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Chapter 6

First Man Eaten

Several hours later, after another frustrating afternoon at the office (where no record of any interview with Captain Roberts could be found), Conan was sitting just across the road from her chapter house, sipping a coffee of surprisingly good quality and enjoying the noise of the street and the evening cooking smells from so many open air kitchens. He’d picked up a tattered print out of the Ord City Times and was reading about another refugee boat sunk (allegedly) by the Dedd Reffo sub, the Eureka, and the Giant Array – a huge field of radio telescopes about fifty kilometres south – which was on the brink of some major breakthrough.

Unlike Conan’s case, which was going nowhere.

The one small result he’d had was a report back from forensics on the card found in Wing Ho’s shoe. The handwriting referred to the address where the bodies had been found, and also seemed to refer to Epistola Clementis which was part of the URL he had copied from the locked computer in the dead men’s flat. And when Conan did a search on those words he had been intrigued to learn that Epistola Clementis was Latin for ‘The Letter of Clement’. There was very little on the net about it, but what there was seemed to suggest that the Letter was a controversial document from the early Catholic Church.

Conan had wanted to take the dead men’s computers in to go through their search history but Loongy had absolutely refused.

‘Case closed, Tools,’ he’d said. ‘There’s too much for forensics to do up here so we can’t waste any more time on Sydney politics.’

‘Since when is an Ord City double murder Sydney politics?’

‘Since you came up to waste our time,’ said Loongy. ‘I’ve been talking to your boss … he says you should go.’

‘He hasn’t told me that,’ said Conan, although in truth, there was an email from Kenny Cook which he hadn’t opened.

Conan took another sip of his coffee and glanced at his watch.

Something felt wrong. It was clear that Loongy was deliberately preventing him from making progress with the investigation and, in all likelihood, it truly would be a waste of time to pursue it further. Everything pointed to a Dedd Reffo (or Habal Tong) execution and the world would hardly end because of it. But why send him up in the first place if they didn’t want the crime investigated?

Conan rubbed at his eyes and felt his frustration seething. First he’d been taken off the remote terror investigation – which was clearly still a massive threat to the NBN node south of Ord City. Then he’d been sent up here on a wild goose chase – a wild goose they didn’t want him to catch!

Nothing made sense and Conan suspected he’d soon be back in Sydney and increasingly marginalised – unless he could somehow pull off a huge win from the total fucking shambles of Ord City.

He drained his cup and left the café, ignoring the clamouring street traders and dashing between the hundreds of motorbikes that mostly constituted Ord City traffic.

Just before nine o’clock, he slipped into the Army of God chapter house. The main hall was about a quarter full, some with their heads bowed in prayer and the rest lounging in studied irreverence. At the front of the room, Lieutenant Rice and Captain Roberts – Melodie – sat watching another man in the same black uniform who stood with his palms raised, his eyes closed and finishing some kind of prayer in a sweetly melodious baritone.

‘… and please, Lord, open the hearts and minds of all Australians of all faiths, but especially the non-believers. Let your light into their souls and give them the grace … the peace … the absolute bliss and joy that we, who already bathe in your light and love, get to know every day. Open the gates to your kingdom of heaven and let your love shine forth to bathe the upturned faces of all humanity!’

‘Harr-aruya!’ cried a small Chinese man, rather detracting from the enchantment of the baritone.

‘… give them freedom from doubt,’ continued the Man in Black. ‘Give them your faith, your knowledge, your certainty that there is a life eternal … forever by your side in the Garden … Eden restored.’

‘Harr-aruya!’

Conan took a chair at the back, slightly away from the others and caught Melodie’s eye for a moment. She stared, then turned primly away to watch her colleague finish his prayer. The mellifluous baritone rumbled to a conclusion.

‘Harr-aruya! Harr-aruya!’

The little Chinese man, dressed only in blue checked shorts and a white singlet, was in a world of his own, completely oblivious to the impact of his interjections on the devout spell cast by the voice of the Man in Black. Conan found himself thoroughly amused by the theatre – especially when the Chinese man embraced the speaker, chattering excitedly as the taller man suffered the embrace with obviously strained indulgence.

Then Melodie stood and announced, ‘We will just take a short break before the Great Debate. Please help yourselves to coffee and tea.’

