by Robert Sims
‘Yes,’ she said gently. ‘I know.’
As he stared into her face, recollection glimmered in his eyes.
‘It’s you, Van Hassel. Sorry, I’m confused. I haven’t slept since your last visit.’
‘That was last week, Paul.’
‘I got excited,’ he babbled. ‘A member of the Royal Family’s planning to drop in unannounced, you see. The one who talks to plants. I wonder if they talk back to him. It’s the botany, you see. This place has a fascinating history.’
‘Yes, you told me.’
‘That’s why I got excited and wet myself. I can’t meet him like this.’
‘No. I need to get you to a doctor.’
‘It’s too late.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘I can’t leave this house.’
Rita tried to read the subtext of his garbled logic. ‘Does Audrey know what’s happened to you?’ she asked.
‘Audrey’s gone,’ Paul said sadly. ‘She’s abandoned me.’
‘Well, you need some medication.’
He shook his head, shivering, teeth chattering. ‘Ice is gone too.
Crucified like the others.’
‘It’s terrible, yes,’ she said. ‘But you’ve still got your whole life ahead of you.’
‘I don’t think so. My work is done. I’ve been quite clever.
Bipolar people often are, as long as they don’t go high. I haven’t had an episode like this since Cambridge.’
Something he said began to worry her. ‘Why did you say they were crucified?’
‘The nails. Like the Romans used for executions.’
‘Paul, what do you know about the nails?’
‘I’m scared.’
‘Has something frightened you?’
‘Yes. In the forest.’
He unclenched his hand. In his bloodstained palm was a key.
It was large and rusty, the type that fitted in an old-fashioned mortice lock.
A sense of dread came over Rita as she looked at it. ‘What is this, Paul?’
His eyes filled with a kind of horror. ‘I don’t know what’s real anymore.’
Rita took the key from him and stood up. ‘Wait here,’ she said.
She walked through the house and out the back door. The garden at the rear was even more neglected than the one out front. Fruit trees strangled by tropical creepers sagged over layers of rotten fruit in the lank grass. Vegetable plots had gone wild.
Greenhouses, their glass panels smeared and cracked, were choked with ferns untended for decades. It was obvious that Audrey and Paul had left the grounds of the house untouched.
There was a garden shed with a rusty handle and lock, but the key didn’t fit. She pushed the door open. All it contained, among the cobwebs, was a clutter of metal implements long out of use. Beyond the shed, a path of stepping stones dotted with weeds led to where the remains of the orchard merged with the encroaching vines and saplings of tropical vegetation. The walls of the property extended back for several hectares into the rainforest itself. Rita followed the path into the deep green shade under the canopy of the trees. The stepping stones vanished beneath the forest floor, but the impression of a track veered off at a diagonal among the trunks. Up ahead, through the branches, she spotted a low building in the far corner of the wall.
When she reached it, Rita stopped. It dated from the original construction of the house. She guessed it had been a storage shed built by the German botanist. The size of a garage, it was solid brick with a tiled roof and no windows, just a single door with a mortice lock.
She took a deep breath, slotted in the key and opened the door only to jump back, startled, as a swarm of flies buzzed out over her. Rita shuddered and caught the smell of rotting flesh. The interior was too dim to make out clearly what was inside, although she saw the vague outlines of objects attached to the walls. It was enough to tell her she’d opened a door on insanity.
Rita had to back off a moment. She needed to psych herself up for what was coming next. Then, when she was ready, she went in through the door.
A hurricane lamp hung from a hook just inside. Beside it, on a shelf, was a box of matches. As she lit the lamp, its flame threw a sickly light on the exhibits lining the interior. This was as bad as anything she’d seen. The botanist’s old brick shed was now a trophy room. Tacked to boards along one wall were newspaper clippings and downloaded images from the net chronicling the Whitley murders. Lined up on a bench below were bin bags, a heavy-duty meat cleaver and a nail gun. But it was the opposite wall that bore the real horror.
