For Arnie

  SEPTEMBER

  JANUARY

  FEBRUARY

  MARCH

  APRIL

  Glossary

  Acknowledgements

  SEPTEMBER

  To come home, you first have to leave.

  Alina Swart knew this. She knew where she belonged, knew it so fiercely she felt it in her body. She belonged here, in South Africa, in Cape Town. This country was hers, no matter how crazy and full of troubles it was. She needed to help it get better. To do that, she had to get some skills, because what it needed was people with skills. And qualifications. Things she couldn’t afford. Until now.

  Now her world had cracked wide open. A scholarship! To Australia! She’d been chosen, she hadn’t had to apply or anything. Her matric results had done the trick, Dr Singh said, and after a short preliminary course she’d go to university and study economics. Three years away from home. After that she’d come back and set up microfinancing arrangements so people here could start their own businesses and drag themselves out of poverty. People like her grandmother, who could have been a wonderful dressmaker and who instead had been a servant her whole life.

  It had nearly not happened at all. Dr Singh explained that while the scholarship would pay her tuition fees and most of her accommodation, they’d need an upfront payment of R50,000 to cover expenses. Fifty thousand Rand! It wasn’t much in the scheme of things, he pointed out, when fees for a Bachelor of Business were well over a million Rand, not counting accommodation and food and books and whatever other money you needed to live in Sydney.

  There was no way Alina or anyone she knew could raise R50,000. No way at all. Alina’s grandmother had even asked her employer to help. Miss Rita had said no and that was that. Alina had had to phone Dr Singh and tell him the bad news. Dr Singh said wait, he might be able to sort something out.

  A few hours later he rang back. Sunshine Scholarships would lend her the money, he said – the R50,000. And he himself would find her a part-time job so she could pay it back – without interest, that was the sort of people they were – over three years. She’d be able to come back home debt free, and qualified.

  She had her passport now. Dr Singh had organised the visa and the air tickets and assured her and her grandmother he’d be waiting for her at Sydney Airport.

  She was on her way. Like an Australian boomerang, she thought, giggling with the thrill of it all. Out into the sky and then straight back home.

  JANUARY

  1.

  The Golden Fortune Food Court was a slice of Singapore in the middle of Sydney. Sandwiched in the concrete no-man’s-land between Chinatown and Darling Harbour, it occupied the ground floor of a featureless grey building that housed offices and an English language college and, below them, a mall offering everything from migration agents to a Hello Kitty franchise.

  Usually, this time of day, the place was starting to buzz. Pots bubbled on stoves. Students staggered in for breakfast. Early birds pulling trolleys drank tea and waited for Paddy’s Markets to open. Not today. Today the Golden Fortune Food Court was empty, its entrance blocked by blue and white crime scene tape. Stallholders and customers milled on the pavement outside, feeling the growing January heat.

  The two young constables guarding the entrance tried to stop the silver Honda hatchback from mounting the kerb. They were elbowed aside by Senior Sergeant Bartos, who waved it in and opened the driver’s door. ‘G’day, princess,’ he said, executing as much of a bow as his belly would allow and circling his free arm in an elaborate wave.

  ‘Oh, piss off, Bartos.’ Jackie Rose swung herself out of the car. But she grinned as she said it. Bartos had been her boss at Day Street when she started out. Big and bearded, he was equal parts charm and thuggery. Old-school, one of the last of the dinosaurs. No point trying to make him PC now.

  Bartos turned to the uniforms, who were pretending not to listen. ‘Detective Sergeant Jacqueline Rose,’ he announced. ‘From Homicide, I do believe. Once seen, never forgotten. Watch yourselves, kiddies – she bites.’

  Jackie nodded at the constables, trying to present a professional facade. It must have worked, because they looked impressed to be close to a real live Homicide detective. She turned back to Bartos, but before she could say anything Jason Kinsella arrived, bumping his big BMW motorbike alongside the Honda. He dismounted, removed his helmet and shook out his black hair.

  Jackie introduced them. ‘Senior Sergeant Bartos, Day Street. Detective Senior Constable Jason Kinsella.’

