Authors: Robert Sims
Tags: #Serial Murder Investigation, #Australia, #Australian Fiction, #Detective and Mystery Stories; Australian, #Melbourne (Vic.)
She took a taxi to the police station. Jarrett and his officers gave her the sort of welcome she needed. Then she sat down at a terminal in the main office and hammered out a detailed crime report. She didn’t leave anything out, including the series of murders committed by Demchak, and the collusion and crimes of Maddox. It took until the evening to complete.
‘Your Falcon’s in the car park,’ said Jarrett, ‘if you still need it.’
‘I do,’ she said. ‘I’m not quite ready to leave Whitley yet.’
‘That’s good news.’ He grinned.
‘Let me buy you dinner.’
‘You’re on.’
They ate grilled steaks and drank red wine in the restaurant of the Whitsunday Hotel. Rita felt herself decompressing and it wasn’t long before she couldn’t stop yawning.
‘My company’s boring you,’ said Jarrett.
‘No.’ She yawned. ‘It’s relaxing me. You’re doing me the world of good. But I’ve really got to hit the sack.’
‘Well, I hope you sleep tight.’
‘I will.’
He emptied his glass, tipping the last of the wine down his throat, before walking her to the lifts.
She gave him another kiss on the cheek, but this time she threw her arms around him as well and hugged him close.
‘What’s that for?’ he asked.
‘For being my great friend,’ she said.
‘I heard what happened,’ he said, face flushed. ‘I can’t believe you’ve come through unscathed.’
‘I’m okay.’
‘Well, you’re a damned hero as far as I’m concerned.’ He glanced around uneasily. ‘I’ve also read your crime report. It’s already been classified, of course.’
‘Of course.’
‘Great read, though. You could’ve been a journalist.’
‘I assume that’s a compliment.’
‘It is. You know how to provoke maximum angst in your readers. I’m off to the research base to help clean out the Augean stables. So much for military fortitude. They’ve been shitting themselves.’ Luker gave a sadistic laugh. ‘Rhett Molloy’s on a flight back to Langley. Immediate recall. He exceeded his brief with a shoot-to-kill policy that was never sanctioned. That’s cowboys for you. Looks like he’s for the chop. And other level-seven officers are being carpeted, including Lieutenant Colonel Baxter. None of them responded quickly enough to the automatic security alert issued by the computer. If they had, perhaps Demchak and Maddox would have survived.’
‘I’m lucky a colleague didn’t hesitate.’ Rita shook her head in bemusement. ‘It’s funny, but I’m alive today because of an unusual trio: a cop, a computer and a monk.’
‘Okay, the first two I get, but the monk?’
‘Because of him I did some soul-searching, right when the angel of death was staring me in the face.’
‘You’d make a great spy,’ said Luker.
‘Because I can keep a secret?’
‘And a natural talent for tapping into fantasy. You were indeed lucky, with the army outgunned by a local cop. And the colonels having to mop up after an ignominious defeat at the hands of a lone terrorist. So much for rapid response!’
‘So our local flashpoint in the war on terror is over?’
‘Yes. The hunting party is history.’ He patted her on the back.
‘Love to chat but I’ve got to fly. Give my regards to Proctor. He was absolutely right about you.’
Rita watched him dash out to a waiting cab before she went over to the reception desk. A courier was waiting for her with a small parcel.
‘I need to see some ID,’ he told her. ‘Something that shows you’re Detective Sergeant Van Hassel.’
The request was unusual. She looked at him more closely as she got out her police ID. He was a solidly built Polynesian, wearing canvas shorts and shirt, with a badge reading
Haka Courier
Service
clipped to the pocket. There was something over-watchful in his eyes.
‘You’re no ordinary courier, are you?’ said Rita.
‘Fuck, no. I’m the best,’ he said, returning the ID. ‘No one messes with a Maori.’
He gave her a pen and pad. What she signed was a blank sheet.
Then he handed over the packet, the size of a DVD box.
‘I think I know what this is,’ she said, opening it immediately.