Hanging from a rail were four wooden crosses with decomposing hands nailed to them. Flies crawled around the beams. The decaying flesh wriggled with maggots. Attached to the middle of each cross was a photo of the victim: images of Ice, Nikki Dwyer, Rachel Macarthur and the police e-fit of the man in the mud.
They were all there.
Rita had seen enough. This was no place to linger.
She got out quickly, closed the door and locked it before striding a few paces off among the trees, stopping to breathe forest air into her lungs. The display, nauseating though it was, showed that Billy Bowers had been wrongly awarded the posthumous title of serial killer. Just as she’d thought all along, the deaths were linked to the research base. Only it wasn’t the connection she’d expected.
Her discovery obviously impinged on national security and research base protocols, so this time she had no choice but to inform Maddox.
She got out her mobile and called him.
‘I’ve found something,’ she said.
‘The disk?’ he asked impatiently.
‘No, a room lined with body pieces.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Paul Giles’s place.’
‘Okay, stay there. I’ll come with a team.’
‘And bring an ambulance. Giles will need it.’
Rita walked back to the house with a bitter taste in her mouth and a feeling akin to despair. When she opened the back door, it was to a renewed blast of ‘Onward, Christian Soldiers’ . That hymn would never be the same for her. She found Paul where she’d left him, rocking in the chair to the music.
She switched it off.
‘I was enjoying that,’ he said.
‘Forget the music. You need to tell me about what’s in the forest.’
‘I can only tell you it’s over.’ He gave her a weak smile. ‘It doesn’t seem real to me. But looking at it objectively, you can see why I would have done it.’
‘Why?’
‘To protect Audrey.’
‘You mean her project?’
‘Audrey is the project.’
Rita was losing patience with him. Whether or not he was clinically insane, the trophy room had filled her with disgust and she was out of sympathy.
‘You’re talking gibberish.’
‘Sorry,’ he said, chastised. ‘But this might help - something I stole from the master control room.’ He handed her what looked like a memory stick. ‘Plug it into your computer.’
‘What is it?’
‘A VPN key for level-seven access to Panopticon. Don’t tell Maddox.’
She hesitated, weighing up the risk. ‘Okay,’ she said dubiously, pocketing it.
‘All you need is the password - Descartes, as in the French philosopher.’ He slumped back in the chair. ‘Can we listen to the choir again?’
‘Why the hell not,’ she said. ‘But not so loud.’
‘Let’s hear “Onward, Christian Soldiers”. Don’t you love it?’
he enthused. ‘The theme song for the war on terror. The crusade against the infidels who threaten the American Empire. Christian fundamentalism versus Islamic militants! The battle hymn of the religious right, marching as to war!’
The hymn was still playing when Maddox arrived with a contingent of jeeps, black vans and an ambulance.
Rita let him into the hall at the head of a dozen guards and handed him the key.
‘What have we got exactly?’ he asked.
‘A brick shed in the forest - with the hands of murder victims nailed to crosses as souvenirs.’
‘Process it,’ ordered Maddox, passing the key to the guards.
As they filed out through the rear of the house, Rita took him into the main living area.
‘What’s with the church music?’ he asked, hands on hips, looking at the pathetic figure of Paul, rocking quietly in a chair.
‘How should I know?’ Rita answered. ‘It’s not as crazy as what’s in the shed.’
‘It’s all strictly classified, of course,’ said Maddox. ‘None of this can get out.’
‘I can see the virtue of a cover-up.’
‘It means you’re seeing sense at last. About fucking time.
Keeping you on a leash is a chore I could do without.’
His mention of a leash reminded her of Billy’s threat.
‘Let me tell you something, Maddox,’ she said, turning on him with repressed fury. ‘Push me once too often and I’ll have nothing to lose. Career or no career, I’ll use every connection I’ve got to expose how you operate.’
‘You’re wasting your breath,’ he sneered. ‘Anything new on the disk?’
‘Fuck the disk!’
