Cold Justice (28 page)

‘And never replaced it?’

Alistair didn’t answer. Sweat dripped from his forehead onto the old man’s shirt. The man’s eyelids crept back up. They never stayed shut for long.

‘Swap,’ Callum said.

Alistair straightened and put his hands to his lower back. Callum gave the man two breaths and scrambled to his side, grasped his left wrist with his right hand and started compressions. The man’s ribs and cartilage were stiff. He imagined the brittle old bones, made more so because of the cancer and its treatment. He lightened up a fraction.

He couldn’t hear a siren. Apart from the murmur of his mother reassuring the patient’s wife, the atmosphere was strangely quiet and calm. Alistair pressed the mask to the man’s face and the stethoscope swung across his chest. His long fingers were wrapped around the Laerdal bag, ready to squeeze air into the dead lungs, and Callum felt a rush of affection for him, a desire to be close, to share.

‘Dad,’ he said, ‘that detective asked me if I thought Tamara blamed John for Tim’s death.’

Alistair squeezed the bag twice. The seal was bad and air leaked out.

‘Better do another one, just in case,’ Callum said.

This one was little better. Alistair’s knuckles were white with the effort and he didn’t speak.

Callum focused on the man’s chest under his hands. ‘What if he did it?’

‘Do you think he’s even capable of such a thing?’ Alistair said.

‘I don’t know,’ Callum said. ‘Thirty.’

Alistair squeezed the bag twice. ‘What are you basing these imaginings on?’

‘Memories mostly.’

‘Of what?’

‘Of them arguing.’

Alistair looked at him. ‘Do you remember how often we argued?’

‘I know it sounds ridiculous but I can’t shake it,’ Callum said. ‘Thirty.’

Alistair gave the man two leaky breaths. ‘He’s his father, for God’s sake. Your uncle. Think about what you’re saying.’

‘It’s just a feeling.’

‘This is our family.’ Alistair’s hands were trembling. ‘This is a man you’ve known all your life.’

‘But how well can we really know anyone?’ Callum said. ‘Thirty. You see it all the time as a GP – how people show only what they want to, how they can hide so much and don’t tell you unless they absolutely have to.’

Alistair shook his head. ‘No.’

‘I’m not saying it’s true,’ Callum said. ‘But it is possible. He can’t say where he was that night, and he was so angry. The police still suspect him.’

Drops of sweat were falling onto the old man’s face. Callum had the sudden thought that his dad might be having chest pain. ‘Dad?’

Alistair turned his head and Callum saw that it wasn’t sweat at all. His father was crying.

‘You make me feel like everything’s falling apart,’ he said.

‘Dad –’

‘This is our family. Our life.’

‘It’s okay.’

There was a siren in the distance.
Thank God.

‘I’m a good doctor.’

‘When did I say you weren’t?’

‘I’m a GP, I do palliative care.’

‘I know you do, Dad.’

Alistair bent over the dead man’s face. ‘So I don’t have all the fancy gear. I don’t have a defibrillator. You know how much they cost? A lot. A
lot.
’

‘Thirty,’ Callum said. Alistair fumbled for the bag. ‘Dad, you’re doing fine.’

‘I don’t have the drugs, but they wouldn’t have saved Barry anyway. You know that as well as I do. Yet you criticise me, you tell me how to do my job, you think these things about your own uncle. You have no right to any of it.’

Callum wanted to stop compressions to hug him. ‘I’m sorry.’ At least the siren was close.

Alistair shook his head. ‘I’m old and I need to retire,’ he croaked through his tears. ‘But this job is my life.’

‘Don’t think about it now,’ Callum said. ‘Thirty.’

Alistair clutched at the bag and managed a weak squeeze, weeping. ‘This job is my life.’

The siren was closer.

‘Mum!’

Genevieve opened the staffroom door.

‘Help Dad,’ he said. ‘Put him behind the desk.’

Alistair didn’t want to go, kneeling with his hands on the sides of the man’s face and sobbing. Genevieve pulled on his arm, and Callum grabbed the bag and gave the man a breath from the side, and Alistair finally got up.

The siren stopped outside. Callum kept on with compressions. The man was dead. His blood was pooling, his nose turning stark white, his ears and the back of his neck going darker purple. His skin was cool and clammy. His open eyes were dry. Callum looked into them and apologised for not letting him go peacefully.
But at least this way your wife knows that everything possible was done.

