The Tattooed Man

by Alex Palmer

  Harrigan knew she had won most comprehensively when he received a phone call from Millennium Forensic Technologies.

  ‘We have ASIO on the premises,’ the owner said. ‘They want the plant specimens you gave me and also any information I have on the subject. All my notes, all my test results, everything. Do I give it to them?’

  ‘I don’t think you have any choice,’ Harrigan replied. ‘I can’t stop them.’

  Harrigan rang Stephen Grey, the only useful contact he had in ASIO. He was almost surprised when Grey took his call.

  ‘We’re seizing those specimens and that information on behalf of our counterparts in Britain,’ he said. ‘It’s been authorised at the highest levels in both governments. All that evidence will be sent to London.’

  ‘Why is that necessary? We can do a very professional analysis here.’

  ‘I haven’t been made privy to the reason,’ Grey replied. ‘I’ve been told that the data attached to those specimens is classified as top secret. I can’t give you any more information than that.’

  ‘Those specimens are obviously connected to the operation around Brinsmead and Jonas. Why is it necessary to close this analysis down? On the face of it, it has nothing to do with the events in the DRC.’

  ‘There are still issues of secrecy involved. I think you should also realise that once those specimens are gone, that will be the end of your people’s involvement concerning anything to do with Brinsmead, Jonas or these plants. I have no more information than that to give you. Good morning.’

  Toby was also still in hospital. Without his computer, he had to pen their one-sided conversations with his single hand.

  ‘I want you to know that I didn’t leave you to die,’ Harrigan said. ‘I did everything I could to get you back.’

  That man wanted something for me, Dad. Something important. I heard him say so. Did you give it to him?

  ‘Yes, but he didn’t keep his word. He left you in that car park to die. Grace found you on a tipoff. There’s something else I think you should know. Someone made me an offer to research you personally. To try and find a way to repair some of the things that don’t work the way we’d like them to. I said no before I asked you what you wanted.’

  What do they want you to do?

  ‘That’s not the point.’

  Yes, it is. They wouldn’t be doing something like that for nothing. They must want something from you. What is it?

  ‘That’s my side of it. I want to know what you think.’

  Are they going to find a cure for me? No, they’re not. Maybe twenty years from now, maybe never. I’ve read about these things. No one’s thought about them more than me. They’re asking me to hope. I’m not going to do that. I’m not having anyone getting into my head for things I might never be able to have. I’ll keep wanting to be something I’m not and then I won’t do anything with my life. I’ll never be happy.

  ‘You’re happy now. Is that what you’re telling me?’

  I make my life work. Yes, I am in my own way.

  ‘Good,’ Harrigan said. ‘I’m glad.’

  Later, he shredded this sheet of paper down the men’s toilet. His actions in trying to get his son back remained what they had always been: a matter of necessity, something unquestionable.

  Harrigan had other obligations to fulfil. As soon as he could, he asked the commissioner for a recommencement of his leave. The commissioner offered him the time while reminding him that he was still waiting on his application for a senior position. Harrigan spent the evening staring at a blank computer screen before giving up and deciding to write it later.

  The next day he flew to Wagga, then hired a car to drive out to Yaralla. To Harrigan’s mind, Harold had a right to a visit and a personal explanation. The heat shimmered off the roads during the uneventful drive. At the junction of the Coolemon Road and Naradhan Creek Bridge, Harrigan pulled up behind a small truck that was crossing the Creek Lane in front of him and then drove up Harold’s track to the farmhouse. Harrigan waited until their dust had settled before following. In the yard, he pulled up next to where they’d parked. Written on the door of the cabin in fading and scratched green paint were the words Coolemon Fencing Contractors. Harold was talking to the two men who had got out.

  ‘I’ll be with you as soon as I can, mate,’ he called out to Harrigan. ‘Ambro’s inside. Go in and have a beer while you’re waiting.’

  Ambrosine was in the kitchen, which was no tidier or cleaner than it had been when Harold had been doing the cooking. She got him a can of Melbourne Bitter out of the fridge, then sat down and joined him, lighting up a cigarette. Harrigan could hear her children playing noisily in the hallway.

  ‘What’s all that about outside?’ he asked.

  ‘Harry’s getting his fences fixed. He’s just sorting out a few details.’

  ‘How come he can afford to do that?’

  She grinned at him. ‘You’re not the only one with contacts, mate. Let me tell you something. Little Joe’s not coming after me any more. I’ve been talking to Mad Dog.’

  ‘He talks to you, does he?’

  ‘I’ve tattooed his whole fucking back, mate. That’s not little. Yeah, he does talk to me. Little Joe’s gone off to America somewhere. Maybe LA but no one’s sure. He’s been fucking Mad Dog’s old lady. He had to leave quick smart.’

  ‘What happened to her?’ Harrigan asked.