With that she disappeared through a door at the back, followed by the Man in Black. The congregation all stood and shuffled towards the table at the side of the room where a large urn was plugged in and started helping themselves.

‘You were here this morning.’

Conan looked up to see Lieutenant Rice smiling at him.

‘I was.’

‘Would you like a tea or coffee?’

Conan stood and walked towards the back of the queue, followed by Lieutenant Rice, who struck Conan as the sort of bloke who’d be first man eaten in a horror film.

‘Who’s that leading the prayers?’ asked Conan.

‘That would be Major Lammas,’ said Lieutenant Rice, his adoration plain.

‘Major Lammas,’ repeated Conan. ‘He has a nice speaking voice.’

‘And an even nicer message,’ said Rice.

‘If you’re into that kind of thing.’

Rice cocked an eyebrow as they shuffled towards the urn.

‘Not a believer … Mister … erm … ’

‘Tooley. Conan Tooley … but you can call me Tools.’

Rice smiled and said, ‘You spoke with Captain Roberts this morning.’

‘That’s true … not for long.’

It was clear that Melodie had not reported her conversation with Conan to Rice, whose curiosity blazed.

‘Was there anything, perhaps, that I could help you with?’

‘What, like … how to hide from a T-Rex?’

Rice’s eyes widened, as Conan maintained his serious straight face.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Never mind … what’s Major Lammas’s story?’

‘Ah … well, the Major is one of the Ord City War Councillors.’

‘Top brass?’

‘Exactly. General Jessup … Major Maddox, who runs the hospitals … and Major Lammas. They’re the senior officers for the region … although the General’s mainly in Perth.’

The queue had shuffled forward as they spoke and Rice reached for a mug.

‘I love urn coffee,’ he said. ‘I actually prefer it to barista.’

‘That’s fascinating,’ said Conan. ‘So, why is Lammas here tonight? How does he fit into the local picture?’

Rice gave a tight smile in response to Conan’s sarcasm, then said, ‘Our chapter house falls within the eastern division of Ord City … which is Major Lammas’s division.’

‘He’s your boss?’

‘Well, strictly speaking Captain Roberts is my boss … but what about …’

‘Aah yes, Captain Roberts,’ interrupted Conan. ‘What’s her story?’

Conan accepted a mug from Lieutenant Rice and grimaced as he sipped the tepid muck with its nasty tang.

‘Captain Roberts?’ mused Rice. ‘Erm … she’s from Melbourne … went to ANU. She studied Asian Languages and joined the Army of God when she was still in first year.’

‘She seems full of secrets,’ said Conan, watching Rice closely.

‘Secrets?’ echoed Rice, ‘… odd thing to say. Still, she is a captain and head of the chapter. She would learn a lot that doesn’t make it down to my security clearance level.’

‘You have that in the Army of God? Security clearance?’

‘I’m sure they have it in all professional organisations,’ said Rice.

‘But don’t you feel left out?’ pressed Conan, ‘… when they’re having their secrets?’

Most of the people around the table had drifted pack to the seats but the buzz of the hall suddenly stilled. Conan turned to see that Melodie and Major Lammas had resumed their seats at the front of the congregation.

‘Ooh … time to sit down,’ said Rice, grabbing the opportunity to change the suddenly uncomfortable subject. ‘Enjoy the Great Debate.’

‘What about Roberts and Lammas though?’ asked Conan, as Rice tried to scurry away.

‘What about them?’

‘Are they … ’

‘What?’

‘Bonking?’

Lieutenant Rice’s face went white, and then a deep red. He opened his mouth but then turned and strode back to his seat, leaving Conan grinning in his wake.

The first part of the Great Debate was fairly predictable, and not much of a debate. Major Lammas, who would have been late thirties and looked a bit like a young George Clooney, spoke in that hypnotic voice of his about certain moral themes which united all religions.

‘So you say every time,’ interjected a smallish, bearded man in a tee shirt and skull cap. ‘But despite the commonalities … you somehow conclude that Christianity is the one true path.’

‘Hello Razzaq,’ said Lammas, ‘nice to see you back again. Well … Christianity does have one major advantage over other religions. It was started by Jesus.’

‘It was not started by Jesus,’ said Razzaq. ‘Jesus was a Jew … he simply added his own spin to the Jewish faith, which was much, much older.’

