No Safe Place

by Jenny Spence

  “No, no, it’s great that you could do it,” says Brett, leading me through the security door and past the usual cubicles and glass-walled offices. “We’ve put you in here.”

  He ushers me into a small office with a view through a narrow gap to Darling Harbour, a glimpse of water. There’s a single desk with a pile of documents on it, and a young Chinese guy is setting up a PC.

  “Hi,” I say. “I’m Jane.”

  “Albert,” he says. “I soon have this ready for you.”

  “This is nice,” I say. “I usually get a broom cupboard, or a corner of someone’s desk.”

  “Oh, yeah,” says Brett. “We’re actually in borrowed space because we’re not really part of the Department, and the Department itself is on the move. Half of them have already gone to Parramatta, and the rest are moving to another building in George Street soon. So there’s lots of room here at the moment.”

  “Great,” I say.

  “It’s a pity you won’t be with us when we move to Darling Harbour. We’ve got some fabulous offices there, just being fitted out.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Fabulous,” he repeats. “We’ll be moving in a couple of weeks.”

  “So I’m not too clear on the organisation here,” I say. “Are you with the Department or not?”

  “Me personally?” His hands flutter around as he launches into his spiel. “Yes and no. Technically I am, but I’ve been seconded to the Commission for this project. Helena Banfield asked for me specifically.” He bristles with pride. “You’ll meet Helena later today. She’s fabulous.”

  “Fantastic. And what’s Helena’s role . . . ?” I start, but such is his eagerness that he interrupts.

  “Well, of course, she’s on the Board, but to my mind she is the Board. She’s the only one who’s proactive. The Commission is a State Government initiative, as you know, that’s responsible for reviewing major project applications that are environmentally sensitive. We call them 3As. There’ve been some high-profile rejections recently, and some important business interests are feeling the pain. So the Board is a kind of nursemaid, if you like, that makes sure all the Ts in the applications are crossed and the Is are dotted, and so on.”

  “Does that mean the Board is representing business interests?” I ask innocently.

  “No, no, heavens no. We’re above all that. We’re just here to make sure no-one’s wasting their time, you know? It’s no good for anyone if applications go in and they’re going to be rejected.”

  “I see.”

  “So they run everything past us. It saves everyone time and money in the end. Including the Government. And it avoids bad publicity, so if this one goes through quickly everyone will be happy.”

  “So. This one?” I say, looking at the pile of documents.

  “Top priority, this one,” he says, following my gaze. “It’s a very important new mine, a consortium between a major Australian investor and a Chinese company. Cutting-edge technology, of course. Two hundred jobs in the rural sector. This will be a groundbreaker in terms of clean coal mining, and should put a stop to all those objections up there on the Liverpool Plains. It’s all in here,” he says, tapping the pile.

  “Top priority?” I repeat.

  “Yes. Sorry, we’re pretty close to the wire here. Red faces everywhere if we don’t get it in by the end of next week. Two or three of the contributors have been holding up the works – no matter how loud you scream, they just take their own sweet time. But everything’s been checked and double-checked,” he assures me. “It’s really been through the wringer. It just needs a final polish before submission.”

  “So I suppose submission is just a formality?” I say.

  “Well, yes,” he agrees. “But we’re still very strict. Some of the top people in their fields have put their names to all the bits and pieces you’ve got there. All the studies have been done, and written up and signed off, so we can be sure everything is kosher. Your job is just to do the final edit and make sure it’s properly laid out, no inconsistencies, no typos. All the individual sections have already been thoroughly proofread, but it’s surprising what comes out when you put it all together.”

  “Indeed it is,” I say, looking at the pile without enthusiasm.

  “There’s a CD there with all the files on it,” he continues. “The contributors were given guidelines for structure and typefaces and so on, but they didn’t all follow them. The style guide’s on the CD too.”

  Flipping through the pages, I can see already that the contributors had wildly different ideas about structure and typefaces, but I’ve done this kind of thing before so I expected that.