  Bartos and Kinsella exchanged nods. Two tall men, eye to eye, appraising. Bartos was older and heavier, with pepper-and-salt curly hair and pouched cheeks. Kinsella, lean and loping, was all larrikin cowboy.

  ‘So, what’s the story?’ Jackie asked. ‘What’ve we got in there?’

  Bartos spread his hands in a don’t know. ‘Overdose? That’s my guess.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘No idea. Female. Not Caucasian. Not Asian either – I mean, not Chinese or anything close. Maybe Indian?’

  ‘Who found her?’

  ‘Cleaner. Thought it was a pile of rubbish. She was partly covered by newspaper, like she was using it as a blanket. It gets cold in here at night. Or she could have been hiding.’

  Jackie put on booties and snapped on latex gloves. Next to her Kinsella did the same. He looked serious. Bartos lifted the tape, they ducked under it and walked into the echoing, empty food area. It smelled of oil and garlic, even this early in the morning.

  The girl was at the far end, curled up in a niche between a pillar and a wall. A mane of black hair swept behind her. She wore pink thongs, pink jeans and a striped, threadbare, long-sleeved shirt. A pile of newspaper lay nearby.

  They could see her profile. She was – had been – pretty, with pouting lips and clean, winged eyebrows. Exotic, dark-skinned. As Bartos had said, not from East Asia. Not Indian either, though there were traces. There was a bruise on her cheekbone. And she was young, not more than seventeen or eighteen. Jackie had seen overdoses before, and the younger they were the worse it was. Somewhere there was a family, wondering where their daughter was. Someone, herself most probably, would have to tell them.

  A dribble of blood had escaped the girl’s nose.

  There was a bustle and they turned to see Forensics, in the shape of Doris Kalageris and her offsider, lanky Les Murphy. Doris was a pathologist. Not many of them came to crime scenes, but Doris was old-school. She insisted. She was heavy, slow-moving, sallow, with dark smudged eye-sockets and a head of white Einstein hair. She looked and sounded like a Mediterranean grandmother, but those who’d worked with her knew better. Jackie was one of them. Doris pursed her lips.

  Jackie held up her hands in peace, took a step back.

  Doris waddled past. She didn’t like people breathing down her neck, so Jackie, Bartos and Kinsella retreated, perching on an empty table.

  ‘Your guys find anything?’ Kinsella, arms folded, asked Bartos.

  Bartos shook his head. ‘The Bobbsey Twins outside had a squiz. Nothing so far, no handbag or phone or any sort of ID. We were waiting for …’ He raised his chin at Doris, setting out her padded kneeling cushion, and Les, bending nearly double to photograph the surrounding floor.

  ‘CCTV?’ Jackie asked.

  ‘Haven’t had a chance to get hold of it yet.’

  They waited. After a few minutes Kinsella broke away to pace the edge of the food court, eyes checking everything. He didn’t like being still. At thirty-eight, he was five years younger than Jackie, private, could be moody. He was a good cop, though. In Homicide you had to be able to trust each other, and Kinsella was someone she could rely on.

  Finally Doris called them over. Kneeling at the side of the body, she lowered her mask and said, ‘Died sometime during the night, it looks like. Post-mortem will get us closer.’

  She motioned them in. She’d bagged the hands in clear plastic and carefully, as if the dead girl could feel it, she lifted one and then the other. The girl’s arms, starting at her wrists and disappearing into her sleeves, were a mess of bruises and burns. Some older than others.

  Jackie squatted down for a better look. ‘Those aren’t needle tracks.’

  ‘Right,’ said Doris. ‘Someone’s beaten the crap out of her.’

  Kinsella, too, was on his haunches. ‘Looks like she’s been tortured.’

  Doris grunted.

  ‘What killed her?’ Kinsella asked.

  ‘Could be a combination of things. She looks severely malnourished. Wouldn’t be surprised if she was suffering infection.’ Doris sucked in a breath through her front teeth. ‘But my guess is this was the last straw.’ She lifted the shirt to reveal a purple bruise spread across the girl’s lower back. ‘Could be internal haemorrhage. The nosebleed’s an indicator. She might have been beaten to death.’