‘I think the second covenant with God is a bit more than spin,’ smiled Lammas, his fingers indicating inverted commas. ‘Our relationship with God was enormously deepened by the words and deeds of Jesus.’

‘And further deepened by the words and deeds of the Prophet Mohammed,’ said Razzaq. ‘Now they are deepened yet again by the tenets of Habal Tong which …’

‘Which isn’t a religion,’ said Lammas, finishing Razzaq’s sentence for him.

‘No … it is not a religion,’ agreed Razzaq. ‘Not in the way that ‘religion’ is normally understood. Habal Tong allows us a better appreciation of our birth religions and at the same time fortifies us with the spirit of unity … of oneness. If Christians could just get over their terrible arrogance regarding Jesus, they might also find something truly profound in Habal Tong.’

‘I hardly think Christians are arrogant,’ said Melodie, speaking for the first time. ‘We are humble … extremely humble.’

‘So humble it makes you proud,’ sneered Razzaq, getting a laugh from all except the church officers.

‘How exactly do you think Christians arrogant?’ queried Major Lammas.

‘They are arrogant,’ said Razzaq, ‘because they are the only ones who believe their prophet to be the son of God. No other religion makes such an outlandish claim.’

‘Hardly outlandish,’ replied Lammas in his smooth baritone. ‘But we’re not here to argue about which religion is best … we’re here to talk about what we have in common.’

‘We have nothing in common,’ snapped Razzaq. ‘While you go on believing your prophet to be a deity you believe yourselves above the rest of us. I find that deeply insulting. We all do.’

Razzaq seemed to be getting angry and the buzz of the room went up a notch. Conan could hardly keep the grin off his face as some of the non-Christians started shouting while Lammas remained implacably calm in the face of their rising hostility.

‘Please Razzaq,’ said Lammas, ‘do try to calm your companions. We are having an intelligent discussion … not a shouting match.’

‘What is the point of discussion?’ demanded Razzaq. ‘Talk, talk, talk is meaningless. The only thing that matters is action.’

‘Well, why do you come to the Great Debate, if you think talk is meaningless?’ asked Melodie.

‘To combat the evil of the Christian message,’ shouted Razzaq. ‘You are evil! Look at you all … dressed in black like Satan! Doing his work in the name of Jesus!’

‘Now you’re becoming offensive,’ chided Lammas in his magnificent baritone. ‘Please moderate or we’ll have to ask you leave again.’

‘Fuck you!’ shouted Razzaq leaping up. ‘Fuck you and all Christians!’

With that he swept out of the room followed by most of the other non-Christians, all laughing and shouting at the sad looking figures in black. Conan sat grinning at the back of the room, awaiting developments.

But after the excitement, the evening suddenly ended. The little Chinese man spoke earnestly with the Army of God officials for a few minutes but Conan couldn’t quite hear what they were talking about. Then just as he decided to get up and leave also, Major Lammas excused himself from the small man’s embrace and glided over to Conan before he could escape.

‘How do you do?’ he asked, in that bewitching voice, collaring Conan with his Clooney-esque looks.

‘I do very well,’ said Conan.

‘Agent Tooley, isn’t it?’

‘Call me Tools.’

‘Tools,’ repeated Lammas. ‘I’m Tom Lammas.’

‘Captain Roberts’ fiancé?’

‘That honour is indeed mine … but you’ve been asking about Bruce and Michael?’

‘I have … not that anyone can tell me much.’

‘There’s not a lot to tell, as far as I know,’ said Lammas. ‘They were occasional visitors here … but somewhat more polite than Razzaq.’

‘Razzaq,’ laughed Conan, ‘… one passionate fellow.’

‘He certainly is,’ agreed Lammas. ‘But what about you, Tools? What’s your passion?’

‘My passion?’ echoed Conan. ‘Christ … god knows.’

Lammas’ face darkened and Conan felt strangely uncouth for his casual blasphemy.

‘Sorry,’ he said, lamely. ‘I’m not used to these sorts of places.’

‘And yet … here you are,’ said Lammas, brightening after the apology. ‘We can’t help you with Bruce and Michael … but maybe we can help with your soul?’

‘Oh, I … I doubt that,’ said Conan. ‘But there is something you can help me with. I’m trying to understand the words: Epistola Clementis.’

