by Alex Palmer
She leaned against the tree and wept. Harrigan briefly wondered if he should put his hand on her shoulder, and decided not to. Don’t intrude, it’s her grief. He was back to being the policeman again, watching from a distance because it was the only way to function.
‘Excuse me,’ she said.
‘Don’t worry about it. Let’s go inside.’
Inside, she washed her face and then offered him coffee.
‘No, thanks, I’m fine,’ he said. ‘Would you let me take this photograph of Joel and his letter away? I promise you, you’ll get them back safe and sound.’
‘Do you think you can find Ian?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said, ‘but I can try. If you’ve got a picture of him as well, that would help.’
‘All right.’ She had more tears in her eyes. ‘If you can find him, that will be enough for me. It’s certainly worth a couple of photographs and a letter.’
These things broke your heart, Harrigan thought. Where would a body be after eight years? Rotting in the bush somewhere? Dumped out at sea? How could he hope to find it?
The second half of his day, after a few phone calls, took him from north to south, to the inner west, Burwood, to Avondale Nursing Home. The sign outside the former late Victorian mansion announced that it was a high care and dementia care nursing home with over thirty years’ experience. He walked inside to the reception desk. The air was warm, almost a little steamy. There was a smell of food and, underneath it, urine and faeces.
‘Can I help?’ the receptionist asked, a middle-aged woman with glasses.
‘I rang earlier,’ he said. ‘About a Mrs Griffin. The director of nursing agreed to see me.’
‘I’ll just take you through.’
The director greeted him with a handshake. She was a younger, dark-haired woman.
‘I’m Hilary Totaro,’ she said. ‘You were asking about Loretta. Would you like to tell me why?’
‘As you can see from my card, I’m a consultant. If Mrs Griffin is who I think she is, my current assignment has led me to believe that her son may be dead.’
‘I don’t think that news will have much effect on Loretta. What was this son’s name?’
‘Joel.’
‘I’ll take you to meet her. Then you’ll know what I’m talking about.’
Loretta Griffin was a tiny, birdlike woman strapped in her wheelchair. Her hair was white and thin like a child’s, sparse against her pink scalp. She was being fed by a nurse’s aide and looked around vacantly after each mouthful. Her hands bunched and unbunched as she ate and her feet were twisted on the wheelchair’s footrests. There was a terrible scar across her head, clearly visible under her thin hair.
‘Hello, Loretta. How are you today?’ Hilary said.
The woman turned to her with huge staring eyes, still eating but not speaking.
‘She’s got a good appetite today,’ said the nurse’s aide, glancing at Harrigan.
‘That’s good. All right, Loretta. See you later now.’
They walked away.
‘Can she talk?’ Harrigan asked.
‘A little bit. There was no point in introducing you,’ Hilary said. ‘She won’t know who you are.’
‘My information is she’s been here since 1981. What happened to her?’
‘That’s true. She’s seen out three directors of nursing and one change of ownership. Actually she’s been in homes for longer than that. Her story’s on the public record so it won’t matter if I tell you. Her husband took an iron bar to her one night in 1977. She has irreversible brain damage. She’s been like that since she was thirty-five.’
Harrigan almost said, what kind of a life is that, when he thought about his son. Toby had a mind. A mind can take you anywhere.
‘I have a letter from the son dated 1981 where he says he thinks she’s showing signs of improvement,’ he said.
‘That would have been a very vain hope even then. Do you know what this son looks like?’
‘I’ve got one old photograph.’
She looked at it for some moments. ‘I think this is him,’ she said. ‘We’ll go to Loretta’s room. It’s just down here.’
It was a brightly decorated room, with soft toys on the shelves and a television set facing the bed.
‘Does she watch TV?’
‘She seems to. There are things she gets pleasure out of. This is her Joel.’
