Chapter 27

Afternoon rush-hour traffic clogged the Stones Corner round­about. Irate commuters hunched in their cars, windows up, everyone cocooned in their own world of talk radio or music or podcasts – whatever it was that got them through.

Harry had spent the day in a daze. Partly from the lack of sleep. Partly from Afsoon’s revelations. And partly just from being with Jess.

It was past midnight when she returned to Harry’s after dropping Afsoon home. While she was out, Harry went over his notes and played back the interview. Ahmed had confided in his wife some of Rob’s concerns leading up to his death. Magic was a big deal for them. Ahmed had not performed any since arriving in Australia. He said that was part of his old life. He was leaving it all behind. Afsoon had trouble enough getting him to speak Pashto around the house.

That all changed when Rob turned up on his doorstep, wanting to quiz him about the ‘protection’ tattoo Ahmed wore. After all these years, Rob had remembered the story Ahmed had told him in the aftermath of the Fajar Baru incident. A story about a special tattoo that would protect the wearer from harm or, failing that, wreak vengeance on the wearer’s enemies.

Harry shook his head. Shit – Rob must’ve been desperate.

Ahmed tried to tell Rob that all that was in the past, but then Rob spilled his guts. Telling Ahmed about the drug deal, the massacre in Afghanistan, the rape. About how Andrew Cardinal had tried to cover his tracks. Bury the story so deep it would never see the light of day.

When Jess got back, he poured two big glasses of red wine and they sat out in the back garden, listening to the possums scratching about in the mango tree. Harry filled her in on all the latest on the Swenson story, and how it seemed to tie in with Cardinal. Harry copied the Swenson Construction documents for Jess. She was going to turn her eye for shonky deals onto it.

Harry felt as though he had a future with Jess. It was stupid. She was married. And he’d only been away from Bec a matter of weeks. Less than a month ago, they’d had their routine. Monday night watching the ABC. Late-night shopping on Thursday. Sleep-in on Saturday. Sunday morning at the New Farm markets. He thought he was so in love with her. And now…

Things just felt so easy with Jess. He’d never believed in soul mates. But now he wasn’t so sure. Jess slept in his bed, while he took the couch. He wanted more. And he felt she wanted more. But Christine had shown his radar wasn’t really working that well right now. Was this another rebound? Or was Rob asserting himself, projecting his feelings for Kyla?

Harry stood now on the pavement for a moment, staring at Stones Corner Tattoo. The building sagged with the weight of existence. The front windows were painted – Stones Corner Tattoo, and then underneath, ‘Brisbane’s first, Brisbane’s best’ – so it was impossible to see inside. A thick coating of grime covered the glass.

Harry walked past the front door, scoping the place out. Always have an escape plan. The thought came from nowhere, but it made sense. He was scared. He didn’t know why. He’d visited West End Tattoo a couple of times, but this place had a different vibe.

He kept walking and saw the Harleys parked out the back. Saddlebags proclaiming the Dreadnorts Motorcycle Club. Harry felt the adrenaline drop into his system. He clutched his notebook like a shield and crossed the road.

A bell rang when he pushed the door open. There was a low counter, panelled in fake wood, with a mock granite top. Behind that, a doorway that presumably led through to the studio out the back. Harry could hear a tattoo machine buzzing.

The walls were covered with designs: grinning skulls, naked babes, dragons and arcane scrollwork. A man pushed through the plastic strips. He was in his forties, arms covered in tattoos blotchy with age.

Harry felt self-conscious in his shirt and tie, but he imagined he’d feel self-conscious no matter what he was wearing. The man looked him up and down, seemed to decide Harry wasn’t here for a tatt.

‘Yeah?’

Harry cleared his throat. ‘Hi, I’m a reporter with the Chermside Chronicle. I’m looking for a guy called Rabs. I understand he used to work here a while back.’

The guy stared at him for a couple of seconds before turning to the doorway.

‘Hey, Pablo! Got a guy here lookin’ for Rabs.’

The buzzing stopped.

‘Oh yeah? Send him through.’

The guy at the counter held a hand out, gesturing towards the curtain. Harry walked around the counter, trying to see through the strips. He could see people back there, but not who or how many.

