Alex Palmer - Blood Redemption

When the man appeared, he made what could only be described as a smooth entrance. Somehow he managed to slip into the room unnoticed, his uniformed escort notwithstanding. Harrigan was collecting a small folder of papers when the preacher was suddenly there at the desk talking to Dea. Not a tall man. Clothes which were nondescript and looked like they had possibly been slept in. A young-old face, squarish features, frank and open-looking, dark hair without any grey tint. Once, he would have been very good-looking.

Not any more; that beauty was damaged and fading away.

‘It’s okay, Dea,’ Harrigan said. ‘Preacher Graeme Fredericksen?

You wanted to see me — Paul Harrigan. How do you do?’

Harrigan offered his hand; the preacher shook it without any apparent trace of self-consciousness. He had a weak and sliding touch.

He looked directly at Harrigan with an unembarrassed gaze. He had clear eyes and gave the disturbing impression that he did not blink.

‘Paul,’ he said, as though meeting an old friend, ‘it’s most kind of you to give me your time. I saw your picture in the paper today and I thought, yes, you will be the best person for me to approach. I hope that you will be able to help me. I am afraid I’m very much in need of your help at this time.’

‘Yes, you can call me Paul, Graeme,’ Harrigan replied after a slight pause, assuming his usual neutrality of tone. ‘We don’t stand on ceremony here. There’s a room down here where we’ll be comfortable.

Dea, a couple of coffees?’

‘No, please, don’t take the trouble. I know time is important to you, Paul. I will try to use as little of it as possible.’

If the clothes were nondescript, the voice was not. It was pleasant to hear and invited familiarity. It seemed to assure you that he was your friend, that he had known you for years. People would listen to him and be comforted because they would know from his voice that they could surely rely on his goodwill.

‘We’re here to help, Graeme. Let’s see what we can do for you. Just in here — this is one of our interview rooms. The decor’s nothing to write home about, I’m afraid.’

In the drab and perfunctory room, he pulled back a chair for the preacher. He placed the manila folder on the table and saw the man glance at it as he seated himself opposite.

‘Now, I’m sure you’re aware that we’ve been trying to get hold of you for some time now, and particularly since last night. What can we do for each other?’

‘No, I must assure you, I wasn’t aware that you were. My work takes me out into the community so often that there are times when I simply cannot be reached.’

He spoke without giving the slightest sense that he was lying.

‘Take it from me, we have been,’ Harrigan replied. ‘We need to talk to a boy who’s in your care. Greg Smith.’

‘But he’s exactly who I’ve come to see you about.’

The man rested his hands on the table. His fingertips brushed at the edge of the folder Harrigan had brought with him, and he fought the urge to move the papers out of Fredericksen’s reach. The preacher appeared wholly unconcerned by his surroundings; the sight of the blank window, the tape recorders and the lockable door did not seem to affect him.

‘This is fortuitous. I had some hesitation whether I should approach you or not, but now I am most relieved that I have come here. Can you tell me why you are looking for him?’ The preacher smiled as he asked the question.

‘Why don’t you tell me why you’ve come here first, Graeme? Then I’ll be only too happy to answer your question.’

Let the man talk. Who knew what he might say.

‘Of course. Obviously, you know that Greg is in my care. Of course you do — there is the matter of this unfortunate business in which he seems to have been implicated, I am very certain, quite wrongly.

Besides that, you know that I’m a preacher? That I have a church in Camperdown, a congregation. That I run a refuge.’

Harrigan nodded.

‘Then you know my concern is for the dispossessed. Addicts, alcoholics, thieves, dealers, the destitute, the violent, those without hope. All those souls that no one else in this world wants. To them, my door is never locked. I am always there to take them in. You see, I have all the strength I need for my vocation from God. Nothing can prevent you from doing what the Lord expects of you. And of course, I am fortunate in that he has given me the benefactors to help me along.’

‘I see. Perhaps you’d like to tell me who they are,’ Harrigan replied.

‘Mrs Yvonne Lindley. Do you know of her? She’s endowed my refuge very generously this last year. She’s actually my mother’s half-sister. I’ve known the family all my life, of course. I was an only child; her children were my true brothers and sisters, we played together when we were small. I went to school with Geoffrey but, as you can see, we’ve gone very different ways. He’s quite senior in the Premier’s Department now. I’m not sure if Elizabeth approves of me any more.

She calls me God’s anarchist. They are my only earthly family, Paul, my mother and father died some years ago. We are a support to each other.’

There was a useful family connection if ever there was one; it explained Fredericksen’s ability to open doors at the Family Services Commission. Yvonne Lindley was the aged widow of John Lindley, lover of horseflesh, sometime state politician and a cabinet minister for every portfolio going, including the police. He had died not long ago, leaving his family independently wealthy. Always a renowned political operator, Yvonne Lindley still had strings to pull. The preacher sat waiting but Harrigan did not speak.

‘You must understand, Paul,’ he continued eventually, ‘my refuge is of great importance to me. The children who come my way — they have no one. I offer them the only home they may ever have had. Greg is the perfect example. He has no one in this world, no one at all. He needs the most loving care or we will lose him. He is addicted to self-harm. He is on the edge. You must remember that. Because when you find him, you will have to approach him with great care. Anything could happen. Anything at all.’

‘Is that what you came here to tell me?’ Harrigan replied after a short pause. ‘That we need to find him? And we should be careful when we do?’

‘Yes. I would have come here sooner but I’ve been out searching the streets for him all night. I know the places he goes and I thought, arrogantly, that if anyone could find him, I could. By first light this morning, I understood that I cannot do this alone, I must accept help.

Greg’s welfare is paramount to me, Paul. I am very afraid for him.’

He spoke passionately while his face remained oddly blank of any expression of emotion.

‘Where did you lose him?’ Harrigan asked.

‘Very close to the refuge, within sight of safety. I’d just turned off Parramatta Road. I think he was waiting until then because it’s easy for him to get into the city from there. It was dark, so it would have been a little after six perhaps? I stopped at an intersection and he was out of the van and away before I could stop him. But the point here is Greg. He needs every care. All last night as I walked the streets looking for him, I thought, I have failed him. I have failed him and I cannot permit that failure to be continued by others.’

There was another silence.

‘Six o’clock, you say?’ Harrigan asked.

‘Yes.’

‘You’d bailed him by a quarter to three. What were you doing in the meantime? It doesn’t take that long to drive from Parramatta to Camperdown.’

Harrigan’s fingers tapped the manila folder on the table, which held a transcript stating that at 4:09 p.m. the Firewall had chatted online to Toby, to say that she had a friend in bad trouble and she did not know how to help him without getting herself in any deeper than she already was.