here after each Volume, watching his house. Now, he witnessed the end of his settled life with resignation and disappointment: he’d known this day was coming, but he’d hoped to complete the Tribute first.
Above all, he was annoyed with himself for so thoroughly mishandling Volume VI, despite all his planning. Having been identified, despite all his precautions, would make things exceedingly difficult.
He watched from the gloom of the noisome bar as Murphy and his thugs demolished his front door. It had taken him days to sand that door back and repaint it. They were brutes and fools who clearly watched too much television.
At least he’d had the foresight to withdraw his equity prior to embarking on the Tribute, by selling the house and renting it back. He’d enjoyed the convenience of staying in his own home without risking the forfeiture of his capital.
He sighed deeply and turned his attention to Sylvia Murphy’s keys. He’d grabbed them more or less by instinct, from where they’d landed on the bloodied bank papers. But it had been an inspired instinct, for they held the twin prospects of redemption and revenge. He toyed with the Sydney University medallion, which suggested that the three coloured keys would give him access to Joanna King’s apartment.
Which, in turn, would give him access to the contents of Joanna King’s cranium, in a somewhat more literal way than the meeting of minds he had proposed in April.
He left nearly untouched a glass of attempted pinot grigio and departed through the beer garden. It was no longer safe for him here, and he had a theory to test.
Tuesday 15 January – afternoon
Jo strode rapidly from the lift to Murphy’s office. ‘Could you give us a minute please, Thijs?’
‘Of course.’ He stepped outside to join Chartier, who’d followed in Jo’s wake.
Jo closed the door then leaned across her brother’s desk. ‘Why would you try to keep this from me, David?’ Her voice quivered with anger.
‘Oh for … It’s not all about you, Joanna.’
‘That’s my point, exactly.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘You wanted to tell me about Sylvia yourself, just to indulge your taste for melodrama. And you say I watch too many movies.’
‘Come on, Jo, don’t get hysterical.’
‘You do not call me hysterical, mate.’
‘Look, sis, let’s not —’
‘You push people around to suit your own agenda. Try to control everyone.’
‘I don’t —’
‘And how could you expect Amy to keep this from me? She’s my friend.’
‘She’s a police —’
‘Shut up, will you, I’m talking. I know this is awful for you, but it’s awful for me, too. Just … release your grip a little. Let us each handle things our own way? Please?’
He walked around the desk and put his arm around her. ‘I’m sorry if I upset you, sis. I just wanted to be with you. We’re family.’
The wind was out of her sails now. She punched him half-heartedly on the chest, then collapsed into it and sobbed. ‘She spoke to that bastard while we were right there, Dave,’ she sobbed. ‘Remember? I told her to ring the Bank.’
‘Come on, it’s not your fault.’
‘Is she going to be okay?’
‘I don’t know. They’re keeping her under for now. It’s going to take a while before they can tell.’
She wept into Murphy’s shirt while he looked ov
er her head at Janssen and Chartier outside his office, conducting a muted but intense discussion. What fresh hell?
—
Janssen ended the phone call with Mack. Chartier looked at him, dumbfounded. ‘How are we going to tell him that?’
Janssen shook his head. ‘I have no idea; it’s too much. I’ll deal with it later.’
She looked down. ‘I’m sorry about today.’
‘I tried ringing you all day, Amy. He became very agitated.’
‘Thanks for taking the heat.’
‘What happened?’
She shrugged. ‘Phone battery must’ve died.’
Janssen glanced at the mobile in her hand. ‘Seems okay now.’
Chartier looked him in the eye. ‘I couldn’t keep her in the dark and just haul her in here, Matthijs. I mean, could you?’
‘Probably not.’
‘So what would you do? Under the circumstances.’
‘Turn my phone off and take care of her,’ he admitted.
‘Right.’ Chartier relaxed visibly then. ‘She wanted to go to the hospital, but I rang and they told me Sylvia was in isolation. So I took her home. She was a fucking mess. Finally, she settled down and I said I had to come in. She insisted on coming with me. I tried to make her stay but she didn’t want to be alone. Tell you what, she’s pissed off with Spud.’
‘It’s probably shock as much as anything,’ he said. ‘I’m glad you were with her, Amy. You did the right thing.’
Something in his voice made Chartier look up then, and they held one another’s eyes for a long moment of recognition. Janssen nodded, in his serious way, and Chartier flushed slightly.
They looked up as Murphy’s door opened. ‘Come in, both of you,’ he said.
Chartier went straight to Jo and pulled her into a hug. Jo buried her head in her friend’s shoulder, then detached from Chartier and drew Janssen to her. Murphy cleared his throat.
‘So I think we’re all straight now,’ he said to Chartier, absolving her for going dark on him. ‘Jo tells me she wants to stay on the case.’