Sure enough it was the
Rheingold
disk, as well as a card printed with the message:
For an idealist with balls. You will know what
to do with it.
‘Without compromising your service,’ she said to the courier,
‘can you tell me what your instructions were?’
‘The client said to wait three days. And if we didn’t hear from him by then, deliver it immediately.’
‘Stonefish was more cagey than I realised. Pity I can’t thank him.’
The courier suddenly chanted:
‘
Ka mate, ka mate
Ka ora, ka ora!
‘
Then he winked at her.
As he turned and left, she laughed then carried the disk up to her room like a surprise birthday present. It had lost its deadly effect.
After playing Dr Steinberg’s commentary on her laptop, Rita knew exactly what to do with the disk, just as Stonefish had expected. It also made Luker’s comment about her journalistic credentials even more apt. She put in a phone call direct to the editor of a television newsroom and arranged for a partial download. The technical specifications would remain secret, but Steinberg would have his moment of glory.
Before packing her bags she went for a swim in the hotel pool, with time out to smother herself in lotion and loll in a deckchair, putting in some parting work on a tan. As she was checking out of the hotel she caught the top item on the lunchtime news. There was Steinberg on the TV screen: ‘…
and even though my work at Whitley Sands is classified, I
believe my duty, as both a scientist and a human being, overrides
considerations of national security when such a gross violation of human rights is being perpetrated. The Panopticon technology, which emits high levels of electromagnetic radiation, is far more dangerous than even the environmental campaigners suggest. Its effects go beyond that of ecological pollution, having a measurable and lethal impact on the brain chemistry of inhabitants within the radius of its EM
pulses, resulting in a fivefold increase in subarachnoid haemorrhages.
A straightforward analysis of medical data proves the point …
‘
Rita smiled. In his ponderous and didactic way, Steinberg was avenging his own murder, scoring a direct hit from beyond the grave on the new surveillance weapon for the war on terror.
Things would have to change.
Rita’s flight back to Melbourne was booked for late evening, so she still had time to say some farewells before dropping the car back to Jarrett. There was one goodbye in particular she needed to make. She’d promised herself a return visit to St Cedd’s Island to thank the monks for their hospitality and to tell Brother Ignatius of the small epiphany that had kept her alive.
Timing her trip for low tide, she drove out of town past the sugar mills and cane fields and along the coast road until she reached the turning for the causeway. Thin ripples of receding water covered the cobbles as she guided the Falcon slowly along the tidal track towards the island. It rose from the waves, in splendid isolation, the slanting rays of the sun daubing its Gothic buildings, fields and orchards in almost a hallowed light. From the angle of Rita’s approach there was nothing beyond it but clear sky and open sea.
She drove up the slope past the jetty, pulling to a halt in the car park beside the old kombi van. Her arrival had already been observed. As she walked across the courtyard, Ignatius was emerging to greet her.
He opened his arms, beaming. ‘How wonderful you’ve dropped in again. Are you about to go home?’
‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘I’ve got a night flight back to Melbourne.’
He gave her an affectionate hug. ‘The police told us about your shoot-out with Billy Bowers. How terrible for you.’
‘What’s terrible is he brought violence to the monastery.’
‘It’s passed and in a way we’re stronger for it.
Yea, though I walk
through the valley of the shadow of death.
You know how it goes.’
‘Yes,’ said Rita. ‘One of the reasons I’ve come back is to thank you.’
‘What on earth for?’
‘For worrying about the state of my soul. I took your advice and made my peace with God.’
‘I knew you would.’
‘How?’
‘You used a phrase - “the universe as intelligence expressing itself “,’ said Ignatius. ‘It reveals a healthy mysticism, for all your rational psychology.’
‘Well, that crucial moment meant the difference between life and death.’
‘It always does,’ he said. ‘Science produces great advances, but we also need a sense of wonder. Sometimes we lock ourselves in objectivity.’
‘I’m wondering if that’s something I have in common with another visitor here - Audrey Zillman.’
‘Strange you should mention that name,’ said Ignatius. ‘You remind me of her.’
