The Boundary

by Nicole Watson

  ‘Lesley, for what it’s worth, my sources tell me that Sherene Payne is a person of interest.’

  ‘No, that can’t be.’

  ‘I suggest you take a few days off.’

  There’s a knock on the door. A slip of a girl, perhaps eighteen, walks in carrying a tray with two cups of coffee.

  ‘Harrison, it’s a flat white with no sugar, as per your instructions,’ she says, and turns to Lesley. ‘Auntie, I got the same for you.’

  ‘Thanks, bub.’

  Harrison checks his watch, bristles with impatience. ‘I really have to go, Lesley. You can stay here until you finish your coffee.’

  Harrison takes a sip from the Styrofoam and cringes. He pulls a tiny object from his mouth. He frowns as he peers into the wet feather. Lesley springs to her feet so quickly she drops her cup. Coffee plummets on the white leather.

  ‘What the fuck!’ He wants to wring her neck. At the very least, force her to clean up the mess.

  But Lesley has already gone. Stunned faces watch her scamper to the lift, like a fox running from the hounds.

  At first, Jason was stunned by the symphony of cadavers releasing gases. Many times he’s imagined their final words.

  ‘Why’s he doing this to me?’

  ‘My wife’s crying, pleading with me to wake up.’

  ‘Can’t breathe.’

  ‘Blood, I’ve lost too much blood.’

  The chemicals are nauseating but preferable to the stench of a decomposing body. Jason once found a man three weeks after he’d gassed himself. He had no family and had just been retrenched. The neighbours called only when they noticed the hideous smell. Death’s scent had stayed on Jason’s clothes; he never wore them again.

  ‘Higgins, Matthews.’

  Doctor Robert Thomas is his usual chipper self.

  Higgins faces him. ‘Hi doc, how are you?’

  ‘Mate, you look like hell.’

  ‘Don’t worry, doc – I don’t plan on ending up here for a while,’ Higgins says, wryly.

  Thomas’ warmth makes no dint in this place. The bed of steel belongs to no one, it’s only ever a transitory home. Dick Payne’s face is contorted, as though he’s in the middle of a sermon. Final words he so desperately wanted to breathe life into?

  ‘The cause of death was the same as Brosnan – drowned in his own blood.’

  ‘And it was a knife?’ Jason says.

  ‘Yes, once again.’

  Jason cringes at the body, shoulders and abdomen full of holes.

  ‘It was a particularly savage attack. Whoever did this is incredibly dangerous,’ Doctor Thomas says, sombrely.

  ‘What else can you tell us?’

  ‘Dick Payne was a very sick man. He had diabetes, liver was in a terrible state. There’s another thing – like Brosnan, he had no defensive wounds.’

  ‘What about the scratches on his arms?’

  ‘Already there.’

  Higgins shakes his head in disbelief. ‘What kind of person does this?’

  Jason knows Higgins can be incredibly harsh, has beaten suspects to a pulp without so much as a moment’s reflection. But the man is still shocked by ugliness, in spite of everything they have seen. And done.

  ‘I have something else to show you.’

  Jason is relieved to leave this place for the brightness of Thomas’ office. A photograph of a beautiful woman in her early fifties sits on one side of the desk. On the other are the smiling faces of four young children, with Doctor Thomas in the middle. Fertile seeds in a barren place.

  A small evidence bag sits next to the computer monitor. It appears to contain a tiny piece of paper, pressed into a ball. Jason’s taken back three decades, throwing spit balls to the ceiling, Miss Perry’s face red with anger.

  Doctor Thomas opens the seal on the evidence bag and removes the paper with tweezers. ‘Found this under his tongue.’

  ‘What is it?’ Jason says.

  The print is smudged, almost illegible.

  ‘It reads, QUD61. I think there could be other numbers after 1, because it looks like it was torn at the beginning of an 8.’

  The froth is like a cloud. Jason welcomes the warmth of the glass after being in the morgue. Cringes in disappointment when he swallows the bitter taste of burnt coffee. ‘Last time we come here.’

