by Alex Palmer
She laughed a little. ‘There isn’t much to tell. I have a dull job.’
‘I find that hard to believe.’
‘I’m a public servant with the Attorney-General’s Department. I collate reports for the minister. It’s not very interesting.’
This description, as far as it went, was true. The reports were classified as top secret and dealt with issues of terrorism, gun running and terrorist financing but they were still reports. Grace worked mainly in intelligence analysis but also occasionally in the field on surveillance. It was nothing she could talk about, not even to Harrigan. If she had been asked why she did this work, she would have said it was to protect people.
‘You went from policing to something that was completely a desk job?’ Brinsmead said.
‘A lot of policing is paperwork. I have a background in law and criminology. I worked for the police because I wanted to have some practical experience.’
‘You make it sound very staid. But you don’t look staid.’
‘It’s just work. I was a singer once, in another life,’ she said. ‘I can sing but I wasn’t cut out to be a performer.’
‘Why not?’
‘You have to put yourself right out there when you perform and it’s always in front of strangers. I didn’t like doing that so I stopped.’
It was another simple sentence behind which lay a history of heartbreak and alcoholism and a worse memory: her old lover who, until recently, had stalked her; the man who had once raped her and given her the scar on her neck. She never spoke of these things, not even with her father and her brother, who were the only ones who knew the full story. She had hinted at the details with Harrigan but could go no further than that. She knew he had put at least some of the story together but had never tried to ask her any questions about it; she liked it that he hadn’t.
‘You wouldn’t be prepared to sing a few bars for me, just so I have an idea what your voice is like?’ Brinsmead said.
She laughed. ‘No, I don’t do that. Sorry.’
‘Another time maybe. I should get on with why I asked you here. There’s a fact we need to start with. I’m a gambler. It’s a fundamental aspect of who I am. I still gamble, although I don’t do it at the roulette table any more.’
‘Why is it fundamental to you?’
‘It’s how I see the world working. In the end, all life comes down to whether or not you’re holding the right cards. That’s true even for genetics. Someone has the gene for muscular dystrophy or Huntington’s chorea. Do they deserve to? No, of course they don’t, and who could make the judgement that they did? For each of us, it’s pure chance. If that chance goes against you, you can live badly and die violently. I’ve seen the world this way ever since I was thirteen and nothing has changed my mind. I’ve always had to play the odds. Mainly because a few years ago, I didn’t play the odds particularly well. I got involved with Jerome Beck and du Plessis. Or DP as he’s known to his friends, so called.’
‘How?’
‘About five years ago, I was working in London at a science research facility. I met Jerome Beck there. He was a financial manager. I recognised him when I saw his picture on the net after he was murdered.’
‘But you didn’t tell the police,’ Grace said.
‘No, I didn’t and you’ll know why when I’ve finished this story. I found out Jerome liked to gamble as well. We started going to casinos together. He knew I was badly in debt and getting deeper. He said he could help me. He was involved in a business venture of some kind, building infrastructure in the Democratic Republic of the Congo. If I was interested, I could use my ex-army skills to manage the project and I’d be very well paid. I would only need to be away for a matter of weeks, it was a fly-in and fly-out affair. I think we both accepted implicitly that his offer was a cover for something else and I always assumed it would be criminal in some way. But, as always, I went to the DRC as a gamble. I decided to do that even after I’d researched the country and discovered how dangerous it was. I thought, if this is where the possibilities are, I’ll follow them and see where we end up. God knows, I needed the money badly enough. What are you thinking?’
‘I was wondering why you’d be so open about yourself with me,’ Grace said. ‘I can understand you telling this story to the police but not to someone you’ve only met once.’
‘You used to be a police officer and you’re well known for your connection to another senior police officer.’
‘You’ve checked me out on the web.’
‘Yes,’ Brinsmead said. ‘You see, I’m not talking to you as a complete stranger. I’ve tried to find out something about you. We spoke for a little while at the launch as well. What you’ve said today hasn’t changed my impression of you. I think you listen to people and that you’re reliable. You understand what people are saying to you.’
‘I like to think my training has made it possible for me to do that,’ she replied carefully.
Brinsmead leaned towards her. ‘It’s something you do naturally,’ he said. ‘At one level, I don’t care who knows this story. To be honest, everything except the essentials has been burnt out of me. I can’t see any reason why I shouldn’t talk with complete honesty about almost anything, including myself. Do you know anything about the DRC?’
‘I know it’s in a state of civil war and there have been terrible atrocities there. I’m sure it’s full of people who’d like to live ordinary lives but aren’t given the chance,’ she said. ‘What was it like for you to be there?’
‘Unimaginable. Not long after I got there, I realised I was involved with illegal diamond trading. I thought I could deal with that. Then I discovered I was the fall guy. I had no criminal history so I was going to be the mule. My problem was, there was no way out for me. The parts of the DRC we were in were very dangerous. The people I was with might have been vile but they were my protection. DP was one of them, he was the boss. Baass, the African mercenaries called him. It sounded almost like an insult. At one time, he and his mercenaries raped and killed a woman in front of my eyes. She was probably only twenty. Jerome didn’t involve himself but he didn’t care either. He laughed. “Let DP have his fun,” he said.’ Brinsmead stopped and closed his eyes. ‘I shouldn’t have told you that. I don’t want to bring it back.’
