The Unbroken Line Read online

This was why the Ivanics didn’t fit. In the complicated knot he’d tied defending an innocent woman seven weeks earlier, he’d managed to offend a clan of violent drug dealers. But he’d made promises to them. He was in their debt.

  At the edge of the crowd the door to the room opened. Wrapped in a grey coat, without any make-up, stood Will’s mother. Her face was grim. Senior Sergeant Haigh turned her head as she heard a hush fall over the police gathered behind her.

  ‘Justice Sheehan,’ Haigh said, almost genuflecting.

  ‘Jennifer.’ Will’s mother nodded. ‘If I might have a moment alone with my son?’

  The police maintained a respectful distance as they shuffled out of the room. As soon as they were gone, Will’s mother dropped her professional demeanour and rushed to the side of the bed. Fear slid across her face as she grabbed Will by the hand.

  ‘Your face . . .’

  He struggled to rein in his emotions.

  ‘Just cuts. Maeve, please. I’m okay.’

  The shuddering impact of the car as it hit the wall before spinning to a sideways stop. The smell of the radiator coolant, the hot metal, of Eva’s blood.

  Tears welled in his eyes.

  Will’s mother squeezed his hand.

  ‘They won’t let me talk to Eva,’ he said.

  Here was a task. Something she could attend to. Maeve tapped on the door to the room and a cop – young, blond – poked his head in.

  ‘Constable, could you please go to Eva Mercuri’s room? We’re desperate to know how she is. Will would like her extension, so he can call her. Find out if she’s able to talk, please.’

  The cop started turning red.

  ‘It’s all right, Constable. You can tell your superiors that I made the request.’

  This demonstration of authority seemed to satisfy him. ‘Yes, Your Honour,’ he said as he left the room.

  Maeve turned back to Will. ‘What happened to her?’

  ‘It’s not good,’ Will said. ‘They cut her.’

  His mother’s eyes widened. ‘Where?’

  ‘Her face.’

  His mother cupped her hand over her mouth.

  Will closed his eyes.

  Maeve moved to the end of his bed. She straightened, holding onto the metal bar at its base. He could only imagine what he looked like, his bruised face patched back together with gauze and tape.

  ‘Did you know these men?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘They have nothing to do with the Ivanics?’

  ‘I can’t be sure. But it doesn’t make sense. I’ve had a meeting with them scheduled for over a week. Why attack me the evening before we’re meant to meet?’

  ‘They’re involved in a protracted gang war with the Baljaks. Perhaps it’s them?’ She tapped her wedding ring on the bar.

  ‘What’s really going on, Maeve?’

  She shook her head and breathed out. ‘I’ve stood at the bottom of your hospital bed twice in two months.’

  ‘Your point being?’

  ‘I don’t think I can stand here again. My heart couldn’t take it. Why do you go looking for trouble?’

  ‘I didn’t go looking for anything. I was driving home from a restaurant.’

  ‘Will, I love you very much but I can’t stand by and watch you do this to yourself. Repeatedly.’

  ‘I – didn’t – know – them.’

  ‘Maybe, but they knew you. Can you swear to me this was a random event?’

  Clearly it wasn’t. But he refused to let her be right about it.

  ‘How could I —’

  A tear slid down her cheek. The precise, controlled movements of her face had slipped away.

  ‘We had this fear that your temper would get you into trouble when you were older. But we never expected —’

  ‘Temper?’

  ‘The schoolyard fights.’

  ‘I remember. I was there.’

  ‘That’s why your father taught himself to box. So he could teach you. So you’d have an outlet.’

  ‘Taught himself?’

  ‘I see no reason to keep it secret any more. He wasn’t always a boxer. He spent a few weeks learning before he started to teach you.’

  ‘But he used to go down into the basement to train when I was small.’

  ‘You’re remembering wrong.’

  There wasn’t space to examine and process this revelation, to interrogate it now. So he shoved it aside to loiter with the rest of their unresolved family issues.

