The Simple Death (31 page)

Fifty-eight

L
eila is in a meeting with a dozen colleagues, Lewis Mowbray presiding for the first time in his new position. The working group has just approved the state review of the proposed new national syllabus, and there is a mood of quiet jubilation in the room.

‘New South Wales has made a vital contribution to the future,' Lewis says, his voice quiet and firm. This is what leaders do, they state the obvious. Leila understands that: if she'd got the job, she would be giving the same speech. ‘I think this is something in which everyone in this room can take a certain amount of satisfaction.'

There is a murmuring around the table. The person sitting on Leila's right says something she doesn't hear and she replies, ‘It's been a long road.'

From his reaction, her response seems satisfactory.

Last night she'd gone into Lewis's office, his permanent office now, a big room with good furniture and a small balcony. He'd been out there when she'd come in.

‘You bastard,' she said when he looked in through the drapes, then came in, holding a joint.

‘What?'

‘You told Wallace I'm being investigated for killing my mother!'

‘I did no such thing.'

He took a drag, staring at her, and she realised there'd been a competition between them she hadn't even been aware of, maybe for years. And she'd lost.

‘Please don't cry, Leila. You're not going to cry.'

Nervously he tossed his head, flipping the hair to one side. ‘Come on, Leila,' he said. ‘It'll be your turn next. Let's be happy.' He tossed his hair again. Time to stop that, a man of his age.

‘
Ah, love
,' she said softly, ‘
let us be true to one another
.'

Opened his mouth, seemed surprised as she turned to leave.

He'd written a lot about irony in his student days, but it had never come naturally to him. She saw now they'd never really shared a sense of humour, and seeing this her connection with him broke, at last.

Fifty-nine

T
roy was sitting behind the wheel, crawling down Cleveland Street. He'd called McIver, and Peters and he were on the way to the hospice, to take part in the arrest if they got there in time. But Mac had told Troy to go ahead as soon as he arrived; they wanted Burns in custody before Queensland moved on him.

‘Brisbane have been talking to the staff at Bridley for a few hours now,' he said. ‘They're getting a new picture. Evans says there's a checklist of behavioural indicators for nurses who kill. It was compiled by an American academic, stuff such as predicting when a patient will die, liking to predict the date and being right about it. Everyone remembered Burns for that. And Julie, she wasn't too hot as a nurse, but three times she saved someone who was dying—one nurse called her a “crisis junkie”.'

‘Well . . .' Troy began, recalling the incident in the hospice last week, Julie standing in a room giving instructions to doctors.

‘That's high on the list. There's other stuff too; they liked to work together on the night shift, when there were a lot of deaths, liked to talk of death after work. One colleague said Julie seemed excited after someone died, she'd hang around even when the shift was over.'

There was more, and Troy listened in silence.

When Mac finished he said, ‘So why don't the staff at St Thomas' say anything like that?'

‘I'd be guessing Burns and Cornish changed their behaviour when they moved to Sydney.'

‘Not the killings, though.'

‘Just the telltale signs. They only just got away from Brisbane in time, I'd say. One of the nurses there broke down, apologised for not telling anyone about her suspicions. No one there's saying Carl was nice.'

Both men laughed.
He seemed like such a nice man
, it was what neighbours usually told the media after a murderer was charged.

When Troy arrived at Charity he saw no sign of McIver, but the local back-up he'd requested was here: a white and blue truck was parked outside. Just as he was about to get out his phone rang again.

‘We got the diary,' Conti said, breathless. ‘There's a sort of bag room in the basement here, suitcase with the name Ronalds on it, but there's no Ronalds in the block. It was in the case. Thought she was doing God's work but had a change of heart. In the last entry, says she went to a priest and confessed. Twenty-four murders.'

‘How many?'

‘You heard.'

Silence. You had to pause, a moment's wonder, to acknowledge something like this.

‘Jesus Christ,' he said slowly. It wasn't blasphemy; it was a prayer.

‘It's bad,' she said. ‘Carl and she killed them, most in Queensland. I flicked back through the diary, found descriptions of three of them at St Thomas', there might be more. But I thought I should call before I go through the whole thing.'

He said, ‘I'm outside the hospice now.'

‘Going in?'

‘Yeah.'

He had to, Burns was inside with several dozen old people. The fact he hadn't made a run for it, even though he had the diary, was cause for concern.

‘You take care. I wish—'

‘Anything else there?'

‘She says she feels incredibly relieved that she's told someone else. Says this has given her the strength to go through with her penance.'

‘Which is?'

‘She doesn't say.'