It was a picture taken at a Christmas party, a younger version of the same woman with her son next to her. The years had been stripped away from her in this photograph but in actuality she appeared no different from the way she was now, still strapped in her chair. A teenage boy, the same one as in Ian Blackmore’s photograph, was sitting beside her and holding her hand. Seated next to him was an attractive, red-haired girl. Harrigan turned the photograph over. Mum, me and Sara, 1981, written in the same childish handwriting as the letter.
‘Do you know the last time he visited her?’ he asked, knowing the answer.
‘No one I know has seen him here. Loretta hasn’t had any visitors since I’ve been here and that’s five years now. This was a long time ago. For all I know it was the last Christmas he spent with her.’
‘I think it probably was,’ Harrigan replied. ‘Last question. Do you know her husband’s name?’
‘No. But apparently he was tried and convicted of attempted murder so there must be a record of it somewhere. I guess he’s out of gaol by now. You’d have to say he wasn’t the one who got the life sentence.’
‘Thank you for your information. You’ve been very helpful.’
‘I’m sorry to hear her son is dead. He might have been someone to visit her.’
Harrigan, used to the kinds of assumptions people made about Toby, particularly when he had been growing up, could not bring himself to make a judgement on the nature of Loretta Griffin’s life. Maybe the physical comfort and care were enough for her. Who knew? It wasn’t a question he wanted to answer.
He drove home, caught in his thoughts, and went up to his study. There he opened his wallet, took out Joel Griffin’s card and placed it on his desk. Then he googled Griffin’s name, the date of Blackmore’s meeting with him eight years ago and Parramatta Court House. A courtroom was a public place; a trial was always on the public record. The information came up, not from the legal databases but on the national broadcaster, a late night program canvassing the subject of the Sydney crime world. On that date, a small-time thief associated with a particular criminal organisation was being defended by Joel Griffin on a charge of attempted murder. The trial had been complex and had gone on for a number of weeks. The man had been acquitted but later ended up dead as part of a gang war. The broadcaster had been speculating on the lines of influence operating in that same war.
These details relating to Griffin’s client weren’t relevant to Harrigan’s current investigation. But the item did prove that Joel Griffin had been at Parramatta Court House the day Ian Blackmore had disappeared; the day Blackmore had supposedly been intending to meet him there. What if one day Blackmore had been reading the paper and spotted Griffin’s name? This trial was the kind of item to make it to the newspaper, even if just in brief. According to his sister, Blackmore would have tried to get in touch with Griffin, probably immediately, to see if he was the same Joel Griffin he’d known at Camp Sunshine.
Blackmore had known both Craig Wells and the real Joel Griffin. If you were ruthless enough, it wouldn’t be too hard to force a man into signing his own suicide note. One way to keep a busy police force at bay. Particularly if you had already concocted an accusation of child molestation. There was just enough time here for someone to have done that. Someone moving quickly against an unexpected threat.
Blackmore was dead, he had to be. Probably murdered the very night he’d gone missing. But someone had still put his name to the bottom of a letter to Frank Wells, just as someone had appropriated Jennifer Shillingworth’s name for a property trust. Ghosts, both of them, made use of by s
omeone with a nasty sense of humour. Just as Joel Griffin, on the basis of everything Harrigan had encountered to date, had to be a ghost as well.
Sara McLeod had been an attractive redhead. Was she also Nadine Patterson? Two ruthless people working together. That would be a formidable combination, one any person with a sense of self-preservation would avoid. Harrigan put Griffin’s card away. He wasn’t staying out of their way. He was coming for them. He just had to keep pushing for some more information, something that would bring some provable facts out of the shadows. Something that wasn’t just his own speculation, however compelling that speculation was. So far all he had was guesswork. He locked his gun away and left to collect his daughter.
That night, the three of them had what was almost a normal evening. As always, Grace cooked; she liked to cook, it relaxed her, she said. Ellie was in a happy mood, absorbed in her own play. Harrigan felt it as someone might feel an Indian summer, that interval of warm sunshine before the weather turns bad. It was enough for the moment. In life you should take what’s given to you, because you never know when you might lose it. He had learnt that lesson too often in his own life to let anything of value slip past him. Although neither could tell the other what they’d done with their day, they still seemed to understand each other past the need for words.