  His mother watched him. Will stared at the wall.

  There was a knock at the door before the calm face of Dr Malik peered around to look at them. Maeve stepped forward and shook his hand.

  ‘I’m Will’s mother. What are we looking at?’

  ‘Well,’ Malik said, sitting down on the end of the bed and waving a large white envelope at Will, ‘because you were unconscious for over a minute after the accident and reported brief visual and memory impairment, we felt it prudent to do a few tests. That’s why we ran you through a CT scan. You did receive a minor concussion during the attack, but thankfully there’s no sign of intracranial haemorrhaging or skull fracture. Under the circumstances, I’d say you’ve been very lucky. We want to keep you in overnight for observation, but assuming there are no issues, we’ll release you in the morning.’

  ‘How’s Eva?’

  ‘Fractured ulna, some bruising over her ribs. She’s with a plastic surgeon now. They’re discussing her options.’

  ‘Plastic surgeon?’

  ‘We have a very good specialist here at the hospital. He’s aware of suture techniques and new materials that will help minimise the scarring.’

  ‘What do you mean “minimise”?’

  ‘You’ll appreciate I can’t discuss Ms Mercuri’s specific medical circumstances.’

  ‘We understand,’ Maeve said.

  ‘Now as for your abdomen, you’ll want to take it easy there. You’re still tender from the last time you were with us and those stab wounds need time to heal. You have aggravated them.’

  ‘I don’t want another wheelchair. I only just got out of the last one.’

  ‘I don’t think that will be necessary. Do you have any stairs at your home or office?’

  ‘No.’

  Maeve scowled at him from behind the doctor.

  ‘Keep away from those. And maybe talk to your physio­therapist about additional exercises. This is a step back, you understand. It will take some time until you’re at your previous level of fitness.’

  Malik tapped the foot of the bed. ‘Good. Let us know if you need any more tramadol.’ He glanced at the nurse’s notations on the small whiteboard mounted on the wall beside the bed. ‘You had some three hours ago, so you’re due for more soon. I’ll fill out a prescription and a repeat before I head home tonight.’

  ‘Thank you, Doctor,’ Maeve said, shaking his hand again.

  ‘No problem.’

  As he left, Malik paused at the door. ‘Will, try to stay away from us for at least another six weeks, all right?’

  As the door swung shut, Maeve moved beside Will and placed her hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Will you go to work tomorrow?’

  ‘I don’t have any choice, really. I need to keep the firm up and running.’

  ‘Well, don’t feel you need to come to the fundraiser. You should be resting whenever you can. I think you should take some days off work too.’

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  ‘Will . . .’

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  He rubbed his eyes and tried not to think of the pressure building inside him.

  ‘Has Chris been to visit?’

  ‘No. He hasn’t been around the firm either.’

  The door opened and the young cop shuffled back into the room, his eyes filled with apprehension.

  Maeve turned to face him. ‘Eva? Did you find her?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘How is she?’

  The cop stiffened, folding his hands forma
lly in front of him, like a funeral director about to broach the topic of the bill. ‘I am sorry about all of this. I don’t —’

  ‘It’s all right, Constable. I know this is an awkward situation. I appreciate you helping out. How is Eva?’

  ‘There are bandages around her face. And, ah, she’s upset.’

  ‘Of course the woman is upset,’ Maeve said. ‘Anything we couldn’t predict ourselves?’

  ‘She’s angry. With Mr Harris.’

  ‘She’s angry at me?’ Will said.

  The cop nodded.

  Will tried to pull himself out of the bed.

  The cop folded his arms and pressed on. ‘She doesn’t want to speak to you, sir. She says it was your fault.’

  Will slumped back.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ the cop said.

  At least she was alive. That was something. There was no way their attackers could have been certain the impact wouldn’t roll the car, or that Will wouldn’t plough into the back of a truck. Every part of him wanted to be beside her now, holding her, telling her he’d make it up to her. But the drugs, the flat emptiness of spent adrenaline: these held him to the bed. There was nothing he could say to her that would make any difference. She had been attacked because of him. That was the truth of it.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Will,’ his mother said.