Troy got out of the car. ‘Where did she go, to confess?'

‘She mentions the priest, but it's hard to read. Hang on. Rambles a bit, says he's a biblical figure, here it is. Um . . .' Troy saw it before it came, just. ‘One of her patients, it's a Father Luke.'

Two uniforms had got out of their truck, one wide and one thin. They introduced themselves but their names passed by him in a blur.

‘Anyone else here?' Troy said, putting his phone away.

He'd asked for four officers.

‘No one available. Bad crash up on Oxford Street, four nose-to-tails.' The wide one looked over his shoulder, maybe in the direction of the accident. ‘Can we keep this short?'

‘No worries,' Troy said. ‘We just need to pick up a serial killer who's murdered two dozen people.'

The wide man blinked. ‘I'm sorry?'

‘Let's go.'

A security guard, a tall, strong-looking guy with a silver moustache, was sitting in the foyer, sagging in a vinyl-covered armchair. When the three police came in, it took him a few seconds to realise who they were and get to his feet. While the uniforms talked to reception, Troy went over and explained what was happening. The guard took longer to react than Troy felt comfortable with. He hoped the man would have no call to draw the gun he was wearing.

Troy looked in the director's office but it was empty, so he asked the receptionist where Carolyn Moore was.

‘There's an emergency up on the first floor,' the woman said.

‘You don't know if Carl Burns is still here?'

She looked scared. ‘He's the emergency.'

Troy ran for the stairs before she could explain, calling a description of Burns over his shoulder to the uniforms. When he reached the first floor he heard a commotion from down the hall and headed that way, looking into every room he passed in case Burns was there. He turned a corner and saw a tall man and a woman standing outside Luke's room, their heads bent in urgent conversation. Archbishop Walsh and Dr Moore. A nurse raced by, coming from behind him. She was clutching a metal box and disappeared into Luke's room. People inside were shouting to each other.

When he reached the doorway he saw two doctors and several nurses standing around the bed, the man in charge barking instructions as they worked on Luke, using equipment from a cart. Troy caught a glimpse of the bare-chested priest, like a figure in an old painting, pale and still, his eyes closed. Plastic bags and bits of paper lay on the floor, wrappings that had been torn from disposable equipment in a hurry. Just inside the doorway were drops of blood on the floor.

‘Stand back!' called the doctor.

The others took a step away from the bed while he leaned over Luke. Troy couldn't see any more of what was happening because of all the people in the room.

‘You'd better get away from the door,' someone said. ‘They need to get in and out.'

Troy looked around. It was the archbishop, and he and Moore were obviously distressed. This contributed to the unreality of the scene.

‘You have to catch Carl Burns,' Moore said. ‘He's been stabbed, he went that way, only a minute ago.' She pointed in the opposite direction Troy had come from.

Walsh said, ‘I was visiting Luke when a nurse came in and said he had to check the drip. I stepped outside, went down to that window there to make a call. A minute later I heard noises, Luke's voice was muffled but he seemed to be trying to shout, so I went back in. The nurse had a pillow over Luke's face, it looked like he was trying to smother him. Just as I came in I saw Luke's arm move round—he must have grabbed a pair of scissors from somewhere because he stabbed the man in the side. I went in, the nurse walked out past me, and Luke looked all right, his eyes were open. He tried to sit up and then he just collapsed.'

‘He's had a heart attack,' said Moore.

Calling to the uniforms, Troy ran down the corridor. He thought he saw some more spots of blood on the floor, but only small. They checked all the remaining rooms quickly, but there was no sign of Burns. Then they clattered down the back stairs, and returned to the lobby. This was another scene of commotion, the woman at the reception desk white and staring at the security guard, who was lying on the floor. Several people Troy took to be visitors were standing around, one talking urgently into a mobile. Carolyn Moore must have come down the other stairs, because she appeared and kneeled next to the guard and began to check his pulse and breathing. Troy crouched down to help, saw the man's holster was empty.

‘He's gone and he's armed,' he yelled at the uniforms, indicating the front door with his head. ‘Hand gun.'

The men headed out to the street, and Troy got his arms under the guard's body and helped Moore roll him into the coma position. He had a head wound that was bleeding a lot. A woman, one of the nurses, rushed up with a first-aid kit and some white towels, and Troy stood up and took a few steps out of the way, and thought about what he needed to do. He wanted very much to go back to Luke, but this was not possible.

He identified himself and asked if anyone had seen what had happened. The old man with the phone nodded and looked around for a chair. A woman took his arm and helped him sit down while Troy waited impatiently. The other people didn't seem to have seen anything.

