All These Perfect Strangers (28 page)

Nico started scrabbling through his trouser pockets. He pulled out several pieces of paper with blue scrawls over all of them. ‘Here . . . see . . . here . . . I've written everything down.' He flapped the pieces in her face. Constable Morriset took a step back. Nico stank.

‘Please take a . . .' but before she could finish, he had lunged forward and started smacking his head against the counter.

‘Listen to me,' he began screaming.

Sergeant Durham rushed out of an office door and grabbed him, tackling him to the floor. ‘Calm down, Nico, calm down. You don't need any more trouble.' Nico tried kicking out with his legs, but Sergeant Durham had him pinned.

‘OK, mate. Nice and easy, I'm going to let you up.'

Nico turned his head to one side and I could see the deterioration in his face. His eyes were a crusty red, eczema stretched down from his neck to the collar of his grubby t-shirt and probably beyond. His ribs stuck out under the material. Eventually, Durham got off him and Nico pulled himself to all fours and then slowly stood up. His hands shook as he took out a cigarette.

‘No smoking in here,' said Durham.

Nico acted as if he hadn't heard. He put the cigarette in his mouth but made no attempt to light it. There was dried blood on his knuckles and his head was cut from where he hit the counter.

‘Think we need to clean you up, mate,' said Durham.

‘I'm OK,' mumbled Nico. ‘Just need a smoke.'

‘Let's take you outside.' Durham opened the screen door.

‘But then you'll listen, right?' Nico started to get a wild look again. ‘I'll do a deal. Give you information about the bar . . . how they're killing people . . . and you'll drop my charges. I've got it all written down.'

‘Sure, sure,' said Durham, and Nico walked out the door. A smell of sweat and urine lingered.

Durham looked over to Constable Morriset. ‘You OK, Sam?'

Her face was strained but she nodded. Durham gave her a wink and picked the pieces of paper up off the floor. ‘Christ, the smell.' He flapped his hands in front of his nose. ‘Make a cup of tea for yourself,' he said. ‘I'll deal with him.' As Constable Morriset moved up the corridor, Durham hopped behind the counter and I heard the sound of a drawer opening and shutting. Then he came back, kicked open the door and walked outside.

I waited until Constable Morriset returned before I went up to the counter. Her shirt was now tucked in but a lock of hair had escaped from her slicked-back bun.

‘Can I help you?' she said in a clipped tone that made me think she was embarrassed by what had happened.

‘I've got an appointment,' I said. ‘Pen Sheppard.'

‘I know who you are,' she said, sharply. ‘Take a seat.'

‘Do you know how long . . .?' I began to ask.

‘No.' She turned away and walked to the back of the counter and out of sight.

I was going to have to wait, something I had hoped to avoid. Waiting is when the lies start to sound weak and the truth sits in your throat waiting to tumble out. You sit there telling yourself not to look guilty, which only makes you seem more so. Cops always make you wait.

There was a window next to where I sat down, a grimy grey that almost matched the wall colour. The glass rippled so you had to put your face right up to it to see through. It overlooked a small concrete alcove outside that was sheltered from the elements, a smokers' corner currently occupied by Nico and Sergeant Durham.

His cigarette now lit, Nico looked almost sane and Sergeant Durham had his back to me. Twisting, I angled my head to the window. Sergeant Durham was listening, occasionally nodding as Nico talked and talked. Durham had rolled the pieces of paper he had picked up from the floor and held them loosely in his hand.

As Nico threw his cigarette butt down, Sergeant Durham quickly moved forward, blocking my view. It wasn't until Nico stumbled backwards that I could see him again. He was holding something in his hand. I couldn't see what it was but Nico clutched it tightly. The surprise on his face turned into another emotion I couldn't read. Anger. Fear. Greed. He moved too quickly to tell. And then, without warning, Nico ran away.

Durham stood still, watching him go. Then he turned and I could see him in profile, smiling to himself. The glass distorted it into something cruel. I had seen looks like that before, from the police in my town, and suddenly, I felt as if I had been spying through a keyhole. I shrank back from the window and quickly changed seats. Mouth dry, I picked up a university pamphlet lying in a pile next to me and started reading, waiting for Durham to walk through the door, but he didn't.

