The Simple Death (14 page)

THURSDAY

Twenty-one

H
e'd had a dream about Brigita. It was just after two in the morning when he woke up, and he felt vaguely embarrassed. The message from Tim yesterday must have done it. She would have been younger than Troy was now when he'd known her at the presbytery. She'd reached through all those years and touched him, almost. He thought about her body, its paleness, and tried to remember where her parents had come from. It was Latvia.

But soon the dream faded, unlike Luke's revelation of last night, which was like a wound, a major trauma. For the moment there was the pain, which simply had to be endured. He knew most of it would pass, but other effects of the wounding would be with him forever.

As he lay in the big bed he recalled the first two years he'd known Luke. He had actually lived in the presbytery only a few months, but he'd visited frequently over a longer period. He recalled the murmurs of complaint from the flower ladies at Brigita living in the same house as Luke, but they were only murmurs. No one had worried about Tim, of course. It had been before the wave of abuse allegations had crashed onto the Church. Priests were revered figures, at least in the eyes of their parishioners.

*

The next time he woke it was light. After breakfast he rang the hospice to ask if he could see Luke before work, hoping to ask him about Tim, but was told the priest was asleep and wanted no visitors. They'd call if there was any change. So Troy got to work early, reaching Room 233 before anyone else, and decided to bring himself up to date with the rest of the investigation. By now they had a database of all the people in Mark Pearson's life, divided into categories: family, friends, those at his current job and his last one, people with whom he'd shared his interests in football and art. Troy wanted to go through them all and see if any links appeared. The computer was programmed to cross-reference facts such as names and dates, but it couldn't do everything.

He read for a few hours but found nothing, was working through a list of the documents found in Pearson's office when McIver rang. Parramatta had found Greg Gillies, the homeless man suspected of killing Jim Austin. They'd just finished interviewing him.

‘He's the stabber?'

‘Says not. But Durack's people searched his place and found a shirt with blood on the sleeve. When Durack told him, he changed his story, a bit. Said he went to Austin's house to talk to him about the debt, found him dead on the floor of the bedroom. Extracted the wallet from his trousers, getting blood on his sleeve in the process. Removed two notes to the value of thirty dollars, which was all that was there. And left.'

‘And Jim subsequently floated out to the shed.'

‘This problem was raised with Mr Gillies. He proceeded to say anything was possible in the squats, because they're haunted. Apparently it's a well-known fact.' Troy groaned. ‘But he did tell us where he'd ditched the wallet, and we got it. So the truth is in there. Somewhere.'

Looking at his screen, Troy said, ‘When we searched Pearson's office, we found copies of requests to Medical Admin for statistics for two of the wards here. He submitted them a week before he died. Anyone followed that up?'

‘I'll see.' Mac went away from the phone, came back. ‘No. Should have.'

Troy felt a twinge of concern: it was not like Mac to overlook something like this. He said, ‘What stats did he want to see?'

‘I'll get someone to drag out the request forms.'

Troy went to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. Back at his desk he considered calling Admin about the statistics, then looked at the piece of paper with Tim Kalnins' number on it. He rang and listened as Tim said hello and asked if they could meet today: he had something important to tell Troy.

‘Are you sure I'm the right person?' Troy said. The man on the other end of the connection didn't sound at all like the boy he'd known many years ago. He could be anyone.

‘Yes,' said Kalnins. ‘I'm up from Melbourne on business, going back tonight. Can I see you at one?'

Didn't sound too distraught, but Troy knew the way people reacted to abuse over the long term varied hugely. He gave him the hospital's address and hung up.

He went to his email box and printed off the scans of the two stats requests Manly had just sent. Pearson had been interested in the average time patients spent in Paediatrics, and the number of deaths in Oncology. It took Troy a moment to remember oncology meant cancer. He pulled out the internal phone directory and called Paula Williams, asked if either request rang any bells. She said they didn't: Mark was always getting stats on one thing or another, sometimes after they'd had several complaints about the same department. Part of his job was to keep an eye out for systemic problems. She asked if he wanted her to chase up the stats and he said yes. Then he called the departments, arranged to talk later that day to the people in charge, Maria Urquhart and Ian Carter. Ran the names through [email protected] and found Carter had been at the party on Wednesday night. Wrote a note for Conti, yawned and looked at his watch. His body was pretending to be tired but he wasn't really. It was time to meet Tim Kalnins.

