Jill Jackson - 04 - Watch the World Burn (17 page)

Despite Jill’s frustration at being away from the investigation, the past three days at the hospital had flown by. She’d found that she’d learned something useful during each meeting with Sam, and the groups always gave her something to think about. The ‘veranda therapy’ on Lyrebird was also something she enjoyed, and Jill even found herself joining in and giving advice when the others had problems.

And she was always up too late at night with Layla, Layla doing most of the talking, and Jill a fair bit of laughing. She felt guilty almost every time she smiled, but Layla was great at distracting her. Jill’s heart was still a heavy boulder, which rose to her throat several times a day, making it hard to swallow, but the flat-footed hunter – her panic attacks – had at least found someone else to stalk.

She stayed away from the lounge rooms each evening. One thing she did not want to do was sit and watch when news programs commented about Scotty’s death. She just couldn’t break down in front of everyone here.

After morning group on her second-last day, Jill sat on her bed, folding her clothes and packing them into her bag.

‘What’re you doing?’ asked Layla from the doorway.

Jill gave her a I-would-have-thought-that-was-obvious look, and continued packing.

‘You’ve got another day and night here,’ said Layla, plonking down on the end of Jill’s bed.

‘I’m leaving at lunchtime tomorrow,’ Jill said.

‘How’re you feeling about the funeral?’ asked Layla.

A tear welled. ‘Well, I’m feeling,’ said Jill. ‘And Sam reckons that’s a good thing.’

‘What would he know?’ said Layla. They both laughed a little.

‘You’d better leave the packing for now and come over for lunch. You gotta do your exposure therapy.’

Jill groaned. When she’d told Sam about her fear of queues and crowds, he’d given her more homework: she had to line up with everyone else for lunch, in the middle of the press of people. She’d coped.

‘Well, you’ve got to leave the lunchroom with me at twelve-forty, all right?’ said Jill.

‘What for?’ asked Layla. ‘We’re never out of there before one.’

‘Exactly,’ said Jill.

‘Huh?’ said Layla.

‘What would you say if I told you I’ve solved the extraordinary mystery of the Lyrebird lolly thief?’

‘You’re shitting me!’

‘I shit you not.’

At twenty minutes to one, Jill and a grumbling Layla left the dining room. Their fellow Lyrebirds watched them leave.

‘Something to do,’ said Jill, in reply to Camilla’s question about where they were going.

‘I got no dessert,’ said Layla. ‘I’m not myself when I get no dessert.’

‘We have to hurry,’ Jill said. ‘We have to get there first.’ She dragged Layla across the covered walkway at a jog. They ran past the veranda and approached the entry to their room.

‘Slow up a little,’ said Jill. ‘We don’t want to scare her.’

They sidled up to the doorway.

‘Fatso?’ said Layla, looking in.

‘Shh,’ said Jill. ‘Watch.’

Together they watched Fatso at Layla’s nightstand. The dog’s head was level with the top drawer. She put her paw up on the handle and scrabbled. The drawer slid open. She then walked around to the side of the nightstand, facing Jill and Layla. She reached in with her muzzle, grabbed a bag of lollies and pulled them out.

‘Good girl,’ said Jill, quietly.

‘Fat bitch!’ said Layla, a little louder.

‘Shh, stand back a bit,’ said Jill. ‘The show’s not over yet.’

The golden Labrador sauntered from their bedroom, the bag in her mouth, and made her way casually down the hallway. They followed her swaying backside, remaining a few steps behind.

‘Where is she going?’ asked Layla. ‘Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.’

Fatso ambled into another bedroom and Jill and Layla followed. Justin sat in the middle of his bed, grinning.

‘Good girl, good girl,’ he said to the dog, who’d dropped the bag on the floor and had her two paws up on Justin’s bed.

‘Just open your hand before you pat her, Justin,’ said Jill.

‘Yes, Detective,’ he said. Still smiling, he opened his palm. A dog treat sat in the middle.

‘I fucken knew it!’ said Layla. ‘You trained her to steal my lollies.’

‘Pretty good, huh?’ he said.

‘Not bad,’ said Layla, plonking down at the end of the bed.

‘Not bad? That was genius. You want a snake?’

‘With all her slobber on it? I don’t think so,’ said Layla. ‘Gimme the bag. I’ll check.’

