Alex Palmer - Blood Redemption

The car, a late model white Mazda sedan, had been parked in a narrow lane between the back fences of the houses and the retaining wall bordering the railway line. At first sight, it appeared largely undamaged. There was a fire engine standing close by at the end of the lane. He saw Ian at a short distance from the car, watching the forensic team at work.

‘Hi, Boss,’ he said as Harrigan walked up.

‘Morning, mate. What’s happened here?’

‘The kid we’ve got in custody was splashing petrol around in the boot when he got jumped on by a couple of the locals. Apparently a car got torched down here a while ago and half their garages and the fences along here almost went up in smoke. So the neighbours got together and put in a silent alarm. Lucky they did, that car is fucking drenched. I think it would’ve exploded if anyone had lit it up.’

‘And the one we didn’t get went up that wall?’

Harrigan looked up at the dark-stained and uneven stone wall rising above their heads. A suburban train rattled past at speed on one of the further tracks.

‘That’s what I’ve been told. Up, up and away. He must have done because no one’s found him yet. You might want to take a look in the boot while you’re here, there’s some interesting things in there.’

Harrigan walked over to the car with Ian and greeted the head of the forensic team. They stopped work and stood aside for him. Tossed inside the boot was a small collection of blood-stained clothes: jeans, jacket, gloves and a scarf.

‘I see what you mean,’ Harrigan said, wrinkling his nose, ‘the sweet odour of petrol.’

‘Can you tell us anything about this?’ he asked the forensic team leader, a middle-aged woman with purple hair.

‘So far?’ the woman replied. ‘Whoever she is, if she got into these clothes, she’s very small. She took a tumble, a bad one. It must have hurt. She landed on her hands and knees and she tore her gloves. I’m fairly certain we should get some skin fragments for you. If we do, we can tie the gun to the glove to the hand without too much argument.

There’s a lot of blood on these clothes as well.’ She smiled at him. ‘An embarrassment of riches.’

‘You could say that,’ Harrigan replied a little dryly. ‘Thank you.’

They moved back, out of the way.

‘That’s how she dropped her gun,’ Ian said, ‘tripped coming out of the shop. Our girl can’t know what she’s doing. I don’t think she could have made any more mistakes if she’d tried.’

‘We know everything we need to know about her except who she is. And she’s still out there,’ Harrigan replied. ‘You’re staying on to see this through?’

‘Yeah, I’ll be here.’

Before leaving the scene, Harrigan stopped once again to look up at the high retaining wall with its sparse toeholds of tenacious vegetation.

The other boy must have been pissing himself to get up there, but fear has a leverage all its own. He knew this from his own experience of sheer terror: the moment in a back alley in Marrickville one night ten years ago, when Michael Casatt had pushed Harrigan’s own gun into his mouth and forced his hand onto it with the succinct words, ‘You’re dead, mate.’ That microsecond of time was set to be his permanent hiatus when it was broken by some brave, brave soul that he had never met and thanked, who had shone their car lights onto them at high beam. The moment had had a depth of emotion Harrigan would not have thought possible if he had not experienced it. His body might have vaporised, he might have already been dead. Then the gun butt hit his jaw and his jaw hit the ground, almost in the same instant. After that, he had felt nothing except atrocious pain, which, for a short space of time, was the most welcome feeling he’d ever had. At least he was still alive.

Maybe this was the reason he had never taken any pleasure from seeing fear work on the people he interviewed in his job, the way some of his colleagues did. He watched his subjects twisting in its grip and felt nothing other than repugnance for the humiliation. He dealt with it by telling himself that fear was like anything that was human. What mattered was how you used it.

He took out his phone and rang Trevor. ‘What have you got Grace doing this morning?’ he asked.

‘She’s doing what you wanted her to do. She’s over at the hospital checking up on Matthew and the doc. Why?’

‘She was good with that boy yesterday. I’d like to see how she might go with this one today. Get her back in for me, would you?’

‘You want Grace? Sure you don’t want Louise? After all, she’s already here. Look, Boss, you don’t want to be sexist about this — you could always get one of the guys.’

‘Louise will breathe stale booze all over him and she’ll scare him.

So will all of the rest of your ugly mugs. Get Grace. Get her to meet me outside the interview room. Tell her I’ll brief her myself and I’m going to sit in on it.’

‘Lucky Grace. I’ll get her right away.’

Ignoring the sarcasm, Harrigan hung up. Yes, get Grace. She can chat to this boy in that nice voice of hers and smile at him with that smile. Sweet-talk him, soothe him down. Maybe even put him off his guard long enough to make him open up.

The forensic team began to remove the clothes from the boot just as he walked away to his car. He always thought that blood, whether it was dried on clothes or walls, had an inconsequential look to it, something that could be brushed off and the slightly more stubborn stains washed away. The boy they had in custody had wanted to burn these rags into non-existence, even at the risk of obliterating himself.

Grace could use this fact to squeeze him in a gentle enough way if she tried. He was curious to see if she would do it, whether she had the backbone. It was a pleasant thought, the idea of spending some time with her to find this out. It was already brightening up his day.

Grace stood beside him outside the interview room, her long hair in a single plait over one shoulder, waiting while he checked his watch once more. Harrigan had not expected to waste quite this much time hanging around.

‘I just love cooling my heels like this,’ he said to her with a grin.

‘Nice to know I’ve got nothing better to do with my time. What is this woman doing? Writing the boy’s obituary?’

She smiled ironically in reply. ‘Here we go. At last,’ she said.

The case worker finally appeared in the corridor, a big woman in a shapeless black dress wearing round glasses and with bright earrings in the shape of parrots. Harrigan turned to greet her with a smile and an outstretched hand.

‘Ria Allard? I’m pleased to meet you,’ he said. ‘I’m Paul Harrigan and this is my colleague, Grace Riordan. How are you?’

The sociability was wasted. She brushed past him, ignoring his offered hand, and returned his introduction by looking them both up and down as though they had dropped in for the day from outer space.

‘Do you mind if we don’t bother with all the crap,’ she said. ‘I need to talk to Greg for a few moments alone first but I’d like to get this over and done with as soon as we can if you don’t mind. I have got other things to do today.’

‘Be my guest, Ria. I’ll even open the door for you,’ Harrigan replied affably.

‘How would you like to be locked in a small room with her?’ Grace commented, after the interview room door closed on the case worker’s back.

Harrigan grinned. ‘Yeah, she’s a real charmer. Don’t let her throw you, Grace — I’m assuming that’s what she’s up to. Whatever she does, you take your time and you take it gently. Just keep coaxing him.

I’ll keep her in line.’

‘Okay,’ she replied.