  ‘If you weren’t a coffee connoisseur it wouldn’t matter where we went,’ Higgins says, dryly.

  It’s a weekly pantomime. They place their order at the counter overlooking George Street. Inside the narrow hallway, dim light bounces off polished wood. It’s cosy, like an old study where a professor pulls apart exam papers and manuscripts. But the air inside is cold, the wooden chairs merciless.

  They walk down the winding path. Vines climb the walls of the old factory that now sells cheap didgeridoos and other sweatshop trash. The waterfall in the corner gurgles like a coffee percolator. A concrete lizard stares out from pot plants, the real ones left long ago.

  The city is dotted with oases like this, reprieves from the leviathans. But demons scream in the synthetic tranquillity. Their voices live in every corner, filling the city like an orchestra. Violinists in Eagle Street, cellists in Albert. George Street is the Maestro. Demons’ laughter echoes in the lawyers’ chatter of murder, rape and robbery. Smirks heavy with confidence, but how much is real?

  Higgins seems to savour his cappuccino. Three heaped teaspoons of sugar crystals have disappeared into an ocean of foam like the Mary Celeste. Demons’ laughter screeches from the phone.

  ‘Higgins.’

  ‘Boss, it’s Lacey. Doctor Bernes got back to me about the feathers.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘All from the same kind of bird. The Paradise Parrot. Native to central and southern Queensland. Fed on grass seeds and nested in termite mounds.’

  ‘Take a step back. Lacey, are the feathers that were found on Brosnan the same as those in Dick Payne’s office?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Okay, how common are these birds?’

  ‘There’s the nub. The Paradise Parrot is presumed extinct under the Nature Conservation Act. The last recorded sighting was in 1927.’

  ‘How would someone get their hands on the feathers now? Museums? Private collections?’

  ‘Boss, the feathers were taken from live birds.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Doctor Bernes was beside himself,’ she says.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure that it’s great news for the EPA. Anything else? Could he tell you whether or not the birds can live in captivity? Anything at all?’

  Jason can hear desperation festering at the bottom of Higgins’ voice. He knows that Higgins can feel time slipping through his fingers.

  ‘No boss.’

  ‘Okay, Lacey. Thanks for your efforts. I’ll see you back at Headquarters.’

  Higgins’ suit coat has become a frypan. His sweat runs like fat escaping from snags on a barbecue. George Street is manic. A man sits in between the backpacker haunts, cap outstretched, eyes glazed. No one throws him coins. They walk past the embryo of the new courts complex and Jason ponders what was wrong with the old one.

  ‘So what do you make of a killer who leaves behind the fresh feathers of an extinct bird?’

  ‘Should we be talking to a profiler?’ Jason says.

  ‘Fuck that. Those wankers can stay on TV.’

  Higgins is old school, like his old man. He’s said it a million times: ‘There’s no magic in these dickheads with alphabets behind their names.’ Getting the hands grubby, chasing even mundane leads, following instinct that has been cultivated over so many years on the job. That’s the essence of Higgins. Jason, on the other hand, will try anything new. He’ll spend hours on the internet, absorbing the latest expertise from around the
globe.

  Higgins takes the car keys from his pocket, swings them around his head like a lasso. ‘I’m driving.’

  Jason feigns a look of disappointment.

  ‘It’s one of the few benefits of seniority. Come to think of it, the only one.’

  ‘I’m still at a loss. I just can’t make sense of this tragic waste. A little earlier today, his widow, Sherene Payne, gave a press conference.’

  A cluttering of microphones follows background interference. ‘Many people will remember my husband by his powerful oratory . . .’

  Jason glances at Higgins and reaches for the volume on the car stereo. ‘Did Sherene do a press conference?’

  ‘Yeah, this morning.’

  Jason turns up the volume. Sherene Payne’s petite voice teeters on collapse.

  ‘And yes, Dick will go down in history as a courageous and visionary leader. But to me, he will always be the father of my child. The love of my life. We planned to grow old together. We had so many plans . . .’