‘I’m going back to pack,’ said Jill, and left them to it.

‘Troy, a moment,’ said Dominique.

‘Please excuse me, Mrs Garofali, Belinda. I hope you enjoy your fish, but save some room for dessert. You know we’re famous for it.’ Troy left the mother and daughter with a special smile for Belinda. With Dominique’s assistance, Belinda had earlier ordered a one-hundred-and-ninety-dollar bottle of wine.

‘Phone, boss,’ said Dominique, smiling, gliding graciously through tables.

Troy took the call in the kitchen. He never used his mobile when on the floor.

‘Don’t freak out,’ said Lucy, on the other end.

‘Then tell me now, or I will,’ he said.

‘It’s Chris.’

‘Well, of course it is,’ he said. ‘Is he okay?’

‘He got arrested again.’

Troy took the phone away from his ear and made a hammering gesture with it against the wall.

‘You there, Troy?’

‘Here. What’d he do?’

‘They wouldn’t tell me,’ she said. ‘But he’s locked up.’

‘Where?’

‘Redfern.’

Of course. ‘So the cops called, but you don’t know what he did?’

Silence. Finally, Lucy said, ‘Nope.’

‘Well, he’s going to have to stay locked up a while longer, Lucy. I can’t leave now.’

‘They told me to tell you they wanted to see you. It’s just work, Troy – Chris needs you.’

‘Yeah? Well, I need this fucking job to keep a roof over our heads.’ Troy lowered his voice. ‘And it looks like our brother needs to spend a bit of time locked up, the stupid little shit.’

‘I’m hanging up,’ said Lucy.

‘I’ll call you back later,’ said Troy.

The phone rang again, and he answered it.

Redfern police.

Troy couldn’t concentrate on anything other than Chris. Redfern lock-up was rock-hard. Chris was a juvie and they’d keep him in segro, but some of the kids who’d be in there with him had grown up fighting adults and would keep swinging until they lost consciousness. Chris pretended he was a gangster but he’d never been in a real lock-up or slept a day in his life on the street. Troy paged James, and his head waiter joined him by the bar.

‘I have to go,’ said Troy. ‘Family shit.’

‘Are you okay?’ asked James.

‘It’s my little brother. He got himself locked up.’

‘Go,’ said James. ‘We’re down to eight tables. It’s sweet. We’ll be fine.’

‘I owe you,’ said Troy. He grabbed a beer for the road.

This time, it was more than just filling in some forms. Troy had to speak to the cops who’d collared Chris. One he’d never heard of, and one he had. McNaughton. Just what he fucken needed. Four years ago it had been Herd and Singo, him and McNaughton. After Jonno had been shot, they’d been a tight-knit unit. Brothers.

McNaughton hadn’t said a word to him after he’d submitted his report on the kid blinded during the beating by Singo. When his senior sergeant told him that McNaughton had applied for immediate reassignment, he’d been hurt but not surprised. But when his sergeant also told him that he should watch his back in the alleys from now on, Troy knew he had to get out.

Now, Troy waited in the same interview room in which he and McNaughton had tuned up suspects and interviewed witnesses. His chair pushed back from the table, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, wishing he had another beer – or that he had Chris in here to kick around the room. Chris had brought him again to the last goddamn place he wanted to be – Redfern, facing his hypocrisy. He knew that was the major reason the other coppers had hated him so much. He and McNaughton had never been known to back down from giving a flogging themselves in these rooms. But everyone in Redfern knew the game – you had to speak the same language as the players. For the Asians, you got an interpreter. For the Abos, you used your fists. After a while, everyone could understand each other.

But Troy knew that he and McNaughton had never been as heavy-handed as Herd and Singo, especially with kids, and he had definitely never gone to town on someone the way they had on those two boys. Still, he’d lost skin from his knuckles in this room plenty of times. And here he was thinking about beating Chris again. He hadn’t laid a hand on him or anyone else since he’d put in the report, but maybe he hadn’t changed as much as he wanted to believe. He leaned back in his chair and belched acid.

Movement outside. McNaughton walked in, flattening the door against the wall. ‘Smells like piss in here,’ he said. ‘You haven’t changed, Berrigan. Still a degenerate alcoholic.’

‘What, so you’ve been to rehab have you, Naught? Done the Twelve Steps?’ asked Troy.