Harry had a vision of walking through there and seeing Cardinal’s henchmen waiting for him: Heathy running his fingers through his bedraggled blond hair, and Crow with his thumbs hooked in his belt, arms framing his sizeable gut. Ah, Harry, we’ve been waiting for you. He pushed through, ready to run, conscious of the counter guy following him through. He remembered the fight at the Shelter Bar, wishing he had some of Rob’s SAS training.

There were four chairs out the back, but only one of them was being used. Like West End Tattoo, the space here was a strange mix of hair salon, dentist’s surgery and mechanic’s shop. Like West End there were pieces of art all over the walls, only here there were also a couple of calendars with bare-breasted women leering out. At the back of the room there was another doorway. This one was closed. There were no locks on it so presumably it led to another room, rather than outside.

The guy in the chair had his shirt off. With his big beard and hairy chest he reminded Harry of a bear. Most of his skin was covered in tattoos. The tattooist was younger than Harry expected. Scrawny-looking, with a goatee and crazy hair. Harry thought the man was going to stop his work while he talked, but he changed the needle in the machine and carried on.

‘Rabs, hey?’ the tattooist said. ‘And what would a nice-looking guy like you want with Rabs?’

‘I’m a reporter with the Chermside Chronicle,’ Harry said. ‘Sorry, Harry. Harry Hendrick.’ Harry held out his hand.

The tattoo machine buzzed away. Ink mixed with blood. Pablo wiped it away with a paper towel scrunched up into a ball in his hand. He ignored Harry’s hand. The guy in the chair seemed not to have noticed Harry at all. Harry dropped his hand.

‘I’m working on a story about Brisbane tattooists. I hear Rabs was a bit of a legend.’

‘The Chermside Chronicle, hey? Stones Corner seems a bit out of your patch.’

‘Well, the scope is a bit bigger than Chermside.’

‘Got a lot of tattoo fans up there?’

Now Pablo did look up. His eyes were pale blue, and they seemed to stare right through Harry, right through the lie. Harry looked away. The tattooist looked back down at his work.

‘It’s just funny, you coming here and asking about Rabs,’ he said. He turned to the trolley and dipped the needle into a small pot of ink, ran the machine, then turned it off again with the foot pedal. ‘Because I hear tell of some prick who’s been stealing old Rabsy’s designs. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?’

Harry had a split-second to consider his options. Telling the truth wasn’t one of them. Even trying to tell part of the truth would lead down a rabbit warren from which no sane person would think Harry was telling the truth.

Harry shook his head. ‘No.’

‘Interesting,’ Pablo said.

Outside, a Harley burst into life. Harry jumped.

‘As it happens, Harry Hendrick, I do know where Rabs is. And I’m happy to give you the address.’

***

The light was failing by the time Harry was shown into his room. Mack at West End Tattoo had warned him that Rabs was not the sort of bloke who bore fucking with, but the Rabs Harry was looking at was barely a man at all.

His head lolled to one side, drool staining the pillow under his head. White hair stood up in tufts. Tattoos peeked out from under his grey pyjamas. His hands rested on top of the blue blanket, letters on his knuckles proclaiming STAY and TRUE.

Harry was so transfixed he didn’t see the woman sitting beside his bed until she stood up. She was in her sixties. Dressed smartly. A weak smile touched her face when Harry entered the room.

‘Hello. You must be Harry. Pablo told me you were coming.’ A Scottish accent.

‘Hi.’

Harry crept in. A nurse squeaked past outside. Somewhere further down the ward, someone broke into a hacking cough.

‘I’m Liz. Rabs’ wife.’ She took his hand and led him to a chair by Rabs’ bed.

‘Please, sit. So what is this you’re working on?’

Harry felt awful, but lied anyway. ‘I’m doing some research on tattooing. Brisbane tattooists. I asked around. Rabs was a legend, or so I’m told.’

Liz smiled. ‘Yes, he had his good days. Won a few competitions.’

Thunder boomed in the distance.

‘I’m sorry,’ Harry said. ‘But Pablo didn’t really explain. What happened?’

