~16~

THE WORLD WAS LIKE A GIANT FAN-FORCED OVEN. Thick, serious clouds had already started to pack the sky on the horizon, climbing up and up on top of one another, pressing the lower clouds into a shadowy grey. Humidity squeezing out of them, like wringing a sponge.

He sat down for breakfast at a café in the QVB, bustling with tourists. Bright and shiny, except for Jack. Checked the menu but only had the appetite for a long black and a croissant. He lingered with the paper, got into Susko Books late. Crossed York Street, glanced up at the clock on Town Hall: 10.40 a.m. As usual, there was no crowd waiting impatiently for him to open up.

But there was some fresh graffiti, on the wall beside the steps leading down to Sydney’s finest-quality book emporium. It said: LET IT GO. When Jack unlocked the front door and stepped inside, he wondered about his chances. As he looked around the place, he did not think they were very good.

Susko Books was all over the floor. Rifled. Ransacked. Ravaged. The anger swelled in Jack’s chest like a heart attack. A few aisles had been spared, but the rest had been roughly cleared. The counter, too, was a mess of papers and invoices and bills, dumped out of the expanding files that were stored underneath. The drawers of the filing cabinet under the desk were pulled out and drooping off their runner-grooves like a couple of emptied pockets. Spilt wine always looked like more than had been in the glass, and Jack now knew the same was true of books. He gazed around, silent, a little amazed to see just how many books there were. As though he had never sold one in his whole life.

Viktor Kablunak? But his boys had already been around. And it was clear that Kablunak was going to injure Jack if he did not deliver the Sergius to him. So who? The same party that had broken into his apartment? Who else knew about the Sergius — and, more to the point, who else knew that Jack had been sent the thing? Shane Ferguson naturally did, but Jack seriously doubted this was any of his work. Then there was Larissa, but she had Jack as an alibi for the whole night gone. Maybe she had told somebody? Maybe Richard de Groot himself ? Jack could visualise his bodyguard Lewis going to town on his bookshelves, looking for the Bible. But why would Larissa tell de Groot? She was attempting to steal the thing from him, after all …

He walked towards the counter, trying not to step on his stock. He bent down and picked a few books off the floor and carried them over. Put them down, gently. He noticed a slim, wrinkled, black-covered paperback that had seen better days. Fragments by Heraclitus. Maybe that was what Jack needed, at this difficult time. Ancient insight. A little universal wisdom. He flipped the book open and planted his finger. Page 6.

Never the straight answer.

After a while, Jack’s anger settled a little. The adrenaline in his body began to clear. Then something occurred to him: how did they get in? He went over to the front door again and had a look. The lock was intact. He ran to the rear door that opened out onto Market Row, the more likely break-and-enter spot. Locked tight. What the fuck?

Somebody had got in with keys. Maybe the same keys that had been used on Leinster Street. Apart from the ones in Jack’s pocket, there were only two other spare sets. One was back at the apartment, in the top drawer of the sideboard. The other set was in the glove box of the Toyota.