  ‘Listeners –’ Higgins rolls his eyes as shock jock Alexander Johns takes the air waves – ‘one of my greatest concerns is that now there will be a void in black Australian politics. Who will replace Dick Payne? Are we going to see a resurgence of the old style, radical leadership?’

  Johns’ voice disappears, replaced by one that’s raw.

  ‘We’re the traditional owners of this entire city . . .’

  Jason tries to place the speaker. Charlie Eversely?

  ‘We’ve never received one cent in compensation for what was taken from us. All we ask is that you leave Meston Park. It’s the only place we have left.’

  Journalists shout questions like talons striking flesh.

  ‘Of course, we have the utmost respect for Dick Payne’s family. But we will not be cancelling Friday’s march. The march will be perfectly legal. There will be no violence. We’re a peaceful –’

  Higgins shuts the motor.

  A black Audi pulls up outside the Mantra hotel. Jason watches as a woman piles her bags into the back and then climbs inside, enthusiastically kissing the driver. Long ago, he would have presumed that she was greeting her husband. These days he questions everything. Everyone. She could be his wife’s sister, or perhaps they met on the internet. She’s the mousy housewife who craves the excitement of sex with strangers.

  Trees live in their concrete cells and vines grow on trellises attached to apartment buildings. Taxis queue, waiting for their dwindling supply of passengers. Teenagers dribble a basketball on the pavement, dawdling as though they have no purpose. Inside, the hotel is bathed in grey, white and olive green. Soothing music hums from the bar that extends to the footpath. A handful of diners are perched on stools, speaking, tapping keyboards. The coffee machine splutters, lamenting that its work is never done.

  The reception guy’s hair is cut so short it’s a series of brown dots painted on his scalp. It magnifies his face. Hazel eyes shout from their sockets, lips chiselled into a grin.

  ‘Sherene Brosnan checked in at 7:06 pm.’

  ‘Did you check her in?’

  He pauses to study the monitor. ‘Yes. Actually, come to think of it, I remember that night. Soon after, she left. She was crying. Looked pretty embarrassed.’

  ‘How long did she stay?’

  ‘Checked out at 7:32.’

  ‘Thanks for your help,’ Jason says.

  They cross the street to one of the cafés that face South Bank, taking a table under a huge white umbrella. The crowd is yet to swell. A group of young men play football in front of them, conjuring memories of life before the job. The waitress brings them coffee. Not a day over seventeen, Jason guesses. She wears an enthusiastic smile that he knows won’t last.

  Higgins is just about to light a cigarette when he remembers the prohibition. The phone screeches from his pocket.

  ‘Boss, it’s Henly.’

  ‘Tell me you’ve spoken to the Paynes’ nanny.’

  ‘Hmm, Maria Connett.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Three little kids in a tiny one-bedroom apartment. No signs of Dad. She didn’t want to talk to me at first. Got a feeling it’s a cash-in-hand job.’

  ‘Well we don’t work for the ATO. What did she have to say about Mrs Payne?’

  ‘Arrived home just before eight. She was pretty upset but said nothing. Maria left at nine.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Maria struck me as being very afraid of losing her job. My guess is she’d say anything to keep a roof over those kids’ heads.’

  ‘Thanks, Henly. We’ll see you back there.’

  Higgins shuts his phone and looks at his partner for clarity. He relies on Jason to tie all their instincts, facts and fears into a concise package of words.

  Jason’s mind ticks over. ‘The Brosnan women are ruled out, which leaves Sherene Payne. After she left the Mantra, she still had time to drive to MacGregor. Rebecca Collis heard a man and woman arguing. It could have been Sherene and Brosnan.’

  Higgins frowns. ‘Motive?’

  ‘Lover’s tiff. She says she initiated the break-up. What if she didn’t?’

  ‘What of her husband?’

  ‘Dick scared the hell out of her. It was pretty obvious she was less than frank about that. He could have threatened either Sherene or the baby. So she struck back. There was no one else in his office and the security guard was on the ground floor.’

  ‘You don’t sound convinced.’

  Jason throws his hands in the air. ‘Well, it doesn’t explain the feathers or the note in Payne’s mouth.’

