A malevolent silence followed. Finally, a dark-skinned man with hooded eyes and a coathanger of a nose opened the screen door.
'Ah, Mr Mahmoud, is it? Hope we aren't interrupting anything?'
The man wore a tracksuit and slippers. He stared flatly past them into the yard.
'Mr Mahmoud,' said Jill, 'I met you when you were hospitalised at Prince of Wales. You might remember? I believe your friend Mr Sebastian was visiting you at the time?'
Mahmoud hawked phlegm in the back of his throat.
A pigtailed girl aged around five poked her head around her father's legs and stared up at Scotty, eyes wide. Too late, she grabbed for a ginger cat that darted out through the gap in the door. Mahmoud uttered a curse under his breath, aiming a kick at the cat that would have sent it flying had it not launched itself from the step before the foot could connect. The cat sat in the sun near the white van and looked back at them, seemingly nonchalant, cleaning a paw, its tail sweeping the path. The girl was gone.
'What do you want here?' Jamaal addressed Scotty.
'Well, we need your help, Mr Mahmoud. We have some more questions to ask you about the night you were assaulted and George Manzi was killed. It would be easiest if you came back to the station with us so we can record your statement.'
'I have already given my statement. There is nothing more I can say. I can remember nothing about the night.'
Scotty was still smiling, enthusiastic. 'Yes, we've read your statement, Mr Mahmoud, but I'm afraid we need more information.'
A woman's voice speaking Arabic cut off Mahmoud's reply. The woman who had answered the door on Wednesday now filled the space behind her husband. She continued to speak, and the man's eyes narrowed in anger. He snapped back a response, also in Arabic, and stepped forward away from her, his fists clenched.
'We will go.' He kicked off the slippers and stepped into some shoes lined up next to others at the door.
Jill prepared the interview room while Scotty found a place in the police carpark for Mahmoud to park his van. A female probationary constable helped her become familiar with the recording equipment. The two sound-activated audio recorders and a digital video recorder were newer than those at Maroubra.
'Do you need both audios?' The girl looked to be about nineteen, perfect skin, clean brown hair tucked behind unpierced ears.
Was I ever that young? Jill smiled, thinking of her mother's saying, 'You know you're getting old when the police look like kids.'
'Yeah, thanks, Audrey. Don't want to miss anything this guy says. Are you sitting in?'
'That okay? Beaumont assigned me to you guys today.'
'Yeah, of course.'
Jill checked her notes and scribbled down a few more questions. She kept her head down when Scotty bounded in, chatting away to the taciturn man next to him. Mahmoud dropped into the seat to which Audrey Galea, the young constable, directed him. Galea fussed around the video camera, ensuring she had the equipment working smoothly. Scotty took his seat and looked up at Jill, ready to begin the interview.
Jill stated the time and date, and identified those present in the room. 'Mr Mahmoud,' she continued, 'would you please state your name and date of birth?'
'Jamaal Mahmoud. Fifth of July, 1967.'
'And your address?'
'Forty-one George Street, Lakemba.'
Jill recited the verbal preamble that preceded each police statement, and asked Mahmoud to agree that he would tell the truth.
Jamaal found that he could keep his anger from his voice by speaking to the bitch's tits. While he gave them the same bullshit about the night George was killed, he fantasised about putting this whore to work. A week on Canterbury Road servicing the Australians on their way home would show this one her real place in life. He ground his teeth when she fired another question at him, demanding he answer to her.
He felt some satisfaction when he heard all the questions about Sebastian. He knew he should be worried that the police had an interest in his boss, but why should he be the only one they question? He was no-one's dog. He imagined Sebastian on the inside, having to suck cock to make enough friends to stay alive in gaol. He almost laughed aloud, but was drawn back to the interview by a question asked by the big Australian.
No, of course he did not know anything about the child pornography found in the front of the car with Manzi, he told them. Jamaal wondered what sort of a man could take orders from a bitch. Even one this big would drop like a bag of shit when hit from behind. Jamaal hoped one day to make that happen.
Caring little for the answers he gave, Jill concentrated on questions that she hoped might rattle Jamaal. She knew better than to hope he might respond with the truth, but his answers now could trip him up in a lie in the future. She also wanted him to believe that they'd connected him and Sebastian to Carter, Crabbe and Rocla. She asked him whether he knew each of them, intimating that Bobby Anglia had told them more than he actually had. She registered a tick of satisfaction when Jamaal lost his temper momentarily.
'How do I know if I know this man? Do you know the names of every bastard you have ever met? Maybe I did see him somewhere. I don't know.'
