The Labyrinth of Drowning (8 page)

‘Do I tell Harrigan?’

‘That’s all in there,’ Clive said a little sharply. ‘I told you to read it. If you sign the agreement, then I’ll want to speak to your partner about the operation myself. Don’t worry, you’ll be there when I do. If you don’t want me to do that, I’ll take you off the job now.’

She pulled back a little from the abruptness with which he spoke.

‘Are we sharing any of this with the police?’ she asked.

‘I’ve decided we are, at least with Borghini. He’ll know about the role you’re playing but no one else will. I’ll brief his senior command myself on what they need to know. You were a sworn police officer once. You can appear to be seconded back while this operation is going on. But the proviso is this. Both you and Borghini take your directions from me and no one else.’

‘Borghini probably won’t like that.’

‘He can take it or leave it,’ Clive said. ‘The question is, will you?’

‘I’ll let you know this afternoon,’ she replied and walked out.

Give Clive his due, he had set it out in detail. There was nothing in these pieces of paper to trap her; it was the reverse, the details were comprehensive. Despite that, the job was both dangerous and secretive, even by Orion’s standards. The worst aspect of her work had always been its loneliness. This agreement isolated her further. On her desk, she had a photograph of Paul holding Ellie at her naming ceremony. She remembered thinking at the time, how had she got here? How had she managed to achieve so much just by
blundering around the way she always did? The photograph held a world, one that mattered to her more than anything. Clive’s agreement cut her off from that world and left her isolated in another one. The two photographs he had given her lay on the desk; they showed her exactly what she was walking into. They were openings into some other kind of darkness, a place that had nothing to do with the life she lived outside her work. Clive might say that he meant them to make her think twice about what she was taking on. But really he knew her well enough to realise they would have the opposite effect.

She looked at the picture of Paul and Ellie again and the anxiety came back. What happens to my daughter if something happens to me? But it was there on paper: backup, safety, an opt-out clause if she couldn’t handle it. Orion was careful with its operatives’ safety. Her own experience had demonstrated that to her. She would have to step away from both Paul and Ellie in her mind. If she didn’t, the focus she needed, the cold-bloodedness, would not be there. If she once wavered in her intent, not only would she be in danger but she could put the operation at risk and other people who were involved as well.

Clive was asking a lot of her and it angered her to think he probably realised just how much this would cost her. And, regardless of the detail in this document, the real aim of the operation was being hidden from her. All she was being offered was a briefing sometime in the future. In other words, she was being asked to fly blind; she was being used. But she wanted this person, these people, whoever they were, as much as he did. This was her agenda and it was just as important as whatever Clive might have planned. No one was safe when people like this were out there, including the people who meant most to her. She picked up her pen and signed the documents.

B
ack home in Birchgrove, Harrigan rang his old mate and former 2IC, Trevor Gabriel. He and Trev had worked together for years.

‘Got your info, boss. I’ve just emailed it to you,’ Trevor said. ‘That car is owned by a Craig Wells, forty-three, who lives in Lakemba. Unit by the looks of it. No criminal record. Not even a parking ticket.’

‘Is there a picture?’

‘Glasses, fair complexion, brown hair and beard, brown eyes. A short arse—170 centimetres.’

‘Why is that name familiar?’

‘Yeah, it rings a bell with me as well. I’ll look into it and get back to you. I’ll send a body over to Kidz Corner for you today. Do you want me to send a couple of people around to watch your house as well? I can find them.’

‘No, mate. I just want to make sure my daughter’s safe. You need everyone for the Oxford Street shootings right now. How are the men who got shot?’

‘One’s still critical, the others are stable.’

‘Any word?’ Harrigan asked.

‘Nothing. Everyone’s singing the same tune—they had nothing to do with it.’

‘Someone will crack.’

‘We’ll be ready when they do. See you, boss. Give us a call if you need any help, okay?’

‘Will do.’

Harrigan hung up with a sense of betrayal of his former 2IC. But he knew that if he mentioned even the faintest possibility that Newell might have been last night’s intruder, he would lose control of the situation. The police would crawl all over any lead that might help them solve the massacre on Oxford Street and his own investigations would be taken out of his hands. Harrigan wanted control. Keeping the details to himself was the best way to get it.

Before he left, he put on his shoulder holster and his gun. Then he was on his way across the packed suburbs of the Sydney basin, through a landscape of red-brick and fibro houses, concreted creeks, home units, scraps of bushland and parks, coming close to the geographical heart of the city in the southwest. Another world, just a drive away. A few more rocks to turn over and see what might be underneath. Something slimy probably. Just a normal day really.

The block of units looked ordinary: a white-rendered building with square, deep-set brown wooden balconies, all a little worse for wear. At the back of the building ran the suburban train line between Wiley Park and Lakemba stations. A row of big bins, various numbers painted on their sides, stood on the footpath. It was garbage collection day. There was no grass, just a cement forecourt. The main door opened to Harrigan’s push. He stepped into a brick hallway with a cement floor. There was no name attached to the unit he was seeking. He walked upstairs and knocked on the door.

