The Recipient (17 page)

Casey kicked off her sandals and set them to one side, wriggling her toes and rubbing her feet on the soft carpet. Adjusting her top so it flowed freely, she relaxed back and looked across at Kirkwood expectantly.

The doubt on Kirkwood's features was unmistakable.

“I
want
to do this,” Casey said confidently. “I
have
to do this.”

Kirkwood bunched a cushion behind her back and rested her hands on her thighs.

“Okay,” she began. “Like before, you'll control the imagery. Fast forward or rewind, pause or stop. All I'll do is keep talking to you and ask you to interpret what you see.”

Kirkwood lowered her voice, adding the familiar softness to it that calmed Casey. She leaned back into the sofa.

“Close your eyes. Focus on my voice and let your body relax. Starting with your head, allow all the muscles in your head and your neck and your shoulders to let go.”

Casey complied and breathed deeply, feeling air moving in and out of her lungs. Several minutes passed as she further relaxed and drifted slowly into a lessened state of consciousness. She felt herself heading into darkness and Kirkwood's voice came to her as a disembodied echo.

“Find your way to the road,” Kirkwood guided. “Let me know when you get there.”

Casey opened her eyes and looked along the length of Lasterby Road. Rain fell all around her but she was protected from it. She was fully clothed and she was dry.

“I'm here.”

The familiar pall of fear enveloped her but, this time, Casey shrugged it off. Glancing to her left, she saw the road sign and regarded it fleetingly.

This time, this was not what she had come here to see.

Casey brought her arm up to shield her eyes from the glare of the headlights up ahead.

The guttural moan metamorphosed into anguished cries.

The assailant and the victim struggled on the slick bitumen in front of the car. The terror of the moment shook Casey but, again, she brushed it off as she focused on what she was seeing, rather than what she was experiencing.

“Tell me what's happening,” Kirkwood said, trying to maintain an even tone. “What do you see?”

“I see
them
,” Casey started. “In front of me.”

“Remember, Casey, you control the imagery. Slow it down or even stop it, if you need to. Can you see the attacker?”

Casey squeezed her closed eyes tighter. “I c-can't. It's too bright.”

Kirkwood's eyes narrowed and she sat forward in her chair. “Why is it so bright, Casey? What is making it so bright?”

Casey lifted her arm reflexively, both in the dream state where she squinted against the glare of the powerful beams and here in the room before Kirkwood.

“H-headlights. The headlights of a car.”

Kirkwood leaned forward, reaching for her notepad and pen.

“What can you tell me about the car?”

Casey tilted her head, squinting to see around both the assailant and his victim, trying to overcome the glare.

The body struggled against the brute force that held her. Casey was distracted as she felt herself weighed down—as if she were underneath the violent predator, even though she was standing at least fifty feet away. She snarled at him. She would not allow herself to be distracted this time. Suddenly, the assailant raised his hand above his head, balling it into a fist.

Her stomach lurched with an all-too-familiar horror, knowing what was to come.

“I-I can't,” she gasped. “
T-too bright
.”

“
Focus, Casey
,” Kirkwood urged, her voice echoing in the hurricane of Casey's nightmare. “Close out as much as you can and just focus on the car.”

The assailant thrust his arm down, striking the victim in the middle of her chest with crushing force. Excruciating pain ricocheted through Casey's own chest, accompanied by a wave of dizziness so intense that the world tilted to one side. She felt the air being sucked from her lungs and a jet of blood shot from her nostril, but Casey wiped it away angrily. She steadied herself on the bitumen and glared at the car beyond.

Through the blinding light, Casey was able to discern the low-slung rectangular orbs of the car's headlights, below which sat a pair of cat-like fog lights whose beams punctured the darkness. The main lights tapered towards the centre of the vehicle where they ended on either side of the centre grille: an upside-down trapezoid ringed in a highly-polished chrome.

The assailant struck again, battering his victim with a metal bar in his hand. Fountains of blood blossomed from her chest. The victim struggled underneath him, managing to partially free herself from the assailant's grip.

The face, contorted in anguish, disfigured by ragged slashes, thrust itself towards Casey and howled in terror.

Grabbing her chest, Casey did all she could to ignore Saskia. She grimaced then staggered forward, eyes on the car behind them, on the grille between the headlights. Casey's eyes went wide as she began to see the detail there.

A symbol!

On the seat across from Kirkwood, Casey stiffened and Kirkwood flinched.

“What is it, Casey?”

“
I see
!”

“Tell me what you see?”

