9

CUONG BUZZED me into his flat. Candles again, despite the power being operational, and that familiar trace of sandalwood incense that had an instant calming effect. It was tempting to ask if I could hang around, have a week-long retreat, right here in his flat. I spied Phuong, hunched over her phone in the kitchenette, and gave her a thumbs-up.

He lit a bunch of incense sticks and went outside. I followed him onto the balcony. A small wooden structure was set up on the floor, about the size of a doll’s house, and near it offerings of oranges, a packet of Hero-brand cigarettes, a can of beer. And, on either side, red glowing battery-powered candles.

He bowed with the incense, intoning in muted Vietnamese.

‘How’s work?’ I asked lamely. ‘Software development, is it?’

‘Nah, economics,’ he said without looking up. ‘It’s okay. No dramas.’

‘So … you’re okay?’

He placed the incense in a bowl filled with sand. ‘Halloween is not a problem for me.’

I looked askance at him.

‘Phuong told me you were worried for me,’ Cuong said.

‘The dead are supposed to come home, that could be upsetting for anyone.’

‘Nah.’

Phuong came to the balcony. Her face was drawn. ‘Bruce was on the news tonight.’

‘I saw.’

Phuong sighed. ‘Come inside. Want some tea?’

‘Tea? No. Thanks.’ I moved some of Cuong’s books off the sofa. ‘Has he been charged?’

‘Suspended.’ Phuong flicked on a lamp and draped herself on the armchair. ‘It’s a joke. The stolen-evidence claim is baseless and circumstantial.’

‘The enquiry sounds like a mess.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘I know, right? They’re under intense political pressure to sort it out quickly, so they’re panicking, letting criminals testify, chasing every claim and counter-claim.’

Cuong, I noticed, was in the kitchenette, his head inclined at an eavesdropping angle.

‘How’s Bruce coping?’ I asked.

‘Not well. He’s laying low, helping his dad with his boat-hire business in Somers.’

Suspended and hiding. The situation was an order of magnitude more serious than it had been yesterday. How could a bunch of idiot bikies wreak this much havoc in the upper ranks of the police? ‘I saw that bikie’s funeral on the news tonight.’

She rolled her head towards her shoulder, and a bone cracked. ‘Ricky Peck was a violent criminal, with enemies. People like him don’t drift away in a bath, they die in a hail of bullets.’

I appreciated her scepticism, but surely even violent people sometimes suffered deaths of quiet misfortune. But now was not the time to debate such things. The moment called for something reassuring. ‘Phuong …’

‘You can’t help. I understand. It was wrong to ask you. There are certain places that the average person should not voluntarily go.’

Average? Average? ‘I go to places, all sorts of places.’

‘You probably wouldn’t have the first clue about those druggy people, how to talk the language.’

‘I speak druggy.’

She sighed like she hadn’t heard me.

‘Have you had dinner, Stella?’ Cuong was beside us, resting a hand on my shoulder.

Phuong sat up, bright again. ‘I’m starving.’

‘Me too.’ Pizza didn’t count; it was a snack food.

‘Let’s get some phở.’

Food was an excellent idea. The witch juice had made me unsteady. And I suspected Phuong and Cuong had once again been nudging the cognac. Cuong was smiling strangely at me, and Phuong seemed slightly manic. I would need to keep an eye on her.