  Higgins cocks an eyebrow, manages to look debonair for a second. ‘Could be a file number?’

  ‘He was a lawyer; might be a number relating to one of his cases.’

  Higgins grabs his phone and dials. ‘Lacey, can you get the court number for that native title claim?’

  Jason stares at the football game. One of the players is limping off the field. The others pause to allow him to hobble to the bench, but they’re hungry to continue.

  ‘Corrowa, that’s right. Call me back.’ Higgins looks across at Jason. ‘So who does that leave?’

  ‘Miranda Eversely. Payne called her four times the night he was killed. She called him three.’

  ‘Sounds like a booty call.’

  Jason shrugs. ‘Don’t remember what they are.’

  Higgins’ face screams disbelief. Jason ignores him.

  ‘So what did she tell you? She claiming confidentiality?’

  ‘Apparently they were discussing the Corrowa’s appeal.’

  Higgins chuckles cynically. ‘A boat full of lawyers sinks to the bottom of the ocean . . .’

  ‘Mate, you’ve told this joke at least a hundred times.’

  ‘You call it a bloody good start.’

  Jason can’t be bothered pretending to laugh. His mind is elsewhere. ‘We need to find out more about the Corrowa. The feathers suggest some kind of ritual.’

  ‘Is this Miranda related to Charlie Eversely?’

  Jason would do anything to change the direction this conversation is heading.

  ‘Hey, I asked you a question, Matthews.’

  ‘It’s been fifteen years, mate.’

  Jason knows it used to happen all the time: drunks perishing in cells. Ordinarily, they didn’t even bother with an inquest. But after one incident, the revelations of the Royal Commission into Aboriginal Deaths in Custody were still fresh in the public mind. The Aboriginal Legal Service demanded blood and Charlie Eversely worked the press until he got it. Higgins Senior was implicated.

  Jason looks at his partner. ‘Mate, I know you blame Eversely.’

  Higgins ignores him, reaches for his cigarettes. ‘He gave everything to the job and in the end it meant not
hing.’

  TWELVE

  Boundary Street is a kaleidoscope of time. Fashion on the cusp of tomorrow is housed in faded brick and roofs almost naked of paint.

  Sports cars mingle with ancient sedans. Charlie sips his four-dollar latte and the taste rolls on his tongue. He sits back against the couch of garish brown and pink flowers. The music in the café is psychedelic, taking him back to another life. Head ablaze, hysterical laughter that has no reason. Angry, young black man in a world that wants to keep him in chains.

  He thinks about the visit from the real estate agent yesterday. Elegant blond hair with just enough bounce, white suit unblemished. She removes her sunglasses, squints. He knows them so well, he can spot them instantly. Pigeons desperate for bread.

  ‘Excuse me, I’ve been trying to contact the owner.’

  ‘You’re looking at him.’

  ‘Oh.’ Her smile reveals expensive teeth. ‘Nice place you have here.’ She looks around, still in shock. ‘My name’s Carol Anne. I’m from West End Realty.’

  ‘What can I do for you, Carol Anne?’

  ‘Have you considered selling?’

  Both know the answer, but they still go through the motions.

  His castle. Bought for a song thirty-five years ago. The suburb had a bad name back then: strictly for Murris, migrants and those who lived on the fringes of their own. Carys had fallen in love with the huge balcony and sprawling yard. Whereas Charlie saw a dilapidated house, Carys had seen a home.

  Different time.

  We’re all slipping away from this place.

  Charlie feels the unease simmering within. He hadn’t spoken to Bruce for years, no longer knew him. If he ever did. But the shock is still raw.

  He thinks back to that demonstration against the Springbok tour.The speeches fired him up: he was ready for whatever they wanted to throw at him. But he was only flesh and blood: bones those coppers could very well smash.

  The Springboks were inside their hotel. Charlie wondered what they thought of the protest. A young white boy stood out among them. He was tall, lanky. The coppers are giving him the eye – he’s a sitting duck. A wall of blue came crashing down and the students spilt like dominoes into the darkness of Wickham Park.