  He nodded. ‘Can you press the buzzer for the nurse? I’d like some more painkillers to help me sleep.’

  THREE

  Almost as soon as he started climbing the narrow staircase to his office, Will regretted not calling in sick. The tramadol did only so much to numb the pain in his gut as he gripped the brass railing and trod one step at a time towards his firm on the first floor. The building’s entrance was on Little Bourke Street, through a narrow door covered in graffiti. His partner Miller had tried to put a positive spin on the place, calling it ‘exotically boutique’, but Will felt that the entrance made them look sketchy.

  When he reached the first-floor landing, Will pushed open the door to the office. Inside, the firm exuded a wood-soaked warmth belied by its grime-encrusted exterior. The lease comprised three offices and a small reception, each well maintained and filled with the architectural embellishments that Will had grown to appreciate at his previous firm.

  Esther, their legal secretary, looked up at him from her desk with her mouth agape as Will shut the door. She got to her feet and started to move towards him.

  Will held out his hand before she could speak. ‘I’m okay. It wasn’t as bad as they made out.’

  ‘I read about it in the paper this morning.’ She still held the faint traces of a Yorkshire accent even though she’d immigrated with her parents after the war.

  ‘Thanks for your concern but I’m fine. Really. Any word from Chris?’

  Esther shook her head. The worry lines eased from her face and the gentle wrinkles of a life well lived returned.

  No sooner had he lowered his hand than Haideh burst out of her office. Will raised the hand again.

  ‘He says he’s fine,’ Esther said.

  ‘You don’t look fine.’ Something about the way her dark curls framed her face made her expressions seem more exaggerated. Her manicured eyebrows narrowed.

  ‘Haideh, it’s okay.’

  ‘Is there anything you need?’ she asked.

  ‘No, thank you. I have my painkillers,’ he said, rattling his pocket. ‘I’m fine. How are things going with Barnett?’

  ‘Good. Prosecutions submitted their evidence list this morning. I’m working my way through that now. I was wondering if I could grab you this afternoon? Your calendar says you’re all booked out.’

  ‘Meeting with a new client. If I get out of it early, I’ll give you a call.’

  ‘Works for me.’

  ‘Esther, any messages for me?’

  ‘I see. You’re being funny now.’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘There are dozens. Enquiries from the press, people wanting to make sure you’re all right. And two more parents of missing teenagers.’

  ‘Let me start with those.’

  ‘I still think we should put something on the website about it,’ Haideh said. ‘Turn them back before they call us.’

  ‘I can’t do that. I need to at least do them the courtesy of a personal email.’

  ‘It takes time away from the firm. Why not ignore them?’

  ‘The Kier case is my responsibility. I opened the door on this psychic witness nonsense. I should be the one to close it.’

  Esther nodded back to Will and handed him the call slips.

  ‘After your client meeting then,’ Haideh said, closing her door.

  Even now, a month into the new firm, Will was still surprised that the clerk had agreed to work for him. He’d invited her to join them after they’d worked together at his last firm – effectively poaching her from a previous employer. While he couldn’t offer much in terms of status he could at least expose her to more responsibility as she completed her articles. That and her own office. He’d been thrilled when she arrived at work on the first day in a new suit, with several more to follow in the coming week. She was making a go of it and letting him know how serious she was. Haideh was good people. More importantly she had the makings of a great lawyer.

  Will opened the door to the office he’d won in a coin toss against Miller. It adjoined a tower and although cramped was the reason they’d taken the lease. The walls had a pleasing curve to them while the ceiling light hung on a chain from an impressive plaster roundel. It included a small wrought-iron balcony that Miller used whenever he went out for a smoke; this almost made the prime position more trouble than it was worth.

