Jill Jackson - 04 - Watch the World Burn (24 page)

Troy walked the line of his troops – down the row in front of them, back around and behind them, taking in everything from the shine on their shoes to any errant hairs around their faces.

‘You all look good,’ he said. ‘The restaurant also looks great. Well done. Are you ready for tonight? If you haven’t had a chance to sneak a look at the guest list these past few months, I’m here to tell you that we’ll be entertaining the Premier of New South Wales, the Lord Mayor of Sydney and all the highest-ranking police in this state. Far more important than that, though, we’ll be feeding Caesar, and if anything goes wrong in his restaurant, in front of these people, you won’t find a job in another restaurant in this city. James, take us through the run-sheet.’

The reflection of a down-light glowed on James’s mirror-shined bald head; the circle of light seemed to beam directly from his scalp. Troy knew that when he dimmed the lights in a few minutes, the effect would be less disconcerting.

‘Champagne and cocktails at seven-thirty,’ said James. ‘We’ve three hot and three cold canapés. Make sure they’re moved around quickly – get some food into these people to soak up the piss. Wait until you see the grog we’re pumping out tonight. Entrée is at eight, so please begin moving them to their seats at five to. Mains are at eight-thirty. They’ll start the speeches then, and they’ll be sloshed, so expect the usual. We’re rolling desserts out at nine-fifteen. Liqueurs at ten. The function officially runs until eleven, but you know what Caesar’s like once he gets going. Don’t count on getting much sleep tonight.’

Troy frowned down some of the grumbles. ‘Come on, how long have you known about this thing?’ he said. ‘There’ll be overtime. Don’t you lazy bastards need spending money for Christmas?’

Troy dismissed them and spent the next twenty minutes rushing through an hour’s worth of work. When the first of his beautifully dressed guests began to arrive, he greeted them graciously, steeling himself for the first round of whispers.

‘It might be nothing,’ said Jill, staring at the photo of the invitation on the refrigerator in Erin Hart’s home. ‘Still, it is weird.’

‘Think about what you just said,’ said Gabriel.

‘That it’s weird. But there’s no real reason that Erin shouldn’t be attending a function at a restaurant like Incendie. I mean, it’s one of the best restaurants in the city. People are going to have parties there.’

‘Not that bit,’ said Gabriel. ‘Not the weird bit.’

‘Huh?’ she said.

‘You said that this might be nothing. Remember what I said about nothing and David Caine?’

‘Yeah,’ said Jill, her forehead creasing. ‘You said that nothing is everything with this guy.’

‘Exactly. Look, Jill, over the past two weeks there have been six attacks around Sydney that look to have been committed by this squirrel. You might as well call that a spree. I know that, technically, spree-killers don’t stop in the middle of their attacks to go to work and get on with life, but six in two weeks indicates this guy’s in some kind of frenzy. And don’t forget that, as far as we know, the whole thing started with the murder of his mother. I think that’s unhinged him.’

‘You’re probably right,’ said Jill, ‘but I don’t see how we can connect Caine to this dinner tonight. Why would he go back there?’

‘Symmetry,’ said Gabriel.

‘Symmetry?’

‘Uh huh. It’s poetic, it’s planned, it’s meticulous. It’s very David Caine.’

‘So, you think he might go there tonight and, what – try to attack Erin Hart? I don’t know, Gabe. It doesn’t make a lot of sense, you know? I mean, why firebomb her house last night if you wanted her to be at a dinner tonight? Not many people would just skip off for cocktails and canapés after something like that.’

Gabriel took over the mouse, started scrolling. ‘Yeah, I hear you,’ he said. ‘You’re right. It would have been smarter to not do that.’ He tried focusing even tighter on the invitation. ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘I can’t see what the event tonight is for.’

‘It’d be printed on the front of the card. Why don’t we just call her and ask?’

‘We could,’ said Gabriel, ‘but we might panic her.’

‘It’s better if she’s panicked than if she walks into a trap.’

Gabriel fiddled again with the mouse.

‘Gabe?’

Nothing.

‘I get it,’ she said. ‘You don’t want to call her because you don’t want her alerting anyone that something might happen tonight,’ said Jill. ‘In case it spooks Caine. You want to use Erin as bait.’

‘She might not even attend, like you said. It might be nothing, like you said.’

‘Nothing,’ said Jill.

‘Nothing,’ said Gabe.

‘Let’s go. I’ll drive,’ said Jill.

Erin couldn’t believe it. She tried again to catch Hamish’s eye, and this time he saw her. He winked. She beckoned. How the hell was he going to drag her arse to this thing and then dump her? Halfway through the welcoming cocktail, he’d squealed and rushed over to talk to a short man with a ginger beard. Erin recognised him immediately. God. He wasn’t even Hamish’s type.

‘He’s not even your type,’ she said when he reached her side.

Hamish threw his head back and laughed. His dark fringe was slicked back, his skin perfect. She’d never have known he was wearing make-up if he hadn’t once told her, ‘I never go anywhere without my concealer.’

Now, he said, ‘Silly. That’s just Brian. I’ve met him a couple of times out dancing. Well, he tries to dance, poor love. Does his best.’

