The Tattooed Man

by Alex Palmer

  He opened his briefcase and took out the drawing Ambrosine had made of him. I’m not as cold as that. I feel everything. It wasn’t what was inside but how others saw you. Few people got under that skin of his. Those who did, he often drove away. He picked up his personal mobile and rang Grace. When she answered, he heard loud music and laughter in the background.

  ‘It’s me,’ he said. ‘Where are you?’

  There was a pause.

  ‘I’m out with the girls,’ she said, a catch in her voice. ‘We’re at a party.’

  Grace’s female friends were lawyers, high-flyers with astronomical incomes. In certain circles they were famous for their hard partying; gossip he had never enquired into too deeply in case he heard something about Grace he didn’t want to know.

  ‘Can you talk?’ he asked.

  ‘Sure.’ The background became quieter. ‘What is it?’

  There was a touch of distance in her voice.

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t call you. I got what you wrote and it’s been acted on. We’re talking to Edwards tomorrow.’

  She didn’t reply.

  ‘Are you there?’

  ‘I’m still here. Where are you?’

  ‘At home. I’m waiting for a call to tell me what they want in exchange for Toby.’

  ‘Do you think it’s the same man who shot at me and tried to kill you?’

  ‘I’m sure of it. He’s Elena Calvo’s dirty tricks man.’

  ‘At the launch, she said to me the next time I saw you I should give you her regards. All the time she seemed to be really saying, you’ll never see him again.’

  ‘I didn’t ring you. I was weighed down. I’m sorry.’

  ‘That’s how you live. You’re always weighed down. You take everything on.’

  He almost said: who else is going to?

  ‘You don’t have to do that. There’s no need for you to be responsible for everything and everyone,’ she went on, as if she had heard his thoughts.

  ‘I’d ask if you wanted to come around, but I’m in one of those places you say doesn’t have any light or air,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t be able to talk to you and it’s not a good place for anyone else to be. I just wanted to say I was thinking about you.’

  There was a pause. She didn’t ask what he was going to do when someone did call. She was too discreet for that, and she knew the answer already.

  ‘You’ll handle this in the best way, whatever happens,’ she said instead.

  ‘I’ve got to wait for their call, Grace. I’ll ring you.’

  ‘I guess you will. See you.’

  He sat in his study with the gifted mobile in front of him. It was an old model, one that looked like it was due to be thrown away. Goya’s prints looked down on him but his feelings were too raw for him to look back at them. He had a hard, dark ache at his heart that displaced every other thought or feeling. It held him in his chair almost unaware of the night hours passing. Then at about 1 a.m. the sound of the mobile startled him. He had received a text message: a mobile phone number. He packed a bag with the tape and the CD and left the house.

  He drove to Parramatta Road before dialling the number in the text message. His call was answered almost immediately.

  ‘Harrigan,’ he said.

  ‘Where are you, man?’

  ‘On Parramatta Road, heading west.’

  ‘You’re already on the road. Have you got what I want? You tell me what it is.’

  ‘A tape and a CD. Do you have my son? Where is he?’

  ‘He’s out there somewhere. It’s a big city. You could look for a long time before you found him. I’ve got a question for you. Did you copy the tape?’

  ‘No. There were things on it I didn’t want duplicated.’

  The man laughed.

  ‘Your old friend talk about you, did he? I know a lot about you, man. I can guess some of the things he said.’

  ‘You’ve got what was in his safety deposit box,’ Harrigan said.

  ‘I have. It was good for a laugh. I could make a little money out of some of the things I found in there and not just from you,’ the voice replied.

  ‘Where’s my son?’

  ‘I’m not going to tell you that now. You have to keep your side of the bargain first. I have to know no one’s coming after me. Because if you take me in, I’m not going to tell you where he is. You can catch me and he can die. Then he can rot where he is.’

  ‘No one’s going to come after you.’ Except me. ‘Where do you want these things?’