  ‘Beaten? Here in the food court?’ Kinsella, again.

  ‘Who knows? Internal bleeding can kill slowly. Could have happened as long as a day ago.’

  ‘ID?’

  ‘No sign of a bag, no phone,’ repeated Bartos.

  Doris waved at Les, who was standing a respectable distance away, hands together and folded at his groin. He sprang to attention. Tall and skeletal, in his protective outfit he looked like an alien come to earth.

  ‘Show them,’ commanded Doris.

  Les b
rought forward two transparent plastic evidence bags. He showed them to Jackie, and because Forensics weren’t allowed to hand over evidence, she photographed them. Les retreated, ducking his head in embarrassment at having to make human contact.

  The first bag held a gold chain strung with a disc the size of a thumbnail. The disc was engraved with something that looked like Arabic script. The second bag held a torn piece of lined notepaper, the corner of a larger sheet, the sort used in exercise books. On it, in rounded blue ballpoint, was a phone number: 0471 406 781.

  ‘That all?’ Jackie asked.

  ‘That’s all. The paper was in a back pocket of her jeans. Nothing else on her.’ The silence was broken by the scuffle of ambos carrying a stretcher. Everyone rose except Doris. She waved at Les Murphy, who rushed forward and helped her to her feet. ‘Getting too old for this,’ she muttered. She gave the word and they watched what was always the worst moment, to see someone who until a few hours ago had lived and breathed being bagged in black plastic, the bag being zipped shut.

  Doris snapped the locks on her forensic case. ‘I’ll book the PM. They’ll let you know when.’ She lumbered off, Les Murphy following like an oversized duckling.

  Bartos watched them go. ‘Could be a drug deal gone wrong?’

  ‘Must’ve gone wrong in a big way,’ countered Kinsella, ‘to have her beaten like that.’

  Bartos turned back to Jackie. ‘I’ll follow up on the CCTV, get my people to check their drug contacts.’

  ‘Thanks, Sarge,’ Jackie said. ‘Good to catch up with you.’

  ‘You too. How’s the boy?’

  Jackie puffed out her cheeks and blew air. ‘Oh, the boy. The boy’s a man now, in London on his gap year doing God knows what.’

  ‘Jesus. I remember him coming in all legs and arms, like a puppy.’

  ‘How’s …?’ Jackie couldn’t for the life of her remember Bartos’s wife’s name.

  He rolled his eyes. ‘Penny? Long gone. Don’t ask. Good to catch up with you, princess.’ He headed off with a backward wave.

  ‘Okay, Kinsella,’ Jackie brandished the photo of the paper from the girl’s pocket. ‘Let’s see who’s at the end of this phone number.’

  2.

  Jackie, Kinsella following, retreated into the silent food court. She put her phone on speaker and keyed in the number from the paper they’d found on the dead girl.

  It had hardly rung when there was a voice, young, female. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello,’ Jackie replied, ‘I’m –’

  ‘Who is that?’ The voice was tentative.

  ‘My name is Jackie Rose. I’m a detective in the NSW Police Force –’

  Sharp intake of breath. ‘Police! What you want with me?’

  Jackie tried to sound soothing. ‘Don’t worry, you’ve done nothing wrong. I need to talk to you. What is your name, and where can I find you?’

  Silence. She’s going to hang up, Jackie thought. Hurriedly she said, ‘You know, we can trace this call.’

  Hesitantly, the voice offered, ‘My name is Casey Nguyen. I am a student at Carters College.’

  ‘Carters? In Quay Street?’ Carters was one of the many international student colleges crammed into the Chinatown triangle. Jackie knew it from her time in Day Street because the principal, Harold Greenwood, had called them in. A couple of his students were being threatened and forced to hand over money. Jackie and Bartos caught the extorters, who, though surprisingly short and weedy, turned out to be connected to triads. The victims were transferred to Carters’ sister school in Melbourne, just in case.

  ‘Yes, Quay Street.’

  ‘Are you there now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Wait for us. We’ll be there in ten minutes. I’ll phone to tell them we’re coming.’

