The Labyrinth of Drowning

after her retirement. Desperate people seeking answers no one had to give, including Amelie Santos; so desperate they were prepared to place any amount of sensitive information in her hands. When put together, the records provided a comprehensive biography of the dead.

But numbers of folders were also empty with no explanation given. Then, at the end of one box, he came across a folder labelled with the name Nadine Patterson. He pulled it out and saw there was nothing inside. He slipped it back and opened the next box. There, almost at the front, was a folder labelled David Tate. He drew this one out. It was also empty. He looked at the dates of the children’s births and deaths. About forty, if they’d been alive today. Working quickly, he made a list of the names on the empty files. Fourteen in all, including Tate and Patterson, boys and girls both, about half of them Asian or African.

He closed up the final box and put it back on the shelf. There was enough information in some of these folders for a person to create a new identity for themselves any time they wanted to. A very profitable item to sell on the market since the identity was effectively genuine. This was the real value of the house; not the property but these records. An identity scam, presumably run by the Shillingworth trustees, people who were already in masquerade.

What should he do now? Call his old work mates? If he did, it would get back to Orion. Talk to Lambert? It was unlikely the solicitor would want anything more to do with this. Take the files with him? What right did he have to do that? Who could be said to own these records now? Presumably they should have been returned to the families or destroyed when Amelie Santos died. But what if he secured them on the premises, in some other hiding place? Anyone coming here to use them could easily think they had been stolen.

Harrigan went back inside the house and looked around. The roof? The cellar? In the spare bedroom, he found a large linen press, the old-fashioned kind: a long, deep chest made of some dark wood, only partially filled with sheets and towels. On opening, it smelled of mothballs. Working as quickly as he could, he transferred the boxes from the garage to here, covering them with the linen already in place. The dust on the chest was disturbed when he had finished, but hopefully no one would come into this storage cum junk room to check. Then he went back outside and broke the lock on the garage’s side door. Clumsy, but good enough to make it appear someone had broken in. He peeled off his disposable gloves and left the premises.

He drove to Blackheath to visit the real estate agent. A franchise of one of the major chains, they had a large office on the main street. Amelie Santos’s house was listed as property of the week. House and furnishings included. Panoramic view of the Grose Valley. Some simple repairs and a coat of paint will return this beautiful Victorian house to its former glory. Large block with excellent potential for expansion. Harrigan went inside.

‘This is quite amazing,’ said the real estate agent, a conservatively dressed older woman wearing an ugly sky-blue suit, who met him with a motherly smile. ‘That property only went on the market yesterday and we’ve already had so many enquiries. We’re having an open day this Saturday so please do come along. It’s a unique purchase, a piece of history really.’

Possibly she could talk prospective buyers into any sale she liked, simply because she appeared so harmless on the surface.

‘Maybe you could give me an indication of what the reserve might be,’ Harrigan said.

She named a figure that ensured no one who could be described as a battler would be bidding at the auction.

‘Any chance of a private viewing?’

‘I’m afraid not,’ she said. ‘The owners are going to be there over the next few days to take some things out of the house. We’ve been asked not to let anyone in till Saturday.’

‘What sort of condition is it in?’ he asked, curious to hear how she might describe it.

‘It’s a deceased estate and hasn’t been lived in for several years now. It needs a good clean and an airing out. Structurally it’s very sound, though it will need painting. We’re sending some cleaners in this Friday, just to spruce it up a little.’

‘Is there any reason the owners are selling right now?’

Trusts of any sort were useful tools for money laundering, another reason why Shillingworth might acquire a property then leave it to rot. Perhaps the agent had this in her mind when she answered him.

‘I think they judged the market as right for the sale. Property prices are easing a little and there are more buyers around than there used to be. It’s all above board. We’ve spoken with the trust’s legal representative, a Mr Griffin.’

‘Joel Griffin?’

‘Yes. Do you know him?’

‘I’ve heard of him. Thanks.’

He left to make the long drive back to Sydney. He would be late. When he was a little closer to the city, he would phone Grace and let her know when he would be home. He welcomed the drive, it gave him time to think. What was Joel Griffin doing involved in this? Why would he be a party to the sale of assets from a secretive trust? Just his name brought another dimension of threat to Harrigan’s investigations.

In the mess of information he had, one name stood out: Shillingworth. Shillingworth Trust led to the Ponticellis, to Eddie Grippo at Four Square Real Estate. There, the connection became shadowy. The best he could say was that there was one. A question for Eddie: do you know Joel Griffin? If Griffin did have a connection to the Ponticellis, this was the first Harrigan had heard of it. Was his intelligence so bad? Or was the connection an occasional one, not much mentioned? And why sell Blackheath now? Forget market conditions. Whatever the reason, the trustees, Patterson and Tate, whoever they really were, had decided it was time to move on. Would other assets, such as Fairview Mansions, come up for sale? Another question for Eddie.

Then there was the line back to Frank Wells, to his adoptive mother’s niece, Jennifer Shillingworth, the woman with access to Salvation Army adoption records, the one person who could have known who Frank’s real parents were. A woman who, thirty-five or more years ago, hadn’t been above trying on the odd scam herself. In a time before changes to the adoption laws, she might well have known people who were desperate enough to buy that kind of information. If this speculation were true, then, as Frank Wells himself had said, she was the most likely source of the documents an otherwise unknown Ian Blackmore had sent to him four years ago.

Ignoring the road rules, Harrigan picked up his mobile and sent an SMS to his retainer. He had already asked her to track down the Shillingworth woman but still he texted: Find me Jennifer Shillingworth as a first priority and forward me any information you already have ASAP.

She’s dead. The instinctive words came into Harrigan’s mind even as he sent the message. It remained to be seen if his expectation was on the money. Maybe someone had eventually bought that information from her. There were only three people who could have known it was for sale in the first place, let alone want to buy it: Frank, Janice and a young Craig, watching his parents fight. Frank hadn’t wanted to know and Janice was dead. Maybe after she’d left Frank, she had gone on about it to her son, the way she had to her husband. Maybe when she was drunk, banging it into his head. If only your father had found out who his parents were, maybe we’d have some money now. We wouldn’t be so broke. It fitted with the woman he’d read and heard about.

But supposedly Craig was dead too. Harrigan smiled to himself. Death was a perfect alibi. It gave you the space to do whatever you wanted. You could coerce property out of an old and vulnerable Amelie Santos and, in some strange twist of humour, put it into a trust named after the woman who might well have led you to her in the first place. But why wait until four years ago to chase it up? What had been the catalyst? Because Amelie Santos was old and could be expected to die soon? You turn up out of nowhere and introduce yourself to her as her grandson and heir even though she’s never seen you before. Would she even let you in? See you as other than a threat? And what could she be to you, other than a victim to exploit? Someone to cajole, charm, threaten and, with the help of your partner, finally terrorise?

But you couldn’t announce yourself to her as Craig Wells. If you’d killed off your old identity by murdering someone else in your place, there’d be no room for you to resurrect yourself. Once Craig Wells was dead, he had to stay dead and you couldn’t bring him back to life. But you wouldn’t have to. Amelie Santos couldn’t have known her son’s name. You could give yourself any name you liked, say your father was dead to keep him out of the picture, and then try to get whatever you could out of your victim. In the way of family resemblances, maybe you even