The Shadow Maker

by Robert Sims

  ‘That’s right. That leaves us with the card.’ Rita cleared away the masks and handed him a photocopy of the Plato’s Cave smartcard.

  ‘The crime lab’s given me a list of a dozen software firms to check out. We’ll do half each. I’ll take Xanthus and another five in a cluster nearby. You get the rest.’

  ‘Okay, boss. What about the brothel?’

  ‘I’ll pay a call this afternoon.’

  As Rita drove to Xanthus Software she was beginning to think Strickland might be right. She might have overreacted to Kelly Grattan’s bike story. That would mean her focus on the company was based on a false assumption, and unless the smartcard had been produced by the firm, there was no tangible link to the investigation.

  Security checks had showed that Xanthus was a small operation with less than fifty on the staff list. When Rita cross-checked the names with police files nothing jumped out at her. Along with an absence of MX-5s, there were no rap sheets for assault or sex offences, but they seemed a sorry bunch - several drink-driving incidents, some minor drug busts, and a drowning off Portsea. But two things interested her. First, for a small company it had a high staff turnover - a sign of intense pressure, if nothing else. And second, of course, the owner: Martin Barbie.

  Apart from witnessing last night’s performance at the awards ceremony, she’d seen him on television fronting his reality game show.

  Gold Rush was a competition in which contestants eliminated each other by appealing to the lowest instincts of the viewing public. People voted in massive numbers for their favourites, with exhibitionism, vulgarity, cruelty and greed all rewarded, while sensitivity was seen as weakness.

  As for Barbie, she was no fan. Nevertheless, she found him intriguing. He was a darling of the media and got nothing but good press. No hint of scandal. No word of inappropriate behaviour. He was a winner. Hugely popular. A cultural icon. Yet he was too smooth to be true. It made her wonder what went on below the surface.

  As she drove up to the front gate of the software company, she hoped she’d get to question him at some stage.

  The security guard came out of his cabin, leaned down to her side window, and looked at her ID.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Van Hassel,’ he said amiably. ‘How’s life in Sex Crimes?’

  ‘You’re an ex-cop?’ she asked.

  ‘Yeah,’ said the guard, extending a hand. ‘Pete Pollard. I saw you on the news.’ They shook hands through the window. ‘I was a senior constable with the drug squad till the Commissioner shut us down.’

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ she said. ‘Is the owner here by any chance?’

  ‘Barbie the bastard?’ said Pollard. ‘No. He just makes flying visits to kick arse.’

  ‘Why do you call him a bastard?’

  ‘Because he’s not all sweetness and light like you see on telly,’

  Pollard answered. ‘He can cut you dead with a look, and he treats this place like maximum security, shit-scared of a breach.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘What are you here for?’ Pollard wanted to know.

  ‘Just a routine part of the investigation, visiting all the software firms.’ Then she added, ‘Have you heard anyone here mention Plato’s Cave?’

  ‘Kavella’s joint?’ He gave her an odd look, which left her wondering if he was one of the former detectives embroiled in the corruption scandal. ‘No, not a dickybird.’

  The guard went back into his cabin and opened the steel gates.

  She gave him a nod of thanks as she drove through past the chain-link fence, the razor wire and the closed-circuit cameras.

  The receptionist was partly decorative and partly paranoid.

  ‘I can’t let you go any further,’ she said. ‘You haven’t got clearance.

  You haven’t got an appointment.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Rita. ‘But I don’t investigate crimes by appointment.

  Who’s in charge here?’

  ‘That would be the system administrator, Eddy Flynn. I’ll page him.’

  ‘You do that.’

  Minutes later he strode down the stairs into reception looking flustered, a young man full of focused intensity. Dynamic but distracted. Presentable without being well-groomed - his dark brown curls were untidy, and he needed a shave. Yet there was something watchable about him - not just in the energetic manner, but in the agile physique and the strong, forceful face. With his dark eyes, smooth complexion and full lips Flynn had the looks without the personality. Too abrupt. Insensitive. He was wearing linen trousers, a Ralph Lauren polo shirt and an agitated expression.

