Bright City Deep Shadows

by Graham Storrs

  Although she was about to lock me away and begin a process that might end up with me spending decades in jail, I found I liked this woman. Just from her tone of voice and her facial expressions, I felt reassured. However dumb and pig-headed Reid was, this one was reasonable and fair. I could trust her. On the other hand, maybe I was already suffering from Stockholm Syndrome and my plight was so dire, I’d trust any of my captors who wasn’t actively hostile.

  “Will you be questioning my client any further this evening?”

  Bertolissio said no. “I’ll just take him down for processing and put him away for the night. The DI will no doubt want to see him in the morning.”

  “Oh good, I have a dinner engagement. But, just so we’re clear, my client asserts his right not to be questioned without me present.”

  “Is that what you want?” she asked me but, before I could answer, Marchant jumped in, fixing me with a meaningful look.

  “Yes, it is. And, in my absence, the only answer my client will give to any question will be ‘No comment. I want my lawyer present.’ Isn’t that right, Mr. Kelly?”

  “Yes,” I said, glumly.

  “Then we’re done,” said Bertolissio brightly. We all stood up. Marchant seemed satisfied with the proceedings and so did the detective. She left us in the meeting room and, to my surprise, came back with a uniformed policeman. Then we all left together. It had seemed formal but quite amicable until the policeman took me by the upper arm in a firm grip.

  * * * *

  Ronnie had been right that they would take my clothes. Everyone spoke from a script as they explained what was happening at each stage. They scanned my fingerprints and took a cheek swab for DNA. They photographed me and asked me my name, address and date of birth. They checked my understanding of everything they told me. They made me sign for my “personal belongings”. Some of the people dealing with me were police officers, some were “technicians”. I didn’t bother to ask what it meant. Bertolissio left early in the proceedings and a uniformed sergeant took charge of me. “You are being held for questioning,” the sergeant told me when I asked if I was under arrest. “You’re not under arrest, yet.” When I asked what the difference was, he said, “Not a lot.” After all the rigmarole, I was taken by a policeman to a cell. It was clean and had a bed and a toilet and a basin. There were no windows. I had nothing to read – probably for the first time in my life since the day I learned. There was no TV, no radio, no Internet. It was cruel and unusual punishment for someone like me. I tried to amuse myself, remembering Plato’s description of Socrates’ inspirational courage in prison. But that had ended very badly for the great man and I regretted my choice of exemplar. Chelsea had sometimes tried to persuade me to try meditation but the idea of clearing one’s mind of thought appalled me. I used to tease her terribly about it. Alone in my cell, I regretted not listening to her. What a blessing it would have been not to think about anything at all.

  Chapter Twelve

  The next morning I lay awake on the thin mattress, unable to tell what time it was, or if the sun was up. But I knew it was morning because at some point in the night the shouting and clangour of drunks and doors had given way to relative peace and then the noise had slowly started up again. It felt like many, many hours since that had happened and I began to wonder if maybe it was almost lunchtime.

  I had, literally, nothing to do. It occurred to me that being there was not at all like being a monk, something I’d often thought might be a good thing. Yes, I had all the time in the world to consider the deep problems of existence but a monk would have had religious observances, he would have had the monastery bells to toll the hours, his days would be structured and purposeful, and, if he got lonely, he could always talk to God. All I had was endless monotony and a gnawing worry that this might become the rest of my life.

  With a crash that made me jump, the bolt on my door was thrown back and a uniformed cop took me back to the sergeant’s desk. It was a different sergeant, different shift, but the strange, scripted interaction continued. He handed me a folded pile of clothes – not the clothes I came in with but mine, all the same – with a bag of my “personal items” on top and made me sign for them. The cop took me to a cubicle and told me to get changed. I asked him what was going on and he said, “Don’t ask me, mate. I only work here.”

  Dressed in clothes that were far too warm for the day, I was taken up to a floor I hadn’t visited yet. The officer took me into a small room that was clearly an interrogation room and told me to sit. He took up a spot by the door and stood there. It was intimidating. My stomach began to grumble with hunger and anxiety.