‘What I’ve done and haven’t done has nothing to do with you,’ said McNaughton. ‘That’s how this works in here now. You’re a pissant civilian, guardian of a shitbag hopper, and I’m Senior Constable McNaughton, which is how you’ll refer to me from now on.’

Troy spread his hands in a sweeping gesture. ‘Well, welcome to my office, Senior Constable McNaughton,’ he said. ‘So, you got another stripe? Two stripes but no bar. Sounds about right. Hardly setting the world on fire with your rapid rise through the ranks.’

‘We can’t all go around setting things on fire, can we, Berrigan?’

‘Go fuck yourself.’ Troy folded his arms across his chest.

‘Whoa. Hit a nerve there, did I?’

‘You got my brother in here. What do you want to talk to me about?’

‘You’ve done a great job raising him, by the way,’ said McNaughton. ‘What a great kid. We had him in here the other week, didn’t we? Hasn’t even been to court for that one yet.’

Troy kept his head down, massaged where his fingers should have been. ‘What’d he do?’ he said to the floor.

‘My partner will fill you in on that one,’ McNaughton said, as a woman walked into the interview room.

‘Constable Megan Bell,’ she said. Holding a folder, she didn’t offer her other hand but just took a seat next to McNaughton. Trim, tucked-in and in her late thirties – Berrigan put her down as a mum with a career change, began her cadetship late in life and was now proud as punch to be a copper. She looked as though she’d usually be a pretty friendly gal; his reputation had obviously preceded him.

‘Good to meet you, Constable Bell,’ he said. ‘My name’s Troy Berrigan. I’m Chris Berrigan’s brother and legal guardian. I’m pretty worried about him. Senior Constable McNaughton has told me that you’ll let me know what’s going on.’

‘At sixteen-thirty this afternoon, your brother and a Jayden Green were apprehended in possession of a firearm–’

Troy stood. ‘What?’

‘Sit down,’ said McNaughton.

‘A firearm? It’s that fucking Jayden. I told Chris to stay away from him.’

‘I said sit down,’ said McNaughton, also standing now, ‘or I’m going to put you on your arse.’

‘I’d like to see that,’ said Troy, eyeballing his former partner across the table.

‘Can we get on with this?’ said Bell.

Troy dropped into his chair and wiped his hand across his brow. A gun? Fuck, Chris.

‘He has been charged with possession of a firearm and with discharging a firearm in a public place,’ said Bell.

‘He
fired
it?’

‘They both did,’ said Bell. ‘Two clips. In a disused railway shed down at the yards.’

‘But no one was hurt?’ asked Troy, his heart hammering.

‘No one was hurt,’ said Bell.

‘Thank God! Can I get him out, then? Is he going to make bail? I mean, I know he’s up on the vandalism thing, but there’re no assaults, no drugs.’

‘Weapons charge,’ said McNaughton. ‘No bail.’

‘They probably just found the gun,’ said Troy. ‘They were just fucking around. I’ll keep him straight now; I’ll lock the little shit in his room. Come on, there’s flexibility on this. You know I know that. This doesn’t have to go to remand.’

‘What makes you think they found the gun?’ asked McNaughton, his elbows on the arms of his chair and his fingers steepled in front of his chest. ‘Where might they have found it?’

‘How the fuck would I know?’ said Troy. ‘Where does a kid get a gun?’

‘Maybe from home?’

A cold wave surfed Troy’s spine, raising all the hairs on the back of his neck. ‘I handed in my service weapon four years ago, Naught. I haven’t seen a gun since.’

‘We’re going to have to check that,’ said Bell, opening her folder. She put a piece of paper on the table. Slid it over to him with a finger.

‘What’s this?’ said Troy.

‘Warrant,’ said McNaughton.

The interview room door smacked against the wall again. A stomach entered the room first. Elvis.

‘You want to search my home?’ said Troy.

‘Oh, we’re doing that now, Troy,’ said Elvis. ‘We’re over at your flat, doing that now.’

‘Are you sure you don’t want to go to the wake?’ asked Gabriel. ‘We could just go for half an hour and then I’ll get you right out of there.’

Jill sat in Gabriel’s car in the queue with other mourners leaving the cemetery. Her eyes were red and swollen, but dry.