  ‘What are you doing on the premises?’ he demanded. ‘This is a sensitive security area.’

  ‘So I’ve noticed.’

  ‘Have you got a warrant?’

  ‘I don’t need a warrant to question people about a crime.’

  ‘How do I know you’re a cop?’ he persisted. ‘We’re working on a multi-million-dollar project here. For all I know you’re an industrial spy.’

  She shook her head in disbelief. This was getting silly.

  ‘There’s my ID and there’s my card.’ She slapped them onto the reception counter. ‘And I’ll give you the number of police headquarters. You can check with my senior officer.’

  Flynn calmed down a little. He waved away her ID but pocketed her card. ‘What crime?’ he asked.

  ‘A brutal sexual assault that’s left a woman blinded.’ When he looked back at her blankly, she added, ‘Don’t you watch the news, read the papers?’

  ‘Of course not!’ he snapped. ‘I don’t have the fucking time.’

  ‘Okay.’ Rita looked around. ‘Where can we discuss this?’

  ‘Well you can’t go into any of the private offices or technical areas. The R&D floors are strictly off-limits to all outsiders.’

  ‘Anywhere will do,’ she sighed. ‘It’s the human components I’m interested in.’

  He looked vaguely confused, missing the irony.

  ‘Okay. Come this way,’ he said, leading her into a smoking area behind reception. ‘No problem with security in here.’

  He shooed away a couple of smokers and they had the room to themselves. It was one of those communal office spaces that were always untidy - plastic chairs and tables, ashtrays, disposable coffee cups, a scattering of computer magazines. There were also vending machines, travel posters on the wall and a view over rhododendron bushes and recycle bins. The air-conditioning blew around an odour of stale tobacco.

  She declined Flynn’s grudging offer of a drink and he went off and got a can of Coke from one of the machines. As they sat across a table from each other he flipped it open. She placed the Plato’s Cave card on the surface between them and watched his reaction.

  ‘What’s that?’ he said, picking it up.

  ‘That’s what I’d like to know,’ she replied. ‘Is it a Xanthus product?

  A security smartcard for a customer’s new hi-tech system?’

  He took a swig from the can and answered, ‘This is a games company. We don’t produce security hardware for any customers.’

  He tossed the card back to her. ‘You’re wasting my time.’

  Rita sat back and stared at him curiously. ‘Do you have a problem, or something?’

  ‘Of course I bloody do! I’m the poor mug who has to shoulder the responsibility around here. I’m the system administrator.’ He drank some more Coke. ‘Frankly I’m too damn busy to worry about anything other than getting the project done.’

  ‘What is the project?’

  ‘Can’t tell you.’

  ‘It’s obviously a software product.’

  ‘Obviously.’ He fidgeted in his chair. ‘I can tell you it’s a VR

  game. I can’t say anything more.’

  ‘VR?’

  ‘Virtual reality. There’s a shitload of money riding on it, and I’m the poor bastard who has to deliver on time. It all comes down to me.’

  She sensed someone who was ambitious and impatient, also high
ly strung. She wondered whether he was the sort of emotional inadequate who should never be a manager - the type who was capricious, abusive and vindictive and believed the future of the world rested on his shoulders. What he accomplished as a geek he probably lacked as a human being.

  She put the card back in her pocket and asked casually, ‘Is Kelly Grattan back at work today?’

  ‘No. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I spoke to her at the hospital yesterday about the hit-and-run accident.’

  ‘Well her timing’s fucking great,’ said Flynn.

  ‘Who works closely with Kelly?’ Rita continued.

  ‘Barbie. She’s the link between us and him.’

  ‘When you say us, who do you mean?’

  ‘In practical terms mostly me, Maynard and Josh - the core team.

  Otherwise she’s up at Barbie’s city office head-kicking his accountants and trying to outmanoeuvre him.’

  ‘You don’t like her.’

  ‘She’s pushy and manipulative - like a lot of women.’ He made sure she got the point with an acerbic look. ‘More interested in her own priorities than the team effort.’