‘Come on, Van Hassel. Stay on board. Did you get anything at all?’
‘Nothing that’ll help you.’
‘Tell me anyway.’
She sighed with exasperation. ‘Stonefish arranged for it to be delivered to one particular person. He kept the name secret, but it’s someone who’ll make use of it - someone he described as “an idealist with balls” . That rules you out, Maddox.’
‘I’m not an idealist but I’ve got balls.’
‘Yeah, for brains.’
He grunted. ‘The sooner you’re out of my face, the better. But in the meantime, I want you to follow up your contacts with the protesters. Sounds like the disk could be heading their way.’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘Why the delay?’
‘Because I’m off-duty,’ she said caustically. ‘And I’ve got this overwhelming urge to get drunk.’
53
‘Now the case is over and we’re no longer colleagues,’ grinned Jarrett, ‘I suppose a shag is out of the question?’ Rita looked at him over her strawberry daiquiri. ‘You mean you don’t want a serious relationship with me?’
‘I don’t know.’ He blanched a little. ‘I’ve never had one of those.’
‘Well, I’m in the middle of one. And I wouldn’t want you to two-time Erin. So count yourself lucky.’
‘Why?’
‘A night with me and you’d have trouble walking.’
Jarrett tilted his head as if to speculate whether the ordeal would be worth it. With a shrug of resignation he drank more of his beer.
They were sitting where they’d first met, in the bamboo rotunda on the bluff outside the Whitsunday Hotel. It was late afternoon and the weather was hot again. Jarrett was in a tropical shirt and surf pants. Rita wore a white T-shirt and shorts. They were on their fourth round of drinks, feeling slightly mellow. Sunlight gleamed on the blue of the sea below where the US aircraft carrier was on the move after weighing anchor at last, accompanied by a flotilla of yachts and speedboats.
‘War games are over,’ observed Jarrett. ‘We can wave bye-bye to the Yanks.’
‘I wouldn’t count on it,’ said Rita.
‘You’re right. Won’t be long before they’re back. It’s like we’re a beach-head for the war on terror.’
‘That’d sound good in the brochures.’
‘Yeah, see Whitley and die.’
His words were drowned out by the roar of two Super Hornet jetfighters swooping low over the water then soaring over the coastal ranges seconds later.
‘Paul Giles called it a frontier outpost of the American Empire,’
said Rita.
They both fell silent as they finished their drinks.
Then Jarrett said, ‘I’m amazed Billy will go down in history as a serial killer when he wasn’t.’
‘Just a homicidal thug,’ she muttered. ‘There are worse secrets around.’
‘You weren’t supposed to tell me about the severed hands, were you?’
‘You’re entitled to know what I found and, frankly, I don’t care what Maddox thinks. The more he pressures me the more I’m inclined to respond in kind. Lex talionis, as Paul Giles would say.’
‘Which means?’
‘The law of retaliation.’
‘You’re in deep with those bastards at the base.’ Jarrett shook his head. ‘I should’ve shielded you from that.’
‘Once I decided to follow the evidence there you couldn’t get involved. You still have to live here after I’ve left.’
‘Well you haven’t left yet and you’ve still got Maddox to deal with,’
he said. ‘I’m happy to help. So if you need anything, just ask.’
‘What I really need, right now, is another daiquiri.’
‘Too right.’ Jarrett chuckled, looking at the empty beer bottle he was holding. ‘Here I am with a dead marine in my hand. Good drinking time’s being wasted!’
54
‘When were you going to tell me about Paul Giles?’ asked Luker. ‘When I got round to it,’ answered Maddox.
They were sitting across the desk from each other in Maddox’s office, neither of them bothering to conceal their mutual hostility.
Luker’s fingers tapped the desktop softly. ‘I only found out because Molloy mentioned it in passing.’
Maddox sat back in his chair and gazed at the battlefield photos on his wall. ‘Dealing with Giles is an internal base matter.’