Lammas’ eyes blazed, for a moment, and Conan felt the old instinct – the one he used to get talking to junkies about stolen cigarettes.

But then Lammas smiled and shook his head, ‘Ah Tools … just doing your job I suppose … ’

‘And … ’

‘And yes … Bruce and Michael were interested in the Epistola Clementis, but it had nothing to do with their disappearance?’

‘How can you know that when you weren’t there when it happened? So I presume.’

‘You presume correctly,’ said Major Lammas, giving Conan a hard stare. ‘But the Epistola Clementis is just an obscure document from the earliest days of the church. It has no relevance today.’

‘And yet Bruce and Michael were clearly very interested in it. Can you tell me what it was?’

‘I’m sure you can find that in any library, Agent Tooley … or google it for the real misinformation. You must excuse me.’

Lammas turned and strode past Melodie and Lieutenant Rice into the kitchen. Melodie gave Conan a last angry look and followed Lammas. Rice followed Melodie, and Conan took a last glance about the room before leaving himself, still grinning at the performance of Razzaq.

• • •

The streets were still full at quarter past ten. Conan found himself enjoying the frenzied activity, the babble of language and exotic cooking smells and suddenly understood Ord City’s popularity as a tourist destination. Walking along Whitlam Street, his mouth was watering at the smell of chilli, garlic and frying onions so he bought a box of Singapore noodles with prawns and chicken from a street vendor.

Everyone back in Sydney had warned him not to eat the street food, but he decided to brave it and was rewarded with the nicest stir fry he could ever remember eating. He dumped the box on top of a bin overflowing with similar garbage and continued towards his hotel, enjoying the sights and sounds and the tingle of lime and chilli on his lips and tongue.

So different, he was thinking. So, so different from everywhere else in Australia – all the energy and excitement of Asia with the order and rules of the first world. Some of them, at least.

And that’s when Conan realised he was being followed.

At first it was just a sense of being watched – a prickling of the skin that made him feel like bolting. But he quelled the urge to run and feigned interest in another wok chef working like crazy, giving him the opportunity to stand facing back the way he’d come, and saw three Asian men come to a confused stop some fifteen metres away, all of them trying not to look at him.

They’re not muggers, Conan knew. No point in mugging these days when cash no longer exists.

The three men all lit cigarettes and Conan took the opportunity to slip behind a truck stopped in traffic and ran, conscious that there weren’t many western types on the street at that time of night so his height made him conspicuous.

Doubled over, Conan ran into a side street, then turned immediately into a smaller laneway – much darker than Whitlam Street and which seemed abandoned, if that was possible in Ord City. Heading in what he hoped was the direction of his hotel, he ran into even deeper darkness and was shocked when the lane ended with a high wall. It was too late to get back to the lane’s entrance so he ducked behind a skip and stared back the way he’d come.

It was weirdly quiet after the chaos of Whitlam Street and Conan began to wonder who might be chasing him. They looked Chinese, but he’d only had a quick glance in the dim light.

‘Didn’t take me long to make enemies,’ thought Conan. Then, on reflection, he wondered whether he’d simply been mistaken. Why, after all, should anyone be following him?

After another minute or two, Conan stepped out from behind the skip and walked cautiously back the way he’d come. And then he saw three red pinpricks of light – three glowing cigarettes at the entrance to the lane.

He stopped dead still and shrank against the wall to his right. All three cigarettes were thrown to the ground and stamped out in a brief shower of sparks. The darkness was almost complete.

In fact, Conan had a police issued weapon but he’d not bothered with it that evening. Now he had to deal with the consequences, hearing in advance the scathing criticism of Kenny Cook for not following protocol – presuming he’d be lucky enough ever to hear Kenny scathe again.

A motor bike went by the lane and the brief wash of light silhouetted three figures walking towards him, maybe thirty metres away. Not quite panicking, Conan considered the skip as a place to hide, but rejected it as too obvious. He groped along the wall and found a door which was partly open but didn’t move when pushed. He sensed the door had swollen with damp and might be forced open, but that would make a noise and alert his pursuers.

He could hear cautious muttering and knew he had only seconds to decide.

A torch flicked on and Conan threw his weight against the door, which flew open with a grating squeal. He had a brief glimpse of stairs in the torchlight and jammed the door shut behind him. Then, in pitch blackness, he groped for the rail and ran up the stairs through cobwebs and what felt like damp hanging laundry.