  It was a familiar theme, but her brief meeting with Kelly told Rita it could well be true.

  She let Flynn finish off his drink then asked, ‘Have you ever noticed anyone following her, anyone showing an unhealthy interest in her?’

  ‘No I haven’t.’ He crushed the can in his hand. ‘Now can I get back to work?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘But I’d like a quick word with the other two you mentioned. What are their full names?’

  ‘Bruce Maynard and Josh Barrett. But only Maynard’s here at the moment.’ He tossed the can into the dustbin angrily. ‘I’ll send him down, but don’t arrest him for being a freak.’

  Maynard entered the smoking room like a bad vibe - chewing his lip, hands jittery, his lanky frame clad in tracksuit pants and a Harry Potter T-shirt. He was self-conscious enough to be referred for immediate therapy, but Rita wasn’t here to assess personality disorders.

  As he sat down she asked him, ‘Is your name Bruce Maynard?’

  ‘Yes, what’s yours?’ he asked her back.

  She told him and said, ‘I assume you’ve heard Kelly Grattan ended up in hospital after being knocked off her bike.’ When he nodded she continued, ‘I’m investigating if she was the target of an attack.’

  He didn’t respond other than to wring his hands.

  She went on, ‘I want to know if she mentioned anyone who bothered her. Anyone who made her nervous.’

  ‘Nervous?’ He waved his hands around extravagantly. ‘Check it out - this isn’t an office, it’s a pressure cooker! We’re all nervous!

  Everyone here’s a basket case.’

  There was certainly something wrong here. Even for computer nerds these guys had a few wires loose. Add to that the reactions of the security guard and the receptionist and you almost had a case of group neurosis.

  ‘So, Bruce, what do you think of Kelly?’

  ‘Bloody sure of herself,’ he said, his tone resentful.

  ‘How do you get on with her?’ she asked.

  He blushed, then said, ‘She mostly ignores me.’

  ‘Why is that do you think?’

  He bit his lip again. ‘I have trouble telling her what she wants to know. Technical stuff. I can’t put it in simple terms.’

  ‘She loses patience with you?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He drummed his fingers on the table. ‘But that happens a lot when I talk to women. I get embarrassed.’

  ‘Like right now?’

  He dropped his gaze and nodded.

  ‘Okay. That’s enough for the time being.’

  As Rita got up to leave Maynard said, ‘I’ve seen you on TV. You deal with rape cases, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Must be mind-blowing.’

  ‘Interests you, does it?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He gave her an inappropriate smile.

  ‘Rape isn’t about sex, it’s about violence.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. Like the guy who blinded the prostitute.’

  Rita didn’t answer. She just looked at him.

  As she drove from the Xanthus premises, Rita wondered if the collective jitters were due to a multi-million-dollar deadline or symptomatic of something worse than corporate angst. She had no way of telling, and no legitimate grounds to probe any further. Her call on the company had produced nothing for the investigation, and now she must concentrate on the other software firms on her list. But as she looked in the rear-view mirror, watching the steel gates close behind her, she had the feeling the guard’s remark about maximum security was somehow significant, and that those inside had something in common with inmates. It seemed her suspicions about Martin Barbie’s true personality might have substance to them.

  Martin Barbie peered down through the canyon of skyscrapers to where, far below, moved beetling queues of traffic and swarms of miniature pedestrians. Further along sprouted the antique architecture of church spires, dwarfed by the modern giants of the city. Beyond the office blocks, colonial buildings and shopping arcades, a thin ribbon of tramlines stretched along Collins Street to the horizon of the docklands. Barbie was viewing the panorama of the city from the vantage point of his business suite, occupying the thirty-seventh floor of the bank tower.

  The voice of his private secretary came through the desk speaker.

  ‘The satellite link to Tokyo is up.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he replied.

  He stood beside the plate glass window, his feet just inches from a sheer drop to the street below. Sometimes he felt he was walking on air, or even floating in space - gazing across the gulf to other glass-walled towers that were planted in the sky. He could see them peopled by neat men in neat offices with their rows of desks and screens and potted shrubs - huge buildings that were human filing cabinets, or something more apocalyptic, the hollow mountains of Nostradamus.