Twenty-two

B
rigita's son had grown into a short, broad man who could afford a well-cut suit. Troy saw him standing on the footpath outside the hospital and almost didn't recognise him. But Kalnins made him immediately, and his face lit up as he approached with his right arm extended. He seemed cheerful enough.

‘You look just like your photo,' he said. ‘I read about that stuff at The Tower. They give you a promotion?' His nose was quite big and his lips were full, and Troy guessed his father had not been Latvian. He wondered if Tim even knew who his dad was.

‘How's your mum?'

‘She's great, got herself a husband down in Geelong. Nice bloke.'

‘And you?'

‘I'm good. A funds manager in super, just back from a year in London. Getting married next month.'

As they walked and talked about the imminent wedding, Troy noted that Tim's eyes were clear and the skin around his eyes smooth, as though he slept well. There was some nervousness there but it seemed well under control. Maybe he'd got over what had happened to him when he was a boy. Troy's chest was tight and he forced himself to take in more air, preparing himself for what he was about to hear.

They went into a shop and ordered sandwiches. While they waited, Kalnins asked Troy about the state of The Tower case, and he gave the short version. Homicide's role had ended long ago, the people it had been chasing all dead. The investigation into the use of the building for money-laundering was still active. Immigration had tracked down the people smuggler involved, who was being extradited from Indonesia. The case had created a mini-industry of investigations and prosecutions.

When the sandwiches were ready, they took them to a park nearby, a neat place ringed with modern townhouses built to resemble the suburb's old terraces. They sat beneath a tree, Kalnins placing a large handkerchief on the grass before sitting down.

Unable to restrain himself any longer, Troy said, ‘Why did you move to Melbourne?'

‘I want to tell you, but you have to promise to keep it a secret. Mum insists on it.'

‘I can't hide a crime.'

Tim smiled. ‘It's not a crime.'

Troy was confused. ‘I promise,' he said.

‘You swear?'

‘If it's not a crime, I swear,' he said impatiently. ‘So, why did you leave Sydney?'

‘To get away from Luke.'

Troy stopped chewing and looked at the other man, who had just taken a bite of his sandwich, wondering how he could be so calm about this. He said, ‘I'm so sorry.'

Kalnins looked away and finished his sandwich. He seemed to like his food. When it was done he wiped his fingers slowly on a paper serviette and smiled, as though he'd just worked something out. Said, ‘This is not what you think.'

He stopped and Troy felt angry, wanted to insist he keep talking. But he knew how hard it could be to come out with something that had been a secret for a long time. Such conversations had their own rhythm, which you had to find.

He said, ‘You just told me you wanted to get away from Luke.'

‘Not me. Brigita.'

‘So she knew . . .' Troy began, and then his mind went blank.

Tim smiled and shook his head, opened a bottle of juice and swallowed some. ‘You think Luke abused me.'

‘It's all right, take your time.'

‘Luke wouldn't do that. He's my father.'

Troy hadn't seen it coming. Maybe he should have, but he'd been locked into the other thing. Locked into his fear. Slowly placing the rest of his sandwich on the ground, he tried to think about it. After being a cop for a while, you pride yourself on having seen everything. But not this. He wondered if this was better than the other thing, or worse. It was better, of course.

‘I'm surprised,' he said. Obviously.

Kalnins said, ‘It happens quite a bit, apparently. Or used to.'

Troy wondered how anyone would know. Bishops might, old ones at least. Maybe archbishops.

‘Your mother and Luke . . .' he said stupidly.

Kalnins was watching him with interest. He seemed at peace with it all.

‘Yes.'

Kalnins told the story, how Luke had been a young parish priest near Gosford in the 1980s and he and Brigita, one of his parishioners, had fallen in love. When she became pregnant he said he would leave the priesthood, and she'd told him she'd have an abortion if he did. So he'd ended their relationship and moved to Sydney. And then, a few years after Tim was born, she'd followed him and they'd started sleeping together again.

‘I don't think any of this was deliberate,' Kalnins said. ‘I don't think their relationship was even all that happy. But it was very intense, and it lasted on and off for over ten years.'

‘How long have you known?'

‘Mum told me when I turned twenty-one. I'd never suspected. I think that's why we moved to Melbourne when I was twelve—she didn't want me to find out, knew she had to make a new life for us. I was angry at first. But then,' he shrugged, ‘it was good to have a father. Came up to Sydney a few months later, spent some time with him. We're pretty close.'