As I pretended to read the list of the university's achievements I watched the clock turn slowly. A quarter of an hour passed and then half an hour, before Sergeant Durham came back in.At the sound of the door, Constable Morriset popped up as well. She must have been sitting close by but out of my sight. I wondered if she had noticed me at the window.

‘How did you go, Sarge?'

‘Another day, another junkie scared about their day in court,' he said. ‘Told him to head off home and come back when he's making sense.'

‘Took a while.'

‘All part of the service, Sam. Important to go that extra mile.'

As he turned to walk past, he stopped and looked at me. ‘You're that girl from Scullin, aren't you?' He was back to being amiable.

I nodded.

‘You still waiting for your interview? Sam,' he called over his shoulder, ‘they finished up the last one yet?'

‘No, Sarge. Haven't come out.'

‘Taking their time.' Durham smiled over at me. ‘Must have a lot to chat about. Wait a sec, this could be them now.'

A door scraped open and I could hear voices coming towards me.

‘Listen, my client wishes to be as cooperative as possible, but I think we need to take a break.'

‘Tell him to start cooperating or he'll be arrested.'

Two tall men appeared. The only difference between them was the price of the suits.

The one in the expensive suit pursed his lips and looked at his watch. ‘Let me take him outside for a smoke.'

The other, a tired man with almost no hair, frowned, and then said, ‘All right. I'll give you ten minutes. If you want a coffee, tell the constable here and she'll get it for you.'

Morriset's mouth twisted at this. Expensive suit went back up the corridor.

‘Finally getting somewhere,' Baldy said to Durham. Durham nodded in my direction, and Baldy quickly shut up. He then turned his attention to Constable Morriset.

‘Hear you had an admirer, Sam. Couldn't keep his hands off you.'

Constable Morriset shot a dirty look at Durham and muttered something under her breath that I didn't hear but he did.

‘Now, Constable, is that any way to talk to a senior officer?'

She opened her mouth but the lawyer in the expensive suit was back and this time his client was with him. It was Joad. He flicked his eyes in my direction, and immediately looked away, two triangles of red burning on his cheeks. His lawyer directed him through the door, calling out, ‘Two white coffees. No sugar.'

Baldy snorted at this. ‘While you're up, Sam, I'll have one, perhaps with a doughnut on the side as well. Chocolate icing and those nice sprinkles.' Constable Morriset stuck up her middle finger as she walked away.

I should have guessed Joad would be suspect number one. I tried to think what they would be questioning him about. The detective had spoken about threats being made and that he might be arrested. The confrontation before the march, I guessed. Joad's words were coming back to haunt him. Even the comment made at breakfast so long ago about the Murder Game, when Joad had joked about being the Screwdriver Man, was now plastered around university.

I watched him slouch past, his face pinched and scared. Joad hated Leiza and I wondered if his comments about slicing off body parts could be more than just talk. But it was Rachel he had talked about killing and I knew her death had nothing to do with him. Had someone else heard it and murdered Leiza that way to put the blame on him? The same person who knew about my Rohypnol? I tried picturing who had been sitting round that table the morning he said it. But all their faces blended into one. Rogan. Had I badly underestimated him? The thought made me dizzy and I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, Sergeant Durham was standing over me.

‘Penny,' he said, and I almost jumped. ‘We'll have to postpone your interview for today.'

A moment of non-comprehension and then, ‘Do I have to come back tomorrow?'

‘We'll let you know.'

I got up, trying to look the right level of grateful. ‘Thanks, Sergeant Durham.'

‘You head off now,' he said. ‘Want to get home before dark.'

·  ·  ·

On the far corner of campus, hemmed in by trees on one side and the highway on the other, was the Gulag. Its real name, borrowed from another dead prime minister, was never used. Burning in summer, freezing in winter, full of asbestos, it was the cheapest accommodation at university. Sergeant Durham said that Nico was heading home, so that was where I was going to look for the only person who seemed to know what was happening at the bar and who had realised Leiza was in danger. I just hoped that he was sane enough to tell me what was going on.

