The Broken Ones

by Stephen M Irwin

  A cloud of flies buzzed past, lighting on his face and crawling into his hair and ears. Oscar felt his traitorous stomach give way—he turned aside and let loose a thin soup of brine and sherry. He reached into a pocket and found a latex glove and turned the flashlight back into the gloom.

  “Oh, Jesus!” Zoe whispered.

  Two bodies were crammed into the tiny space. The topmost was a girl’s, and she had been dead a few days. Flies—lethargic in the cold—crawled in and out her nostrils and open mouth. Her skin had sagged and was an unpleasant waxy yellow. She was naked, jammed into the cramped space, her legs folded pathetically one over the other. Oscar could see a patch of ugly black above the faint nest of pubic hair. He reached in and shooed the flies away. Crusted black, and peeling away, the skin was incised. He could just make out the points of a star. Above it was a gash right across her belly. In this, tiny white things wriggled. Maggots.

  He’d found Taryn Lymbery.

  The body below Taryn’s was clothed; where the girl had been shoved in headfirst, the corpse beneath had been thrust in the other way round. Oscar recognized the black jacket. He’d seen it every day for the past three years. The lank hair was still there, perched precariously on a skull that had begun to sink into the stained earth. There were patches of dry, leathery skin on the cheeks, and his shirt was visible. It was a dark rust brown. Blood. Oscar knelt in and shined his flashlight on the boy’s neck bones. His throat had been cut so deeply that the blade had scored the vertebra.

  Oscar turned. Jamy’s ghost was behind Zoe, staring sadly through worm-pit eyes at his own body.

  “Let’s go,” Oscar whispered.

  Zoe nodded, but Jamy didn’t move. He held up one hand. Stop.

  “I have to call Homicide,” Oscar said.

  Jamy shook his head. He waited to be sure he had Oscar’s attention, then, very deliberately, put one hand down into the left pocket of his black jacket.

  Oscar turned back to the grave. He gently eased aside one of Taryn Lymbery’s naked legs and reached. His cheek rubbed against the dead girl’s cold, naked skin, and his vision swam. Flies began to probe the corner of his eyes. He blinked hard and reached deeper, his gloved hand running down the slick nylon of Jamy’s jacket. The cheap fabric was falling apart, its stitches almost rotten. The pocket began to tear as his fingers slid in, groping. They closed on something frail and fine.

  He pulled back from the darkness into the gloomy half-light and waved away the dozens of flies. He held a slip of paper: it was damp and had begun to tear in two. The writing, in ballpoint pen, was childlike and simple and faded to a sky-blue.

  But it was clear.

  It showed a date from just over three years ago. An address that Oscar recognized as an alley behind a bar in Fortitude Valley. And the time: 9 P.M. The time, date, and place of the meeting that Jon Gest had arranged with an informer who supposedly had new information about Geoffrey Haig; the meeting that Oscar had arrived too late for, discovering Jon in the alley gutter, stabbed and bleeding.

  Oscar looked at Jamy.

  “You stabbed Jon?”

  The dead boy nodded.

  “What is it?” Zoe asked.

  Oscar didn’t take his eyes off Jamy. “You’re the informant? You knew about Haig?”

  Jamy’s stare was unsettling. He shook his head, no.

  “Then why were you there?”

  Jamy looked at the ground and swallowed. His hands began to move. Oscar awkwardly repeated the movements to Zoe.

  “To. Stab. You,” she translated.

  “But you stabbed Jon instead,” Oscar said.

  Jamy nodded, and lifted his face up to Oscar. The holes where his eyes should be seemed to twist into darkness.

  “He. Told. Me. To.” Zoe’s voice was barely a whisper as Jamy’s hands moved and Oscar’s mimicked. “You were late. He was scared. He said, ‘Stab me here, here, here.’ ”

  The dead boy pointed to the places where Jon claimed he’d been stabbed by an attacker who’d struck him from behind. Oscar stared, stunned.

  “Jon set it up?” Understanding came quickly, then, and he felt cold hands squeeze his heart. “There was no informant. He wanted you to attack me, hospitalize me, get me out of the way long enough to shut down the Haig investigation.” He looked up at Jamy. “What did he offer you?”