  ‘I’ll give you a street address. It’ll take you to a warehouse. On the door, there’s a locked metal mailbox. You drop the tape and the CD inside and you go away.’

  ‘How long do I have to wait before you tell me where he is?’ Harrigan asked.

  ‘Until I’m sure no one’s coming after me.’

  ‘You’ve got my word.’

  ‘Is that good for anything? You’ll hear.’

  The address was out past Parramatta. Harrigan recognised it as the area where they’d found Cassatt’s burnt-out car. It was a long drive across the western spread of the city. Once he reached the freeway, it seemed to last forever. The air was cooler but still tainted by the day’s traffic fumes. There was occasional traffic but the cars speeding alongside him under the yellow lights only increased his sense of isolation.

  His street directory took him to a decayed industrial area, not far from the site where they had found the Ice Cream Man’s car. The streets were lined with deserted and locked premises, their windows boarded up. Peeling posters were slapped in layers on corrugated-iron walls. Rubbish had collected in the gutters. It was poorly lit, no one was around. Harrigan found the mailbox as he’d been told. The only feeling in his mind was the necessity of it all. He dropped the tape and the CD into the box and went home. By now it was almost three.

  The drive back felt as interminable as the drive there. He took out his mobile and was about to ring Grace when she called him, her name appearing on the display monitor.

  ‘I was about to call you,’ he said.

  ‘I just got home. I wanted to know what was going on.’

  Harrigan thought, at least she’s not with someone. He avoided saying directly what he’d just done.

  ‘The thing most on my mind is that I have to trust someone who tortured and killed a man. How can you do that?’

  ‘Whoever he is, he has all the control,’ she said in a tone that suggested she understood him. ‘What’s happening now?’

  ‘Nothing. I’m waiting.’

  ‘When do we see each other?’

  ‘Soon,’ he said. ‘Trust me.’

  ‘You always ask people to trust you. I’ll see you.’

  When he reached Birchgrove, his exhaustion was so profound he was able to sleep. Very late in the morning, he woke and went to check his email and his answering machine. There was nothing. The day stretched forward like an empty space. He realised he was frozen at the heart, in the grip of the black dog that prevented him from speaking to people outside of the necessities. He couldn’t even pick up the phone to call Grace; he didn’t know how to frame the words. If he tried to speak to her, he wouldn’t be able to breathe.

  Later on that day, he drove to Millennium Forensic Laboratories where he asked to speak confidentially to the head scientist who was also the owner: a man in his forties who had grown tired of waiting for promotion in the forensic laboratories of the police force.

  In the quiet sterility of the laboratory, the scientist, his hands gloved, laid out on the benchtop the crop specimens Harrigan had given him. They became hothouse plants, espaliered on a device stretching out their facets for display.

  ‘Do I really need gloves to handle these?’ the scientist asked.

  ‘For the tobacco you do,’ Harrigan replied. ‘A friend of mine sustained a significant injury handling that tobacco.’

  ‘They look so ordinary. These must be among the most widely grown crops in the world.’

  Harrigan co
nsidered what these pieces of plant matter were worth, one way or another: the Pittwater killings, Freeman’s and Cassatt’s murders, his son’s abduction, the cost of bulldozing into the ground what had once been a huge investment of money.

  ‘My information is they’re anything but ordinary. What I want you to tell me is what’s different about them,’ he said.

  ‘Can you tell me the source of the specimens?’

  ‘I can’t give you that information, I’m sorry,’ Harrigan said.

  ‘Have they been genetically modified?’

  ‘Almost certainly.’

  ‘Is there any specification, any research information, about these crops available from any source?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. That’s one reason I want a full analysis of their properties.’

  ‘Are these the only specimens available?’

  Ever cautious, Harrigan had kept back a portion of each of the plants.

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘If we destroy them, then they’re gone.’

  ‘I don’t want you to destroy them,’ Harrigan said. ‘I need to know enough about them to possibly track the owners of the intellectual property and the patents.’