  “Is Reid coming?” I asked.

  The policeman looked bored. “Someone will be along in a minute, sir,” he said. I assumed his more formal tone meant that we were now under observation.

  I heard voices in the corridor outside. The door opened and Reid walked in followed by my lawyer and Bertolissio. They each took their places around the table as if they’d rehearsed it beforehand, Marchant next to me, Reid opposite me, and Bertolissio next to him. The uniformed cop stayed by the door. Perhaps they expected me to become violent and had the crazy notion that Reid alone wouldn’t have been enough to subdue me.

  Bertolissio went through some spiel for the record and then looked at Reid. This was his show. I expected him to come on hard and aggressive but he seemed strangely subdued. I looked at Marchant and saw a hint of puzzlement in his face.

  “I’d like you to tell us again, in your own words, exactly what happened yesterday at Simon Anning’s house,” he said to me. I took a breath and began with the point that I believed Anning was Chelsea’s murderer and I’d decided to put him under surveillance. I didn’t mention Ronnie. I ran through the sequence of events, throwing the food in some stranger’s bin, seeing the black Jeep arrive, the two thugs, going over to Anning’s house thinking he might be hurt, finding the body...

  I stopped there. My behaviour from that point on was weird. It was embarrassing to think about, let alone say out loud. And it sounded so crazy. I walked around his house looking for evidence. I sat in his office, watching a game unfold. Played a prank on the other players. Wiped all my prints. Went to my car. Went home. Fell asleep. Jeez, I must have been completely out of it.

  I took another breath and told them everything.

  I tensed up, waiting for the real interrogation to begin, the shouting, the drama, the angry faces. But it didn’t happen. I saw Bertolissio turn to Reid and raise one eyebrow. Reid’s lips tightened angrily but then he gave a tiny nod. To me, he said, “We have a lot of things we can charge you with, Kelly – failing to report a crime, for starters – but we’re letting you go for now.”

  “What?”

  Reid scowled. “You heard.” To Marchant, he said, “Your client is free to go. Make sure he doesn’t leave the city without my knowledge.” The two detectives stood up and Bertolissio began her “interview terminated” speech.

  “What?” I said again. I was free to go? Just like that? I had questions. I had a right to an explanation. I took a breath preparatory to demanding to know what was going on but Marchant did his hand-on-arm trick and silenced me.

  “Thank you,” he said to Reid, nodded to Bertolissio, and led me out. The cop took us to the main entrance and I was free again.

  “What the hell happened?” I asked, the minute we were clear of the doors.

  “You need to ask the mysterious Mr. Walker,” he said with a grin. He called me last night and said, if I recall, ‘No need to pull any shyster stunts tomorrow, mate, they’re going to let Luke go. It’s all sorted.’” He raised his eyebrows. “Ronnie has a strange view of what my job is. Anyway, if he tells you, I’d like to know. I’ve never seen anything quite like that. Anyway, call me if you need me.”

  He marched off towards the CBD and I stood there watching him, dazed, confused and woozy with tiredness, carrying a brown paper bag with my belongings in and starting to sweat in the morning heat. I caught
a cab home, showered and changed. I called Ronnie and got his “get lost” phone message. I told him I was home, probably asleep and he should come round and explain the miracle he had just worked. But I didn’t go to sleep. I put on the telly and watched the ABC news – mostly dismal stories of people doing horrible things to one another, the dismal state of the economy, and the miserable cruelties being perpetrated on poor people by our overfed, sleek and privileged government. I’d just decided that watching a cookery show where insanely excitable people shout and cry over sponge cakes would be less awful, when the doorbell rang. I dragged myself over to the intercom by the door and said, “Yes?”

  “Mr. Kelly? It’s Detective Sergeant Bertolissio. May I come in?”

  I was so surprised, I almost forgot to push the button to unlock the door. “Sorry. Yes, of course.”