Shadows were beginning to lengthen into night as I walked up to the three long corrugated-iron huts making up the Gulag. A couple of t-shirts were blowing in the breeze on a temporary washing line, hooked up between the last hut and the only nearby street light. I had never been inside and the buildings looked even more derelict than I had remembered, with broken windows and splattered paint. I headed to the only part that had a light on.

It must have once been the kitchen. A single bare light bulb illuminated the shell of cupboards and benches. A boy had his back to me and was chopping onions on a cracked and peeling counter. Dirty dishes piled up in the sink next to him, a camping stove on the other side. A small padlocked bar fridge hummed.

My feet squeaked on the lino and he turned towards me, a large knife in his hand. I put my hands up in the universal I-come-in-peace gesture, keeping eye contact with his face instead of what he was holding. It was Nico's mate from the rally, the owner of the Che Guevara t-shirt. Today he was wearing a t-shirt with a large pot leaf on it.

‘Oh, hi . . .' I began.

‘I know you,' he said. ‘I saw you at the bar the other night, sitting with Toby.' His acne made a beard-shaped rash across the bottom half of his face. He didn't lower his hand.

I tried to smile, the skin around my mouth feeling brittle. ‘That's right.'

‘You left as the police raided,' he said. His voice wasn't accusing but the knife gave the comment some edge. ‘That wasn't very helpful.' He dropped the knife into the grey scummy water with a clatter.

‘How long did you stay?'

‘'Til they dragged us out and charged us.'

‘And how did that help anyone?'

He gave a grin. ‘The Marchmains went down fighting. That night could have become university legend but it's hard to compete with a homicidal murderer.' He turned away from me and bent down next to a low cupboard. It was missing a door. He grabbed a saucepan and straightened up.

‘Actually, I'm looking for Nico.'

‘Nico?' He gave me a cool look. ‘He doesn't get so many visitors these days. Used to get lots, rich college kids especially. What do you want? Something to get through your exams?'

‘I'm not looking to score,' I said.

‘Lucky. He's been a bit temperamental since Alice left. Did that this morning.' He pointed to a large dent in a wall behind him.

I studied it carefully, wondering if he was making it up to frighten me and then remembered the marks on Nico's knuckles.

‘Saw him round not so long ago. Try the next building.' He pointed to his right. ‘There's a sign on his door but he's pretty much got it to himself anyway.'

‘Thanks.'

‘Got a torch?'

I shook my head.

‘Better borrow mine then. Some idiot fucked the fuse up again this afternoon. I'll try and fix it after I've had my dinner.'

He passed over one of those heavy black security ones that double as a truncheon. My hand dropped with the weight of it.

‘Thanks,' I said. ‘I'll bring it straight back.'

Outside was dusk and beginning to get cold. When I opened the door to the next hut, I automatically scrabbled for the light switch. My hand found three and I clicked them down. Nothing happened. The boy hadn't been joking. I stood there at the door, listening. All the sounds seemed to come from outside, the hum of traffic, the occasional voice in the distance, some bird calls. I tried to adjust my eyes, as waving a torch around where people lived felt a bit rude, something a rich college kid would do. My courage disappeared as I stared hard into the dark, black turning grey, shapes slowly coming into focus, a cavern becoming a room. I moved forward, hesitating.

‘Hello,' I said to a couple of empty chairs, who ignored me.

A few more steps.

There was something mournful about being in a place that would have been busy and noisy all its life. Before it was a home for students it had been workers' quarters, on site at some big infrastructure project, a dam or a mine or something. But now that was all finished. It would be flattened and some new architectural monstrosity for educational purposes would turn up and people would forget it had ever been there at all.

‘Nico,' I said. I thought I heard something and took another step. A sudden bang above my head, a scream from me, and then an old-man cough and the sound of something scuttling away.

A possum on the roof.

I almost laughed with relief as memories of summer nights with Tracey, lying in our beds listening to possums tap-dance across the tin flashed through my head. I felt braver.