  ‘That is possible, I suppose, although it’s a very complex job. An analysis like that won’t be quick.’

  The sound of the traffic outside was muted through the tinted, double-glazed windows. Millennium Forensic Technologies was in Alexandria, in a plain, grey-green building that had once been a factory for manufacturing cardboard boxes. The scientist was tapping his pen on a notepad on the bench. He knew Harrigan well; had done work for him often enough before.

  ‘Are we going to be in danger doing this work?’ he asked.

  ‘You will be if it’s known you have these specimens.’

  ‘Who’s going to be paying for this?’

  ‘The police service. I want you to send the invoices directly to me. I guarantee you’ll be paid.’

  ‘And contact you personally when the results are in?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘All right,’ the scientist said after some moments. ‘I’ll take control of this job myself. Is there any backup in case someone does come knocking on my door?’

  Harrigan handed over his card. ‘I’m contactable day and night if there are any issues, problems, anything.’

  ‘If there are, I’ll call.’

  Harrigan left to go to his meeting with the minister, pleased that he had something else to occupy his mind. Otherwise caught on this rack, he would have gone mad. Mechanical speech and everyday actions were all that was possible. Everything else was closed down. Like Edwards, he thought, briefly caught with the irony of it all.

  22

  When, in the morning, the phone rang next to Grace’s bed, she hoped it was Harrigan.

  Instead, the whispered voice was one she had first heard only a few days ago.

  ‘Grace,’ Daniel Brinsmead said. ‘I hope I’m not disturbing you.’

  ‘No,’ she said, sitting up in bed and glancing at the clock. It was 11 a.m. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I wondered if you had any spare time this afternoon. I wanted to talk to you about something.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The police have released a sketch to the media, someone who’s implicated in kidnapping the commander’s son. I’m ringing you because I know him.’

  ‘You should call the police and talk to them,’ Grace said. ‘If you know where to find him, you have to tell them that immediately.’

  ‘I haven’t seen him for a number of years. I have a history relating to him. He’s responsible for the way I look now. This is more about my past than your companion’s son.’

  ‘You should still talk to the police.’

  ‘I would talk to the commander, but he must have other things on his mind right now and I wondered if you might be prepared to be a bridge between us. This is a personal story. Would you be prepared to come and see me? I don’t usually go out except to go to work so that means coming to where I live. It’s close to the city. I promise you, you’ll be completely safe. I’m not in a position to hurt a fly.’

  When the phone rang, Grace had been lying in bed thinking that what she most wanted was for Harrigan to be here with her and for them to make love. The way things were, maybe they never would again. She thought of the gun in her bottom drawer and then tried to think why Daniel Brinsmead might mean her harm. What reason could he have? She was in a mood to walk out on that tightrope once again. It would make her feel better.

  ‘If it’s important, I can come and talk to you.’ ‘I think it is,’ he said. ‘I should warn you, I’m not much of a housekeeper. But I can make us some coffee.’

  ‘It’ll be fine. We can just talk. When?’ ‘Early afternoon. I’ll give you the address.’

  Grace’s taxi dropped her outside an older-style apartment building up on the hill overlooking Rushcutters Bay Park. The entrance was a wooden-framed double glass door next to a bank of mailboxes. She buzzed the intercom and waited.

  ‘Grace?’

  ‘Yes, I’m downstairs.’

  ‘I’m in the penthouse. I’ll buzz you in.’

  An old lift hauled her up slowly to the roof. On stepping out of the iron cage, the view was spectacular. The penthouse took up the western side of the top floor and looked across the harbour in the direction of the heads. Grace stopped to look over the railings at the park below. Crowds of tiny people covered the grass on the summer’s day. Around them, the city was spread out as an interwoven and chaotic pattern. To the west and the north, high-rises studded the foreshore. The harbour glittered, the Rushcutters Bay marina was packed with pleasure craft.