  The dead boy smiled sourly and rubbed his fingers and thumb together.

  “Instead …” began Oscar.

  Jamy looked down at his body.

  Oscar’s mind began to whirr. When Oscar hadn’t shown up, Jon had the boy stab him, to get himself off the investigation. Had he been scared of Haig? Or bought by him? Whichever, it had worked: a week later, the investigation was put on ice. “You were a loose end.”

  Jamy nodded and signed.

  “After he left the hospital, he found me.”

  “And hid you here.”

  Jamy nodded.

  And then Gray Wednesday. The boy had been murdered just in time to appear in front of Oscar’s car. And after the auger screws at the sewage plant had failed to get rid of Penny Roth, Jon had reverted to this old hiding place to stow Taryn Lymbery’s body.

  The strength left Oscar’s limbs and he folded quietly against the hard timber, slumping on wet knees.

  Jon was a murderer. Jon had stolen the children from Elverly.

  As they emerged from the dark curtain of leaves, Oscar heard a motor start on the far side of the park. He saw sunlight glint off a rear windshield as a dark sedan drove away.

  Chapter 37

  Oscar slowed at the top corner of his street and looked down. No squad cars. No new cars hiding under the trees. He idled down and did a U-turn to park in front of his house.

  He dismounted and helped Zoe off.

  “Have you still got the gun?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “There are more cartridges in a cupboard behind the fireplace.” He gave her the key to the front door.

  “I’m coming with you,” she began.

  “Don’t answer the door.”

  He revved the motorcycle and sped away.

  Moechtar’s office door was closed and locked. Oscar ran down the fire-escape stairwell to his own floor and jogged between the workstations of the Industrial Relations branch toward his desk.

  “Christ on a cracker, Mariani. What are you fucking doing?”

  Foley’s large face was a mask of shock. He rose from his chair with surprising speed. Oscar realized that a number of the public servants were turning to look at him, some whispering to others.

  “Come here,” Foley whispered, taking Oscar by the arm and leading him toward a set of doors.

  “What is it?” Oscar asked.

  “Exactly!” Foley said loudly, clapping Oscar on the shoulder and making him gasp in pain. “Wow, what a misunderstanding!”

  He led Oscar into the side corridor and put his bulk against the doors, and pulled Oscar close, his fat cheeks wobbling.

  “What are you doing here, are you crazy? There’s a warrant out for your arrest.”

  Oscar stared. “What charge?”

  “They found some bodies in a park at New Farm.” Foley blinked nervously. “Murder.”

  Oscar found himself smiling. Jon hadn’t wasted any time.

  “Well, it’s your sworn duty to arrest me.”

  “Screw that. It’s a setup one-oh-one. But fuck.” Foley took his arm again, heading toward the fire escape. “Gotta get you outta here.”

  Oscar stopped. “I need to get a message to Moechtar.”

  The loose flesh under Foley’s chin quivered. “I really don’t want to get involved.”

  “Just tell him that Jon Gest took the kids. Okay?”

  Foley stared. “Gest? Seriously? Because he’s who I’ve wanted to talk to you about. He’s been appointed to the board of the Thatch Group. A copper, to the board of the biggest construction company in the state. Fishy fucking fishfood, I thought. Fuck me.”

  Oscar felt an
idiot. If he’d just listened to Foley.

  He put out his hand. Foley looked at it, then took it.

  “Get out from behind that desk,” Oscar said. “You’re wasted there.”

  Foley grinned. “Ah, I’m too fat for street work.” His smile faded. “Moechtar, huh?”

  Oscar nodded. This time he did listen to Foley, and hurried to the fire escape.

  As he rode, thoughts clicked together, connecting inevitably, joining faster. No wonder Jon had tried to get him out of town with a job offer. No wonder Jon had seemed unimpressed by Oscar’s discovery of Albert Naville’s escape from jail. Thatch Construction: its banners were everywhere around the city, the one company that continued to build when its rivals had failed and fallen. The Thatch Group was Anne Chaume’s inheritance. And now Jon was on its board. His reward for stealing children for Naville to mark up and gut? Oscar had taunted Naville, saying he’d failed with Penny Roth. But Naville protested that he hadn’t failed. The birds that had stalked Oscar through Sandro’s house were proof. Her messengers. Her soldiers.

