bleeding yet. I drop Tim's notes onto the desk: they land with a satisfying and vaguely threatening thump.
After ten pages I'm glad Tim's working on my side.
The first page outlines possible threats to Australia's population should Mortmax fail. Regional Apocalypse is at the top of it. There's a half-dozen end-of-world scenarios – some of which I wasn't even aware were a possibility – and how Mortmax might be involved in them.
It's a pretty damning, but I must admit, honest appraisal. And I can see why Tim may have been pushing for closer government ties to Mortmax, and just why he might have been so resistant to the family business.
And now, since we came so close to a Regional Apocalypse, and streets were crowded with Stirrers, I know why they might just rush through an organisation like the Closers.
I'm twenty pages in when the phone rings.
It's Neill. 'I heard you had some trouble yesterday,' he says.
'Yeah, I suppose you could call it trouble.' I find it hard to keep the suspicion out of my voice.
'Death Moots create a certain… well… chaotic energy, but this is the first time this has happened. Are you sure there's no one trying to challenge you?'
'No one's killed a Pomp yet,' I say. 'There's just been attempts on me.'
'You sure it's not that cousin of yours?' Neill asks. 'It's usually the fookin' Ankous that are the problem.'
'Not my cousin, I'm sure of that.' I try a different tack. 'Do you have a government liaison?' There's silence down the line for a moment.
'Yes, it's only something very new. I never thought we needed it before, but they were quite persuasive.'
'Define persuasive. Insistent? Or coercive?'
'Well, it's certainly made stopping Stirrers much easier,' Neill says. I'm putting my money on the latter.
'We've a group here called the Closers.'
'What are they?'
'Police, but a unit devoted to us. You have anything like that there?'
'Not that I know of. Just a unit that keeps a closer eye on our paperwork, our visits to morgues and funerals, that sort of thing. But liaison or no, our communications with the government are a little limited. You could say that we both have secrets that the other may not like. Why do you have such a unit there?'
'The Regional Apocalypse. I think it worried them. I can't blame them, of course. It worried me.'
'Times are changing,' Neill says, and there's more than a hint of bitterness in his voice.
'Yeah, they're changing, all right.'
I put a few more calls through, speaking as directly as I can to the various RMs. All of them seem to have something of a government presence, several when their territories cover more than one country – some have as many as twenty.
For most of them, this is something new. And for the ones that it isn't they've noticed an increased scrutiny. But that's not the only thing. Their lack of concern about the issue is disturbing. Something doesn't feel right. This is definitely going on the agenda at the Death Moot.
Talk doesn't stick to the government departments, though. Every single one of them is pitching an alliance at me, or at the very least a mutual back-scratching sort of set-up. I'm non-committal.
I haven't hung up from the last call for more than a few heartbeats when the phone rings again.
Alex.
'Steve, I can't talk for long,' he says, his voice low. 'You're going to get a call soon. From Solstice. They've found the body of the man who tried to shoot you. Well, we think it is.'
'Where?'
'Look, when I say they've found the body, I mean we did; but they've taken it away.'
'Did you get much of a look? Did it fit my description?'
'No, I didn't get a look in. The Closers were already there when I arrived.' Alex's voice lowers to a whisper. 'I really don't like that crew. There's something… off about them.'
'Tim hasn't been able to find out anything about them, either.'
'Yeah, no agency is that secret. There's always someone who knows something, and is willing to talk. Usually, when there isn't, you have to wonder.' There's a quiet murmuring in the background. Alex raises his voice. 'Look, I've got to go. But I will talk to you soon.' He hangs up abruptly.
There's another call. I don't recognise the number.
'Yes?' I say.
'Nothing to worry about, it's just Solstice.'
'What can I do for you, Detective?'
'Nothing, really, it's more what I can do for you. I thought I might send some fellas over to keep an eye on your house.'
'My house, or me? Am I a suspect in my own shooting, Mr Solstice?'
Solstice clears his throat. 'Of course not, but then again… stranger things, Mr de Selby, stranger things. It wasn't your body that they picked up at Toowong Cemetery with injuries that suggest a great fall.'
Toowong Cemetery sits on Mount Coot-tha, or One Tree Hill, as we know it. One of the many points close to the Underworld, it made sense that my attacker would have used it. Why hadn't I thought of that?
'Have you identified the body?'
'Well, that's just it. There's not a lot to identify, but what we have suggests that this person was a Pomp. I'd like you to take a look at him, so there – I suppose there is something you can do for me.'
'Where are you?'
He tells me. It's an address, just off Milton Road, in the inner city. That's peculiar. It's not the usual morgue (or as the government likes to call it, Forensic and Scientific Services) out on Kessels Road to the south of Brisbane. This has gone wide of the usual coronial pathways. I didn't even know there was a morgue there. I'll have to check this with Tim. I don't like the idea of dead bodies being stored where we can't get at them. It throws me, to be honest.
But I want to see that body. I shift.
It's like any morgue I've ever seen, though it smells of new paint and disinfectants. It's cold, tiled halfway up the walls. A body obscured in black plastic lies on a stainless steel table, and there's the familiar, thin smell of death that can't quite be removed, no matter how many cleaning agents you use. Could be worse, Dad had some absolute horror stories about morgues in the fifties, little more than corrugated iron sheds – things started smelling pretty high in there come late spring. And the flies… No flies here, at least.
Traffic rumbles somewhere in the distance – Milton Road, I guess – though here it's quiet but for the murmur of refrigeration units, and the chirruping of a computer with what I imagine is some sort of email notification. Someone's getting a lot of emails.
Solstice looks pale beneath his tan. Even the dragon tattoo on his forearm has lost its lustre. I won't go so far as to say that he looks sick, but it's close. I sometimes forget that not everybody deals with death as often as me.
'When did you start using this place?'
Solstice smiles. 'That's classified. But it's new. Not even the coroner knows about this one.'
'Do any of my people?'
'No, but we only keep 'persons of interest' here. And you know about it, now.'
I don't like it. How could we stop a Stirrer from stirring here? 'So where is he?'
Solstice walks to the nearby slab, pulls back the plastic sheeting.
There really isn't much to identify. Everything's there, but it's pulped. Features are warped and flat, and insects, or some other sort of creature, have had a go at digesting bits of what's left. The skin is chewed and tunnelled, mined as though it was some sort of resource, and I guess it is. All flesh and bone is.
'Someone had gone to a bit of effort to hide the body. If a maintenance fella hadn't decided to work on the northwest corner of the cemetery he may have sat there for even longer.'
I know I'm not getting the full story. I know they snatched this away from the cops, but I try to not let that show on my face.
'There's no licence or wallet, obviously, and his fingerprints have come up blank. We're waiting on dental, but I'm not feeling that hopeful. But then there's this.' He pulls the plastic sheeting down to the waist.