Lifting her arm, Casey extended her finger and began to rotate it in the air.

Kirkwood rose quickly from her seat and plucked a pencil from the table, placing it into Casey's fingers.

“Draw it for me.”

Casey complied and gripped the pencil in her fingers as she lowered it down before her. Kirkwood slid a sheet of paper underneath as the pencil touched the surface. She crouched before Casey, watching and waiting expectantly.

Casey squinted in the light, fighting to keep her focus on what she saw before her, ignoring the violence that continued between her and the car.

On a piece of paper, Casey drew a single circle, then added a second circle whose left-hand curve sat slightly inside the first. She drew a third, then a fourth circle and then allowed the pencil to clatter to the floor.

“That's it,” she wheezed.

“Okay,” Kirkwood nodded. “I'm going to bring you out now. I want you to turn away from there.”

Casey went slack on the sofa, her shoulders slumped. In the nightmare, she repeated the same action while letting her eyes drift away from the blinding light and over the desperate face of Saskia.

She reached out with her hand towards Casey. Her lips slowly formed words. “Help me.”

Casey met her eyes for the first time and felt a calm wash over her.

She nodded confidently. “I will.”

Casey's eyes fluttered open and she found herself sitting in the calm quiet of Kirkwood's suite once more. She blinked, disoriented for a moment then sat forward looking at the piece of paper on the table before her.

Four perfectly-drawn circles, each sitting slightly inside the other.

“What does it mean?” she questioned.

Kirkwood reached into her handbag which was sitting beside her chair and lifted a ring of keys from within.

She turned the keychain over so Casey could see, revealing a metallic symbol to her.

“I drive one myself,” Kirkwood said. “It's an Audi.”

CHAPTER 17.

L
ionel approached the towering St. Kilda Road Headquarters of Victoria Police and stood on the sidewalk for a long moment, taking in the monolithic structure of glass, steel and concrete. He had almost forgotten how intimidating the building appeared.

Ten years,
he mused.
Has it really been that long?

A convoy of squad cars, pursuit vehicles and prisoner transports were parked kerbside in front of the building. Despite having spent much of the latter part of his career stationed at this very building, Lionel had always found it to be an intimidating environment. He had much preferred the smaller station houses to the big city department. Having been away from Melbourne for well over a decade since his retirement from the force, his feelings of uncomfortable awe were only heightened and, for a brief moment, he wished he were back at the Hambledown General Store.

Having parked opposite to the headquarters in the leafy grounds of Melbourne Grammar, Lionel scanned the four lanes of St. Kilda before him for a break in the traffic. Spying an opening, he hurried across and into the shadow of the police building. He stopped before the steps leading up to the main entrance and glanced up at the symbol of the Victoria Police Force: an inverted, five-point star with the motto, ‘Uphold The Right.'

Lionel had worn that badge for close to thirty years, first as a uniformed police constable, having been recruited from the London Police Force as part of an exchange programme, then as a detective in the Homicide Squad where he had finished his career as a decorated Senior Sergeant. That he was considered something of a legend within the Force was a reputation with which he had never felt entirely comfortable.

Given his presence here now and the reason for which he had come, he quietly hoped that reputation was a card that he could put into play.

Entering the building and approaching the reception desk, Lionel clutched at his tie, adjusting it absently before stepping up to the desk itself. A pretty, young receptionist looked up from her computer terminal and regarded him politely.

“Can I help you, sir?”

“I'm here to see Detective Senior Sergeant Farnham Whittaker. He is expecting me.”

The receptionist frowned slightly and turned to her computer screen. “Your name, sir?”

“Lionel Broadbent.”

Behind her, a uniformed officer turned his head and studied Lionel quizzically.

“I-I'm sorry, sir. I don't seem to have your name in his appointment schedule.”

“Oh.”

Lionel couldn't help indulge in a knowing smile.

Typical Farnham.

“Perhaps if you could call up to his office and let him know that I'm here, I'm sure he'll…”

“I'll need you to take a number and have a seat in the waiting area,” the receptionist interjected abruptly.

Lionel blinked at the young woman. “Look, I'm sure if you just let him know that I'm here.”

“I'm sorry, sir,” the receptionist interrupted again. “But you
are
going to have to take a number.”

Lionel's jaw set and he glared at the receptionist with more rancour than he had intended.

The police officer who was watching the exchange stepped forward now, studying Lionel more closely as Lionel prepared to comply, albeit reluctantly, with the receptionist's instruction.

“Ahhh…excuse me,” the young officer said. “But did you say your name was Broadbent? Lionel Broadbent?”