  What was it Gelareh had translated off the flawed idol? The gate is open. Come as you will and grant us your favor.

  Naville had opened the gate.

  Naville was dead, but that didn’t mean the killings would stop. The second altar, the one Naville carried away from the brothel in the security footage, hadn’t been found. Carved patterns could be learned. More favors could be asked if the right flesh was offered.

  Oscar parked the bike outside Jon and Leonie’s apartment building, right beside the spot where he’d thought a child had plunged to its death from the neighboring rooftop. A breeze messed with the trees; slate-gray clouds closed in on the sun. The main gate was locked. Oscar’s shoulders screamed as he climbed the fence.

  He stopped at the bottom of the stairs and changed direction. He went below the building to the shuttered carports, and found the one with Jon’s apartment number. He picked a rock from the garden and slammed it down on the handle. The door swung loose and he lifted it. The single-car garage was very neat. An old plant stand, a disused oil heater. At the back was a small workbench with a Peg-Board. On the board were two dozen tools, neatly hanging in front of their assigned silhouettes. Only one tool was missing. The hammer. He remembered the distinctive, almost circular impression in the back of Lucas Purden’s skull.

  Oscar looked beneath the bench. Nothing. He pulled out its sole drawer. Inside was a collection of tools: screwdrivers, a hacksaw, electrical tape, emery paper, pencils, and tape measures. All were new and unused, and their seeming haphazardness looked staged. He drew the drawer back until it reached the end of its travel. It didn’t look as deep as it should. He scooped the tools out and tapped the rear panel of the drawer. It rang hollow. He put a knee to the bench and strained. Something snapped and the drawer came out. Oscar put it on the bench. At its back was a false panel with a slyly hidden hinge. Inside the small cache were three neat stacks of fifty-and hundred-dollar bills.

  Oscar took the money, went back outside, closed the shutter, and climbed the stairs. He knocked sharply on the apartment door. The breeze stiffened, hushing softly as it ran along the exposed balcony, ruffling his trousers.

  The door opened. Leonie’s red eyes widened a little when she saw Oscar, then she smiled sadly and stepped aside to let him in.

  The apartment was as neatly furnished as ever, but it felt oddly empty. On the kitchen bench was a soda siphon, an almost empty bottle of Pimm’s, and a glass bowl of melting ice.

  “Is he here?” Oscar asked, although he could feel Jon’s absence.

  Leonie padded unsteadily on small, bare feet to the kitchen and found another glass. Without asking, she filled it with ice.

  “ ’Scuse fingers,” she said, and poured the fruity liquor over the cubes and topped it with the siphon. She held out the drink to Oscar. “No? Willful waste, woeful want.” She sat and crossed her ankles demurely, raised the glass, and drank deeply.

  Oscar placed the wad of money on the bench. Leonie glanced at it and returned to her drink. “Ah,” she said. “That.”

  “Where is he, Lee?”

  She shrugged theatrically, giggled a little, then sobered. “Oh, Oscar. He wanted to invite you in, he did. But he knew you wouldn’t.”

  “In to what?”

  She gave him a scolding look—As if I’d tell. “I wish he’d thought the same of me. I do.”

  Oscar could see that her eyes were unable to focus. Then she saw something behind Oscar and pointed accusingly, “Fuck you. Just you wait.” She drank again, long swallows, swaying on the chair.

  “Lee. He needs to turn himself in.”

  Leonie watched him over the glass, then burst into laughter, bubbles exploding in the drink and spilling down her blouse. Oscar could see now that she wore nothing beneath the white shirt. She saw him notice that and raised an eyebrow.

  “Remember that beach holiday we went on? Jon went down to the water, Sabine went into town. We were alone.” She undid a button. “I thought you might try to seduce me then. You have such nice hands.”

  As she reached for the next button, Oscar took her wrist and squeezed it.