‘I know that’s Brian.
Inspector
Brian Featherstone. Are you saying he’s on the scene?’

‘Well, I wouldn’t say on the scene, exactly. I’ve just seen him out a few times.’

‘Well, we’re going in to dinner soon,’ she said. ‘Can’t you just hang out with me until we’re seated? I don’t know what I was thinking wearing this dress. I feel like a giant pimple.’

‘Would you stop it?’ said Hamish. ‘You are spectacular. I shouldn’t leave you alone, though – you’ll be harassed to within an inch of your life.’

‘You are a sweetie, Hamish. A liar, but a sweetie.’

Hamish stayed by Erin’s side as she was greeted by one or two people she was pleased to see, and five or more who just wanted to be seen speaking to a local member.

‘The premier,’ Hamish hissed. ‘Don’t look – he’s on his way over here.’

Erin accepted the premier’s concern and good wishes about the firebomb in her home; she talked global warming with the deputy commissioner, and about the Glebe CCTV project with the retiring Chief Superintendent Norris, the man of the moment. He was her ticket to this event, having championed CCTV for public safety over the past decade. Finally, Erin saw people beginning to move towards the lavishly set dining tables.

‘Isn’t this all just gorgeous?’ Hamish said, smiling at a dark-haired waiter who must have walked past them three times within the past five minutes.

‘Just gorgeous,’ she said, lifting another glass of champagne from the waiter’s tray.

Jill waited at the intersection of Elizabeth and Hay Street. Gabriel sat silently beside her, his lips moving. He did that. It was like he was having some kind of dialogue with someone. When he was really into it, sometimes he’d make the facial expressions that would go with a proper conversation. He’d nod, frown and smile. The first time Jill had seen it, she’d kind of freaked.

By now, though, she’d learned that it was pointless to speak to him when he was like this. She turned the scanner up a little and listened to the dispatcher sending out jobs, other cops checking in. Sometimes she found the chimes and quiet mumbles soothing – especially in the evening, for some reason. The civilians in the cars around her were unaware that this ceaseless verbal grid weaved through the night, wrapping them all in a protective web of signals and code.

Jill switched off the aircon and dialled the vent to pump in air from the street. While it was probably about twenty-eight degrees out there, in here the aircon on her bare arms made her conscious that she was still in the same singlet she’d put on twenty-four hours ago. She wished for the twentieth time that she’d had a change of clothes over at Gabe’s last night. Maybe she should leave some stuff there, in case something like this happened again. She shook her head. What is it about this guy? She’d never even stayed the night once at Scotty’s place, and yet here she was thinking about moving clothes in to Gabriel’s apartment?

‘You’re very quiet,’ Gabriel said. ‘You looked like you were talking to yourself.’

Oh, for God’s sake. ‘You reckon we should call the restaurant, Gabe? Ask them what the function’s for?’

‘I don’t know. Not really,’ he said. ‘I mean, to get that kind of info we’re going to have to identify ourselves. I’m assuming Troy Berrigan is still running the show over there, so he’s going to hear about it. Berrigan’s probably stretched to the wire on this thing now. I told him a week ago today that he’s a suspect in two murders. And then Elvis organised a house-call with a warrant a couple of nights ago. If I call up asking about a do at his workplace, he’s not gonna let that go. He’s going to flip out.’

‘I could call,’ said Jill.

‘Still a cop call.’

‘And he might overreact and that could spook Caine.’

‘If he’s there at all,’ said Gabriel.

‘If you think it’s possible Caine’s going to go to Incendie, Gabe, we should probably send in the troops.’

‘What do you think you and I are?’ he said. ‘Besides, we’re nearly there. We’ll just check things out quietly. No need for the whole catastrophe just yet.’

Jill motored up Elizabeth Street. As they approached Hyde Park, she scanned for a parking spot. Ordinarily, parking a cop car was no biggie. Loading zone, bus stop, taxi rank – they were all the same to her. The meter cops would never tag her car. But on this part of Elizabeth Street, there were enough people with enough money to vie for the same spots. An eighty-dollar fine for illegal parking out the front of a restaurant was considered just part of the cost of the evening. She continued past the hotel and turned left on Market Street to circle the block.

‘Fuck!’ said Gabriel. ‘Did you hear that? Turn the radio up, Jill, I think we’re too late.’

From the corner of his eye, Troy saw the huddles go down every time he left a group. One hour and a thousand dollars’ worth of booze into the festivities, the buzz of the comments now reached his ears clearly.

Bullshit! That’s not him. You’re pissed.

Of course I’m pissed, you dickhead. Jonesey, get your arse over here. Isn’t that Troy Berrigan?

That Abo cop from Redfern? Yep. Shot the prick that killed Jonno.

No, it can’t be. That fucker lost his arm, didn’t he?

Next time he comes past, check out his right hand. If he has five fingers, I’ll wrap my five fingers around your stumpy prick.

You couldn’t fit your little hobbit hand around my king cobra, you poofter.

The next group would be into the next story.

You know he’s the coon that ratted out Herd and Singo, don’t you?