‘No, thanks, Gabe,’ she said. ‘I came to the funeral for Scotty. I said goodbye to him here. I’m not up to comforting his family and friends. That’s why I wanted to come with you. I know my parents would have nagged me to go to the wake.’

Gabriel nodded.

‘Thanks,’ she said.

‘Well, you have to deal with things your own way. Just because it’s a social custom, you shouldn’t do it for the sake of how it looks to other people.’

When Gabriel indicated to turn left onto Carrington Road, Jill said, ‘Gabe, where are you going?’

‘Taking you home.’

‘Are you serious?’ Jill swung in her seat to glare at him. ‘I’ve been out of this investigation for a week because you and my mother forced me to be. I’m back now, and I’m back in. We’re going to your place, and you’re going to tell me exactly where this case is up to.’

‘You hungry?’ asked Gabriel, opening the door of his third-floor unit.

‘No,’ said Jill, entering behind him.

‘I’ll make you a sandwich,’ he said.

Jill knew better than to argue with Gabriel. He had his own kind of logic. She found two plates, two glasses and some napkins in the third drawer. If they were going to eat first, she could at least try to speed up the process.

Gabriel pulled from the fridge a loaf of rye bread, a takeaway barbeque chicken, an iceberg lettuce and a jar of mayonnaise, and began assembling the sandwiches. His little grey cat, Ten, came running with the smell of the chicken. Jill found another saucer and took a piece of chicken breast that Gabriel had stripped from the carcass. Ten did figure-eights at her feet. She shredded the chicken onto the saucer and put it down onto the floor.

‘Thanks,’ said Gabriel.

Jill washed her hands, poured juice into the glasses and took them over to the kitchen table. She sat and waited for him, rigid in the chair. Whistling, Gabriel brought the plates over to the table, and then walked over to the glass doors of his balcony, sliding them open. By the time he sat down, Jill felt like the muscles in her neck had fused.

They started in on the sandwiches, still without speaking. Jill could hear every noise around her acutely. The sound of the leaves rustling in the huge gum tree that almost overran Gabe’s balcony usually relaxed her, but today they sounded like test-pattern static on a TV turned up way too loud. Jill usually loved to watch Gabriel eat. He ate almost everything with his hands, and always with a devoted, concentrated focus. Sometimes he rocked or hummed or smiled with pleasure as he ate. Today, the sound of him chewing almost made Jill scream.

‘Good, huh?’ he said, his mouth full.

Jill had peeled a crust from her sandwich and tried to eat it. Instead, she’d torn it into tiny pieces and dropped it onto her plate. She stared at him. Great detective.

Gabriel finished the last of his sandwich and she leant forward. Finally. He downed half his juice, then reached over to her plate. He waggled his eyebrows at her as he took half of her sandwich.

‘Fuck!’ she said, pushing her chair away from the table.

He peered up at her, chewing, smiling.

She laughed once, and shook her head. ‘How long are you going to take?’ she said.

‘What are you waiting for?’

‘To talk!’

‘So talk.’

She groaned. ‘Delahunt, you drive me mad,’ she said.

He grinned widely, already reaching for the other half of her sandwich.

‘Please, Gabe. Tell me what’s going on.’

‘Okay, let’s go through what we know of the murder at Incendie. Give me your summary.’

‘Miriam Caine was burned to death,’ she said. ‘No one saw what happened. It was Scotty’s last case. He wasn’t sure whether it was murder or suicide.’

‘Well, now we know for sure that it was murder. The perp splashed the blouse and face of Mrs Caine with two types of accelerant, and she was set on fire. We know that Troy Berrigan was the first to her aid; he got her down to the ground and put the flames out. According to the vic’s son, David Caine, he was on his way back from the men’s and a stroll around the restaurant. Says he saw what was happening and rushed over. The patrons were removed from the scene to the evacuation point outside the hotel.’

‘I know all this,’ said Jill.

‘We need to be on the same page from here on in. And I don’t know what you know. So, I’m going to keep going.’

She nodded. ‘Sorry.’

‘The patrons’ names were taken and we’ve done follow-up interviews with all of them,’ he said. ‘Many of the prelim interviews with the patrons were done by Scotty. Collectively, the diners inform us that Mrs Caine and her son were dining peacefully until he got up. Next thing, they hear screaming and Mrs Caine is on fire.’

‘And Berrigan was closest to her when she screamed?’

‘Correct.’

