16

I TOOK Tuesday afternoon off, with Fatima’s blessing, and Loretta and I took the tram to the Royal Women’s hospital for her first appointment with a doctor.

We were seen within the hour. The doctor pressed her hands on Loretta’s belly, took her blood pressure, and took various samples for other tests. Loretta was slightly underweight, but otherwise healthy. Due to the late stage of this first contact with a health professional, we were given an ‘urgent’ status for immediate ultrasound. There’d been a cancellation, so we went straight up. That led to another hour in another waiting room. Loretta and I were the last people left. I flipped through a two-year-old Hello and jotted down recipes from a New Idea. She was glued to her phone.

A squirt of lube on her belly and a wave of the magic scanning device, and presto, a foetus popped up on the screen. A baby girl, growing normally, heart beating rapid and strong. Tears streamed from my eyes, I’d never seen anything so remarkable. Perhaps I was tired, or the events of the last few days were weighing on me, because a loud sob escaped. Loretta patted my shoulder and smiled. I admired the tough little elf.

Now that Loretta was considered a patient of the hospital, we were encouraged to attend antenatal classes and take the tour of the maternity wards. We both knew it was more likely that the birth would happen in a hospital near Woolburn, probably Mildura Base Hospital. But at least she was in the system, and the health of mother and child was established. Arranging the right hospital was a bridge we could jump off when we came to it.

We celebrated with tea and cake in the hospital café. On the tram journey home, she thanked me.

‘Don’t mention it.’ My emotions were back in check.

‘Ben told me you were caring. You act like you don’t care, but really you do.’

‘Of course I do. I’m going to take care of you until you’re safely in Woolburn, and then my mother will care for you.’

‘What’s she like?’

‘Delia?’ An irascible, hyper-critical, conservative non-sufferer of fools or anyone not bestowed with a punishing work ethic. ‘Oh, you’ll love her, she’s a warm-hearted, generous, sweet old lady.’ One word of truth in there: old.

As Tuesday came to an end, I fell asleep on the sofa, pleased that Loretta was having proper prenatal care. I also noted with some relief that, once again, I had not heard from Brash all day. But I didn’t need a text to know that, having made zero progress on Joe Phelan’s murder, I was one day closer to mush.

After work on Wednesday, I came out of the office, got in the Mazda, and drove east. A moronic idea at that time of day. The congestion seemed to send some drivers mad, resulting in deranged lane-hopping. Peak hour was a test of character, and unless swearing and murderous rage was considered good character, I failed. Dripping with sweat, I continued down the Maroondah Highway, suburb after suburb, until the urge to kill someone became overwhelming.

Over the next hill, I saw the problem, roadworks, with one lane closed. I was in for a long evening. I cracked a window. The stop-starting and the stale air in the car combined made me woozy.

I fell into ruminating on what Velvet Stone had told me. I’d gone over it and over it, and hadn’t gotten anywhere. Someone anonymous had sent Velvet that first email, the one setting up the meeting with Joe. That person had seen her YouTube demonstration on the ease of detention-bracelet hacking. They’d probably searched for hacking. They wanted to know about how to hack cattle tags. That was the reason for the phone, the meetings. But something had changed when Joe managed to record Pugh. Suddenly he wanted Velvet to go to the cops. He knew he was in danger. Would the Pugh recording save him?

Maybe he’d told Velvet why the recording was so important. She was still my only lead. She’d given me a few morsels, but she knew plenty more. Plus, she’d set me up, drugged my tea, and called in some muscle — muscle she never wanted to see again. She owed me. I decided that after my meeting with the priest, I’d give Ms Stone a tingle on the blower and demand the full story. Threaten to go to the cops if she didn’t deliver. An empty threat, but it might work.

A stern voice was telling me to turn left. I’d forgotten I’d set a course with the GPS. What a blessing and a curse these things were. Tracking, watching, and recording. Always watching. Remembering my every move, my steps, my thought patterns.

I entered the sweeping circular drive of the Villa St Joseph. Elderly Catholic priests, those who were not in jail, retired to church-run nursing homes like Villa St Joseph.

A senior nun led me to a sunny veranda with a view of a green lawn. Some distance away, a woman in green overalls was pruning a rose bush. Further along, a row of priests were enjoying an early dinner, scooting their plastic chairs up to small metallic tables. The nun pointed out Father Baig. His dinner had just arrived on a tray. A plate of lamb chops, gravy, and steamed vegetables next to a large glass of red. Not bad, Catholics, not bad.

He wore no glasses and squinted at me. ‘Who are you?’

‘Stella Hardy. We had a meeting. Sorry I’m late, the traffic …’

‘Ah, you wrote to me about that article.’ He smiled and pointed to a spare chair with a trembling hand. ‘Excuse my eating in front of you, Stella. We dine early here,’ he said.