At first he heard nothing, then the sound of quiet movement inside. He waited. He was about to knock again when the door was opened by a tall African man, possibly in his sixties.

‘Can I help you?’ he asked in accented English.

‘I was looking for a Craig Wells,’ Harrigan said.

‘Are you with the police?’

‘No, I’m a consultant. This is my card.’

The man took it and studied it for a few moments.

‘Why are you looking for this man here?’ he asked.

‘His car is registered to this address. I’m trying to get in touch with him.’

The man’s expression was troubled, frowning. Another glance at Harrigan, a weighing up of actions.

‘Will you come in?’

‘Thanks.’

Harrigan stepped into a small, plainly furnished living room, where his host offered him a chair. No one else was present. Then the man opened the door to another room and went inside. Harrigan caught a glimpse of a kitchen where an older woman was seated at a table peeling vegetables while another woman, perhaps in her thirties, was standing by the bench. Both were wearing what seemed to be traditional dress. He heard soft voices from behind the door and then the man came out again, shutting the door behind him.

‘Mr Paul Harrigan,’ he said. ‘May I keep this card?’

‘Please do. And you are…?’

‘Mohammed Hasan Ibrahim. This person you’re looking for, he’s used this address to register his car?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why do you want to find him?’

‘There’s no reason for you to be concerned by this, Mr Ibrahim,’ Harrigan said. ‘If this man has used a false address, it’s not going to affect you.’

‘I would like to judge the consequences of the situation for myself,’ Ibrahim replied. ‘Can you tell me why you want to find this person?’

The voice was educated, the English meticulous. Mohammed Ibrahim’s face was thinned out, the bones accentuated. His hair was whitening. His look was one of deeply felt caution, distrust just held at bay. Someone who had learned the hard way to be wary of whatever life was going to throw at you next because who knew what it would destroy or kill.

The kitchen door opened and the younger woman appeared carrying a tray with two cups of coffee and a plate of dates. She had covered her head. She served them both and then left the room, closing the door behind her.

‘Please,’ Ibrahim said, gesturing to the small plate of dates.

The dates were sweet; the coffee spiced with cinnamon and ginger.

‘Thank you,’ Harrigan said. ‘To answer your question, I’ve had a car stalking me and my daughter. I was able to get the registration number. This was the address.’

‘You didn’t go to the police.’

‘I’m an ex-policeman. I prefer to handle my own affairs.’

Ibrahim had placed Harrigan’s card on the arm of the chair he sat in. He picked it up and looked at it. ‘What kind of consultant are you?’

‘I assist people in assessing their security needs and their legal affairs. I’m a qualified solicitor. I’m a guide, if you like. People who deal with the police and the courts often need one.’

Ibrahim looked at the card again, and this time put it in his pocket.

‘I thought you might have come here to give me some information about my niece,’ he said. ‘She’s been missing for a number of weeks now. I can’t convince the police that we’re very worried for her safety. They seem to think she must have gone off with someone but I’m very sure that’s not the case.’

‘I’m afraid that’s not why I’m here. It was simply to see if this man had lived here.’

‘I don’t like this coincidence,’ Ibrahim said. ‘We are from Somalia. My niece has been trying to get her brother into Australia for several years now. He’s in a refugee camp in Kenya. She contacts him there as often as she can. She is always ringing or writing to the Department of Immigration, trying to get some kind of visa for him. All of this has stopped. She would not have done that of her own free will. Getting him here is the object of her life. Now you’re here asking after an unknown man. I have to ask myself what this means.’

‘This man has never lived here?’

‘Not while we have been here, which is over two years now.’

‘I’m sorry I can’t help you,’ Harrigan said. ‘What is your niece’s name?’

‘Nadifa Hasan Ibrahim. You haven’t found this man here. Will you keep looking for him?’

‘Yes,’ Harrigan replied, knowing the request that was to come.

‘If you should find out anything about my niece, I would like to know.’

‘If I do find anything, I’ll be in touch. I give you my word on that. Are you able to tell me something about her?’

Ibrahim got to his feet and went to a cabinet, where he took out a photograph. He passed it to Harrigan almost reluctantly.

‘When I was growing up, women always covered their heads whenever they went out. She’s a young woman, of course, and everything is done differently here. This is a photograph a friend took. She used to work at Westmead Hospital. Then one day we discovered she’d left her job. Her aunt asked her why and she told us that she’d changed her mind. She asked to be reinstated and they agreed. Then she disappeared. She was not at her work, she didn’t come home. We’re very concerned.’

The photograph showed a serious-looking young woman of about twenty-four, tall, slender and very beautiful.

‘If you want me to keep an eye out for your niece, I may need this photograph,’ Harrigan said.

Ibrahim nodded wordlessly.

‘Would you be prepared to give me some information?’ Harrigan asked. ‘If I give you my word that I won’t involve or mention you in any way, would you tell me who the managing agent for this block of units is?’

Ibrahim looked at him for a few moments.

‘If you would wait,’ he said, and went into the kitchen, returning with a fridge magnet in his hand. ‘This is our agent. He leaves these magnets in our mailbox for us. It would be more useful if he fixed the plumbing when we asked him to. Please take it if you want.’