  I looked around. The place was a mess. Had I done any housework at all since Stacey left? Well, it was too late now. I unlocked and opened the unit door and waited.

  The detective, when she appeared, smiled and held out her hand to shake mine. She was small and neat, black hair, olive skin, and intelligent eyes. She dressed the way I imagined an executive PA would; comfortably and tastefully. She was probably ten years older than me but had such a confident air, she made me feel like a kid.

  “I’m sure you’ve seen enough of the police to last you a lifetime,” she said as she went inside. Her eyes flicked about the room, lingering on the bottle of rum, still by the sink, the laptop on the floor, the packaging for a vacuum flask in the bin, and coming to settle on the whiteboard with its pictures and map. She made an effort not to stare at it. “But I hope you won’t mind if I ask you a few questions. There are a couple of things I’d love to clear up, just for my own sake.”

  “I’m not supposed to talk to you without my lawyer here,” I said and felt like a complete fool.

  “If you’d rather I left...”

  “Nah. Sorry. I suppose I trust you not to beat a confession out of me.” She smiled but said nothing and I felt even worse. I offered her a coffee. The biscuits I’d bought the other day were on the chair where Karen had left them. I picked up the packet to offer her one only to find it was empty. She watched me fumbling around, trying to be polite, with a silent indulgence.

  “Maybe we could just sit down,” she said.

  “Oh God. Sorry. Please...” I indicated a chair and went quickly to sit on the sofa.

  “Mr. Kelly—” she began.

  “Luke,” I said. She nodded.

  “What led you to Simon Anning?”

  “Why did you let me go?” I’d blurted out the question before I realised she’d just asked me one.

  “You don’t know? Mr. Walker hasn’t told you?” I reckon my expression was all the answer she needed. “Your friend turned up a witness – a neighbour of Simon Anning’s. She came in last night and made a statement. She saw the two men you described in the victim’s kitchen with the victim. She saw the muzzle flash from the shot that killed him. About five minutes later, she saw you enter the kitchen, stand for a while, and then disappear into the house. Ten minutes after that, she saw the police arrive.”

  “Holy crap.”

  “Her story and yours match in every detail. At the very least it gives you reasonable doubt. Even my boss could see the public prosecutor wasn’t going to pursue a murder charge, given the new evidence. As for failure to report a crime and the rest, it’s still a possibility but, given the circumstances of your bereavement and the strong possibility that Anning is our killer, I personally can’t see that a prosecution would be worth our while – or the right thing to do.”

  I was so stunned to learn that I was actually off the hook – at least for Anning’s murder – that I forgot the detective had asked me a tricky question.

  “So,” she said, repeating it. “How did you get onto Anning?”

  “It – it wasn’t me. Ronnie worked it out. Do you know Ronnie?”

  “Only by reputation. Quite a detective by all accounts. Admired and hated in equal parts, I’d say.”

  “That’s pretty much what he says about you. Er, except for the hated part.”

  “So, how did he work it out?”

  And I saw in her face that this interview wasn’t about me or the case at all. It was about a professional so wrapped up in her craft that she had to find out how a fellow magician had performed his trick. So I told her the whole story of our investigation. When I got to the part where Ronnie stood in Torville Street and said the killer must live nearby, she said, “Of course!” When I recounted our conversation in the Indian restaurant, she nodded in approval.

  “But how did you get the information?” she asked, zooming in immediately on the part I wanted to leave out. “The class lists, the electoral roll? And how did you compare them? You don’t have the resources.” She stopped. Her face cleared. “Of course, you do, don’t you?” I tried to keep my expression neutral. She smiled. “It’s all right. I won’t be pursuing it. I just wanted to know.”

  “Someone did me a huge favour,” I said. “I don’t want them to get into trouble.”

  She nodded. “I won’t even be writing a report of this conversation. It’s off the record. OK?”

  “Thank you.”

  “How do you know Ronnie?”