  Close by was a rooftop swimming pool, emptied out by the city’s water restrictions in the continuing drought. Dead pot plants lined the pool’s fence and the gate was locked with a closed sign hung on it. She walked past it to reach the penthouse’s front door. Despite the spectacular view and the bright sunlight, all its curtains were drawn. It was some moments after she had rung the bell that Daniel Brinsmead opened the door. The sight of his face still had the power to shock.

  ‘Hi,’ she said.

  ‘Grace. Thanks for coming. I’m afraid the place is a mess and it’s dark as well. I have difficulty with the light. Believe me, I’m not trying to frighten you.’

  ‘You’re not.’

  Even if he had, her gun was within reach in her shoulder bag. Dressed as he was in a white shirt and trousers, there seemed to be no place where he could have concealed a weapon. Through the light fabric she could see that his torso and the full length of his left arm were covered in dressings. At the hem of his trousers, the bandages from another dressing on his left leg were also visible.

  She walked inside. He shut the front door behind her but left it on the latch; she could walk out any time she wanted to. His feet were covered with white ankle socks, which also had a medical look, and he moved awkwardly. A short entranceway took them through to a spacious lounge room that was partially lit by a standard lamp casting a soft light. A high bar stood between this room and a kitchen where the blinds were also drawn and a dull overhead light was on. No one had cleaned up from the last meal and the dishes were piled beside the sink despite there being a dishwasher. To her left, the lounge opened onto a hallway, again partially dark. She saw a row of three closed doors, with a fourth at the end of the hall facing towards the lounge. The apartment was silent. The air was cool, almost chill.

  ‘I keep the air conditioning up very high, I find it more comfortable that way,’ he said. ‘I hope it’s not too cold. Please sit down. Would you like a drink? Tea? A soft drink?’

  ‘No, I’m fine, thanks.’

  She sat in a damask armchair, taking it for its proximity to the entranceway and the front door. The penthouse had the look of a place that was no one’s home. Sometime ago it had been furnished for hire with an expensive if impersonal veneer, now grubby with use. Used cups and old newspapers had been left lying on any s
pare surface, including the floor. On the sofa was a pile of car magazines. A stained and empty wine glass and a mobile phone stood on the coffee table. An unfinished game of two-pack patience was laid out on a nearby table. Brinsmead sat on the sofa beside the car magazines, pushing them out of his way.

  ‘This must look bad,’ he said. ‘I seem to have reached a point in my life where nothing that’s external to me matters. I have a carer who comes in and dresses my left side. She does that in the bathroom and makes sure it’s clean. But outside of that, I don’t seem to care. Unfortunately I’m in pain a lot of the time. The question is whether it’s bearable or not.’

  ‘It’s very impressive that you should be running the LPS signature project under those circumstances.’

  ‘Running that project doesn’t weigh me down as you might think it could. The opposite: it helps. I have to occupy my mind.’

  ‘I read in your résumé you were in the army once. So was my father. He was a professional soldier. A brigadier.’

  ‘I was at Sandhurst. I didn’t last that long. I was very young and realised I wasn’t cut out for it. I had the idea that I was going to save the world. The army wasn’t the right place for that, I found out. Also I was very bad at taking orders. I went back to science. I have a doctorate from Durham University. I’ve worked in research institutes most of my working life, mainly in London.’

  ‘Very successfully,’ Grace said. ‘You said you knew the man who may have abducted Toby Harrigan. What can you tell me about him?’

  ‘Andreas du Plessis. Yes, I do know him.’

  ‘If you know his name, you should call the police.’

  ‘He won’t be using that name here. He’ll be using false papers. I don’t know what his present name will be or where he can be found. If I did, I would have called the police straightaway. It’s more likely they’ll find him using the drawing they have. It’s a very good likeness.’

  ‘How do you know him?’

  Brinsmead seemed to smile in that ruined face. ‘I’m going to have to destroy all the good impressions you have of me,’ he said. ‘I’m not a good man. I’m a very flawed man. But before I do, do you want to tell me something about yourself? What you do, for example?’