  “You’re hurting me,” she said through a smile. “I deserve it.”

  “Kids, Leonie. Children. Why?”

  She shook her head. “You never did understand the rules. Nothing for nothing. Poor Oscar.”

  She lifted his hand around her wrist and kissed his fingers. Oscar pulled his arm away, and Leonie’s face crumbled. She sat hunched for a moment, then wiped her mouth and took another drink.

  He strode away.

  But at the door he heard her whisper, “Elverly.”

  The storm arrived, blindfolding the sky and wailing. At its front was a shockingly cold wind that made power lines whip and whistle and stripped malingering leaves from trees in panicked clouds of green. It buffeted cars and made trucks on the highway shift lanes against their will. As Oscar flicked on the headlight, he felt like a cork on wild rapids. It was all he could do to keep the Triumph somewhere in the middle of the road, praying that he wouldn’t be shoved by the gusts into the oncoming traffic.

  Then came the rain. It came almost horizontal, stinging like bird shot. He passed an SUV on its side, with an upended caravan still attached, like a fallen chariot. The sky was almost black.

  One of the gates to Elverly House was pinned open; the other was swatted by the air, its hinges moaning as it swung loose on the mossy gatepost. Oscar pushed it aside with a foot and rode up the drive. He was lashed by the flaying leaves of the willow trees and his front tire shook unsteadily in the wet gravel.

  The rain reduced Elverly House to a clifflike, looming mass. Parked at the main building’s stone steps were two charter buses. The windows of the front bus were fogged and dark, and spindly patterns of dripping condensation ran down inside them. Oscar could see the bobbing heads of children and the blonde hair of a caregiver moving about.

  Elverly’s reception was a crush of bodies; children cried and laughed and howled. Several caregivers cuddled the frailer ones. Wheelchairs and walking frames were everywhere, and to one side was a large pile of packed suitcases, backpacks, and boxes. In a corner, two stout bus drivers in shorts and knee socks compared grievances. Two nights had passed since he cut down Chalk’s body here, but the air still had the nasty back-of-the-throat acridity of gasoline. Oscar pushed his way gently through the bodies, but couldn’t see Megan. He went toward a large girl who held a clipboard and was calling out for everyone to just relax.

  “Lauralie?”

  She recognized Oscar. “Detective. We’re moving today. Well, we’ve started.”

  “Storm?” Oscar asked.

  The girl nodded. “We had to stop loading.”

  “Where’s Megan?”

  Lauralie blinked.

  “She’s gone.”

  Oscar felt his chest tighten.

  “Gone where?”

  “On the first bus. On the minibus.�
�

  “What minibus?”

  “Gone,” she repeated, going paler. “It left already. Before the storm.”

  “Who organized it? Show me the list.”

  She held the clipboard protectively against her chest, but something in his expression made her hand it over. Two dozen names had ticks beside them—the children outside on the charter bus, Oscar guessed. But the names of four girls had been run through with a pencil. One was Megan McAuliffe.

  “How old are these girls?”

  “Thirteen, fourteen.” Lauralie looked at the names.

  He took her arm, and she winced. “Tell me about the minibus,” he said. “Who took them?”

  “It looked all organized.” Her voice was pleading. “They said they were taking the girls to Clayfield.” An awful realization appeared on the girl’s rounded face. “It looked really organized! I mean, they had a minibus.”

  “Tell me about the driver.”

  “I didn’t really see,” she blurted. “Who looks at bus drivers? He carried Megan onto the bus. He was big.”

  He ran out into the downpour. The rain found every bruise and cut on his face and scalp. Jon had taken them. But where? Where had he taken Frances White and Penny Roth and Taryn Lymbery?

  The Thatch Group.

  Anne Chaume.

  Chislehurst.

  Chapter 38

  The guard booth was a little cube of green light under a sky as dark as night. The squall made the raindrops under the halogen light above the boom gate twist and curl like schools of silver minnows.

  He stopped at the boom gate. A guard came out under an umbrella. Oscar showed his police photo ID and hoped the guard didn’t ask to see his badge, too. He didn’t; the gate rose and Oscar was waved through.