‘It was a few years ago now…2008. We were doing some early Christmas shopping. Rabs hated it. Hated the shops. But I always made him come at Christmas-time. Presents for the kids – even though they’re all grown up these days.

‘We were at Indooroopilly, you know, the big shopping centre there. We’d finished and Rabs was pushing the trolley out into the car park. It was really busy. Cars everywhere. If we’d parked somewhere else…’

She was finding it hard to hold it together.

‘Someone was waiting a couple of storeys up, the police said. Our level sort of jutted out, so they were right above us. They put a besser brick in a shopping bag. Dropped it.’

She pressed a hand against her mouth. ‘Police found cigarette butts up there. Another brick. Presumably in case the first one missed.

‘It didn’t miss. Doctors said he was lucky not to be killed. Some days, I’m not sure about that.’

She patted his hand.

‘Did they catch who did it?’

She shook her head. ‘No. Security footage wasn’t much help. Because it was outside. The lighting wasn’t very good. He was big. Big gut. Jeans, denim vest. Police said it was to do with some feud between rival bikie gangs.’

Harry nodded. He held up his notebook. ‘Sorry, do you mind?’

She waved it away. Harry scribbled some notes.

‘And what do you think?’

‘This isn’t just about tattooists, is it?’

Harry wanted to remove his shirt, or roll up his sleeves and show her the tattoos. He suppressed the urge. Yeah, she looked harmless. She looked like someone who had been well and truly fucked over. But it would be just as hard for her to accept the provenance of the tattoos as it would anyone other than Jess, and possibly Sandy. He shook his head.

‘Are you interviewing me?’ Liz asked.

‘We can call this background. It means that I won’t attribute anything to you. In fact, I won’t publish any of this stuff unless I can get it confirmed by at least two other sources. And, of course, I won’t name you when I’m seeking that confirmation,’ he said.

She looked at him warily.

‘To be honest, Liz. I don’t know if I’ve got a story. There are just pieces of information at the moment. Possibly unrelated. But I’ve got a feeling there’s something in it.’

She nodded, looked down at her hands, entwined in her lap.

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I don’t think it was to do with any rivalry between the clubs. Rabs was never directly involved with the clubs. We hung out with a lot of bikies, and the shop was owned – is still owned – by the Dreadnorts.

‘We would have known if there was something going on. If the boss had known that someone was out to get Rabs, he would have told him.’

She reached up and held Rabs’ hand. It was almost pitch black outside now, a storm rolling in and blocking out the last vestiges of sunset. Wind rattled the window.

‘The other thing is, why attack Rabs? He was good, sure. But you’ve seen what bikies do when they want to close down a tattoo parlour. They firebomb it. Or they bust in and trash it, give the tattooists a bit of a rough-up. Happens all the time.

‘This was just Rabs.’

Other than the subtle rise and fall of his chest, Rabs hadn’t moved. He couldn’t move. Harry wondered if the tattooist was taking all this in, desperately trying to speak. If he could talk through his tattoos, what would he say?

‘So, what do you think happened?’

‘Rabs knew something. Someone didn’t want it coming out.’

‘Do you have any idea what it was about?’

Liz shrugged. ‘Drugs, presumably. I warned Rabs about it. They used to cut drugs out in that back room at Stones Corner. Rabs said they always made sure it was after hours.

‘That would explain why the cops didn’t chase it. As far as they were concerned, anyone connected with the Dreadnorts, in any way, deserved what they got.

‘I called the police every week after it happened. Every week. Got the run-around. Eventually they told me, point-blank: “Forget about it, love. It’s over.” Pricks.’

She squeezed Rabs’ hand again. In her eyes was a glimmer of hope that one day he might squeeze back.

‘Oh, and there was that guy, the one who went missing. Got Rabs to do a lot of tattoos on him. Rabs got home quite late one night, said that this guy had come in just as he was packing up. Rabs did the job anyway.

‘A couple of days later, the guy disappeared, and then this happened.’

‘Do you remember his name?’

She rolled her eyes to the ceiling, trying to remember.

‘Yeah, it was that army guy. Rob someone.’