Alex Palmer - The Tattooed Man

‘They’re all so bleak,’ she said. ‘Except when you get to her. What’s she? Rest and recreation?’

Separated out from the rest was a print of one of Goya’s paintings, The Naked Maja. She seemed to smile out of the picture, looking directly at the watcher, both an enigma and a challenge.

‘I like her,’ he said. ‘She’s beautiful. Like you.’

She gave him a half-smile that was slightly self-deprecating. He often thought Grace didn’t seem to know how lovely she was. When they had first met, he’d been harsh towards her, too harsh. At the time, he’d said it was the fault of the pressure of his work. He regretted it now and hoped he had made up for it since, even given the time his job took out of their relationship. What do you see in me? A question he wasn’t going to ask her. Just keep seeing it.

‘Why do you have these on the wall? Why do you need to look at them?’ she asked.

‘I don’t look at them all the time. Sometimes I take them down and put them away because I don’t want to see them for a while. I just need to know they’re there. They take the pressure out of my head.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I see things like this all the time in my job and I can’t pretend I don’t. This is what we do to each other every day. I know what that means. Someone else knew that as well. They knew enough to put it down on paper like this so it has some meaning.’

‘Someone else knew how we get a real thrill out of hurting each other,’ she said softly. ‘That won’t ever change.’

He wondered what lay behind her words. Perhaps, since he was opening himself up to her like this, he should have asked her. He knew that she had grown up in New Guinea, a childhood that was still a vivid and beautiful dream in her mind. The dream had been shattered when her mother had died suddenly of cerebral malaria when Grace was fourteen. Her father had brought them all back to Australia where Grace had spun off into a cycle of wildness that hadn’t ended until she was in her twenties. For a few years she had been an alcoholic, although no one would have ever guessed that now. Somewhere along the way she had also acquired a faint scar that ran like a silken thread down the length of her neck. He had never asked her and she had never told him who had put it there or why. All the times they had made love, he’d never once intentionally touched it or put his mouth to it.

‘I’d better see what the commissioner wants.’

She looked over his shoulder as he opened his inbox. Three emails, all with the same subject line and attachments, were waiting for him. Two had been forwarded: one from his son, the second from the commissioner. The third had been sent directly to his personal address from an unknown source. The time identified them as being sent sometime after midnight. The subject line read: They gather for the feast. Harrigan opened the one addressed to him first. The message consisted of a URL followed by the words: Ex-Detective Senior Sergeant Michael Cassatt leaves his grave and arrives at Natalie Edwards’ table at Pittwater for dinner.

Three pictures had been attached to the email. Harrigan didn’t look at these immediately but went to the website. The words They gather for the feast flashed on screen again. The first image took his breath away. In sharp colour, the dead sat at the table on the patio at Pittwater, assembled for a meal they would never eat, Cassatt at the head as if presiding over them. He heard Grace draw her breath in sharply.

‘Oh my God,’ she said. ‘Is that what you saw? How did you recognise him?’

‘Intuition. We looked at his left shoulder, he had a tattoo there. Why send this out? What’s the point?’

‘Is that man with the glasses Jerome Beck?’

‘Yeah, that’s him. Will anyone else recognise him now? Is that the point?’

He went to the next photograph. Cassatt lay in his unidentified grave, recently dead. In the narrow trench, his face and body, just recognisable, were shockingly marked.

‘Someone worked him over before he died and they weren’t gentle,’ Harrigan said. ‘What did they want? And why tell the world like this? If you’re going to splash it all over the net, why not tell us where his grave was as well?’

‘They can’t want you to know. It’s like advertising,’ she said. ‘Or reality TV. They want us to think it’s real life. Except that it’s artificial from the beginning.’

‘Whoever did that to Mike must have buried him as well. They have to know where his grave was. Whoever that person is, they’ll know someone was looking over their shoulder while they were doing it.’

‘Why wouldn’t this be from the person who killed him?’ Grace asked.

‘I think it’s more likely it’s not,’ he said after a few moments’ thought. ‘This is someone telling us what they want us to know. Someone wants us to see a connection between the killings at Pittwater and Mike’s murder. Killers usually keep things secret. These people want this out there.’

‘Then it’s also a message for Cassatt’s killers, whoever they are. Someone’s on to them.’

The third photograph showed Cassatt in this same grave in the mummified state he’d been in at the table at Pittwater. The narrow confines cradled him like a child.

‘Before and after,’ Harrigan said. ‘We saw you bury him and now we’ve dug him up and taken him to Sydney for a meal with the dead. Who are these people?’

‘Twisted,’ Grace said. ‘You’d have to be. I’m going to have a shower. I need to wash seeing that away.’

Harrigan opened the other two emails. Each was identical to the first. The commissioner’s came with the concise message: Please phone. His son had written: Isn’t this where you went yesterday, Dad? These pix are everywhere, they’ve been posted all over the place. People are putting them up on their own websites. Sicko.

Thanks, mate, Harrigan typed in return. Sorry about yesterday, see you today if I possibly can.

He picked up the phone and made his call.

‘Paul,’ the commissioner said, dispensing with greetings. ‘Have you seen the email?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s gone to every media outlet in the country. Some newspapers have managed to get those pictures out on the street already. That’s bad enough. But if you check the Sydney Morning Herald online, you’ll find there’s media speculation this investigation may already be compromised as a result of Cassatt’s body being found at the scene.’

‘How is that possible?’

‘According to them, the Ice Cream Man may have had evidence implicating a serving senior police officer in the Edward Lee murder. This senior officer may wish to protect himself by impeding the investigation.’

‘Is this alleged senior serving police officer named?’

‘Of course not. The paper isn’t planning on being sued. The journalist is very clearly referring to the various rumours connecting you to Cassatt-’

‘There is no truth whatsoever in those rumours,’ Harrigan snapped, wondering why fate had to do this to him.

‘I didn’t say there was. But I won’t have it said that, under my command, this service is subject to the same degree of corruption that existed with Cassatt.’

‘I’m not aware anyone is saying that.’

‘I don’t intend to give them the chance. I discussed the matter with the special assistant commissioner. Marvin advises that you should stand down from your position as commander during this investigation. However…’ The commissioner drew breath. Harrigan, awaiting the axe, sensed a reprieve. ‘Senator Edwards phoned a short while ago. He wants to meet with the senior officers managing this investigation, including you. You impressed him yesterday. He was very insistent that you be involved. Can you be here in an hour?’