‘And when he was a kid, Berrigan set a school on fire?’

‘Correct.’

‘And Elvis thinks he set Miriam Caine on fire. Let’s say he’s right. Why would Berrigan do something like that?’ said Jill.

‘He’s an arsonist. Disillusioned with life and wants attention. So he gets close to Miriam, squirts her with fuel, lights her up, then puts her out. And he becomes the hero again, can play cop again, be part of the investigation. You know he was a whistle blower over at Redfern LAC? Copped so much shit after it that he had to get out. It must have hurt to have gone from hero to zero in a few months.’

‘It sounds like a reason,’ said Jill. ‘But you said that you don’t think he did it.’

‘That’s because he didn’t.’

‘What makes you so sure?’

‘Berrigan is all wrong. Completely wrong personality profile for this type of killer. Berrigan is hot-tempered, he’s compassionate, he drinks too much because he feels guilty about not being able to save his partner. Our perp is devoid of empathy, he’s narcissistic, over-controlled, he doesn’t abuse alcohol.’

‘I don’t know where you get that from,’ said Jill, ‘but let’s back up a bit first. You interviewed Berrigan. You think he’s not the one – but if Berrigan didn’t do it, who else was close enough to have started the fire?’

‘No one.’

‘And she didn’t do it herself?’

‘Nope. No ignition device found on her.’

‘Could she have tossed it after lighting up?’

‘No matches, lighter or candles within throwing distance of Mrs Caine.’

‘And no one saw anything?’

‘Oh, people saw something,’ said Gabriel. ‘Miriam Caine was not on fire, and then she was.’

‘A remote device?’ said Jill.

‘Yep.’

‘The son – David Caine.’

‘He looks good to me.’

‘What’s he got to say for himself?’

‘I’m playing this carefully, Jill. We talked to him at first, of course, but the guy’s as cool as a carrot.’

‘I think that’s cucumber,’ said Jill with a small smile.

‘What is?’ asked Gabriel, his brow furrowed.

‘Never mind, keep going. You interviewed him. What did his body language tell you?’

‘Actually, Jill, I haven’t gone near him.’

‘What? Why?’

‘He thinks all cops are stupid. So I sent in Elvis.’

‘You want him to think he’s right, that he has the upper hand.’

‘Exactly. But I’ve been right up his arse on paper. I know everything that can be known about his past. And I also had Elvis and Emma record their interview with him.’

‘Great,’ said Jill. She’d often been stunned at the information Gabe could glean from watching recorded interviews. ‘So, what’d you get?’

‘Well, the interview is the main reason I looked into him so hard. He just did not look like a man who’d lost his mother that way. I watched it with and without sound, and I’m convinced I have his personality type right. He’s a logic-dominant, inactive extrovert.’

‘What the hell is that?’

‘Well, you would see him as extremely controlled, cold and unapproachable, unless he has a reason to get close to you. He’ll have no true friends and contributes virtually nothing to any relationship. But it’s actually an extremely efficient personality type. He uses no more energy than is necessary to express any emotion in order to get the job done. It’s all about the logic, and he sees himself as more logical, rational and clever than anyone else.’

‘What told you all this?’

‘Well, Caine would view any interview with police as an interrogation, but rather than displaying stress cues, there’s almost a complete absence of them on the tape. The more intense the questioning, the calmer he became. Sometimes he was even amused, almost giving the impression that what Elvis was discussing – his mother burning to death – was of no consequence. That’s what gave him away to me. Not what he did or said, but what he didn’t do and didn’t say. This type of personality has the fewest kinesic and verbal cues of all subtypes.’

‘Like a psychopath?’

‘Well, some of them are. But Caine isn’t devoid of emotion, and he’s extremely skilled at detecting it in others. He manipulated Elvis throughout the whole interview. Whenever Calabrese displayed heightened interest in one of his responses, he used it, almost absorbed it, to throw Elvis off track. He was a hunch-detector, and he ran the whole show like a puppet-master. But Emma Gibson, clever girl, got a rise out of him.’

‘What was it?’

‘It was when she suggested that there could be a link between his mother’s and Scotty’s murders.’

‘How did he react?’

‘He was furious.’

‘Maybe he’s angry we’re onto him. He didn’t think we were smart enough to make the link.’

