Managing death

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.

Interesting.

Along both of his arms and his chest are a series of interlinking brace tattoos, and a couple of other symbols that may have some esoteric potency, or be a load of bullshit. It's always hard to tell but they're certainly the sort of tattoos that a Pomp might have. He even possessed a bit of death iconography on a shoulder blade, a cherub like mine, though his is bigger.

'If he was a Pomp, he certainly didn't belong to me. I can feel it when my Pomps die.' It was something I haven't had to experience yet, but no doubt will, soon enough. Every RM does. 'He's been too long gone for me to tell if he belongs to anyone else.' Could he belong to Suzanne? No, that doesn't make sense.

'Do you trust the other RMs?' Solstice asks.

I snort, can't help myself. 'Do you know how RMs actually become RMs, Mr Solstice?'

Solstice shakes his head. 'A certain negotiation,' he says. 'Something about a tree?'

Which is pretty good. He certainly knows more than I did when I was just a Pomp. I think back to the Negotiation, wondering why something so bloody had such a civil name. After all, two mumbling death-lusting stone blades were involved. 'Let me just say the process doesn't even begin to encourage trust. I wouldn't trust those bastards as far as I could throw them. Backstabbers, every one of them. After all, it's the only way you become RM. Back, front and side-stabbing, with a little slashing thrown in as well.'

'And what about you?'

'I never wanted this job. And you know, I hold that as a badge of pride.'

'Can't make it easy for you… lacking that ruthlessness. And yet, here you are, RM.'

'I did what I had to.'

'I suppose they'd all say that, wouldn't they? Doesn't everyone, who rises to a position of power?'

I glance at my watch. 'Are we done? I've got an appointment.'

'Yeah, we're done.'

'And about those fellas you want to send over. Don't bother, we've got our own people.'

'You trust them?'

'Absolutely.'

Solstice smiles. 'Just turn a blind eye to any cars parked across from your place.'

'This is inhouse,' I say between gritted teeth.

Solstice shakes his head. 'Not when people die, it isn't.'

I grin nastily at him. 'That's how death works.'

19

'Well, would you look at that?' Tim says. 'You're early.'

Tim's sitting in his office and that's where I've shifted again. 'Right place, wrong time. At least your pants are on,' I say.

'You don't have a clue what's going on behind this desk.' Tim lights a cigarette. 'I thought you were reading those briefing notes.'

'Funny you should say that. I was interrupted by a call from Solstice.' I open Tim's door, and wave across the room at Oscar. He grimaces at me. 'Tim, I don't like how the Feds keep poking their noses into our business.'

Tim sighs. 'Steve, it's all about accountability.'

'It sounds like you agree with their approach.'

'No. But I understand it.' He ashes into a Coke can. 'You read my notes?'

'Most of them. But this group doesn't feel like that. I spoke to Alex, too. He says he can't get anything on them. This is Australia. We don't have any covert groups.'

'What about us?'

'That's different. We're not so much covert as unacknowledged. We've been around since life began.'

Tim walks with me to my office then heads to reception to wait for our possible new recruit.

Oscar's waiting outside my door. There's a certain percentage of rage beneath his professional demeanour.

'Sorry,' I say. 'Had an interview with the police.'

Oscar grimaces, though I think he's coming to terms with me a little. 'How hard is it to phone, eh?'

He opens the door to my office. Lissa's sitting in one of the chairs.

I turn to Oscar. 'What's this with the security breaches today?' I ask. He grimaces again and shuts the door in my face.

'And don't you have your own office, Ms Jones?'

'This was the only time I knew I would be able to see you,' Lissa says. 'There's not much window in either of our schedules… You look a little pale.'

'I've been chasing shadows all day, not much chance to get a tan.' I drop into the throne. 'How is it that everybody knows about Rillman except me? Did you know he's regularly been crossing into the Underworld? Suzanne -'

'What about Suzanne?' Lissa says sharply.

I try not to look guilty. 'Mr D says she's told him that Rillman has been making trouble for years. Just not here. Seems it took my promotion to bring him back to Australia.' It's another thing Morrigan has to answer for.