  “So I guess that’s it,” he says. “If you just want to get settled in, Albert will arrange your pass and give you your login details.”

  Albert looks up with a toothy grin, his fingers flying over the keyboard.

  After about half an hour, Albert says I’m all good and finally I’m left alone to stretch out and enjoy the unaccustomed luxury of an office to myself. Then I get myself organised to start work.

  The day passes uneventfully. The job is pretty simple – just correcting a whole lot of bad formatting and bad English. I won’t need to know anything about coal mining, which is just as well, but there are some figures in the results of some experiment they did, and I’ll have to check those.

  At lunchtime I go up Castlereagh Street to the address given for Sutherland Investments. It’s a smallish office building, with a board in the foyer listing the tenants. There are a couple of outfits that could be investment companies, some financial advisers, some lawyers and a few accountants. No Sutherland Investments.

  Afterwards, feeling safe behind my dark glasses, I roam through the main part of the city. Only the veneer has changed since I lived here several years ago. All the modern shopping malls that I remember seemed to have been pulled down and replaced by newer ones. It’s hard to see the point. The shops are mostly the same as the ones in Melbourne, selling the same stuff. I keep my eyes open for good coffee shops and lunch places.

  Before my hour is up I go back and call a few high-priced gyms, like the Hyde Park Club, and ask if they’ve got a trainer called Brian. I’m assured of the virtues of Brendan, Andre, Samantha and Chris, but there’s no Brian.

  The office is very quiet, and the few people who are there seem to be preoccupied with their own affairs. I come upon knots of them in intense discussions, which stop abruptly when they notice me. I hear the word “restructure” now and then. Some of them are printing out their CVs and looking at employment websites, so I think there’s a bit more happening than just a move to Parramatta.

  Brett pops in a few times to see how I’m going.

  “Helena won’t be in after all,” he tells me towards the end of the day. “She’s had to dash up to the Hunter Valley. She’ll be here on Wednesday.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  “She’s dying to meet you,” he says reassuringly.

  Is she, I wonder? People like me are usually invisible in an enterprise like this. Get in, get the job done, get out – that’s usually my style. I’ll only be noticed if I make a really obvious mistake. Then again, they seem to be in a rush, so she may want to personally push things along.

  The day passes and if I can’t say it’s enjoyable, at least it’s relaxing as I settle into a rhythm of work and let myself daydream a bit.

  Maybe when all this is over and I get my life back I’ll move to Sydney for a while. Miranda will be independent next year, and I could rent out my house and get Derek to find me a long-term assignment in Sydney on expenses. I could do some easy work like this during the day and write every night – or maybe early in the mornings. Some people do that. I’m not really a morning person, but I can change.

  When I come out of the office at five-thirty it’s dark and the clear sky promises a cold night. The winter evening settles down. The trouble with choosing Elliott as my faux surname is that I can’t get the poetry of my differentl
y-spelled namesake, TS, out of my head, especially when I join the crowd of evening commuters flowing into Town Hall Station. So many. I had not thought death had undone so many.

  The train is packed, and I think about walking home in future. It’s not that far and it would fit in with my plan to have a nice, quiet, unassuming, inconspicuous life here, waiting for some solution for my problems to present itself.

  Back at the flat, there’s another email from Steve.

  Hi Elly

  Can you find out Fiona’s surname? It can’t be Talbot.

  Had a quick look at bank. No account for Brian O’Dwyer. Did see something though. Someone took $100k out of Talbot’s account 3 days after he disappeared. Only got a few months of extra data, but more money transferred out – $300k, $50k, $500k.

  Can’t tell where money goes when it’s withdrawn. Impenetrable bank codes.

  What did Steve not understand about NO HACKING? But this information takes my breath away. Could Talbot be alive? If he isn’t, who else had access to his account? I wish we could find Fiona and see what she’s up to these days. If she’s the one who’s taken the money she must be spending it on something visible.