Yeah, Jonesey was telling us. He dogged them for giving some of his cousins a hiding.

That’s him. They’ve got his little brother locked up now, too.

Well, things are back to normal, at least. We’re locking them up instead of one of them having the keys.

Racist prick.

Yeah? Come over here and suck my racist prick.

It was always the same and always would be, Troy knew. It didn’t matter how high up they got in the chain of command. He hurried into the kitchen to stop himself putting his foot up someone’s arse.

The fire alarm suddenly blatted into life.

‘Oh, not now!’ said Robbie. ‘We’ve got the mains ready to go out. They’ll be fucked.’

‘I’ll check it out,’ said Troy. ‘Hopefully it’s nothing.’

‘It’s never nothing,’ said Robbie. ‘The chicken will be cardboard by the time we get everyone back in here.’

The volume of the alarm increased steadily and Troy held a finger up to Caesar, who was glaring at him from across the room. He picked up the phone, stabbed a button.

‘Evacuate? Oh, shit,’ he said. He hung up.

Troy’s staff watched him from various points around the restaurant. He held his hand above his head and made a lassoing motion. The waiters efficiently began moving the patrons towards the exit. He flattened the doors back against the walls to allow everyone out. In the foyer he smelled smoke, and a thin wire of adrenaline shot through his stomach. He’d actually never smelled smoke during a fire alarm before. Usually, the alarm had been something small triggered by a drunken guest in a hotel room, put out before it even really got started.

He re-entered the restaurant, moving quickly, flattening himself against the wall to give the diners room to leave. Most of them were still clutching glasses, their dinner conversations ongoing as they exited the room. He snatched the fire-extinguisher off the kitchen wall and carefully pushed back through his guests and out the door. Just a minute had lapsed since he’d last stood here, but now the smoke had greyed the air and the diners moved determinedly towards the stairwell. They had a long climb down to the ground.

Troy followed the acrid stench around the corner from the elevators, and within moments he had spotted the smoke, which was rolling like baby breakers from under a conference room door. He tried the handle. Locked, but not hot, thank God.

He dug into his pockets for his master key and opened the door. What the fuck? A metre from him a small bonfire burned merrily: some conference notepads, stacked in an orderly pile in the middle of the floor, had been set alight. The flames crackled and reared as more pages were consumed, black smoke curling from their tips. He pulled the extinguisher pin and jetted foam onto the fire.

Who could have done this? There was no question this had been deliberately lit, then the door locked. With the flames now extinguished, Troy took his mobile from his pocket.

A sound behind him. He spun.

‘What the hell is this?’ Caesar O’Brien stood in the doorway; Lester Conway, the hotel’s duty manager, stood beside him.

‘Someone doesn’t like us,’ said Troy.

‘You found these on fire?’ asked Lester.

‘Door was locked, too,’ said Troy.

‘Motherfucker,’ said Caesar, swaying a little.

‘I’ll call the police,’ said Lester.

‘They’re all fucking here already,’ said Caesar. ‘Well, they’re on their way down the fire stairs, anyway. I’ll get everybody back up again.’

‘Not yet,’ said Troy.

Caesar glared at him.

‘Lester, grab a couple of staff and do a quick search of the function areas. Just make sure this isn’t the only pile of dogshit left for us.’

Lester nodded and jogged off.

‘I’m going down to our guests,’ said Troy. ‘We’ll give Lester ten minutes and bring everyone back up. Coming, Caesar?’

‘Nah, you go, Troy, my boy. I’ll keep an eye on our restaurant.’

‘Yeah? Have one for me too.’

Caesar barked out a laugh and clapped Troy across the shoulder. ‘Good job here tonight, son,’ he said. ‘Now go and get me my drinking buddies.’

Troy made his way back to the elevators, trying to figure out who could have done this. The function rooms were always locked when they weren’t being used. It had to have been a staff member with a hell of a fucking grudge. He or she could have killed people.

Watching the numbers above the lift climb to his floor, Troy decided that Caesar really should think about renaming the restaurant. Two fires in two weeks? Was the name Incendie attracting these psychos? Wait until the media got hold of this shit. And it had to happen tonight, too. The elevator doors shooshed open and Troy stepped in. He’d probably beat the slowest guests to the evac point; there were a lot of stairs. But there was no point trying to intercept them now; once you went through those fire doors there was no getting out again until you hit the street.

Troy reached the lobby and made his way through a squadron of air stewards all trying to check out. The smoke-detectors had done their job; it looked like they’d only had to evacuate his floor. Another ten minutes, though, and it would have been a different story. He made straight for the street. To the left, twenty metres down, there they all were, dressed to the nines. His second restaurant-load of customers not exactly getting what they paid for. And he was right – there were still some stragglers stumbling from the fire doors. Troy took a deep breath, staring across the road into the park and trying to calm himself.

What the fuck?

Preconsciously, Troy registered that death waited across the road. The events of the past fifteen minutes, and the last two weeks, somehow dropped into place in his brain. He couldn’t access the files, but he didn’t need to. He exploded into movement, and sprinted across the road towards David Caine.