The paramedics came in with their gear and started attaching the monitor and hooking oxygen up to the Laerdal bag. ‘What’s the history?’

‘Collapsed while waiting to see my father,’ Callum said.

Genevieve came forward with a folder. ‘He has CA with metastases in the brain and liver.’

The paramedics looked at each other. ‘Is his doctor here?’

‘I’m here.’ Alistair stood up, wiping his eyes. ‘You can stop. I’ll certify.’

‘You’re sure?’

He nodded.

Callum got to his feet. Alistair came around the desk and put his hand on his shoulder, then turned to go into the staffroom where the dead man’s wife waited. He closed the door behind him and a second later a wrenching wail broke out.

‘Thanks,’ Callum said to the paramedics.

They nodded and picked up their gear and left.

Genevieve got a sheet and draped it over the body, then closed and locked the front door and pulled the verticals across. Callum went into his father’s office and found the first patient still there. He’d put his shirt on but had stayed sitting on the examination bed. His wife stood beside him, holding his hand. They looked at Callum in shocked silence.

He led them to the back door. ‘May we reschedule you for another time?’

They didn’t reply.

‘Genevieve will call you later,’ he said as they walked slowly away.

He washed his hands. In the mirror over the small sink he could see his father’s framed degree on the wall. He tore a paper towel from the roll and turned away.

The florist was in the CBD just off King Street. Ella smiled at the pink-haired woman behind the counter and showed her badge. ‘I’d like some information about a delivery made this morning to a Georgie Riley in Milsons Point.’

The woman nodded. The name embroidered on her green shirt said Poppy. ‘Mixed bouquet of gerberas, freesias, lilies and carnations. I made it up myself. I hope it was okay?’

‘Could you tell me who ordered them, and when?’

She typed something into the computer. ‘The order was made yesterday afternoon. Steve took it. Hang on.’ She went out the back and returned with a young man who blinked owlishly at Ella from behind round glasses. Poppy pointed at the monitor. ‘Do you remember who placed that?’

He looked closer. ‘I do. Odd, skinny man. Edgy. Looked like a labourer.’

‘Height?’ Ella said. ‘Hair and eye colour?’

‘He was wearing reflective sunnies,’ Steve said. ‘Didn’t take them off. Rude, I thought. Brown hair with a bit of grey through it. About my height. I’m one seventy.’

‘Don’t suppose he paid with a credit card?’ Ella said.

‘Cash,’ Steve said.

Of course.

‘Did you see him write the card?’

‘I was typing the order details,’ Steve said. ‘I mean, I knew he was doing it but I didn’t watch him or anything. Although I noticed he dropped it on the floor at one point, then picked it up and kinda brushed it off on his shirt like it had got dusty.’

‘I bet he held it by the edges,’ Ella said.

Steve nodded. ‘He did, come to think of it.’

Of cooourse.

‘Would you recognise the man again if I brought in a photo?’

‘I’ll give it a try.’

‘Might see you again then,’ she said. ‘Thanks.’

In the car, she texted Murray.
Finished?

As soon as she pressed send, the phone rang.

‘Hi, Mum.’

‘Hello, Ella, darling,’ she said. ‘That Wayne is lovely. Just lovely.’

‘Thanks.’

‘When are you bringing him over again?’

‘We’re both pretty busy with work.’

‘You have to have a life.’

Jeez, that sounded familiar.

‘Ask her,’ her father called in the background.

‘I will in a minute,’ she said to him. ‘Ella, would you like me to copy out the eggplant recipe so you can make it for him at home?’

‘That’s fine.’

‘He really seemed to like it.’

‘We can save it to enjoy at your place,’ she said.

Murray, for God’s sake, hurry up and text me back!

‘Ask her now!’ Franco called.

‘All right! Ella, your father wants to know if Wayne would like some cuttings from our Cecile Brunner?’

‘Your what?’

‘It’s a rose,’ she said.

‘I don’t know. I’ll ask him.’

‘I think he will, they’re very popular. Lovely fragrance.’

‘Mum, I have to go.’

‘How about dinner tomorrow? The two of you? Will you ring him now and ask?’

‘I’ll let you know,’ Ella said. ‘Bye.’