  ***

  Carters was directly opposite Paddy’s Markets, a couple of blocks from the food court. Outside it was already hot, but the air was clear. February’s humidity hadn’t yet arrived. Jackie enjoyed the short walk, weaving past grocers, internet shops, dumpling houses and nail salons, all sporting signs in Chinese. Boxes of vegetables sat rotting happily in the sun. Thomas Street bustled with shoppers, eaters and a surprising number of students for January.

  Kinsella, who’d been loping alongside, fell back, waiting for a cart of wooden crates to pass. He caught up and, dodging passers-by, said, ‘The phone number. The dead girl didn’t know this student well. Or the number would be in her phone.’

  ‘If we could find a phone.’

  Inside, Carters College was airy and bright. A receptionist led them to the principal’s office, knocked.

  Harold Greenwood was straw-headed and balding, a lumpy body in a lumpy suit. His hangdog face was friendly and he remembered Jackie. He got up to shake her hand but his eyes were on the lean, dark-eyed Kinsella.

  ‘Constable Rose. Pleasure to see you again. And who is this?’

  ‘Detective Sergeant Rose now, Dr Greenwood. This is Detective Senior Constable Jason Kinsella.’

  Greenwood made a moue. ‘Promoted to sergeant! Well done.’ But his attention was still on Kinsella. He reached out to shake Kinsella’s hand, held on an instant too long.

  Jackie explained about the dead girl. Greenwood’s hand went to his mouth. ‘Oh, God. I hope she isn’t one of ours.’

  ‘I don’t know. There was no ID.’

  Greenwood swallowed. ‘I’ll get them to check the rolls. Shouldn’t be hard to find out. I’ll let you know if I think it’s one of our students.’

  ‘Thanks. As I explained, we’re here to talk to Casey Nguyen. What course is she enrolled in?’

  He was prepared. ‘She’s a full-time student in our foundation studies program, on her way to uni. She’s a good student, no trouble at all. I only hope the other girl …’ His head bent with terrible possibilities, Greenwood ushered them towards the lift. ‘Casey’s only seventeen, so I’ve arranged for our student counsellor to sit in on the interview.’

  ‘Fine.’

  They took the lift to the top floor. Greenwood led them down a corridor past a science lab and classrooms filled with attentive students. At the end of the corridor a closed door bore the plastic sign Counsellor. A laminated sheet below listed appointment times. Greenwood knocked twice and entered without waiting.

  The office, like the college, looked freshly furnished. It was small, and as well as the usual desk it featured a red two-seater couch. Huddled in one corner was a slight girl with shoulder-length hair and a face dominated by large black-rimmed glasses.

  ‘This is Casey Nguyen,’ said Greenwood.

  Hovering over Casey was an older woman, tall and angular, with cropped grey hair and dangling red plastic earrings.

  ‘This is Detective Sergeant Rose and, um …’

  ‘Detective Jason Kinsella.’ Kinsella stepped forward. The woman widened her arms in front of Casey like a protective angel.

  ‘This is our student counsellor, Ms Hettie Schneider.’ Greenwood emphasised the Ms.

  Schneider squared up. ‘What do you want? Casey is one of our most diligent –’

  ‘I’ll be downstairs if you need me.’ Greenwood made his escape.

  ‘Casey’s not in any trouble,’ Jackie said. ‘In fact, we need her help. If we could talk to her?’

  Schneider, unpersuaded, perched on the armrest and leaned as far over to Casey as she could get. Jackie sat on the couch next to her, taking out her notebook and angling her body side-on so she could see both of them. Kinsella stayed standing with his arms folded like a bouncer, his back against the closed office door.

  ‘Casey, this morning we found the body of a young woman, a girl about your age, at the Golden Fortune Food Court. She was wearing jeans and a pink top, and the only identification she had on her was your phone number. Do you know who she might be?’

  Casey burst into tears. Ms Schneider fetched a box of tissues from her desk and handed them over, giving Jackie the evil eye as she did.

  Eventually Casey subsided, hiccupping. Jackie asked again, ‘Do you know this girl?’

  Casey shook her head. She kept her eyes on her lap.