Grace waited.
‘The trouble is, there’s no way I can bring this to the law,’ he said eventually. ‘I have no evidence against them other than my word. At the time I was a debt-ridden gambler. I have no real names for most of them—we didn’t exchange email addresses and telephone numbers. DP was South African, you could tell that by his accent. He may have been in the army once. From the way they spoke to each other, he and Jerome were long-time partners. That’s all I know about any of them.’
‘How long were you there?’
‘I was with them for eighteen days. A lifetime. I learned there are events so serious, the only people who know what they really mean are the dead. The ones in the mass graves. If I say to you, you can’t know, that’s not an insult to you. You’re lucky you can’t know. Every day in my mind I replay what I witnessed there. It’s like being in hell.’
‘You don’t have to tell me any of this,’ she said.
‘Don’t you want to hear it? I’m sorry. I’ve imposed on you very badly.’
‘I can listen to what you’re saying because that’s what I’m trained to do,’ Grace said. ‘I’ve had to go in and deal with situations where people have been murdered. I can listen to you. But you have to live with bringing it back like this and then with knowing that you’ve told me that story. You may tell me something you wish you hadn’t.’
‘That last point is the least of my concerns. Our so-called expedition had a number of trucks. On the nineteenth day, I stole one and made a run for it. But the truck broke down and my colleagues caught up with me. I tried to take refuge in a building but they burned it to the ground around me. There were other people inside at the time. Somehow, I survived. I was the
one who brought that death on those people and I was the only one who survived. A group of villagers found me barely alive. They took me to a local aid hospital, then to Kinshasa. Finally I was flown home to London.’
‘That’s a terrible story,’ Grace said.
‘What I can’t get out of my mind is that I didn’t die. There were other people who did die around me. I think about those people every day. I know some of their names and I repeat them every morning when I wake up. I tell them I haven’t forgotten them. Yet, somehow, here I am with a new debt-free life and a first-class research project. What did I do to deserve that?’
‘How did you get debt free?’
‘I can thank Elena for that.’
‘Elena Calvo?’
‘Yes. She worked at the same institute in London as myself and Beck. I knew her quite well; we went out for a little while. She’s a rich man’s daughter. She picked me up, paid my medical costs, paid my debts and offered me this project as part of my rehabilitation.’
‘That was very generous of her.’
‘I think she was horrified by the way I looked. She’d never seen anything like that before.’
Brinsmead was silent, lost in his thoughts. He had spoken bitterly. Then, suddenly, he laughed. ‘You see, in a number of ways I’m really already dead. I just keep breathing for some reason. What keeps me going is my work. Usually I don’t focus on anything outside of that. Today has been different. Talking to you has made the difference. It’s the first time in years I’ve felt a sense of being alive.’
‘Should you rely on a chance encounter to feel something like that?’
‘I’ll take whatever’s available,’ he said.
Grace was about to ask another question when she became aware of a faint underlying odour in the chill of the room, a decayed animal smell. Once noticed, it was impossible to ignore. The light had sketched out the structure of Brinsmead’s face. The covering of his features seemed thin, the bones too close to the surface. She suppressed a shiver. He was watching her.
‘Am I frightening you? Either because of my face or anything I’ve said?’ he asked.
‘Maybe,’ she replied.
‘Don’t be frightened. I can’t imagine anyone I’d least like to hurt or see hurt than you.’
Bizarrely, this also had a chilling ring to it. From the kitchen came the sound of an alarm.
‘That’s a reminder for me to take some medication,’ he said. ‘Usually I don’t need reminding. Excuse me.’
‘Go ahead.’
In the kitchen, he poured himself a glass of water and swallowed tablets. Sitting down again, he leaned back, his eyes closed. He was in crippling pain, it was impossible for him to hide it.
‘Is there anything I can do?’ Grace asked.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘These tablets aren’t going to be strong enough. I need an injection. Could you look in the fridge? There are some ampoules there and some syringes. If you could get one for me.’
She found them on the second shelf down, wrapped in thick, protective plastic.
‘You’ll need scissors to cut the package open,’ he called. ‘There’s a junk drawer in the high bar, the top drawer. Look in there.’
Grace looked among the envelopes, twine and bills to find a pair of scissors and a key on a plastic keyring marked ‘P’. A set of keys was already on the bench: Brinsmead’s, she guessed. She took the key out of the drawer and dropped it in her pocket, then took out the scissors.
‘I’ve found them,’ she said.
‘If you give everything to me, I’ll put it together,’ he said.
‘I can do it for you. I know how to. I’m good at first aid.’
‘I can inject myself.’
‘I’ll do it. You’re in pain. Where do you usually have it?’
‘Right arm,’ Brinsmead said. ‘Where did you learn first aid?’
‘My father made me and my brother learn when we were young. He thought we should know. Then when I was with the police, I did a refresher course.’