  We’ve all done a good day’s work and I’m feeling optimistic. I plug in my Skype headphones and spend a pleasant evening talking about nothing much with Carol, Diana and Miranda, all of whom want to know vastly different things about Sydney. Afterwards I indulge in escapist television, which I can watch tucked up in my nice warm bed.

  That night I dream about Lewis again, betrayed by my unconscious, and find myself lying awake in the small hours, thinking about him. It’s ridiculous anyway. Even if he were not emphatically off limits because he’s married, he’s a policeman – about as different from me as he could be. Oh, great, Elly. You can add intellectual snobbery to your other vices. In any case, Lewis seems noticeably smarter than others of his ilk. I’m reminded of my grandpa, who didn’t make it to high school and worked in a stinking tannery in Collingwood all his life, but was one of the most intelligent people I’ve ever known. He read the complete works of Dickens and loved to quote from them – even enjoyed a bit of George Eliot until someone set him straight on who she was.

  25

  On Tuesday morning I’m with the commuter throng again, squeezed like toothpaste out of Town Hall Station into the Queen Victoria Building. If I were still in Melbourne I’d find this scary, being jostled on all sides.

  Coming up the escalator to street level I feel a vibration at my hip. But my phone’s in my bag. My hand creeps into my coat pocket, and my heart jolts and starts going like a train. There’s a strange phone there.

  I sneak it out and take a look. It’s bright blue and flashing.

  1 new message I press the button.

  It’s from Luke. What the hell!

  dymocks george st 5 mins

  I look around wildly, but of course there’s no sign of him. What’s he playing at, for God’s sake? I should just ignore this little game, but I’m already heading for George Street.

  As I’m walking into the Dymocks bookshop the phone vibrates again in my hand.

  cafe upstairs

  It’s up one end, with old-fashioned booths. Luke’s grinning face peeps out from one, dreadlocks bobbing around. I slide in opposite him.

  “Luke, what on earth are you doing?”

  “Good trick, huh? I always wanted to do that. You played it pretty cool, Elly.”

  “Well, I knew the game. I’ve seen those Jason Bourne movies too. You could have just called my regular phone, you know.”

  “Can’t be too careful,” he says, clearly very pleased with himself.

  I was right: this is a real-life extension of the computer games he’s into, and he thinks he’s a high-level player.

  “Luke, why are you here? This isn’t a movie. This is serious stuff.”

  “I know, Elly. You didn’t think we’d just cut you loose, did you? You need someone to watch your back.”

  “With respect, Luke, I don’t think you’d be the most . . .”

  We’re interrupted by a waitress, who arrives with a pot of tea and sets out two cups and saucers.

  “Do you want to order something, Elly?” asks Luke.

  “Sure. Latte, please,” I tell the waitress.

  As she leaves, Steve Li appears beside Luke.

  “All clear,” he says.

  “Oh, no,” I say.

  “Not me,” says Luke, taking up the previous thread. “Someone inconspicuous. Someone invisible. And who’s more invisible than Steve?”

  I’m shaking my head.

  “Think about it,” says Luke. “He looks like some Asian school kid, right? He’s got a reversible jacket in his backpack, a baseball cap and a beanie or two. Who’s going to look twice at him?”

  “No, no, no, never. I told Derek I’d watch out for Steve,” I say. “He’s like a stained-glass window.”

  “Now who’s in a movie?” says Luke triumphantly.

  Steve pipes up: “ ‘My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.’ ”

  “Look,” I say, “it’s not true that people think all Asians look the same. Anyone who’s on the alert will notice Steve following me around.”

  “You didn’t,” says Steve.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’ve been following you since lunchtime yesterday. Just for practice,” he says, unable to wipe the grin off his face.

  “That’s impossible!”

  “Newtown’s a nice place. Good choice. I hope we’ll be going to some movies at the Dendy while we’re here?”

  I have to laugh.

  “Derek doesn’t know about this, does he?” I say. “How did you two get up here?”