Lionel glanced at the officer, maintaining his perturbed expression.

The young officer, clearly having a flash of recognition, quickly pushed past the receptionist who was now glaring him with incredulity, and grabbed a clip-on guest pass from the counter. He gestured to Lionel.

“Please, Mr. Broadbent. Please come this way. I'm very sorry.”

“Jeremy!” the receptionist hissed, trying to keep her voice low. “What are you—”

He silenced her with a glare and an exaggerated wave of his hand as he ushered Lionel through a secure door.

“Just follow the directions to the lift, sir,” the young officer said, handing Lionel the visitor pass once they were on the other side. “Detective Whittaker's office is up on le—”

“Level five,” Lionel finished for him with an awkward smile and a nod. “I know where to go.”

“Sir, can I just say…” the officer began, rubbing his hands together in an excited child-like gesture. “I-it's an absolute honour to meet you. I studied your career at the Academy. I wrote a dissertation on your investigative techniques. I always remember what you said of investigation: Assume nothing. Believe nothing. Check everything. I've never forgotten that.”

Lionel examined the young constable; his uniform, neatly pressed, shoes polished to a high shine. Lionel passed his eyes over his badge.

“How long have you been out, Constable Jeremy Delfey?”

“Twelve months, sir. I'm in Traffic Operations but I plan on applying for Homicide. I want to become a Detective.”

Lionel nodded. “You've quite a road ahead of you. I trust that you are aware of the commitment.”

“Yes, sir. It's been my dream since I was a kid. Just to be here now in the uniform is an honour for me.”

Lionel smiled warmly. “I'm sure you'll go far, Constable Delfey. I wish you good luck.”

The young constable swelled with pride and stood tall, as though he were about to salute Lionel, his cheeks threatening to flush pink. Lionel stepped forward and offered his hand. The constable took it in his own reverently.

“Thank you,” Lionel gestured with his head toward the door. “For helping me out back there.”

He stepped back and turned towards the lift.

Alighting on level five, Lionel found himself in a beehive of activity. Uniformed and plain-clothed police rushed back and forth, worked at their desks, talked with colleagues, delegated tasks to subordinates. Phones were ringing off the hook. The chatter of the department assailed him, excited him and disoriented him all at once.

He'd definitely forgotten that buzz of HQ.

Lionel made his way through the expansive office complex. A few heads turned in his direction. A number of familiar faces greeted him enthusiastically as he passed, causing him to stop and exchange handshakes and pleasantries. Eventually, he reached his destination: a corner office suite with expansive windows that looked out across St. Kilda Road to the grounds of Melbourne Grammar and the Botanical Gardens beyond.

Approaching, Lionel could see a tall man seated at a desk on a telephone. Middle-aged, with scruffy, silver hair, the man was dressed in a navy suit jacket and tie. As he stopped at the entrance, Lionel noted a visible coffee stain on a portion of his white business shirt. Farnham Whittaker turned slightly in his seat and his face lit up upon seeing Lionel. He motioned hurriedly for Lionel to come in as he continued his animated conversation on the phone.

“I understand that you want that cleared up as soon as possible,” Whittaker was saying in a voluminous Australian drawl. “But I just can't commit the resources to deal with your situation just now.”

He closed his eyes and raised his head, clearly frustrated as he listened to the voice on the other end of the line. He then began nodding as Lionel removed his anorak and hung it on a hook before taking up a chair opposite.

“Look,” Whittaker said, interrupting the caller. “I will try and address the situation later today and have an answer for you. I have an appointment that has just arrived.”

He nodded with an exaggerated raise of his eyebrows at Lionel, as if seeking his approval.

“Good enough,” Whittaker said finally as he drew the handset away from his ear and cradled it.

He let out a sigh of relief.

“Jesus bloody Christ!” he exclaimed breathlessly, leaning back in his seat and looking at the ceiling.

“Problems?” Lionel ventured, amused.

“Problems is right,” Whittaker echoed. “Carol can't get away from court in time to pick up the girls from school and get them to tennis practice so, of course, the world is suddenly in crisis and I'm left to pick up the pieces.”

Lionel frowned quizzically. “Carol?
Your
Carol?”

Whittaker nodded with mock indignation, then his expression melted into a warm grin. He stood up from his seat and quickly rounded the desk, his arms outstretched.

“Lionel Broadbent,” he announced as Lionel got up just in time to be enfolded in a bear hug that was strong enough to make him groan. “How on Earth are you? What has it been—a year? Two years?”

