The Redactor, Chapter 04

The front door of Rhianne’s billet didn’t have a doorbell. I rapped on it with my knuckles, and grimaced at the racket it made in the quiet suburban street.

  The door swung inward to reveal a gloomy entryway and a pervading silence. A man stepped out of the gloom and closed the door behind him.

  “Can I help you?” he said, somehow making it a threat.

  “The name is Masters. I’m from immigration—” His expression tightened “—here to help,” I hastened to add. “Rhianne’s visa terminates this week, but, under the circumstances, she will be allowed an extension. She just needs to sign.”

  “You have the paperwork already?” he said, suspicious.

  I yanked the manila folder from my briefcase. And held it up, back to front. Heiro’s name taunted me from the reverse side.

  The man disappeared back into the house, and I took it as an invitation to follow.

  A flight of stairs reached up from the gloom into a loft lit by high windows.

  “She’s up there,” he said, indicating the stairs. “The doctor said she is still in shock. Don’t be long.”

  He vanished down the corridor, and I mounted the steps.

  Rhianne was lying curled up in bed. She made a pitiful lump beneath the covers.

  When I entered the room she sprang into the corner like a disturbed spider, bedclothes snarled around her slight frame, and somehow managed to shrink even further. Blister packs of some medication lay on a bedside table, half-used.

  I came to a halt by the bed under her wide-eyed gaze. Her red hair was collected up into a loose ponytail, and revealed an alabaster neck scored on either side with angry red welts. A speckle of dried blood and scab ran in a line down each welt.

  I reached for my most soothing voice. “I’m really sorry, but please, will you just look at this.” I held Heiro’s folder toward her.

  She continued to stare until I’m sure her eyeballs must dry in their sockets, until at last she blinked. The spell seemed to break, and she examined the folder I held out.

  “What is it?” she said.

  “It’ll be easier if you just look.”

  She took the folder, laid it in her lap, and, without remarking on what was printed on its cover, folded its cover back.

  A murmur of conversation floated up the stairway as I watched her gaze zig-zag over the first page, the one that detailed her assault in meticulous detail. I fancied I even saw her gaze dip to her bosom.

  She finished reading the top page, flipped it over to read the next, then glanced up at me.

  “What is this?”

  I heard the front door thunk and footfalls in the corridor below.

  “Never mind what it is. Do you know Hiero—Hieronymus Beck?”

  She shook her head. “Should I?”

  “He’s an American,” I said.

  She frowned.

  “Not because he’s an American,” I said, exasperation leaking through my made-calm. “He’s a lit student on exchange at UWA.”

  “I’m doing journalism,” she said.

  I heard the footfalls pause, then come clattering up the stairs. Fear tugged my guts.

  “Look—did you see your attacker or not? I can get his photo from student services.”

  She shook her head again. “It was dark. He wore a hood.”

  “Is that it?” I barked. “How tall was he? Above six foot?”

  She shrank away.

  “I don’t... He was—” Her eyelids drew together, and I knew what she was going to say before she said it. “—about your height.”

  Of course he was. Heiro was about my height.

  The clatter on the stairway died as the same feet fell on the carpet at the stair’s head. Two men I didn’t know entered ahead of the man who had greeted me at the door. The newcomers were smiling in a way that struck my blood cold.

  So this is what it feels like...

  The older of the two men extended his hand, and I took it on reflex. We shook hands, and he said, “Sir, I’m detective Thomas, and this is detective Palmer.” I gave the other man my right hand, which had turned into a dead fish.

  “We’d like to have a chat with you,” said Thomas. He gestured to the doorway. I retrieved the folder from where it had fallen on the bedclothes, and walked out of the room, feeling four sets of eyes on my back.

  Minutes later I was seated at a kitchen table, facing the detectives.

  “Coffee?” said Thomas. “You want some coffee?” he said to me, then to his partner, “You want some coffee?”

  I said yes just to be agreeable.

  Palmer rose, switched an electric kettle on, and began poking into cupboards for cups and coffee.

  “So, Mr Masters?” said Thomas.

  “My name is Griffin, Jack Griffin,” I said. Lay it all out. This was good. Sanity was settling again on my shoulders like snowfall. The police is where I should have gone in the first place.

  A theatre scowl appeared on Thomas’s brow. “But the owner of this house says you introduced yourself as a Mr Masters from immigration.”

  “I’m a professor at UWA, and—” I smiled. God it felt good to be having this out face to face. “—you need to see this.” I slid the folder toward him. “I fear I know who assaulted Miss Goldman.”

  Thomas’s eyes didn’t leave me as he reached for the folder, turned it right-side up, and opened it. I made sure he was reading the right paper, then sat back. The kettle was roaring like a jet, and I found myself salivating for the coffee.

  Thomas muttered something, and a moment later my brain interpreted it. He’d said, “kyoketsu-shoge.” He glanced at me. I answered him with a twitch of my eyebrows.

  The kettle clicked off and its wail died like it had been dropped from a cliff. The other detective poured three cups, and the aroma of coffee filled the small kitchen. He placed a mug on the table for each of us and sat.

  Thomas slid the still-open folder in front of his partner.

  “Mr Griffin, do you know why we log calls to all police services?”

  I shook my head. I didn’t, but I wanted to know. Little-known facts like that made great detail for a story.

  “Because perpetrators of violent crimes—it should come as no surprise to a man of your intellect—are as thick as two bricks.” He sipped his coffee and grimaced. “And twisted. Do you know how many rapists call us up to see how big was the wrecking ball they put through some young lady’s life?”

  I didn’t. And I didn’t want to know anymore.

  Sweat sprung out under my armpits, and trickled down the inside of my upper arm.

  “I called because of that folder.” I jabbed a finger at it. Palmer closed it, raised his head, and thrust his bottom lip out, plucking it with thumb and forefinger.

  “Hmm,” said Thomas. He retrieved a notebook from his shirt pocket and a pen stowed in its spiral binding. “Do you know Miss Goldman?”

  “Well, yes—now.”

  “Before today.”

  “No.”

  “Never set eyes on her?”

  Was that a trick question?

  “I can’t guarantee I’ve never seen her. UWA has over twelve thousand students, and she’s in the same faculty. But I don’t remember having seen her before today.”

  Thomas scribbled in his notebook.

  “What were you doing last Friday evening, between Nine and Eleven?”

  “I met with Heiro.” I stabbed a finger at the folder. “That Heiro. Then went home.”

  “And you live?”

  “Nedlands.”

  “Full address, please.”

  I gave it, and Thomas took forever to record it with his ponderous script.

  “Anyone verify your whereabouts?”

  Shit. Something else to blame Jean for.

  Then another voice: Nah-ah, Jack. The blame game goes back much farther than that, and you started it.

  “No,” I said, gulped coffee, and burned my throat.

  “Okay, Mr Griffin. We’ll leave you be for the moment. But please don’t go anywhere.” He smiled the death-smile again.

  As I walked back down the corridor, and out onto the lawn, I felt strange, as if my feet were numb.