  “There’s some work that needs doing for Anderson and Magee,” says Luke. “Steve told Derek it’d be better if he was on site, so he could suss it out, get to know the system.”

  Anderson and Magee is an important client, and Carlos always looked after them. Derek will be anxious to keep them happy now.

  “And you’re here to do the talking?”

  “That’s right, but just for today. I have to go home tonight.”

  “I don’t know about this,” I mutter, just as the waitress brings my coffee.

  “Come on, Elly,” says Luke. “Where’s the harm? Steve’s just gonna keep his distance, make sure you’re okay. We’ll all sleep better at night. Believe me, you won’t know he’s there. No-one’s gonna know he’s there.”

  Steve pushes a memory stick across the table to me.

  “There’s an exe on that,” he says. “Put it on your work PC. It’ll send a message to my phone when you log off at the end of the day. And let’s say one o’clock lunch? I’ll be watching your building.”

  I’m still looking dubious.

  “Forget about me,” advises Steve. “You’ll only hear from me if there’s trouble.”

  “All right, if you insist on doing this I can’t stop you,” I say eventually. “But I’m warning you, I like taking long walks.”

  “Hey!” says Luke. “This ain’t Carlos. This is the new model.”

  “Hmm,” I say. “Well, make sure you stay right out of sight, Steve. I think my chief suspect is Brian O’Dwyer, and he’s somewhere here in Sydney.”

  “Wow,” says Luke, looking around hopefully. “What do we know about him?”

  “Almost nothing,” I say. “If we’re lucky the other stuff might lead us to him. Steve’s doing the digging.”

  Steve grins, then swigs the last of his tea and jumps up.

  “I’ll be seeing you,” he says. And then he’s gone.

  Luke pours the rest of the tea into his cup.

  “Steve says you checked out the address for Sutherland Investments. Dead end?”

  “Hard to say. They’re not on the notice board, but there are lawyers and accountants in the building. They’re a shifty lot.”

  “Yeah. Not unrelated to dodgy banks. But not much we can do at this stage.” />
  “No. How are things at the office?”

  “Grim. I think Derek’s really worried about business. What was the deal with Carlos? Were they in some sort of partnership?”

  “Shrouded in mystery, Luke. On the whole I think Carlos was just what he seemed: a highly paid individual. He didn’t want to be bothered with business stuff. But Derek knew his value, and they had a good relationship worked out.”

  “Yeah. He won’t find another Carlos. Hey, Elly, what do you think about those withdrawals from Peter Talbot’s account?”

  “Yeah, that’s really interesting,” I say. “He could be alive somewhere, couldn’t he, living off his money?”

  “That’s possible,” says Luke. “But that first 100K really struck me. Like, he disappears, presumed dead, and straight afterwards someone gets a hundred thousand dollars.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “Well, what if it was a hit? It’s a nice round figure to pay someone to take him out, isn’t it?”

  I think of the killer in Brunswick, a silencer on his gun, expertly wiping down the stolen car he used. He’s resourceful. He used a knife to kill Carlos, a long-range rifle to hunt me in the cemetery.

  “It doesn’t quite add up,” I say, “but if Brian O’Dwyer’s a contract killer we’d all better be bloody careful.”

  I put my cup down. “I’ll start drafting a report for Derek tonight and email it to you so you can add anything you think is relevant. We still haven’t found anything that ties in with Carlos, have we?”

  “Not directly, but I keep feeling we’re on the edge of something. Write the report, but let’s give it a few more days.”

  “Derek isn’t likely to give us an extension, and you guys have gone through everything we have. What else is there to find?”

  “Ravi won’t give up,” he insists. “He’s spending all his spare time on it – not Derek time.”

  “Could he do it at home?”

  “He could, but the work servers are more secure than anything off-site. Just a few more days.”

  “It’s your call, but be careful of Derek. He won’t be happy if you do anything illegal on his computers,” I say and push the new blue phone across the table. “Surely I don’t need this.”