‘In what way?’
‘Another strong-willed woman with an impressive mind, caught between the sacred and the secular. I think she was struggling with the same demons as you, including a disrupted childhood.’
‘I could’ve guessed.’
‘She too was looking for answers. According to Audrey, science itself pointed to mysteries beyond comprehension, through things like quantum physics and the singularity of intelligence.’ Ignatius smiled. ‘She liked to visit and use me as an intellectual sounding board. Then she’d walk around the island and meditate. She said it was the one place that gave her a feeling of peace.’
‘I can understand that.’
‘You would have enjoyed her company,’ said Ignatius. ‘I can almost imagine the two of you engaging in
the quarrel of the
universe
. She had to stop coming here when she became too ill.
But she did return at last for her final resting place.’
‘I’m glad,’ said Rita.
‘If I may ask, what’s your connection with Audrey?’
‘I’m not entirely sure, but somehow I think she protected me.’
‘Well, if you need to pay your respects, feel free. Can I offer a late lunch afterwards?’
‘That would be nice.’
‘Excellent. I’ll set it up in the cloisters.’
While Ignatius went back across the courtyard, Rita walked out through the archway, under the spread of the fig tree and along the path that led through the olive grove. She retraced her steps from the previous visit, climbing towards the high point of the island, goats bleating as she passed their enclosure. From there she went by the water tank and up the rough track through fennel and brambles until she reached the small graveyard.
It was filled mostly with simple crosses, some discoloured and leaning awry, dating back to the nineteenth century. In the top corner was the newest gravestone. Rita walked up to it, admiring again the spectacular setting, with the blue sweep of the ocean on one side, and the sun drooping towards the rainforest covering the ranges in the west. It was still there, that elusive glimpse of paradise. What better place to be laid to rest?
Rita bowed her head, conscious of the fact that she wouldn’t be standing there if it hadn’t been for the special protocols built into the computer.
‘Your own life you couldn’t save,’ she whispered. ‘But mine you saved twice.’
She’d learnt that radical advances in technology were redesigning human potential in ways that would alter the structure of our thoughts and experience. The opportunity for change was dawning like the glimmer of a new light rising on the twenty-first century.
But what did it herald - freedom gained or lost? Would it make us more human or less?
The view from the burial plot on top of St Cedd’s Island was as primal as Genesis. It had been the same for aeons and perhaps it would stay that way for millennia to come. Audrey’s mortal existence, deposited here, would play no further role in the unfolding future and yet, in a strange way, she was part of it.
Her intimate association with the science of intelligence would see to that. Her influence was out there, subtle and dynamic, as were the creations of her mind. So maybe Luker was right. Maybe she had cheated death after all.
Rita straightened up.
‘Goodbye,’ she said. ‘And rest in peace, wherever you are.’
As she turned to go, her gaze fell on the brief quotation carved on the gravestone. She smiled as she remembered what it meant.
The inscription was in Latin:
Cogito ergo sum.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Acknowledgements
The genesis of this story dates back over several decades. While the published book incorporates many changes, it retains themes, characters and descriptive passages from the original draft. So I take this opportunity to thank those who helped to develop the ideas within its pages. They include: the Reverend William Booth Gill, who provided a rational perspective on western religion, and Mabel Germain, of Detroit, Michigan, who pointed out its mystical essence; my Fleet Street colleagues Lin Edgson, Bob Francomb, Michelle Watson and Colin Parkes for their role as principal sounding boards; cyberpunk fan Tony Duggan for introducing me to the genre; journalists union leader in the UK John Foster for throwing light on institutional tyranny; veteran literary agent George Greenfield for his advice on the art of narrative; Jonny Geller for his energy in pushing a raw manuscript around London’s publishing houses; Piero and Gloria Ciarpaglini for acting as travelling companions while we researched various settings; my beloved daughters Tamara and Lara for their enthusiastic support; and their mother Milica for her encouragement and for typing much of the first draft on a 1930 Remington Portable that she’d bought for me in an antiques market at Stratford-upon-Avon.