  At night the vision was even more graphic, with the glass interiors glowing, the illuminated masts pointing heavenwards, a dusting of lights as far as the eye could see. There were silent moments when he felt like a lord of the dark, elevated into the firmament where he belonged. It was the nearest he came to a religious feeling.

  ‘Tokyo says Mr Jojima will be ready in ten,’ came the secretary’s voice again.

  ‘Good,’ said Barbie.

  His office was different from all those around him. Not a shrub in sight. Just a swathe of carpet between the electronic decks that studded his desk and an interior wall covered in flat-screen televisions, dozens of them, their flickering transmissions from points around the globe. A glass cabinet displayed his collection of TV awards.

  ‘I’ll be there in five,’ he added.

  Despite his personal, business and celebrity achievements, appearances were not all they seemed. In quiet moments such as this, alone with his thoughts, Barbie felt the nausea of self-doubt. It was nagging and persistent, a flaw beneath his gleaming surface, and each new success failed to erase it. And he knew why.

  He was well aware of the illusions of the secular world. It had been beaten into him as a child, year after year in his Christian fundamentalist home, whipped into him with a leather belt, so he’d never forget. The metal buckle kept splitting the skin on his buttocks and thighs, his father shouting quotations from the Bible, in the upstairs bathroom that became a torture chamber. The beatings left drops of blood on the white tiles, the wounds cut deep in his memory, reminders of the shallowness of the world. And no series of triumphs could ever expunge them.

  Barbie sat in his teleconference suite, conducting his private chat with Tokyo to finalise the schedule for the upcoming visit. The key decision-maker was facing him on the screen, going patiently through a list of questions. Kenshi Jojima’s English was flawless, and his expression - even across a video link - was implacable.

  ‘You can assure me,’ he was saying, ‘that the software will be ready?’
/>   ‘I can,’ answered Barbie firmly.

  ‘And the problems identified in your last progress meeting will be resolved?’

  ‘Yes. My system administrator Eddy Flynn and project manager Josh Barrett are the best in the field.’

  ‘That remains to be seen,’ said Jojima with almost lethal under-statement. ‘But what is more important is the marketing strategy.

  We shall need convincing.’

  He had the stern, unwavering focus of a corporate samurai - a man who made a powerful ally or a ruthless foe. If Barbie were to swing his multi-million-dollar deal, he had to win him over. This man was more than a software expert. He was the company executive who would lead the delegation from Japan, and his team would look at more than the computer game. They would examine the entire cross-media package. If he had any doubts he could veto the deal.

  So Barbie was choosing his words carefully.

  ‘You know my track record,’ he said calmly, but with an assertive edge. ‘My last reality TV format is now global. But this computer game will be even bigger. The high-resolution virtual reality and internet tie-ins will make sure of that. But what will guarantee high-profile media interest is the content. Believe me, Kenshi, this product will generate its own publicity in the tabloids, as well as online.’

  ‘You are talking about hype,’ said Jojima fastidiously, and Barbie noted the implied scepticism.

  ‘Partly. But with all due respect, the power of the software mustn’t be underestimated. You’ll know what I mean when you examine it yourself.’

  Jojima was silent.

  Barbie folded his hands in his lap, breathed in quietly. He knew he was being probed in one of those disconcerting Japanese moments that wrong-footed garrulous westerners. Luckily he knew enough to keep his mouth shut. He didn’t mind playing these oriental games of patience. In a way it suited his temperament.

  When the moment had passed, Jojima nodded, they exchanged courtesies, and the teleconference was over. But as the screen went blank, a frown darkened Barbie’s face.

  He keyed in the mobile number of his system administrator and snapped at him when he answered. ‘Flynn, give me an update.’

  ‘I’ll give you an update!’ Flynn snapped back. ‘The test team are a bunch of clowns. Where did you recruit these arseholes, Luna Park?’