She also made sure to mention Alejandro Sebastian whenever she could. It was too late to prevent Sebastian knowing they were watching him. Harris and Jardine were approaching him right now. If they were going to come down, she wanted it heavy. She disagreed with Jardine that they should play it safe with Sebastian – if they caught him by surprise, he could make a mistake. Of course, it was possible, although unlikely, that he could panic and maybe take out another member of his special club, a witness perhaps. What a shame if it was this man, she thought, wanting to slap Mahmoud's eyes away from her chest. She was relieved when the interview ended; she felt like she needed a bath.
Out in the carpark, Jamal's eyes felt too hot to close, like the lids would stick to his eyeballs if he did not stare straight ahead. A molar silently fractured as he bit down on the anger at the back of his throat.
He started his van and pulled away from the Central police station.
42
NATHAN SANDERS PUSHED his mouth further into his pillow, trying to suffocate his sobs. He couldn't bear his mother coming to comfort him, only to end up trying to calm her again when she crumpled to his bedroom floor. Jerome had been missing for six days, and Nathan wished that he could be as staunch as his father, driving the streets relentlessly looking for his son, returning only for food and brief naps in his chair before heading out again.
Nathan replayed for the hundredth time the words he'd said to Jerome on the last night he saw him. He whispered a prayer, and told God that he could never forgive himself or his father if his brother did not come home alive.
Into his wet pillow, he offered God more promises and threats.
No-one else at his school had these sneakers yet. Vans, skaters' shoes; his dad got them from America at Christmas. Not even Scott Emery in Year 8 had 'em, and he always got everything first. Jerome found that focusing hard on his clothes, stuff from home, helped him to not cry so much. His throat hurt from crying and he needed to stop.
But they'd all been pretty nice to him, actually. Well, except forkidnapping him. Jerome gave himself a mental head slap.
When he realised the big man was not going to call his mum, and they were going to keep him, Jerome's mind had filled with every horror he'd heard about in his twelve years. And that was a lot. Like the time he'd had nightmares for a week after the party at Logan's house. Assam Ravinder, whose dad was a cop, had snuck over this police magazine. There was a picture of this guy in there who'd tied a rope to the trunk of a tree, got in his car, tied the rope around his neck, and driven forward. They showed the head next to the body, really close up. Braydon had been sick in his sleeping bag and had to go home.
But, except for that guy who said his name was Tadpole putting his hand on Jerome's back and leg a couple of times, no-one here had touched him. And they'd even been pretty nice to him. He could help
himself to anything in the fridge, they'd told him, and he'd had a few of cans of Coke, some cake and sandwiches, but mostly he didn't like to move. Tadpole had brought pizza down a couple of times, but it had those anchovy things on it, and he hadn't been able to make himself eat much. He had no idea how long he'd been here, but he thought it had to be more than four nights. He could hear nothing from the outside. When the white van had left, the big room seemed more like a lounge room than a garage; there was a big TV on one wall, some chairs and stuff, a kitchen and a bathroom. Feeling like he was going to have a heart attack, he'd tried once to open a door at the end of the room, but he couldn't make it move. It was the same story with the door they drove the van through.
Sometimes he'd forget anything was wrong. He even fell asleep a few times. Mostly, though, there was this bad feeling, like when Nathan would jump out from the hallway in the dark, except the feeling just went on and on.
At least Big Nose hadn't been back. They called him Jamaal. Jerome had seen him opening and closing his hands like he wanted to choke something. He did it mostly when the big one was talking. Once when he saw Jerome watching him, Jamaal had smiled and Jerome had nearly gone to the toilet in his pants.
Until today, he hadn't left the underground room, but maybe half an hour earlier, after Tadpole had found him crying again, he'd told Jerome he'd take him to see the ocean if he promised not to say a word. With a tea towel wrapped around his eyes, he'd climbed some stairs with Tadpole behind him. He'd smelled the outside air, but then Jamaal's voice made him freeze. Tadpole had shoved and sort of carried him back down the stairs, back to the big room. Tadpole had been giggling, with his hands over his mouth, but Jerome didn't think it was funny. He wanted to be at home, but down here was much better than up there with Jamaal.
He wondered what time it was. What his mum and dad were doing. He hoped they were still looking for him. Maybe Assam Ravinder's father would be trying to find him too. How long do people keep looking for you when you've been kidnapped? Is there a time when they decide you're not coming back and they stop looking?
Jerome rubbed his eyes, and focused hard on his sneakers.
43
ALTHOUGH SHE WAS fully alert before she picked up the phone that woke her, Jill still couldn't make out the identity of the caller. She sat upright in her bed, telephone receiver in hand; it sounded as though the speaker was trying to disguise their voice. She flicked the switch on her bedside lamp and wondered how this person had got her number.