Tomorrow night was his book launch. He had dedicated his book to her. Until recently, his life had seemed a gift and this was his small way of acknowledging it to her. He asked if she would be there. She smiled.
‘Of course I will. It’s special.’
‘Just a book. Just my rantings about how the system doesn’t work.’
‘No. It’s special.’
She was asleep before he came to bed. After this quiet evening, her face was still drawn and pale. Again they slept, waiting for the next step in the dance.
17
At Chipping Norton, Duncan Wong was again the one who opened the door to Grace.
‘We weren’t expecting you to come back,’ he said. ‘Have you got any news? Narelle still won’t talk to us.’
‘No, I don’t, I’m sorry. This is more about seeing how you’ve all been getting on. Has Narelle been out at all?’
‘Once or twice with Dad. Mum doesn’t want to talk to her.’
‘Can I see her?’
‘If she’ll let you in.’
This time when Grace knocked on Narelle’s door, it was opened almost too quickly. Narelle stood there looking pleased with herself. Her brother had already walked away.
‘Yeah, I’ll talk to you,’ she said.
The room was as stuffy as the first time Grace had been in there. There was a carton of cigarettes on the table and a full ashtray. The smell of stale cigarette smoke had grown stronger. Narelle had freshened herself up and was wearing make-up. It made her seem more like a child in dress-up than a young woman in her early twenties. Grace recognised the look: the man you have been praying will call you has finally picked up the phone.
‘How are you, Narelle?’
‘I’m good.’
Grace saw she was nervous.
‘Has anyone been in touch with you lately?’
‘I got a message from Elliot.’
‘Your boyfriend?’
‘Yeah.’
Narelle smiled and took a plain white envelope out of a girlishly pretty china box. Careful about how she handled it, Grace opened it. The note inside was handwritten. To Marie, Goddess of the Orchids. Grace is coming to see you again very soon, you can trust her. Do what she asks. Burn this. Elliot.
‘Where did you get this?’
‘Someone left it at the restaurant. I got one of the waiters to take messages for me.’
A waiter who would now receive a visit from Orion. Grace hoped it wasn’t someone who was having trouble with their visa.
‘You didn’t burn it.’
‘I know I was supposed to but I wanted to keep it.’
‘That was his name for you. Goddess of the Orchids.’
‘He said Narelle didn’t suit me, I was more exotic than that. So he got me that flat where I could be what I really was. Like the orchids.’
And you believed him.
‘I’ll keep this,’ Grace said, tucking it away in her bag.
‘No, you won’t. I want that back!’
‘Not if you want a lift somewhere. I’m making sure no one does the dirty on me.’
Narelle bit her lip. ‘He wouldn’t do that.’
‘No, of course he wouldn’t. I’m just being careful. The deal is this. Elliot wants to meet with you. You have to get yourself somewhere I can pick you up unnoticed. Any ideas?’
‘I’ll go to the restaurant. I can park under cover there. There’s a shopping mall next door. I’ll go through to the mall and meet you in the car park. Is he going to take me somewhere? Did he say?’
‘He wants me to take you to a service centre north of Gosford. He’s going to pick you up there and drive you to Coffs Harbour and then fly you to Cairns. He said he wants to go to Hong Kong with you by yacht.’
Grace almost blushed saying it. Narelle smiled with innocent delight.
‘He talked about doing that. He said I could help him with his business there because I know the language.’
‘I’m sure it’ll be handy. Have you got a passport and money?’
‘Yeah, I’ve got all that.’
‘Bring everything you have that establishes your ID. Your passport, your birth certificate and your driver’s licence. You need to dress anonymously, okay? Put on a tracksuit, something with a hood. Make sure no one can recognise you. But don’t bring any clothes. Elliot will buy you everything new.’
