Alex Palmer - Blood Redemption

Several other policemen have been members of my congregation at various times in the past. Why don’t you take my card?’

Harrigan took the offered card and looked at it. It gave the address of the New Life Ministries and the times of its prayer meetings, together with the text: And behold I come quickly; and my reward iswith me, to give every man according as his work shall be .

‘Thanks. I’ll bear it in mind,’ he said, pocketing it.

Just then the elevator doors opened but instead of the preacher’s escort Grace appeared, returning from her daily visit to the hospital.

She greeted Harrigan and glanced at the preacher before walking towards the office. Seeing her, Harrigan returned to the practicalities of work.

‘Grace. Have you got a moment?’ he called out.

‘Sure,’ she said, turning.

‘This is someone you need to meet, Graeme. This is Grace Riordan.

Grace, this is Preacher Graeme Fredericksen. Grace is the officer I’ve assigned to Greg. She’ll be dealing with him, should we find him. If you have any information you think will be useful to us, you need to tell her. You two need to make some time to talk.’

‘I’m pleased to meet you,’ Grace said with her professional smile, offering her hand. ‘If you’ve got the time, I can talk to you now.’

‘Now will not be possible,’ he replied.

He had not accepted her handshake and was staring at her. Grace, finding her hand ignored, reached into her shoulder bag instead.

‘Would you like my card? You can call me,’ she said.

‘Thank you,’ he said automatically, taking it without so much as glancing at it. He said nothing else, his gaze still fixed on her. Across his face there appeared like the most transient of skinscapes an expression of loathing, gone in the lightning flash of less than a second. For that passing second, he became completely aged.

‘Do you have a card yourself?’ she asked into the vacuum of his response. ‘If we need to be in touch — ’

He stepped back from her but was still staring.

‘That won’t be necessary,’ he replied.

The elevator doors opened again and the preacher’s uniformed escort appeared.

‘We’ll see each other again, Graeme,’ Harrigan said, having watched the whole scene with fascination.

‘Yes, I’m sure we will,’ the preacher replied with a smile and was gone.

When the doors had closed, Grace turned to Dea.

‘I must have forgotten to put my deodorant on this morning. I can’t get by without my Mum,’ she added, with exaggerated sarcasm.

‘Not you, darl,’ Dea replied with a guttural laugh. ‘That was his problem. I was wondering when I was talking to him, the way he was looking at me. He doesn’t like women. You can feel it.’

‘We found him?’ Grace said to Harrigan.

‘No,’ he replied, ‘he found us. And an unpleasant little rendezvous it was too. I need caffeine.’

‘There’s some fresh brewed coffee in the tea room. Why don’t you both go and get some?’ Dea said, glancing from Harrigan to Grace and back again.

The tea room smelled of stale milk and over-brewed coffee, the bins jammed with takeaway food containers, a sign of the pressurised work put in by Harrigan’s team. It was a place where they pinned bad jokes and cartoons up on the noticeboard next to cheese-cake calendars, although these days the porn had mostly gone. Grace poured herself coffee before passing the jug to Harrigan.

‘Maybe we can get someone else to talk to him. If talking to me is such a disgusting thing to have to do,’ she said.

‘I don’t think you have to worry about that, Grace. That man came in here to tell me — he couldn’t just pick up the phone, he couldn’t talk to Trev, he had to see me in person — to tell me he’s lost that boy, that he’s spent the night pounding the streets looking for him and now he’s deeply concerned for his welfare. And why? Because, he says, the boy is inclined to do himself harm. If that kid isn’t dead by now, he will be.

If we ever find him again, he’ll be dead from an overdose or he’ll have fallen into the harbour while he was under the influence. Something we can’t possibly prove wasn’t suicide or an accidental death.’

Grace stirred milk into her coffee, staring at the grubby wall. He sipped his black, standing beside her.

‘I was two hours too late for him yesterday. Probably the story of Greg’s life,’ she said, shaking her head, sending a shiver running down her spine. ‘You’d really need more than a hide to come here and do something like that, wouldn’t you? If you had killed him, I mean.

You’d have to get a real charge out of knowing what you’d done.

Watch me while I push my luck and see what I can get away with.’

‘I’ll tell you one thing, he was having a high old time while he was here. I don’t think I fathom our preacher just yet. I walked out of there thinking, nothing would touch this joker.’

‘What about Matthew Liu?’

‘I doubt it.’

‘Speaking of that,’ she said, ‘it’s sometime this afternoon for Agnes Liu. They’ll call me. They’ve said they’ll give me about an hour’s notice. So I should have the transcript and the recording back here by this evening.’

‘No, I don’t want to wait for that. Knock on my door when you’re ready to go. I’ll come with you. I want to listen in.’

‘Are you sure?’ she replied, with some hesitation. ‘They’re only going to let me in.’

‘No, I want to be there, I want to hear what she’s got to say. We can fix you up with a listening device. I’d like to catch up with Matthew too, particularly after this morning.’

‘Okay. When they call me.’

Jeffo came in and looked at the two of them standing side by side.

‘Hi, Boss. Hiya, Gracie,’ he said.

He sat down at the table over some takeaway lunch, grinning at her. Grace replied with a glance that would have reduced most other people to ash.

‘I’ve got to go and do this morning’s write-up,’ she said and left the room at once, coffee in hand. Harrigan, who had things to do himself, walked out after her.

Once back in his office, he looked at Grace working at her desk before again studying his photograph in the paper. It was quite an array: his own picture, Greg Smith’s, the vague image of the Firewall in the park, lurid shots from her website, together with the obligatory appeal for information. He hoped that out of the wells of fantasy and posturing these appeals always tapped into, someone would actually have something useful to tell them. She was still out there; the transcripts of her chats with his son were like baits dangled in front of him. That direct connection to a few bits of light on a screen would take them directly to her, if only they could track it down. In an unexpected change of mood, he took on patience with the sense of a trap quietly being set. Whatever he might feel, it could only be a matter of time, and whoever she might be, she could have no way out.

On the other side of the city and in the clear liquid light of midday, Lucy prowled the ruined garden with her old dog. Dark red camellia blossom had fallen onto the muddy paths, detached petals fanned out in small heaps on the dirt. For Lucy, the glitter of the leaves in a pale sun and the transparency of the sky had the interior light of electricity. There was no depth to her perception of them, they could have been reflected on the surface of a shallow pool of water. Her balance and her thoughts were poised within this shallowness, she was chasing possibilities in her mind. If she had a car. If she could track Greg down. If she could get to Graeme. Getting into the Temple wasn’t easy when the door was locked against you and you had no key. The question remained: what then? This is my gun to your head, Graeme.