Gabriel took his cap off and tossed it onto the lounge. He stretched his neck from side to side. ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘Maybe.’

‘But he is our main suspect, so have we searched his house?’

‘We have no grounds without using the remote-device theory.’

‘Well, why haven’t you?’

‘I want to leave Elvis on Troy Berrigan for a while. I want to keep Caine in the dark for a little longer. I think maybe he’s done a lot more than commit matricide.’

‘Yeah, he killed the man I love!’ Jill stood. ‘How can you let the fucker sleep in his own bed another night, Gabriel? We have to go and pick this prick up.’

‘You have to listen to me, Jill,’ said Gabriel. ‘Please, just sit down and listen for a bit.’

Jill snorted and dropped into the chair, her arms folded.

Gabriel leaned forward and put his hands together on the table. ‘If we go into this guy’s house and don’t find the remote, which we won’t, because it will be tiny and he’ll have destroyed or hidden it, then he’s going to know we’re onto him and change up. We won’t be able to arrest him, and he’ll run. We have to get him on Scotty’s murder, but I think he’s also been up to a lot of other shit. We can get him on the lot if we just do this properly.’

‘What other shit?’ asked Jill.

‘Well, can I take you through my reasoning first?’ said Gabriel. ‘Believe me, Jill. We’re not going to let him get away, and if I can get you up to speed, you can really help out here. I couldn’t trust Elvis not to go blundering through this and clue Caine up. But I can trust you not to, can’t I?’

‘I’m listening,’ said Jill.

‘So, I was thinking about why Caine might have decided to kill his mother in Berrigan’s restaurant. My first assumption was that it was all about the restaurant’s name. For a narcissist like Caine, it’s a perfect fuck-you to police to get away with burning someone to death in a place called Incendie. I thought that was it – just an ego thing, a smartarse nod to us. But then I realised it could be more than that. I think Caine deliberately targeted Berrigan. It can’t be a coincidence that the manager of the restaurant just happens to have the perfect arsonist’s profile. Well, the arson profile for dummies, anyway.’

‘It’s a pretty big coincidence,’ said Jill.

‘So it’s probably not,’ said Gabriel. ‘I believe that Caine must have had some knowledge of Berrigan’s background. It turns out that Caine was living and working in the same area of Sydney at the time of Berrigan’s school fire – maybe he remembered the names of the kids involved. There were a rash of school fires at the time, and there was quite a lot of media comment as well. He could’ve heard Troy’s name back then. Maybe he was a cleaner at the school. I don’t know how yet, but I think Caine knew about Berrigan’s history and I think that Caine targeted this restaurant because of Berrigan. And on the night, he waited for Berrigan to be physically close to his mother, then he detonated the device. Once Berrigan had put her out, Caine just had to reach under the sheet and take the trigger mechanism. It would have been a brooch or something small he’d pinned to his mother’s clothing, chest area. So then we’re all looking at Berrigan, and Caine’s home and hosed.’

‘Smart motherfucker,’ said Jill.

‘Which is what I thought,’ said Gabriel. ‘This is a smart motherfucker, and someone used to getting away with things. It just didn’t seem like a first-offence crime of passion to me. He’s also someone who wants to stay hidden – he’s gone to all that trouble to find us our suspect and frame him. I think this means that he’s someone practised in doing research in order to cover his tracks. Of course, I looked for any priors first up with this guy and got nothing. But he stinks, you know? I’m thinking there’s more. So I start fishing.’

Jill knew that the databases in Gabriel’s unit were better than in any copshop she’d worked.

He continued. ‘I name-searched and data-matched through all the Medicare, credit-card numbers and tax records, and I found that David Caine has lived in four states in Australia over the past ten years.’

‘No big deal,’ said Jill. ‘People move around a lot more than that.’

‘And then I looked into unsolved deaths within a fifty-kay radius of where he was living.’

‘Oh, come on, Gabe,’ said Jill. ‘Not every murderer is a serial killer.’

‘You want to know what I found or not?’

‘Go.’

‘Well, there was only one murder in one of the areas he lived – the poisoning of a water dispenser in an office building in Perth. The top of the bottle was pierced with a syringe and a highly toxic pesticide was squirted into it. It killed William Curtis, forty-eight. Curtis had recently undergone chemotherapy and was physically weak. Eight of his colleagues were more lucky, but they all had to be hospitalised.’