5

PHUONG SHONE a light on my face. ‘You’re all wet.’

‘Astounding work, Captain Obvious.’

‘Detective Obvious.’

People with rank, always with the rank. She held the entrance doors open for me. The automatic doors were useless without power. Places like this were hyper-secure until something went wrong with the technology, and then they became death traps. She pointed her torch to the ground and guided me through the building. ‘We have to take the stairs.’

Cuong’s apartment on Hampshire Road was about six months old. Built on the site of an old foundry, developers had whacked together ninety-three cheapo studios — twenty floors, with miniature balconies — and named it La Fonderie. The suburb of Sunshine looked upon this menhir in its midst and laughed. How long before systemic entropy, starting with graffiti — not art, not your Banksy or Lushsux, but a mush of curse words, all ghetto and no cred — merged the place with its surroundings, with povo-scary town?

Cuong’s apartment was on the fifth floor, which was fortunate. Any more stairs and I’d have carked it. He was waiting with his door open, and handed me a towel. He was better at these things than his cousin.

‘Chào anh,’ I said.

He bobbed his head — a bow, or perhaps a nervous tic. ‘Haven’t seen you for a long time, Stella.’

‘It’s been a while.’ I looked into the apartment. ‘You’re moving up in the world.’

He shrugged, but then cast a worried glance down the empty hallway. ‘Hurry, Stella. Come inside and get dry.’

A studio — meaning bedsit, meaning single room divided into ‘zones’. For the compact living area, he’d chosen simple elegant furniture, a two-seater sofa, an armchair, a sideboard on which the accoutrements of an altar were spread: an offering of fruit, burning incense, family portraits in wooden frames, tea candles.

‘Where were you when I phoned?’ Phuong was in the kitchenette, pouring hot water from a saucepan into a mug.

‘Out.’ I took off my jumper. ‘Can I hang this out on your balcony?’ I asked Cuong.

He looked horrified. ‘Not out there. The friends will get inside it.’ He took the jumper from me without further explanation and draped it over a towel rail in the bathroom.

Phuong handed me a mug. The tea had black twigs and bits of burnt rice floating in it.

She looked me up and down. ‘So you were out in the rain?’ She made being in the rain sound like bourgeois decadence, like it was some depraved lifestyle choice.

‘I like rain.’

Cuong now offered me a towelling robe, the heavy, luxury-hotel kind.

‘Cám ơn rất nhiều.’ I bobbed my head.

He laughed; my pronunciation always made Vietnamese people laugh.

No doubt about it, he was a classy guy. The candlelight accentuated his hollow cheeks and melancholy eyes. He sure looked haunted. I wondered how much help someone like Phuong, the ultimate rational being, was to a man with a fear of the supernatural.

I put the robe on, slipped off my sandals, and curled up on the sofa.

Cuong retreated to the sleep area, where his bed and a small wardrobe were sectioned off by sheer curtains. He drew them closed, but I could see him sitting on his bed. He put his earbuds in and opened a laptop.

‘You have friends who get on the balcony and put on your wet clothes?’ I asked Phuong, rubbing my hair with the towel.

She sighed. ‘It’s code for you-know-what. Saying the G-word attracts them.’

I glanced at him. ‘He seems okay now.’

‘He’s a bit better. We had a couple of cognacs.’

I looked at the sticks in my tea, wondering what I had to do to get an upgrade. ‘What was his problem?’

‘The power went off. Gets him every time. My parents usually deal with him, but they’re away at the moment. I don’t understand it. I mean, I understand the ghosts, the ancestors. This is different — he believes there’s one ghost that wishes him harm.’

It was comforting to know I was not the only suspicious person on the planet. I sipped the twig infusion. A robust flavour, concentrated like the Queensland sun. A brew tailor-made for me, I had no doubt, and I assumed it contained herbs of restraint. This witch would have me spayed. ‘Now,’ I said, putting the mug down. ‘How can I be of service?’ If I could do Phuong a solid favour, it might defuse some of the ill feeling between us since my botched handling of the news of her engagement.

She didn’t meet my eye. ‘It’s Bruce.’

Bugger. We were on dangerous territory again. I’d say the wrong thing again for sure. I decided to try to keep things light. ‘I see. Well, I’m no relationship counsellor —’ based on that day’s activities, I’d say I was downright unqualified ‘— but you guys seem … okay together.’

She shook her head.

‘No? Alright. Let’s see. He’s into werewolves, you’re more of a zombie fan? I’ve been through that, and don’t worry, it can still work.’

‘He’s under investigation.’

Her words took a moment to settle. ‘What investigation? You mean the one he initiated?’

‘It expanded beyond his control. The task force had been tapping phones.’ She sighed. ‘They recorded some pretty damning conversations, evidently. And now the investigation is in the hands of the new integrity commission. They’re calling it Operation Raw-Prawn.’

The seriousness of this development was out of my comfort zone. It seemed more feasible to me to suggest that Bruce Copeland was a wizard, or a Greens voter, or a model-plane enthusiast. ‘What’s he done?’

She sniffed, and I realised she was teary, or had been. Now she was glaring at me. ‘Jesus, how can you even ask that? He’s not involved.’

‘Of course not.’ I sipped the tea. I had to admit, it was calming. I could use some respite on the emotional front. ‘What do they have?’

‘The OTIOSE commission people are very reticent, but the rumours are there’s a recording of an unidentified cop, most probably a Guns and Gangs detective, making deals, demanding cash and heroin.’

‘Wait, an officer of the law was behaving like a thug?’ I clapped a hand to my cheek.