Four Square Real Estate, Haldon Street, Lakemba. A private agency, not a franchise. Harrigan finished his coffee.

‘I can promise you won’t be troubled by anyone, Mr Ibrahim, and if I find anything about your niece, I’ll be in touch,’ he said. ‘Thank you for your time.’

Ibrahim rose to his feet. ‘It was an honour to have you as our guest,’ he said formally, and saw him to the door.

In most meetings like this, Harrigan had rarely been treated with
the kind of courtesy he had received today. Despite this, the chances that he would find any information concerning Ibrahim’s niece were slim to say the least. Grimly, the ex-policeman in him said she was probably already dead and most likely Ibrahim thought that too. He drove to Haldon Street to see where the next step might take him.

Four Square Real Estate was a single, narrow shopfront in the main commercial precinct of Lakemba, almost invisible with its dark window. Harrigan cruised past it, then parked off the street on the other side of the road. He was about to cross over when the door to the agency opened and an old foe stepped out: Tony Ponticelli junior, a middle-aged man in a sharp suit, slipping on a pair of sunglasses. Harrigan stopped where he was but Tony junior didn’t seem to have seen him. He walked to a red Ferrari parked just up the street, and drove off.

To put it mildly, Four Square’s presentation to the world was low-key.
Property Managers
,
Rental Properties
, said the sign on the brown-painted window. Even so, there was no display of properties for sale or rent. Harrigan went inside. A drab-looking woman sat at the desk. What are you doing in here? her eyes said.

‘Is the manager in?’ he asked.

‘No. Why do you want to see him?’

Harrigan looked around. The reception area was a small space, cheaply furnished. Everything he saw suggested that anyone who walked in here on the off chance would be told to go away. To his right was a door which he guessed led to the manager’s office.

‘What’s his name?’ he asked.

‘What’s yours?’ she replied as the door opened.

‘Gail, get this info written up, would you—fuck!’

‘Eddie Grippo,’ Harrigan said. ‘I heard you were out. This is where you’ve come to rest, is it?’

The short man in the doorway looked sick. The papers he was carrying dangled from his hand.

‘Paul Harrigan. What the fuck are you doing here?’

‘I think we should have a little chat, mate.’

Gail’s hand was hovering over the phone.

‘Leave it,’ Eddie said, and when she hesitated, shouted, ‘Leave it! For fuck’s sake!
Don’t
!’

‘You want to do your job,’ Harrigan said to her, ‘keep your mouth shut. You didn’t see me.’

Her face went blank and she went back to whatever she’d been doing.

Eddie’s office was as run-down as the rest of the shop, with a dead pot plant in one corner. He had put on weight since Harrigan had last seen him, his girth nudging the desk. In gaol some prisoners made sure they stayed fit, they worked at it like men possessed. Eddie hadn’t. All that muscle had gone to fat. Age was catching up with him the same way it was catching up with everyone, all the way to the hair on his head, which, unlike the rest of him, was thinner.

‘What do you want, Harrigan? Why should I give you the time of day? You’re nobody now.’

‘Look at you,’ Harrigan replied, unmoved. ‘You’re old. You couldn’t take on anyone any more. You want people to forget you, don’t you? So here you are in this shithole, keeping your head down. I can think of a lot of people who’d want to know where you are right now. In gaol you had people watching your arse. Out here you’ve got no one. You might open the door one day and find someone else besides me waiting for you. What was Tony Ponticelli junior doing here? I just saw him leave.’

‘The whole fucking thing’s legitimate, for fuck’s sake.’

‘Keep talking, mate. You make me laugh.’

‘It’s the property. All we do is manage the family property. That’s it.’

‘What was Tony junior doing here?’

‘Don’t you know? You don’t, do you? You’re out of the loop.’ Eddie grinned. ‘Tony senior’s got fucking Alzheimer’s. Word is he’s getting loonier every day. Tony junior runs the business now.’

Harrigan knew the business all too well: extortion, enforcement, murder. The Ponticellis were the people to hire if you wanted anything like that done. They provided, with gusto. Once they’d been into anything—sex, drugs, any kind of contraband, corrupt property developments, shadier business deals, blackmail. Anything that could turn a dollar, which they had also done very successfully. Once, they’d probably had a higher turnover and owned more
assets than some well-known companies. But the operations Harrigan had run had cut them down to size. He had gaoled their lieutenants, like Eddie, along with Tony senior’s brother, and seen others get shot in gang wars. After that, they had never recovered their territory. There was no such thing as a vacuum in the crime world. Other gangs, other nationalities, newer to the scene, had moved in.

Harrigan’s own involvement with the Ponticellis had teetered a little too close at times. There were one or two personal matters between him and Tony senior, which were another good reason for the old man to hate his guts, even more perhaps than for destroying his empire.

‘Tony junior doesn’t give a shit about you, mate,’ Harrigan said. ‘You’re not his man. You’re his dad’s. He’s doing you a favour, isn’t he?’

‘They need someone,’ Eddie muttered.