‘You've seen him this time?'

‘I tried yesterday. They wouldn't let me in, said he won't speak to anyone.' He smiled. ‘If I'd said I was family, it might have been different.'

Troy managed a grin. ‘You tried to ring?'

‘Dad's voicemail is on all the time and he hasn't returned my calls since last weekend. The switchboard won't put me through.' He looked around the park and said, ‘Mum asked me to tell you all this. It's in confidence, right?'

Troy had been doing some calculations, counting the years. ‘Jesus,' he said.

‘You've got to promise.'

Suddenly Troy was excited. ‘So Luke was in a physical relationship with your mother at the time he's supposed to have seduced an eleven-year-old boy?'

Tim nodded. ‘That's why I'm here; Mum insisted. It doesn't add up, does it?'

Troy recalled vividly the moment yesterday when Luke had admitted to the act of abuse. None of this made sense.

He said, ‘So it was a troubled relationship?'

‘That was after I came along. In the early days, though, I think they just went for it.'

There was some bitterness there. And why not.

‘So what's this bloke Martin Napoli on about?'

Tim looked upset for the first time. ‘I have no idea. He's mistaken, or lying. Mum's confused, another reason she wanted me to tell you. Luke doesn't want anyone to know, for our sakes. But she thought you might be able to do something. In confidence.'

‘You should tell Archbishop Walsh,' Troy said. ‘You could insist on secrecy, let him know so he'd stop the investigation.'

‘That'd only take care of the Church side. There's still the possibility of a police inquiry. Another problem is, Mum's husband doesn't know anything about this. It would kill her if Larry found out. He's a very straight guy.'

‘What does she want me to do?'

‘I was wondering, could you, you know, have a word to Napoli?'

There was nothing he'd like to do more. But if Luke was innocent, Napoli must be mad or bad. Either way, he might choose to publicise any approach by a police officer, which could make things worse for Luke. Troy explained this to Kalnins, who smiled.

‘But you could look into him a bit, couldn't you?'

Troy shrugged. People had strange ideas about what the police could do. ‘I'll see what I can manage.'

‘No, it's a stupid idea. I'm sorry.' He sounded disappointed.

‘I'll see,' Troy said again. ‘I want to help, I just need to work out how.'

‘Talk to Dad.' Kalnins pulled an envelope out of his pocket and gave it to Troy, checking what was written on the outside as he did so. ‘Proof of paternity. A few years ago, before all this started, he insisted we had a DNA match done.'

‘That was when he got the cancer?'

‘Yeah. He just wanted there to be some proof, for when he died. No other reason, I think he just wanted me to know for sure. I told him it wasn't necessary, I had Mum's word on who my father was. But he was on the drugs by then, and doing this made him happy.'

Troy opened the envelope and saw it contained photocopies of a lab report and statutory declarations from two general practitioners, verifying they'd taken DNA samples from Luke and Tim and sent them directly to the laboratory. According to the report, Tim Kalnins was Luke Carillo's son.

Troy wondered why Luke had gone to all this trouble.

‘How did he feel about the Church at that point?' he said, thinking Luke might have imagined some future legal action by Tim in search of money.

‘He had more faith than ever. I don't think he ever had any doubts, but these past few years his faith got stronger. He told his bishop about me a long time ago, and they supported him. The Church is his real family.'

Troy was surprised. ‘He told Walsh?'

‘An earlier one. But I reckon Walsh would know.'

‘You're kidding.' Troy ran his fingers through his hair. ‘If Walsh knew, he'd be defending him. Surely. He'd talk to Napoli, at least.'

‘I know,' Kalnins said. He looked unhappy again. ‘That's what I don't understand.'

‘I'm sorry about all this,' Troy said slowly. ‘Are you still a Catholic?'

Kalnins relaxed and grinned. ‘You must be joking.' He checked his watch. ‘You've got my number. Where can I get a cab?' He looked relieved now, as though he'd handed over a burden.

‘Oxford Street. It's up there, I'll walk you.'

Kalnins put a hand out, touching him on the chest, and said he'd be fine. ‘Don't forget your promise.' He breathed in deeply, rebuilding himself, and with a wave set off across the small park.

When he was gone, Troy looked around at the half-circle of terraces, wondering if there was a way through to the hospital. The row seemed impenetrable; for a moment he felt completely disoriented.