‘
‘It’s a special night.’
They arrived a little later than he had expected. When they walked into the Police Museum, the room was already crowded. Toby was there with his therapist and two friends from university. Harrigan went to speak to him.
‘Tobes has told us so much about you,’ one of them said.
Tobes. He hadn’t known his son had this nickname.
‘I didn’t know he talked about me.’
‘Oh, yeah. All the time.’
Grace kissed Toby on the cheek and stayed to talk while Harrigan had to mingle. He looked back at them through the crowd. Ellie was in her mother’s arms while Grace stood chatting with Toby and his friends. There was a burst of laughter over something. Don’t ever let anything happen to any of you.
The crowd grew larger. Drinks and finger food were being handed around. Representatives from the publishers and the media mingled with Harrigan’s friends and former colleagues. Then the speeches got under way. First the Director of Public Prosecutions, who was launching the book, then Harrigan himself.
‘In the years I served in the New South Wales Police Service, I often left the courtroom feeling as disappointed as the victims or their relatives, and sometimes as disappointed as the accused when they were sentenced. The apparently disproportionate nature of sentencing doesn’t only apply to those who have been the victims of the crime. But equally as bad, if not worse, is the bureaucratic maze you have to walk through even to get to that trial and the delay of years that process has built into it. And then there’s the trial itself. I can’t tell you how often a witness or a victim has come up to me afterwards and said: “That trial had nothing to do with what happened to me or what I saw. They left out so many facts that were relevant, seemed to know nothing and to care even less about what really happened. What was going on?” Then you have to tell people that trials aren’t necessarily concerned with truth and justice or even facts; only the law and, often, the prejudice of its practitioners.
‘Why does this seem so unfair? Because the law is a blunt instrument? Or an instrument that, as it is administered today, operates mainly to serve itself, not the people it is supposed to protect or deal with fairly? Why is it that in a courtroom you can so often encounter what seems to be a caricature of the truth, of yourself and your actions? Where the idea of justice seems to be the last consideration in anyone’s mind? These are the questions I address in my book.’
The speeches were well received. Sales were brisk, the queues to the table where Harrigan was signing books were lengthy. The launch went on longer than expected. People stayed on to talk. Ellie was tired and rubbing her eyes. Harrigan saw Grace sit down with her in a chair a short distance from the table. Ellie fell asleep in her arms. In a period of quietness, he found himself in an intense discussion with two friends, an SC and a journalist. The SC, a man, thought he had been too critical of the administration of the law; the journalist, a woman, thought he had been more than fair and could have gone further. Toby wheeled himself over to listen. Both people knew him and greeted him.
Then Harrigan looked past them all to the entrance to the room and saw Tony Ponticelli senior walking towards him, his grandson, Joe, by his side. Without even seeming to notice them, Ponticelli pushed between Harrigan’s two friends and threw a copy of the book down on the table. Toby, his head leaning back against his chair’s headrest, was watching the scene. He was a sharp observer, Harrigan knew; years of sitting watching, often enough ignored, had left him with the skill of reading people shrewdly.
It had been years since Harrigan had seen Tony senior. He had aged to a skeleton of himself, thin and stooped, shockingly old. His eyes were too bright; they ranged over everything without seeming to take much in.
‘Tony,’ Harrigan said in a neutral voice. ‘How are you? I haven’t heard much about you for a while now. You brought your grandson with you, young Joe.’
The old man stared at him. Both the journalist and the SC stepped back.
‘He’s a better son to me than my real one,’ he said. ‘Paul Harrigan. I’ve come to buy your book.’
His grandson had supplied him with a chair. He sat down as if he were planning on staying for a while.
‘Is that your partner over there?’ he said, looking across at Grace. ‘Is that your daughter?’
‘Why do you want to know, mate?’
‘I hear she doesn’t stay home. She goes out to work. I wouldn’t let any wife of mine do that. Is this any good?’ He pushed the book forward.
‘You’ll have to read it to find out.’
‘I’m here to tell you something. When you leave tonight, you think about Bee. You think about what she looked like when they found her. You think back to when you were all so fucking useless you never found out who did that to her. You write this fancy new book and you can’t protect a twenty-five-year-old girl. You didn’t want to. Don’t think I’m ever going to forget that. That’s what I wanted to tell you.’ He looked around for his grandson. ‘Joe. Home.’
Joe helped him to his feet.
‘Paul Harrigan.’ Tony senior smiled. ‘You never got me in a courtroom.’
He looked around as if trying to make sure he knew where he was. He was about to head for the door, his grandson guiding him, when he almost walked into Joel Griffin who had come up behind him out of the crowd. Griffin stopped, excused himself and walked around him. The old man turned to stare after him. Surprised, Harrigan waited to see if any word or sign of recognition would pass between them. The old man’s mouth was working without speaking. Joe took him by the arm and steered him around, back towards the door. Tony senior saw Grace again and stared at her, seemingly half-comprehending, angry and resentful.
‘I do things my way,’ he said. ‘I don’t fucking let anyone tell me what to do. You’ll find out.’
Then, to the obvious relief of the bystanders, he walked out, leaning on his minder’s arm.
Griffin didn’t seem to see anyone much except Harrigan. He was carrying a copy of his book. ‘I’ve come for something of yours,’ he said. ‘Can I get your signature on this?’
Harrigan scrawled his usual sprawling signature across the title page of the book. ‘Enjoy,’ he said, a slight edge in his voice.
‘I will,’ Griffin replied. ‘Because this is you. A signature is personal however often you give it out.’
As Griffin turned to leave, he saw Grace. He stared at her for a few seconds, then walked the short distance over to her.
‘Is this your little girl?’ he said, without otherwise greeting her. ‘Does she look anything like you? Show me. I can’t see.’
Grace held Ellie a little closer.
‘You don’t need to see. You’ll wake her up and then she could start to cry. It’s better that doesn’t happen.’
‘I’ve never seen you look like this. Even your make-up’s different. You didn’t dress like that for me today.’
He reached out and touched Grace’s hair. She jerked her head out of the way. Then Harrigan was standing in front of him.
‘It’s time you left, mate.’
Griffin turned, his blue eyes looking directly into Harrigan’s own, meeting his gaze without embarrassment. It was a detached stare. As a police officer, Harrigan had interviewed people with that look in their eyes; they were invulnerable to anything you said, to any emotion expressed. What are you seeing? he wondered. Me? As what? Whatever it was, Griffin didn’t answer him.
‘I said you should go,’ Harrigan repeated to his silence. ‘You’ve got your book.’
Griffin looked at Grace and Ellie, then at Harrigan again, and turned and walked out without a glance at anyone else.
Suddenly Harrigan’s publisher was there, smiling and professional. ‘The editor of the
‘Just give me a few moments,’ Harrigan replied. He spoke to Grace. ‘Are you okay?’