‘That’s absurd and you know it.’
‘What I know is you haven’t been straight with me,’ Maddox countered. ‘When were you going to tell me about your deal with the bitch cop?’
‘As I explained to Molloy, she found out things the rest of us missed - things she was keeping to herself because of your heavy-handed methods. A more subtle approach was needed, one I could rely on as confidential.’
‘Piss on your subtle approach. I was too easy with her.’
‘Why not just kill her and be done with it?’
Maddox grunted. ‘Don’t think I didn’t consider it.’
‘You worry me, Maddox.’
‘I can see why. I’m not afraid to make hard decisions and stick to them, even if it means spilling a bit of blood, my own included.’
‘Yes, I’ve looked at your military record; you’re much admired for your valour. Special ops till your truck was blown off a road in Afghanistan. A shame it was friendly fire.’
Maddox winced. ‘Shit happens in war. What’s your point?’
‘The alliance owed you, so the top brass slotted you into a senior admin post for which you’re distinctly unsuited.’
‘In what way?’
‘Two ways, actually.’ Luker smoothed down a lapel of his blazer.
‘First, you should never have been assigned a managerial role over civilian personnel. It brings out your sadistic side. Second, you’ve exploited departmental latitude to transform a basic security unit into a commando squad answering only to you.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong. It answers to military intelligence on both sides of the Pacific. Men like you don’t see the big picture.’
‘Men like me?’
‘Spectators. Those who jeer from the stands while men of courage put their lives on the line to keep you safe.’ Maddox jutted his chin out as he warmed to his subject. ‘There’s a whole crowd of you - professional bystanders - and I’ve had a gutful of your opinions. Civil servants, politicians, journalists - all clamouring for a diplomatic retreat instead of confronting and defeating the enemy.’
‘I see,’ said Luker, getting out his cigarettes. ‘Mind if I smoke?’
‘Smoke yourself to death for all I care.’
‘Thanks.’ He drew out a Gauloise, tapping it again
st the soft blue pack to tidy the tobacco. ‘You must have killed a few people in your career.’
‘Yes, mostly hostile combatants.’
‘Mostly?’
‘Plus a few terrorist sympathisers, subversives. All of them enemies of freedom.’
‘There’s a problem with your reactionary logic, of course,’ said Luker, lighting up. ‘The defence of democratic values can’t just come through the barrel of a gun. Otherwise you end up becoming an enemy of freedom yourself.’
‘Have you killed anyone, Luker?’
‘No. And I don’t intend to.’
‘In the field of security and intelligence, that makes you a coward. If you didn’t have men like me around, there’d be no democratic values left to defend.’
Luker breathed in smoke with a shrug. ‘Sadly, you’re not alone in your ideology. But let’s get back to the case in hand. Paul Giles, where have you got him?’
‘A holding cell down in the compound.’
‘I need to talk to him.’
‘Be my guest, but you won’t get any sense out of him. At least his mental state means we can wipe the slate on the nail-gun murders. No further action required.’
‘Which only leaves the mystery of Steinberg’s death.’
‘Huh,’ said Maddox with a bitter laugh. ‘Been listening to Van Hassel?’
‘No, I just don’t believe in a coincidence that’s so convenient.
Especially when there’s a paramilitary squad operating under the radar.’
‘You’ll find it hard to get an audience for that. Having Steinberg out of the way is too convenient for everyone.’ Maddox waved it aside. ‘Anyway, the priority is to get Steinberg’s disk back. That’s the case in hand. Van Hassel says it’s going to “an idealist with balls”, so we need to focus on the anti-war protesters and their fellow travellers. They’re the ones you should be worrying about instead of getting up my nose.’
Luker finished his cigarette. ‘Giles first,’ he replied, dropping the butt onto the carpet and grinding it in with his heel. ‘We have to decide what to do with him.’
As he stood up and walked to the door, Maddox added meaningfully, ‘Luckily not all decisions are left to spineless arseholes like you.’