‘Okay. I’ll just bring my bag with my make-up and stuff. And my mobile.’
‘No, don’t bring any of that either. Especially the phone.’
‘I need my phone.’
‘If you bring it, people might trace you on it,’ Grace said.
Narelle nodded. ‘He’ll buy me a new phone anyway. Something really nice. I am so looking forward to this.’
This was as much as Grace could deal with.
‘Tell me about Elliot,’ she said. ‘What does he look like?’
Narelle smiled and shook her head. ‘Oh, no,’ she said. ‘He told me never to talk about that to anyone. Never tell anyone his last name or anything about him. He has to protect his identity.’
‘Then I won’t ask. I have to go now. Let’s make a time for when I’m going to pick you up. Whatever happens, you have to be there.’
The girl laughed. ‘Nothing’s going to stop me.’
‘You do realise you won’t be coming back? Your family will be worried about you and they’ll call the police. You realise that as well?’
She shrugged. ‘How are they going to find me? They won’t be looking for me with you.’
‘I guess not. Okay. Tomorrow afternoon at three.’
‘I’ll be there. This is going to be the longest day in my whole life.’
Grace made the time to talk to Duncan before she left.
‘How’s it been?’
‘She’s been locked in her room most of the time. She won’t talk to me. Mum won’t talk to her. Sometimes she talks to Dad. Then he gets upset and argues with Mum about her. It’s horrible being in the house. Is anything going to happen now? It’s like we’re living in no-man’s-land.’
‘We’re waiting on the results of our investigations. I honestly can’t say more than that.’
‘If Narelle’s not going to be charged with anything, can’t we just know that and get on with our lives? Get her to snap out of this?’
‘I can’t tell you one way or the other what’s going to happen. But our first concern in this is for you, your family and your sister. As soon as we can, we’ll advise you what the next step is.’
‘When hell freezes over.’
‘Whether you believe it or not, it’s true.’
He only shrugged. ‘It’ll get worse before it gets better.’
When she drove away from the house, Narelle stayed in her mind like some monstrous, innocent child about to run happily to her own murder. In the present, she had her own encounter with Griffin to go to. Less dangerous than tomorrow’s—she hoped—but still unappealing in the extreme.
This time in the Lane Cove National Park there was no black Porsche, just the blue Audi waiting for her. It was a clear autumn day, warm, the sky cloudless. If it hadn’t been for whom she had to meet here, it might have been just another day in paradise. Griffin was waiting for her at the picnic table. She had dressed carefully for this meeting, not over the top. She had her hair out; something she hadn’t wanted to do but Clive had insisted on it.
Griffin didn’t get up; his solidly built figure took up space on the bench. He was dressed casually without a tie and had brought along an al fresco meal. Cheese, olives, cold meats, dips, bread and champagne. He poured her a glass when she sat down.
‘Have a drink.’
‘I don’t drink,’ she said.
‘You can drink just one glass with me.’
‘I can’t even handle the smell of it.’
‘Chris said you used to drink a lot. Is that why you don’t drink now?’
‘Yes,’ she said, seeing no point in any other answer. Then she realised that hearing Newell’s name had not affected her. He was a ghost already losing its potency. ‘Narelle’s all ready to go as planned.’
He brushed this aside. ‘I don’t want to talk about her. You look very nice. Tasteful. I don’t like it when women dress like sluts. I got you this,’ he said and handed her an envelope, as if it were a present.
It was a picture of her at nineteen when there was no scar on her neck. She’d had her hair cut short then. Her emotions seemed so close to the surface, her eyes almost raw with feeling. Had she ever been that young? Even though she was laughing, her eyes were so sad. Back then, the only way to deal with grief had been to live constantly in the present. Once this scrap of paper had been part of a photograph of the band, but someone had cut the other musicians away, leaving only her.
‘I like the way you look in that photograph. You look very beautiful.’