  ‘She went with him. They’re not coming back in a hurry, not unless they want to die. You know, Mad Dog never liked Mike. He had it in for him. He wasn’t too sad to hear he was dead. He said if I gave him a tattoo free—one of my good ones—I could put my head above ground. So I asked for a favour as well.’

  ‘What sort of favour?’

  Ambrosine laughed. ‘I said a good friend of mine was being screwed around by old Stewie Morrissey and, to make matters worse, it was his own brother. He was hanging on to money that was really Harry’s. If they could get it out of him, they could take their cut as well. So Mad Dog and his mates dropped round to say hello. I wish I could have seen Stewie’s face when he opened the door and saw them there.’

  ‘Did you get the money?’

  ‘Oh yeah. It was nice lot of money with no strings attached. Harry’s getting a lot of work done. He’s feeling better than he has for a while.’

  ‘What are you going to do? Stay here?’

  ‘Yeah, for a bit. The kids are happy. I’m going to open a tattoo parlour in Coolemon. Harry’s put some cash aside for me to do that. I can make a bit of money and I want to start teaching Laurie. He’s got talent. He’s like his dad.’

  Hopefully he’d have a better fate, Harrigan thought.

  Harold arrived and they walked out onto the veranda for a chat.

  ‘How are your hands?’ Harrigan asked.

  ‘They’re getting there.’ Harold held them up to show they were healing. ‘Mate, I’m not too interested in chasing after Stewie over what he was doing out there. I’m working out ways to clean up that bit of land. If I can, I’m going to plant some trees. You say that whole affair, whatever it was, is finished with now. I want to put it behind me. Things are looking up at the moment. I want it to stay that way.’

  Harrigan’s people had interviewed Stuart Morrissey several times since their first encounter but with limited success. It had been another stumbling block in the investigation. Few people could stonewall like old Stewie, except presumably when he was dealing with Mad Dog and his bikie mates.

  ‘Ambro told me,’ Harrigan said. ‘Stewie owes you that money.’

  Harold shrugged. ‘It’s half his property as well. If it’s building the place up, he shouldn’t complain. Are you staying for dinner tonight?’

  ‘No, mate. Flying visit.’

  ‘You’re always working.’

  On his way back to Wagga, Harrigan turned onto the Creek Lane. Ambrosine’s cottage was still a pile of ash. Half a kilometre further along, he stopped near Cassatt’s grave and got out of his car, then scrambl
ed down into the dry creek bed. The narrow trench was still there. Its fading outlines showed the tracks of animals searching for water, while around about the ants were building their nests. The silence was intense and the mid-afternoon heat had an iron grip. Everything was stilled under the hard blue arc of the sky and the pure clarity of the Australian light. There was no sound of the gunshot he had been waiting to hear for a dozen years. It had faded into silence with the Ice Cream Man’s death. Finally, the violence in his life had played itself out.

  The day after he’d got back to Birchgrove, a courier delivered a parcel to him. When he opened it, he found himself in possession of the contents of the Ice Cream Man’s safety deposit box. The accusation that she had failed to meet a business obligation had got under Elena Calvo’s skin more than being called a murderer. He destroyed the tape and the tie immediately and cleaned the gun. Then he went down to his cellar where he took a rusted metal cash box out from behind a sandstone block.

  Upstairs in his kitchen, he opened the box and took out the gun which, years ago, his father had used to shoot his mother. Until now he had kept it as his own memorial to her. He wrapped both guns in plastic and stuck it down with masking tape. After midnight, he went out, walking around Snails Bay past the oval and down Louisa Road to Long Nose Point. He stood on the old ferry wharf looking out at the river. It was deep here. Pleasure craft cruised by; he heard the laughing voices of people on board, the drifting sounds of music. Then there were no more boats, the stretch of water was empty. He threw both guns as far out across the river as he could. He heard them hit the water. They would sink without a trace and take the past with them.

  In the dark, he sat on the public jetty and watched the water lap around the wooden steps. When had it ever been his own life? When had the decisions been his and his alone? Had he ever decided for himself what he wanted from his life or had all those decisions been made for him by other people?

  He walked back into his house and went up into his study. He sat at his desk and looked at Goya’s prints on the wall. One can’t look, the caption said, showing villagers about to be massacred by unseen soldiers.

  He reached for a sheet of paper and began to write a letter of resignation. The words came to him easily, he wrote without making a single correction. Then he typed it up as an email and sent it, aware when he pressed the Send button that there was no way back. Despite the lateness of the hour, he went out and posted the handwritten version by snail mail. It was his life. For the first time, it was his own life.

  The next morning, he went back into his study, opened his safe and checked those pieces of the plant specimens he still had in his keeping. When he first put them in here, he had opened the plastic bags to let them breathe. They had dehydrated but were otherwise intact. He locked the safe again and left them where they were.