  “I don’t really. He’s just some bloke I met in the pub. When he told me he’d been a detective once, I asked him to help. After that, he sort of latched onto me.”

  She stood up. “Lucky for you, he did. I must meet him sometime, pick his brains about some cases I’m working.”

  “Just hang around here for long enough,” I said. “He seems to think he has the right to come and go as he pleases. I think he’s made himself a key.” Bertolissio frowned, not sure if I was joking. “It’s OK,” I reassured her. “After what he just did for me, I’m thinking of marrying him and having his babies.”

  She laughed and made for the door. As I let her out, she said, “One last thing. Do you or Ronnie have any idea what Anning’s motive was?” I shook my head. “What about the two men who shot him? Do you know ho they were?”

  “No idea. I bet your DI thinks they were mates of mine.”

  She laughed again but she didn’t deny it. “So this is the end of your investigation.”

  It was more of a statement than a question, perhaps even an order. “I suppose. It’s not like I care why Anning was shot.”

  “And Ronnie?”

  I pulled a face. “He’s a bit like one of those dogs whose jaws lock shut when they bite onto something and can’t let go.”

  “That’s a myth – about dogs. It may be true about Ronnie. Do him a favour and try to distract him or something.”

  After she’d gone I rushed around the apartment, tidying and then cleaning. Bertolissio’s visit had felt like closure. She was right. It was over. I’d found Chelsea’s killer and, as an added bonus, he was dead. There would be no trial, no appeals, no release date to look forward to. I’d been spared years of anguish. In the utility room, I took out the clean washing and the ruined shoes, picked up the smelly old washing from the floor and stuffed it back in the machine. I started to feel good for the first time in almost two weeks. I threw in some powder and chose a wash cycle at random. I was going to have to learn how to use this thing properly. I was going to have to get a grip on my life. I was living alone now. I’d need to take care of myself, like a responsible adult should, like Chelsea would have wanted me to. I’d need to find work – proper work, not all this gig rubbish – and I’d need to decide what to do about the company, and Stacey, and the unit.

  I was making the bed when I heard Ronnie’s voice in the other room, shouting, “Honey? I’m ho-ome!”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “I never thought I’d be a free man tonight,” I said, raising my beer to salute Ronnie.

  “Fuck’s sake, give it a rest, mate. If I’d known you were going to slobber on about it all night, I’d have left you in there.”

/>   We were in a hotel restaurant on the South Bank. Ronnie’s choice. It was a place posh enough to serve your beer in glasses but not posh enough to care what you wore while you drank it. The food was OK and the waiters were attentive.

  “Well, I won’t forget it.” I’d had too many beers already and I knew I was being a bit effusive but I didn’t care. “You showed me the way, you tracked down the man who killed my one true love, and you saved me from a life of misery and incarceration. I think that calls for one or two thank yous, don’t you?”

  “Have you finished?”

  “No, I have much more praise to bestow, my modest friend.”

  “I meant, have you finished eating.”

  I looked at my plate. The remains of a sticky fig pudding looked back. Like the abyss, I thought. “If thou gaze long into the sticky fig pudding, the sticky fig pudding will also gaze into thee." I looked up to find Ronnie’s grey-blue eyes staring into mine. “That’s about how fighting monsters will turn you into one yourself,” I told him. A slight tightening of his brows was enough to make me realise what I was saying. “Oh God, no. I don’t mean you. You’re my hero. You’re not...”

  “Come on,” he said, standing up. “If you’re going to get pissed and philosophical, we need to find a better place than this. Settle the bill.”

  I did and we walked out into a beautiful sub-tropical Brisbane evening. He led us towards the river, broad and calm and bright with the reflected light of the city centre. South Bank has a covered walk – covered by bougainvillea in bloom that night – that winds through parkland along the river. The uplit foliage trembled in the breeze and huge flying foxes could be seen hanging in the palm trees along the way. Cicadas chirruped and people talked and laughed in the warm air.

  “I love this city,” I told Ronnie. He looked at me sideways. “Don’t you?”