‘A big bald bloke comes running out of that doorway there,' the old man said emphatically, stabbing with a finger in the direction of the doorway Troy himself had come through. ‘He stops, looks round. I notice him right away, he's pretty wild, that's before I see he's got blood all over his shirt.' The man pointed to the security guard. ‘This one stands up but he's not too quick, and the other grabs the fire extinguisher off the wall and just swings it, whack, across his head. Bloke goes flying.'

Troy looked around and saw a red extinguisher lying in a corner, half hidden by an armchair. It must have been swung with a lot of force to have ended up so far from the guard's body. ‘He goes down, other bloke grabs for his gun and scarpers.' He rubbed his eyes. ‘I could have sworn there was a pair of scissors sticking out of his gut. It was all very quick.'

He closed his eyes and slumped back in the chair. The woman with him gave a cry and leaned down.

‘So he ran out there?' Troy said, pointing to the front doorway where the uniforms had gone a minute ago.

‘No.' It was the woman from the reception desk, unfreezing and speaking in a high, broken voice. ‘He went that way.' She pointed at another exit from the lobby. ‘He went out to the garden.'

Troy stepped out the side door of the hospice, into an enclosed space of maybe one third of an acre, surrounded by walls and hedges. It was divided into smaller areas by ornamental fences and bushes, so he couldn't see a lot of it from where he was standing. He drew his gun and went forwards.

There was no one about; fortunately the day was so hot the patients were indoors. He saw an occasional spot of blood on the pavers. The noise of traffic from the surrounding streets was quite clear, almost as loud as the sound of falling water he found in a stone fountain in the centre of the garden. There was no one here, either. Looking around, he headed down a slight hill towards the far end of the place.

There he was, in the distance, Carl Burns, the killer of twenty-four people. Big man, powerful shoulders, capable of hoisting Mark Pearson off a ferry. Smart enough to steal and plant the pethidine with the help of Julie Cornish, get her to pretend to be a caterer during the Pearsons' party. He would have learned about that, about Mark's interest in the stats, from overhearing conversations on the ward, or from staff gossip. Kill Julie when the time came and set her up for it all.

He was sitting on a bench, next to an elderly man in a wheelchair. Had his eyes closed and was holding the gun in his lap, pointed at the other man. The old guy had a blanket over his knees despite the heat, he was paying the gun close attention but did not appear agitated. Troy walked towards them, his firearm raised and pointed at Burns, not making any effort to move quietly. As he got closer he saw that Burns's waist was all bloody. He wondered if he might have fallen unconscious because of the loss of blood.

When he was four metres away, Burns opened his eyes and lifted his weapon a few centimetres, keeping it pointed at the old man.

‘That must hurt,' said Troy.

Burns straightened up and winced, Troy could see the scissors stuck in his stomach. Only one blade had gone in, while the other with its handle lay across Burns's stomach at right angles, like the hilt of a sword. From the blade he could see, Troy estimated the wound was probably four or five centimetres deep.

‘I'm thinking of pulling it out,' Burns said. ‘Don't know if that would hurt more or less.' He sounded strangely relaxed, and Troy wondered if he might be going into shock.

‘Tough call,' he said.

Burns considered this, and Troy puzzled over what to say next. He'd been trained for lots of situations in his career, but not for dealing with someone who'd taken a hostage. He looked at the old man, was about to ask how he was when the guy jerked into action, grabbed the wheels of his chair and tried to turn it around. The chair hardly moved, and Burns leaned over and almost casually slashed him across the head with the barrel of the pistol. Troy saw the nurse still had a lot of energy, despite the wound. The old guy's head snapped back, but he could still speak.

‘You bastard,' he said.

Burns smiled and turned back to Troy. Slowly he stood up, still keeping the gun pointed at the man in the wheelchair.

‘What do you think I should do?' he said.

‘Put down your gun.'

Burns seemed to think about this seriously. Troy strained his ears, listening for the sounds of other people, hoping more backup had arrived and the place was surrounded. He'd told the receptionist in the hospice to dial triple-oh. There should be sirens by now.

Burns shook his head.

‘I've got a better idea,' he said. ‘Put your gun down on the ground or I shoot the old fellow. Like this.'

He fired a shot into the ground beneath the wheelchair and the man flinched. Troy leaned over and placed his gun on the grass, began to straighten up. Before he'd finished he saw a sudden movement: the old guy reached out and grabbed the handle of the scissors and wrenched them out. He went to stab Burns but the nurse stepped back out of reach, almost as if he hadn't noticed, a puzzled expression on his face.