11
When Grace arrived at the Jovanovs’ house in Canley Heights, she saw a dark blue Audi, luxurious and expensive, parked outside. Pulling up behind Borghini, she saw him get out of his car talking on his phone.
‘Registered to a Joel Griffin at Bondi Junction,’ he said to Grace when she came up. ‘We both know that name. He was representing Chris Newell when he got snatched.’
Grace heard the name Newell without so much as a blink. ‘Looks like now he’s representing the Jovanovs. He picks his cases.’
‘Is he any good?’
‘My information is he’s very good. But if he is, why is he here? There’s not much money in it by the look of things.’
‘Newell wouldn’t have had any money either,’ Borghini said. ‘Let’s go find out what the deal is.’
The Jovanovs’ home was a double-storeyed brick house with an untidy hedge out the front. An old Ford Falcon was parked in the driveway. Oil splatters on the pale cement suggested it leaked, badly. Like the car, the house was run-down. The lawn was unmowed and the big bins filled to overflowing. Two damaged children’s bikes lay tossed on their sides near the front door. Grace knocked. The door was opened by a dark-haired man of about forty who barely spoke before ushering them inside. They followed him through to the lounge, a room with fake wood-panelled walls, grey-blue carpet and furnished with a brown velveteen lounge suite. A tall, well-dressed man got to his feet and smiled at them.
‘Joel Griffin,’ he said. ‘My card. I’m here representing my client.’
His client had to be the woman sitting on the lounge with her hands clasped in front of her. The man who had shown them in sat down next to her. There was a large coffee table in front of them, positioned like a protective barrier.
‘Your client’s expecting us. We’re just here to ask a few questions.’ Borghini was returning Griffin’s favour with his own card. ‘That shouldn’t cause a problem.’
‘I’ll be answering any questions you have on my client’s behalf.’
‘I’m sure Mrs Jovanov can speak for herself,’ Grace said.
‘Not if she doesn’t want to.’
Griffin accepted her card, one that said she was with the New South Wales police, with a quick glance from the card to her. She saw him take in the scar on her neck and just prevented herself from covering it with her hand. Alone, she did sometimes touch the scar, almost against her own will. It was a reflex reaction, a private soothing of the cut she could still feel.
‘If you’d like to get started with your questions. Sophie has her life to get on with as well,’ Griffin said.
Even during the introductions, Sophie kept staring down at the carpet, only glancing up and nodding briefly when her name was spoken. Neither she nor her husband seemed prepared to open their mouths.
‘Mrs Jovanov, Sophie,’ Grace said. ‘How long have you been a guard with Australian Secure Transport?’
Sophie refused to meet her eye. She was a strongly built woman with thick curly black hair. Her bulk seemed to be muscle, not fat. In uniform she would have looked intimidating. As he’d promised, Griffin spoke for her.
‘Sophie was with them for nine months. If you check her record, you’ll see she’s had a career as a prison guard and in security generally.’
‘Then you’re experienced,’ Grace said.
‘Sophie is a very dedicated officer. My belief is that she’s been treated unfairly by her former employer.’
‘Are you going to undertake legal action on her behalf in that case?’
‘If I receive instruction to do so, yes.’
‘And what would be your advice to her?’ Grace asked.
‘That has nothing to do with this interview,’ Griffin replied.
‘You must have been very shocked, Mrs Jovanov, when you heard what had happened to your charge.’ Borghini spoke in a sympathetic voice.
‘Sophie was deeply shocked, going so far as to blame herself. I told her she could not be held responsible for the criminal actions of others, including those of the young woman who unlawfully escaped from her custody.’
‘Why was this young woman so lightly guarded?’ Borghini asked.
‘The information Sophie’s employer received was that the young woman was going to be moved into alternative accommodation. Neither Sophie nor the driver were expecting her to attempt an escape.’
‘Sophie,’ Grace said, ‘I want to make it clear to you that we need to know whatever you may have to tell us. Any detail at all, however small. Because this is what we’re trying track down. The person who did this. No one is blaming you for this because you couldn’t know it was going to happen. But I want to find the person who did this. If you can help us, we can help you and your family, and I promise you we will.’
Grace slid the photograph of Jirawan’s battered body across the coffee table. Sophie looked at it and covered her face.
‘That’s harassment,’ Griffin said quickly.
‘I don’t want to be a part of this any more,’ Sophie said. She had tears in her eyes. She stood up and ran out of the room.
Before anyone could speak, her husband was on his feet. He picked up the photograph and pushed it at Grace. ‘You can take that back. My wife has nothing to do with any of these things. You can all get out. We don’t want anything to do with any of you, including you.’ He was speaking to Griffin.
‘If you want me to go, I’m happy to leave,’ Griffin said. ‘We have each other’s contact details. If I need to, I can be here at your house very quickly. One thing I’m not doing is leaving until the police go. I still have to protect your wife.’
‘I’ll protect her,’ Jovanov said.
‘You may need to,’ Griffin replied.
‘We’re on our way,’ Borghini said. ‘But we may have to ask your wife to come in for questioning at some stage.’
‘She’s already given a written statement so she’s not obliged to. And she certainly won’t be there without me being present,’ Griffin said, with a sharp glance at Jovanov. ‘Now I think we should all leave.’
They walked out, all three, hearing the door shut hard behind them. Grace was surprised to find Griffin in step with her in the driveway. Borghini, who was ahead and already almost at his car, turned to watch the exchange.
‘I met your partner the other day outside the law courts,’ Griffin said.
‘He told me.’
‘Nice to put a real face to the name.’
‘Is it?’ Grace said.
‘It’s always interesting to see who people really are.’ He seemed to be looking closely into her face. ‘Your photographs don’t do you justice. I hope we meet again.’
Grace stopped where she was. Close by, Borghini was listening intently.
‘You were very protective of your client in there,’ she said. ‘Is Arleen McKenzie your client as well?’
‘No, Arleen didn’t want my services. If that’s where you’re going now, you won’t be seeing me. You seemed genuinely concerned for my client’s welfare in there. Are you always like that?’
‘I just do my job. I guess it’s goodbye now. You must have places to go and I don’t think we’ll be seeing each other again.’
‘You just do your job,’ he repeated. ‘I don’t know if that’s true. Maybe you actually care about things. My bet is we will meet again. I’ll be looking forward to it.’
And he was gone, into his car and away down the street.
Borghini came to speak to her. ‘What was all that about?’
‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘He seemed to want to make sure I knew who he was.’
‘Are you sure you’ve never met him before? He was looking at you in there like he knew you.’
‘This is the first time I’ve laid eyes on him. He doesn’t know who I am.’ Whatever Newell might have told him. ‘I guess he’s made his point, whatever it was. Time we went and saw Arleen.’
‘I’ll meet you there.’