She hung up. She wouldn’t ring him now. She might not even ring him later. Last night had been lovely: it was flattering to have somebody tell you they loved you, and by God the man was good in bed! But she worried about what the whole love thing might mean. The way she saw it, the saying ‘if you love something, set it free’ wouldn’t have been invented if people didn’t need to be told.

The phone beeped with an incoming text.

Done. Meet you at Ruby’s Café on Market Street. Patrick’s the cook.

Ella took a booth in the café and ordered a coffee. Murray came in just as it arrived. ‘Get me one?’ he asked.

‘Nope.’

‘Aw.’

He went to the counter and spoke to the waiter, who went back into the kitchen. After a couple of minutes a tall, thin man brought Murray’s coffee and sat down.

‘I’m Chris Patrick.’

Murray introduced himself and Ella. Chris Patrick shook their hands and looked from one to the other. ‘So this is about Tim?’

Ella nodded. ‘Does that bother you?’

‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘He was a good mate. I’d love to help find who killed him.’

‘Tell us about the night he died.’

Ella watched him closely as he recounted the evening. It was the same story she’d read in their statements, over and over. He was direct and clear and looked them in the eye.

‘What about the gay rumour?’ she asked.

‘I only heard about that after he died,’ he said. ‘I can’t see it being true.’

‘Why is that?’

‘He was always going on about these girls he got with when his family went on holidays,’ he said. ‘I know that’s just bragging, it doesn’t mean anything, but there was that other girl too.’

Ella’s ears pricked up. ‘What other girl?’

‘The girl I saw him with one afternoon after school.’

She felt a shiver of excitement. ‘Go on.’

‘It was four months or so before he died,’ he said. ‘They were in a record shop and I was walking past with my mum. I saw him standing there next to this girl. They weren’t in uniform but she looked a bit familiar, I thought she went to our school. They were looking through the records, not really close together, almost like they
weren’t
together, but then I saw him put his hand on her waist. She didn’t push it away but didn’t reach down and, you know, caress it, or put her hand on his. After a moment she moved and his hand dropped off her, and then my mum was at me to catch up and I had to go. The next day at school I said something to him, poking fun, “Timmy’s got a girlfriend”, that sort of thing, but he flatly denied it. He said I was wrong, said he’d been in the shop but not with any girl. He was so insistent that I thought maybe I had made a mistake.’

‘Really?’ Ella said.

Patrick raised his eyebrows. ‘Don’t you know about this? I told it to the detectives back then.’

‘It’s not in your statement.’

‘I told them later, maybe a week or so. They didn’t seem to think it was much, especially when I couldn’t say who she was or even for certain that she went to our school, and I guess also because I still wasn’t sure if I’d actually seen anything, do you know what I mean? That it actually meant anything. They never came back and asked me about it again, anyway.’

‘Not even six years ago?’

He shook his head. Ella and Murray looked at each other. It happened.

‘Do you still have doubts?’

‘The more life I live, the more teenagers in love I feed in this place, the more certain I am that those two were in some kind of relationship.’

Ella said, ‘Do you remember seeing her around after Tim died? Did you notice any girls who were particularly upset, who looked like the girl you saw?’

He frowned. ‘Come to think of it, I don’t recall seeing her again actually.’ He paused. ‘I guess that sounds strange, that on the one hand I can’t say who she was, then on the other I think she wasn’t at school any more.’

‘Yes,’ Murray said.

‘No,’ Ella said. ‘Not at all.’

Murray said, ‘Did you never look at the girls there and try to pick her out?’

‘Of course I did, but it’s not like they stood in a line and I was able to go along and say, not you, not you, hmm she’s not here. In a big school like that kids are milling around constantly. I thought I’d know her if I saw her, and I didn’t see her.’

‘It’s okay,’ Ella said. ‘Do you think you could identify her if we got some school photos?’

‘All I can do is try.’

Outside the café Ella turned to Murray. ‘Let’s go to the school and check their records, see if any students left after Tim died.’

‘But he doesn’t know if she went there,’ he said. ‘He doesn’t even really know what he saw.’

‘It’s enough for me. Where are you parked?’

He sighed. ‘I’ll meet you there.’

TWELVE

T
he Macquarie Secondary College office was in a blond-brick building by the main gate. Ella sat in her car for five minutes watching students in grey and gold uniforms go in and out before Murray pulled up beside her.