'I'm there right now,' the voice sounded muffled. Jill struggled to determine whether it was male or female. 'I can't make it all stop, but tonight I'm going to try.'
'Would you please tell me who this is?' Jill's eyes were grainy; her body urged her back to her pillow, the warm quilt. The red numbers on the clock next to her registered 12.18 a.m.
'I'm on Kensington Drive, Hunters Hill. I'm in my car out the front of Sebastian's house. I know you know who he is. The Owner.'
'How did you get this number?'
'Is that really all you've got to say? I thought you, if no-one else, would want to put a stop to what these men are doing.'
'What are they doing?'
'Why, they fuck children, Jill. But you already know that, don't you?'
The voice sounded like the person was speaking through cloth.
Jill got up and walked with the phone now, pacing through her living room.
'Jill, they have a child there tonight.' Jill gripped the phone in her hand. 'I think it's a boy called Jerome Sanders; he was snatched last week. There's a party going on right now. Some Japanese high rollers have come here to celebrate, and Jerome is the party favour.'
Jill stood very still. 'How do you know all this?' she asked.
'I've been watching. I know you got my photo.'
'What is that address again?' Jill scribbled it down on a notepad in the kitchen; she tasted acid at the back of her throat. 'I'll be there within half an hour. Whoever you are, do not enter that house. If there is a child in there you cannot risk him being hurt.'
'Jill, there is a child in there. I told you. And it's probably a little too late to hope that there's just a risk of him being hurt. You know what kind of men these are.'
Jill unlocked her door; a jacket over her tracksuit would have to do. She slipped her firearm into the pocket of her windcheater. She'd telephone Scotty from her mobile, in transit.
Scotty confirmed what she already knew. The kidnapping of Jerome Sanders had been in the news and on their bulletin boards for a week. Scotty promised he'd meet her at Hunters Hill within half an hour.
'Jill, you don't know what this is. Do not get out of the car until I get there. Are we clear?'
'Yep. Just get there fast, and bring the cavalry.'
She knew neither of them could get there in less than forty minutes, and because Scotty would need to find Andreessen and arrange for back-up, he'd probably be considerably longer.
Jill stayed not more than twenty over the speed limit, overriding the instincts that were urging her to floor it. Jerome Sanders was with them right now. She blinked her eyes rapidly to stop images forming of what could be happening to him, what had happened to her.
She did not have to look to know that the girl with the white eyes sat in the passenger seat next to her, staring fixedly ahead, on her way to help Jerome. Somewhere Jill was faintly disturbed that this girl from the basement, who since then had lived only in her nightmares, was taking this ride with her.
She tried to ignore the girl's burning presence as she drove into the night.
Jill had rarely used the portable navigation system her father had bought her for Christmas a few years ago. Being told where to go by the British nanny voice irritated her. Tonight, however, she obeyed the voice, and at 12.50 a.m. she pulled into the sleeping wealth of Kensington Drive, Hunters Hill. Crawling forward with her headlights off, she saw Mercy Merris's red Mercedes parked with a group of its newer, more expensive cousins. She felt no surprise. She rolled past the car, lights still off, and glanced inside. Empty.
She drove to the next street and turned left, parked a few houses down. Hands in her pockets, one cradling her gun, Jill jogged back towards the Mercedes, sticking to pools of darkness. She could see no-one. The homes in this street were set well back from the road. The night was still, the air cool on her face.
She reached Mercy's car, parked close to the house with the street number she'd been given. She assumed the caller had been Mercy. So Mercy had sent the photo. What was she doing?
Next to the Mercedes, a long sandstone wall protected a high, perfectly maintained hedge; the hedge protected a million-dollar view from those too poor to see it from their own homes. There was still no movement on the street.
Jill felt the girl with the white eyes jump over the wall before her. Shit. She waited a beat and followed her over, then she pushed her way through the hedge, the fragrant twigs pulling at her hair, clawing her clothing, trying to trap her within. When she finally broke through, the white-eyed girl was running down a hill towards the house. 'Wait for Scotty,' she wanted to yell after herself. Instead, she moved cautiously down velvety lawns towards the dark house.
She was halfway to the back of the huge home when the floodlights flared, turning night to day. Jill threw herself into a bush at the side of the gravel drive and lay there, her heart in her mouth, watching. The girl with the white eyes lay next to her, breathing evenly, waiting for Jill to get up and do something.
I should wait for Scotty, she told herself, even as she moved from her stomach to a crouch, readying to move. The lights had not brought anybody to the yard, and there was no noticeable movement in the house. Jill could see all of the grounds now, a wave of dark green flowing down to the inky harbour fifty metres away. The owners were perhaps used to large water birds triggering the sensor lights. In any event, they had not bothered to come and check why they'd been activated.
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