The door behind him banged open and the torchlight, two flights below, gave him just enough light to increase his pace. His chasers didn’t cry out but he could hear their steps and heavy breathing – always about a flight below him. After six flights the stairs ended at a T-junction and Conan went right while tearing his watch from his wrist. Then, just as his chasers reached the top of the stairs, he flung the watch back into the darkness of the left turn. The watch clattered along the floor and the torch light went left as Conan bolted to the right along a corridor with a hint of light through some upper windows. The corridor turned right then left and, his sense of direction completely gone, Conan was amazed to see two uniformed police sitting outside a door sealed with blue and white police tape.

He slowed as they glanced up at him, and Conan knew the immediate chase was over.

‘Good evening,’ he said, his heart hammering and sweat pouring off his brow.

‘Good evening,’ responded one of the coppers, neither of whom he recognised from earlier. Both looked Chinese.

‘This is Bruce and Michael’s place, right? I was here this morning with Loongy.’

‘With who?’ asked the taller of the two, a senior officer by his stripe.

‘Loongy … Edward Loong,’ said Conan, still trying to get his breath back and glancing back the way he’d come. It seemed the pursuit had ended.

The two coppers looked at each other and shrugged.

‘You guys know who I am?’ asked Conan.

Again they shrugged, and Conan produced his badge. ‘Agent Tooley from Sydney. I’m actually investigating these murders … or supposed to be.’

Their eyes narrowed, and understanding seemed to dawn.

‘So … any chance of opening up for me?’

Yet again the two glanced at each other, then Stripe said, ‘I suppose so … but there’s nothing to see.’

‘Let me be the judge of that,’ said Conan, his breath returning to normal and the sweat cooling under his clothes. ‘What are your names?’

Stripe got up from his chair and produced a key ring. ‘Senior Officer Greg Lee, and that’s Officer Wally Wong.’

‘Wally Wong,’ repeated Conan, unable to prevent a grin. ‘Sounds like you’d have your own postcode.’

Wally Wong stared impassively as Senior Officer Lee pulled away the police tape.

‘There really is nothing to see,’ he said, opening the door.

Conan followed him into the dead men’s flat and, when the light was turned on, just stared.

The room had been emptied.

• • •

‘Hey, Conan?’

‘Lucia? What time is it?’

Conan hadn’t found his watch – an old style watch he wore in addition to his OzBrace. He’d hunted unsuccessfully with a torch borrowed from Senior Officer Lee before he returned to his hotel. After two beers in the bar, he’d gone up to his room about midnight. And minutes after his head hit the pillow, his phone rang.

Lurching from sleep, he’d answered the phone before he’d properly woken and was struggling to make sense of the conversation.

‘I’ve traced your number.’

‘My number?’

Conan still didn’t have a clue what she was talking about. He lay with his eyes shut, forcing himself to be civil despite the delicious prospect of sleep.

And then he was wide awake.

‘Oh right … the cryp.’

He sat up and switched on the lamp – eyes burning – and found a notepad.

‘Who is it?’

‘It’s a journalist,’ said Lucia. ‘Wang Li Kwai … also known as Ronny Kwai.’

‘Ronny Kwai,’ repeated Conan, writing it down.

‘He’s a football journalist known as The Keeper.’

‘A football journalist,’ mused Conan. ‘Why would Michael Wing Ho’s last call … just before he was murdered … be to a football journalist?’

‘Isn’t that your job?’ said Lucia. ‘… to find out, using your finely honed forensic brain?’

‘Ordinarily yes,’ said Conan, ‘but there’s something very odd going on up here.’

There was a silence as she waited for him to elaborate, and when he didn’t she said, ‘I hear Kenny’s got the shits with you.’

‘Kenny’s always got the shits with me.’

‘This is worse than usual. He’s getting heat from somewhere. Someone doesn’t want you sniffing around … someone important.’

Conan felt a sudden wave of affection for Lucia. She was taking a terrible risk in telling him.

‘Where are you calling from?’

‘Public phone … better not say where.’

There was another pregnant silence, then Conan said, ‘When I get back … maybe …’

‘Gotta go,’ said Lucia, and the phone was dead.