Alex Palmer - The Labyrinth of Drowning

‘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.’