I pulled up the chair and sat. The nun returned with a mug of strong Earl Grey with milk. One sip and I felt a lot better.

‘Where is your brother incarcerated?’

‘Athol Goldwater. Minimum security. Fresh air. Could be worse.’

‘Could be worse?’ the priest mused. ‘Run by that BS crowd, mug contractors.’

‘How bad are they?’

‘Public has problems, but private … all the same. Unmitigated disaster. Here and overseas.’ The priest chewed rapidly. ‘Private consortiums scout the globe for opportunities. When a state has problems with their prison system, they offer fast, temporary solutions.’

‘Problems like what? Overcrowding?’

‘Everything: drug taking, deaths, behaviour control, high recidivism. Governments of both stripes say, “Ooh, isn’t this marvellous.”’ He clapped his hands. ‘They come to depend on these smooth-talking private setups.’

I sipped the milky tea. ‘Makes their jobs easier.’

‘Much easier. And that means governments aren’t motivated to monitor them properly, let alone address the causes of overcrowding or crime or social issues —’

His criticism had the effect of pushing me to the centre. I felt a weird urge to defend the government. Crazy. ‘But surely some people in government still develop policies —’

‘Social policy? No votes in it. Election rhetoric is all about punishment and cruelty.’

I ventured a contrary view. ‘But the fair-go thing. Australians aren’t that harsh.’

‘Rose-coloured nonsense. Australians abhor what they see as handouts. And punishment is part of our national identity. Goes back to the early days — vicious penalties dished out in the colonies for the slightest infraction. That continues right through to Aboriginal deaths in custody, asylum seekers, child incarceration, mandatory sentences. Harsher the better.’

I began to feel ill again, and drank some tea.

‘In any case, these companies are the direct cause of excessive pressures on the prison system. A private prison operator in the US lobbied for greater prison sentences, mandatory sentences, successfully increasing incarcerations rates. They told their shareholders they had every reason to be,’ he made quote fingers, ‘“optimistic about the future”.’

‘Yeah, but that’s America. Here they can’t get away with —’

‘They’re experts in aggressive marketing and lobbying. They donate, schmooze, flatter.’

‘Flatter?’

A solemn nod.

How would one flatter Pugh? Nice watch? I like your tie?

He wasn’t finished, not by a long chalk. ‘If you invested money in incarceration, would you allow a government to develop programs to address poverty?’

The question caught me off-guard. My investment plans were private. ‘Me? Certainly not. I mean, I wouldn’t invest in jails. There are ethical investments funds, aren’t there?’

A pause at last. He laid down his cutlery and sipped his wine.

‘What about the counter-pressure from advocacy groups?’ I said, thinking of Meredith.

‘Private operators are the greatest obstacle to policies of justice and fairness. Prison-reform advocates know this.’

I wondered if Meredith blamed BS12 or Pugh for the policies that kept kids in jail.

He sipped his wine. ‘Oh, strategies do exist to neutralise their influence.’

‘Such as?’ Against all expectations, I liked this commie priest.

‘You can highlight their utter mismanagement and their financial scandals.’

‘What scandals?’

‘A classic was the company that charged the UK government for a long list of prisoners wearing their detention tags. Problem was, some of the prisoners on the list were dead.’

I nearly sprayed him with tea.

‘Oh yes, this mob, the UK arm of BS12, they’ve been caught in more financial scandals than Bernie Madoff. Debts, mismanagement. A contract for prisoner escort services was rorted to the tune of two million pounds. Prisoners were said to have been delivered, but were not. A cursory glance at online newspaper articles would tell you these things.’

Would the government of this state do that? Look into BS12 and assess their competence as a contractor? Perform basic due diligence? Evidently they had not.

‘Justice cannot be privatised, it simply doesn’t work.’

I agreed with him and took my leave.

‘Good luck,’ Father Baig said.

With what, I didn’t ask.

Traffic flowed freely as I headed towards the city, blinded by a fiery sunset. There was plenty to be concerned about with BS12. But was it as bad at Athol Goldwater as Father Baig had implied? They were open about their work with cattle tags. It made sense to use the prison farm facility for research. But what of the recording? Velvet Stone and the hacking? Something was definitely up with that. Plan: call Velvet as soon as I got home.

I switched on the radio to listen to the news.

A woman has died of suspected gunshot wounds following an incident at Dights Falls in Melbourne’s north. Homicide squad detectives are investigating after Victoria Police were called to the area just after two p.m. A member of the public, who did not want to be named, said she heard the woman scream.

An ambulance spokesman said CPR was in progress on arrival, but ambulance officers soon declared the woman dead. Local residents first on the scene have told the ABC the woman had a number of tattoos, including distinctive vines on both arms, and cropped hair. Police forensic officers collected evidence throughout the morning. A section of the area remains closed to the public while police continue their investigations.

New plan: drive straight to Velvet Stone’s squat.