  He cleared the sparse collection of briefs off the rented leather office chair and pushed it behind the matching wooden desk. He was glad to no longer have to navigate the room in a wheelchair. Glad also to no longer have to use the interminable, foetid freight elevator at the back of the building.

  He sat down at his laptop and opened up his email. A message from Chris Miller:

  Shit. Just heard about the accident. Hope you and Eva are okay. I’ll be off site today. Maybe tomorrow as well. Good luck with the Ivanic meeting and the hearing too. They’re already in the bag.

  – C.M.

  His cursor paused above the reply icon. Miller’s repeated absence was tainting the golden prospects that the firm once held. Will had never allowed himself to think about the likelihood of having his own practice. It had always seemed so improbable. It still did during those first few days, when stirred dust fell onto freshly waxed wooden surfaces, and the logistics of phone lines, internet and legal libraries were all busily coordinated as technicians arrived griping about the stairs. Back then it had seemed that Miller, a man about whom Will knew very little, might be the perfect business partner after all: focused when required but otherwise so easygoing that conflict seemed impossible.

  So naive.

  What he’d interpreted as easygoing now appeared to be irresponsibly casual; Miller’s focus was inconsistent and no longer on building the firm.

  Miller had sunk as much money into the practice as Will. But as a celebrated barrister, Miller’s reputation was at stake – much more than the dubious regard in which Will was held. It was inevitable that Miller would run his own firm one day but it was only three months ago that Will was almost a complete unknown – he was far from a player in Melbourne’s cutthroat legal scene.

  Fucking Miller.

  Will rubbed his eyes before creating a new email message.

  The missing teenager was more deserving of his energy. Although Will wasn’t Catholic, there was something compelling about a penance – an apology to the cosmos.

  Dear Mrs Assad,

  I am deeply sorry to hear that your daughter has been missing for two months. I can’t imagine what this must be like for you, to have no answers in what must be a profoundly painful time. I wish that there were something I could do to help you. I know that the papers made muc
h of my involvement in the capture of Amber Tasic’s murderer. I am also aware of the suggestions that I used a psychic to find this man.

  Please accept my humble apologies but I cannot help you. I do hope you find some peace of mind soon and learn of Jordan’s whereabouts. I have included a list of support agencies that might be helpful as well as the details of Brendan O’Dwyer, a private investigator I have used in the past should that option be available to you.

  Kind regards and deepest sympathies,

  William Harris

  He spent another hour working through correspondence, stopping only to open the balcony door so Toby could use his litter box. On returning, the cat watched over Will’s shoulder, providing silent advice, his eyes tracking the words as they appeared on the computer screen.

  A knock at the door.

  ‘A courier delivered this just now. Not sure if it’s for you or Chris.’

  Will looked up from the desk as Esther handed him a padded parcel.

  ‘Thanks. Could you book me a car for an hour from now? I need to head out to meet this new client.’

  ‘Of course.’ Esther paused.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Well . . . You did ask if I’d heard anything from Chris.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I didn’t hear, per se.’

  She held out a copy of the day’s newspaper marked with a post-it note.

  Will flipped it open. Photos from the opening of a glossy burlesque show at the casino last night. Miller was freshly shaved and dressed in sharkskin with a thin black tie, doing his best to smoulder at the camera with his steely blue eyes. He was overcompensating. Little surprise given the younger, square-jawed man standing next to him: Mark Eldon, Aussie Rules football star. Each had a model at their side.

  So that’s why he didn’t make it to the hospital.

  Will closed the paper and handed it back to Esther. ‘Thanks.’

  Will picked up the parcel as Esther shut the door. It was addressed to the firm, Miller Harris. Inside was a wad of photocopied pages held together with a large elastic band. Clipped to the front was a pre-typed thank-you note under a letterhead of black and white stylised archways. It was from the National Archives.

  At a quick glance the pages were a seemingly random assortment of historical information from the late 1700s and early 1800s: a ship’s manifest from 1789; a genealogy; supply ledgers from the New South Wales Corps; and dozens of deeds of sale for land around Port Jackson.