“Since the last reunion dinner? Two years is right, I should think,” Lionel replied bashfully, stepping back and smoothing down his jacket. “I wasn't able to get away from the store for the last one.”

“Amazing,” Whittaker shook his head, still smiling. “Well, it's bloody good to see you. Things haven't been the same here since you retired. A lot of changes, and not all of them good ones.”

“I think the writing was on the wall when I called it a day,” Lionel observed wryly. “The department has enmeshed itself too closely with government. It seems to have taken on some bad habits. Though, you've achieved some significant victories of late. I see the Carrington Task Force has made the news a number of times.”

Whittaker grinned self-consciously as he went across to the office door and leaned out. He signalled to a secretary with a gesture that indicated a coffee cup and the secretary smiled and stood.

“Well, I had a good teacher,” he continued, closing the door and returning to his desk. He held out his hand toward Lionel. “The best, actually. Most of this department owes something of its legacy to you, Lionel.”

The compliment caused Lionel to squirm and he crossed his legs awkwardly. “Rubbish,” he dismissed. “Policing is and has always been a collaborative pursuit—a team effort. I learnt as much from those under me.”

“Always the modest one,” Whittaker observed, sitting down. “How's things up in Hambledown?”

“Quiet. Just the way I like it. The general store is ticking along, although Ruth tends to run the enterprise more now. She's an obsessive organiser—can't help herself.”

“I think we share some common ground there,” Whittaker chuckled.

The secretary entered the office armed with a tray upon which sat a trio of cups, a plate with some sliced fruitcake and a pot of freshly brewed coffee. The aroma hit Lionel's nostrils and he felt his stomach leap.

He waited as she poured cups for all three of them, then delicately swiped up a slice of the cake and winked at Whittaker before exiting the office as swiftly as she had arrived.

“So, when did you arrive in town?” Whittaker asked, taking his cup.

Lionel's expression faltered a little and he tilted his head. “I've been here a couple of weeks.”

Whittaker's eyes bulged. “And you didn't think to give us a call before now and organise a catch-up beer.
I'm hurt, Lionel
.”

Whittaker flashed yet another lopsided grin but it faded when Lionel didn't respond in kind. Instead, he seemed to retreat further into his chair.

“I've been a little…preoccupied, I'm afraid.”

Setting his cup down, Whittaker regarded his mentor with concern, sensing that he was troubled by something.

“What is it?” he asked. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes,” Lionel answered uncertainly. “Possibly.”

“Would you like me to close the door?” Whittaker offered, making a move to stand.

Lionel turned in his chair and regarded the door, then nodded. “That would probably be a good idea.”

Whittaker complied.

“Can I talk to you, off the record?” Lionel asked, sitting forward in his seat, cradling his cup in his hands.

“Lionel, of course you can,” Whittaker responded, returning to his seat. “We've been friends for thirty years. You know you can come to me with anything.”

Whittaker frowned quizzically, studying his old mentor, trying to gauge what it was that was on Lionel's mind.

“Is this about Casey?” he ventured. “That thing with Cyber-Crime?”

Lionel looked up at Whittaker at the mention of his granddaughter. He shook his head hesitantly.

“Look,” Whittaker continued before Lionel could answer. “I'm aware that a couple of detectives have called Casey into question.”

“Well, it
has
been weighing on her family and me somewhat,” Lionel admitted. “One detective in particular seems to be keeping a close watch—Prishna? That's her name, I think.”

Whittaker chuckled. “Prishna Argawaal. She's a girl scout. Good detective but she has a tendency to go after conspiracy theories.”

“Well, she seems to have concocted one about Casey. About her having some sort of nefarious sideline career that runs counter to the work she's been doing for the Department.”

“Don't believe it,” Whittaker croaked dismissively. “Casey is one of our best assets. Hell,
I recruited her
—I'll vouch for her.”

“I'm sure
you
will, Farnham. It goes without saying that I believe my granddaughter and I'll do anything to protect her from any sort of harassment.”

“I'll have a word with Argawaal, Lionel. Tell her to turn down the enthusiasm knob.”

Lionel hesitated before looking up at an expectant Whittaker who tilted his head.

“That's
not
the only reason you've come to see me, is it?”

“No. I wanted to talk to you about an old case. A cold case.”

Whittaker nodded thoughtfully. “One from your time?”

“Slightly after actually. It goes back about three years, a hit and run down near Geelong. Young woman, early twenties, apparently hitchhiking back to Melbourne after leaving a music festival at Queenscliff.”

Whittaker's expression remained neutral.