Phuong squinted, a sign she was displeased. ‘Your relentless sarcasm, it’s food colouring for the soul.’

‘Sorry,’ I said, and meant it. ‘I want to help — any way I can. Please go on. Who is the detective?’

‘No one knows for sure. Everyone is paranoid. There’s a few likely candidates, but Bruce doesn’t have anything to do with the idiots in the unit.’ She coughed. ‘His problems started with Jeff Vanderhoek, the Corpse Flower informer. Vanderhoek gave Bruce the name of a dealer.’

‘The Corpse Flowers.’ I smirked. ‘I mean, seriously.’

‘Stella, can you please focus. This is important. This dealer lives in Norlane — that’s in Geelong.’

‘I know where Norlane is.’ Just because I was easily distracted didn’t mean I was dumb.

She sniffed again. ‘Bruce arrested the guy — drugs and weapons charges. He put the evidence in the unit’s safe, and the dealer spent the night in the lock-up. All by the book.’

‘Okay, so he followed the new procedures.’

‘Yes. Except that, today, someone checked, and it’s gone. All of it.’

‘What kind of evidence are we talking about?’

‘A couple of hand guns, a shotgun, a grenade, and about a hundred grams of heroin.’

‘A grenade?’ I put down the mug. A grenade. It was so bizarre it was almost funny.

‘That was sent off to the bomb squad for disposal, but the other weapons and the heroin had been in the safe, or he thought they were, for the last week. Now they’re gone. Without the evidence, they had to release the dealer.’

I tried to be reassuring — with any luck, it actually came across that way. ‘I’m sure Bruce is thoroughly law-abiding.’

In the flickering candlelight, her face seemed to float in stark chiaroscuro. ‘He needs the dealer to testify. Tell the truth. That Bruce bagged it all, and took him to the lock-up. And have the stupid lie blown out of the water.’

‘He expects a criminal to testify for him, a cop, while incriminating themselves?’

Phuong shifted, folding her legs under her. ‘I understand why you would say that, but the situation is complicated. There are rumours this guy wants to get out of the Corpse Flowers. And he knows a lot. If Bruce could just talk to him, a deal might be on the table. The truth about Bruce, as well as other information he has, in exchange for immunity.’

‘Then call the investigators and tell them to talk to this guy.’

She bowed her head. ‘He’s skipped town.’

‘Of course he has.’ My head dropped back in exasperation.

She stood up, walked to the sideboard, and spoke to the shrine. ‘Why do you hate Bruce?’

‘I don’t hate Bruce,’ I said.

‘Intensely dislike.’

‘Not even close. How can I dislike him? I don’t even know him, not that well.’ As a general rule, I preferred to be honest in my dealings with people. Most of the time I was. This was not one of those times.

‘We’re going to get married.’

‘I know. And I’m happy for you.’

She turned away from the shrine and gathered the magazines on the coffee table into a neat pile. Then she picked up a cushion and started plumping it. ‘The dealer’s name is Mortimer — Isaac Mortimer — and he knows Bruce is innocent.’

‘Jeez, woman. Don’t be so bloody dramatic. Last I checked, the system works the other way around. They need hard evidence to convict Bruce, and there isn’t any.’

She didn’t respond.

‘There isn’t any evidence, right? Is there?’

‘What if a cop under suspicion decides to save themselves by making false accusations against Bruce? And the testimony of a colleague would be considered evidence, Stella. If no one knew that cop was corrupt. That’s why we need Isaac Mortimer.’

We? We need Isaac Mortimer? I took off the robe. My jumper was still damp and steaming on the towel rail in the bathroom. I put it on anyway.

‘When have I ever asked you for a favour?’ Phuong said.

I stopped. Answer: never. I owed her — how many favours? I wanted to make it right with her.

‘This is your forte,’ she went on. ‘You’ve worked with street kids. You know the squats, the addicts. You know your way around.’

Child services for a while, then public housing: my career spanned many fronts of the community sector. Phuong had heard me talk about the slog, the cases of hopeless addiction, child neglect, of family dysfunction. I was happier now in migrant services.

‘Isaac Mortimer,’ Phuong said, slow and clear. ‘All we need is an address.’

I faced her. Her pleading eyes skewered me. ‘You are my dearest friend. I would do just about anything to help you. But you can’t flatter me into combing junkie squats for an ice dealer.’ Certainly not for Copeland.

I took my mug to the sink, turned on the taps, as mist rose from my wet sleeves.

‘He has fuck yeah tattooed on his forehead.’

I rinsed the mug.

‘If you won’t do it for Bruce, do it for me.’

Cuong lounged on his bed. I caught his eye and waved. He seemed startled — possibly because I was surrounded by white puffs of jumper fog. I gestured for him to take out the earbuds.

‘Cuong, do you know what tomorrow is?’

He shook his head, shrugged.

I turned to Phuong. ‘You better word him up. He sees little vampires and zombies on the street tomorrow, he’ll have a meltdown.’

She waved a dismissive hand. ‘He knows. Kids in dress-ups don’t concern him.’

I wanted to know what did concern him. I was curious about the ghosts, with their fondness for wet clothes on a balcony.

‘I’m really sorry, Phuong. I hope it works out,’ I said, and left, shutting the door behind me.

In the darkened hall, I paused. In some respects, Cuong was on the money. Ghosts were everywhere. I felt them hanging around in the residue of lost romances, and hovering in the memory cringes of insomnia. Or, haunting me on those mornings when I felt like boiled shite, I could hear them in my remorse.

Here, under the green exit lights, a ghost whispered to me of failure. Of relationships gone awry. Of Brophy gradually fading into my past.