  Out on the net, he surfed into the Human Rights Watch website. It had collected all the information relating to the Pittwater killings and posted its own theory of what had happened. It was a perceptive analysis that hinted at a possible involvement by the Calvos but was careful not to invite any legal threats. Their home page had a pointer to the video Daniel Brinsmead had posted on the net. Do you have any information about this video? If so, please contact us. Other similar websites had done the same thing and posted this same request. Harrigan hit the Contact Us button and began to write an email.

  The commissioner rang, hoping the email he had received from Harrigan was a mistake. Could he be persuaded to change his mind? For Harrigan, saying no had never felt sweeter.

  It was Grace’s first full day out of hospital and he went to meet her for lunch. She arrived at the café on Darling Street just as he did. She had cut her hair short, which made her look even more striking. Her face was pale and finely lined after her weeks in hospital.

  ‘You look beautiful,’ he said. ‘It’s different but it suits you.’

  ‘I had to cut it,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t go around with one side short and one side long.’

  They sat outside. The waiter came and took their order. As he was leaving, he picked up the ashtray.

  ‘No,’ Harrigan said, ‘we’ll need that.’

  ‘No, we won’t,’ Grace said. ‘I’ve stopped smoking as of today. I’m never going to have another cigarette.’

  Hallelujah, Harrigan thought. ‘Isn’t that a bit sudden?’ he asked. ‘Shouldn’t you get some Nicorette to deal with the cravings?’

  ‘No, it’s best to go cold turkey. I’ve thrown away every last cigarette together with my lighter.’

  ‘I’ve got some news for you as well,’ he said. ‘I’ve resigned. I sent my resignation in last night. It was accepted with regret this morning.’

  She couldn’t believe it.

  ‘It’s not possible,’ she said. ‘You won’t survive. What are you going to do?’

  ‘I’m going into business for myself. As a consultant. I’ve got a lot of knowledge, I know a lot of people and I know how the system works. I can tell people how they can get things done, how to protect themselves. I’ve already got something moving. I’m going to be a free man for the first time in my life.’

  The waiter came with their coffees. Harrigan had ordered a long black, she had asked for a decaffeinated flat white.

  ‘That’s great,’ she said.

  Both the expression on her face and her tone of voice said the opposite.

  ‘What is it? Is there something you haven’t told me? Are you going to recover? You said the prognosis was good.’

  ‘No, the doctors said I was very lucky. I should be okay. They just have to keep an eye on me for a while.’

  She wasn’t looking at him directly.

  ‘Grace, why aren’t you smoking? And why did you order decaf? You hate it.’

  She glanced around and then back at him. ‘I’m pregnant,’ she said.

  ‘When did that happen?’

  ‘The night you took out my kitchen tiles,’ she said, giving him that look of hers. ‘I was going to fix everything in the morning. I never got the chance.’

  ‘What do you want to do?’

  ‘I’ve binned my cigarettes, Paul, and I’m drinking this stuff. What do you want to do?’

  Harrigan had always had an eye for the main chance. ‘We can do this together. You could move in with me.’

  ‘Well,’ she said a little breathlessly, ‘you could move in with me.’

  ‘You, me and a baby are going to live in your little pocket handkerchief?’

  ‘There’s probably enough room for a bassinet if I move the guitar off the top of the wardrobe,’ she said.

  There was a pause.

  ‘What happens if after five years we decide we hate each other?’ she asked.

  ‘Why don’t we worry about that five years from now?’

  They looked at each other. He thought of Toby and of a child who could walk.

  ‘Go on, Grace,’ he said. ‘I’ve just jumped out into mid-air. You can do it too. Be brave.’

  ‘You always tell me I’m too brave.’

  ‘Prove me right.’

  ‘All right. I’ll be brave.’

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My thanks to everyone for their generous advice, interest and time. For their information, advice and demonstration of the art of tattooing: eX de Medici; the staff and research students at the Division of Pacific and Asian History at the Research School of Pacific and Asian Studies at ANU; and Deus Ex Machina of North Lyneham.

  Ron and Deborah Gilchrist for their hospitality.

  Dr Carol Nottenburg for her advice on patents.

  About the Author

  Alex Palmer is a Canberra-based novelist who took up writing full time when she was made redundant from the Australian Public Service. With Blood Redemption, she won the Ned Kelly Award for Best First Crime Novel, and shared the Sisters in Crime Davitt Award for best crime novel by a woman with Gabrielle Lord. The Tattooed Man was the winner of the 2008 Canberra Critics Circle Award.

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  Books by Alex Palmer

  Blood Redemption

  The Tattooed Man

  The Labyrinth of Drowning

  Copyright

  HarperCollinsPublishers

  First published in Australia in 2008

  This edition published in 2010

  by HarperCollinsPublishers Australia Pty Limited

  ABN 36 009 913 517

  www.harpercollins.com.au

  Copyright © Alex Palmer 2008

  The right of Alex Palmer to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her under the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000.

  This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

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