She pushed up his sleeve. His undamaged arm had pale European skin, the blue veins close to the surface. He didn’t seem to react when she touched him. Part way through administering the medication, she glanced up. He was watching her with those reflective blue eyes. They were so clear, it was as if they had rolled back onto empty space.
‘I’m taking your likeness,’ he said.
‘You don’t need to do that.’
When she’d finished, he rolled back his own sleeve. After a while, she could see the medication taking effect.
‘If you’re okay now, it’s probably time for me to go.’
‘Yes, probably it is, unfortunately,’ he said. ‘I have to go to work as well. It’s a long way from here, out at Campbelltown. I have some test results due later on today. I want to be there to review them.’
‘It’s a long drive out there.’
‘Too far for me, I can only manage short distances these days. I used to drive a lot, quite fast. I had one or two very nice sports cars. These days, I have a hire car with a driver. I’m one of their favourite customers. I have them booked, they’re due quite soon.’
‘Will you be going to the police?’ Grace asked.
‘I’ll call them. Will they come to me?’
‘I’m sure they will.’
‘I’ll call tomorrow. I have no information that will bring the commander’s son home. Also, I have Elena to think about; I should discuss it with her first. It might not go down too well that her chief scientist has this particular history. Especially since she’s just launched on the ASX. That launch has been very successful so far. The share price is doing well.’
‘Do you think the corporation will be a success out here?’
‘I’m sure it will,’ Brinsmead replied. ‘With Elena driving it, it’ll be very successful indeed. She’ll make sure that organisation works exactly the way she wants it to. When she says that one day it will be one of the best in the world, I’m sure she’s right.’
‘Is that good or bad?’ Grace asked.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘The way you spoke about it just then. It seems almost as if you wish it wasn’t going to be that way.’
‘Does it? That’s unintentional. Elena’s very skilled, very sharp. She’s very much her father’s daughter, continuing in his footsteps. He’s a strange, possessive old man whose past has crippled him at every other level of his humanity except for the one that allows him to be a businessman. A little like me. I’m only able to do the work I do now. Nothing else is left.’
‘I should go,’ Grace said, getting to her feet. ‘It’s been my pleasure, Grace. I’ll see you out.’ ‘You don’t have to if you’re still in pain.’ ‘No, it’s better now. Those injections are powerful. Thanks for coming to see me.’
Once outside, she walked to the lift and glanced back. He was standing at the door, watching her. He waved, she waved back and then she was in the slow elevator, going down. As soon as Daniel Brinsmead was out of sight, she took a deep breath, not only for the release of tension. The smell of death had grown more powerful the longer she had sat there in the penthouse. Brinsmead could have no sense of smell left and must have forgotten that other people did.
Down in the foyer, Grace was looking for ways to hide inside the building when she saw a car pulling up outside. The driver didn’t get out. Grace guessed it to be Brinsmead’s hire car and stepped into the fire escape. Holding it open by a crack, she waited. She could see the foyer clearly, although not the front doors or the street. After almost ten minutes, Daniel appeared, stepping out of the lift. He was still dressed in white, wearing soft loafers on his feet, and walked awkwardly. She heard him leave the building, waited some minutes longer, then stepped out of the fire escape. Both he and the car were gone.
Again, she took the lift to the top floor. Bracing herself, she rang the doorbell to the penthouse. There was no response. The key turned easily in the lock and she let herself in.
> The rodent smell was even stronger than it had been earlier. All the lights had been turned off except the standard lamp in the lounge room. The mobile phone was missing from the coffee table. Grace went into the kitchen and, in the half-dark, saw that Daniel’s keys were also gone. There would be enough time. It was an hour to Campbelltown and an hour back. She moved to search the rest of the penthouse.
In the hallway, one of the doors had been left open. She switched on the light and went inside. It was the master bedroom, large with a king-sized bed and a walk-in wardrobe whose doors were floor-to-ceiling glass. The bed had been slept in but not made. There was an en suite, scrupulously clean, and more pain medications on the bedside table. Daniel Brinsmead slept here with his temporary anaesthetics and his memories of the dead.
In the top drawer of the bedside table she found a small photograph album. Opening it, she saw pictures of Daniel before he had been burnt. Fit, good-looking and well dressed, he shared most of these photographs with Elena Calvo. They hadn’t just gone out for a little while. They must have been lovers, deeply attached, at least on her side. There was adoration in the looks she gave Brinsmead in these pictures. His response was harder to read. Even so, the happiness in their faces was unforced. Fashion, attraction, wealth, it was all there for them. Then the photographs stopped. She checked the backs of some of the pictures but there were no dates or places given.
Turning a page, Grace found herself looking at very different picture, a black and white photograph from a time that seemed to be immediately post-World War Two. A pale-haired young man and a woman the same age were standing against the background of a ruined European city. The man was holding a baby. No one in this picture was smiling. Their faces were hollowed out, exhausted and hungry; their clothing dark and ragged. Grace slipped the picture out of its sleeve. It was a new photograph of an old image and showed the original’s creases and tears. Stamped on the back in blue ink were two words: Kinshasa Photographique. She put the photograph back and returned the album to the bedside table. Then she left the room, switching off the light behind her.
