Extract from The Simple Death

Extract from The Simple Death by Michael Duffy
Original full-length version published by Allen & Unwin, Sydney
Condensed version © Reader’s Digest (Australia) Pty Ltd 2011

It’s late in the day on Sydney harbour and Detective Inspector Nicholas Troy is trying to get some sense out of a witness called Jim Austin, who claims he saw a man about to disappear overboard from the Manly ferry some days ago. This afternoon, the ferry is battling big waves as Troy accompanies Detective Susan Conti aboard to question Austin. The missing man is Mark Pearson. Is his disappearance an accident, suicide—or murder? And can this witness be trusted?


Mark Pearson and his wife, Emily Nguyen, lived in Manly. Emily had last talked to him on the phone at eight on Thursday night. She’d been at her mother’s home attending a party for an old friend. Because everyone there would be speaking Vietnamese, Mark hadn’t gone. Instead, as far as Emily knew, he had worked late at the hospital in Paddington and then taken the bus to the wharf and the ferry. Emily had spent the night at her mother’s in Fairfield, on the other side of the city, gone straight to work on Friday. When she got home that night there was no sign of Mark. Found a message on the phone from his assistant at work, asking where he was; he hadn’t turned up that day. Emily had called the local police, who’d taken her details, and told her most people who disappeared came back soon. It was true. Ten thousand people go missing each year in New South Wales, and since 99.99 per cent reappear unharmed, the police usually do very little.

 

Next morning Emily had been crazy with worry. She panicked, called the Sun Herald. The couple had news value: Mark’s father was a judge of the Supreme Court, Emily had been Young Austra­lian of the Year five years ago. She’d topped her class at the University of Sydney, and these days did something at a major law firm. In addition, she was a striking-looking woman. So her husband’s disappearance got a run in the Sunday paper.

 

Jim Austin had seen the newspaper when he woke up that afternoon, come in to Manly Police Station. Conti had been on shift, talking to Emily Nguyen on the phone. Turned out Emily had been ringing around all day, calling Mark’s colleagues, Sydney Buses, local hospitals. At the ferries she’d got lucky: their lost property section was closed for the weekend, but the person she spoke to had gone looking, come back and asked about a black bag with a laptop inside, sitting in one of the offices. Apart from the computer, there was a Filofax, with Mark Pearson’s name on the first page.

 

‘You look comfortable.’

 

Conti was kneeling on a chair in the next row, looking at Troy.

 

‘We have to keep an eye on him,’ Troy said, nodding at Austin, who was still on the deck, staring out at the harbour. ‘He lives in Manly?’

 

‘Parramatta, but he got into some bother. A mate told him about a hostel in Manly so he decided to take a holiday.’

 

‘Bother?’

 

‘Set up a small drug deal and the stuff was no good. The buyer got antsy, Austin decided to take some time out.’

 

‘What else do we know about him?’

 

‘It’s in the file,’ she said with a trace of impatience.

 

Troy sat up and smiled at her. In the few weeks they’d worked together last year, she’d been modest about her undoubted talents. But she had more attitude now.

 

‘So what’s in Austin’s file?’

 

‘He’s got a record, goes back to juvie stuff, possession, bit of intent to supply, few vehicle thefts, driving without a licence. ­Nothing ­serious.’

 

‘But persistent.’

 

She nodded. ‘You know what he said when he came in? Asked if he could get a reduction of his next sentence, for helping a judge.’

 

The big boat’s motion had changed again: it was smoother now. Soon the other detective, Rostov, appeared, more colour in his face.

 

The three of them walked over to Austin, who was still looking at the boats darting around on the water below. One was a small police boat, just two uniforms in it, searching the rocks around this part of the harbour.

 

They were in Manly Cove now. The ferry had stopped and the big ramp next to the exit was lowered to the ground. Austin’s eyes were gleaming, and Troy thought it was not just the story but something else. Not speed, though. Maybe the attention he was getting, the police respectful of him, was having a good effect. The gates had been opened and people began to pour off the ferry.

 

‘You stick with us, Jim,’ Troy said. ‘We’ll go get some food, have another chat. That OK?’

 

‘Sure thing, Mr Troy.’

 

Troy stopped feeling happy. Potential witnesses like his old friend Sam had always become polite just before they went off.

 

The passengers were all around them now, converging from multiple directions on the exit, pushing to get off. Troy could see Austin staring around him, then heading off to his right.

 

‘There’s Jon McIver,’ Conti said as they followed. The sergeant was on the edge of the brightly dressed crowd, waiting for them, wearing a dark suit and white shirt, his face pale. ‘He looks like an undertaker.’

 

Some people in the crowd moved and they had a better view of McIver. He had longish hair and sideburns, and his tie was deep blue and narrow.

 

‘Maybe not an undertaker,’ she said. ‘But he could do with a haircut.’

 

Troy looked around. ‘Where’s Austin?’

 

Austin was almost a hundred metres away, off the concrete and on a small wharf made out of grey wooden planks. Troy ran after him, onto the wide footpath past a row of restaurants, and saw him reach the end of the wharf. In a second he was down on the small floating platform where a speedboat was moored.

 

Troy heard the boat’s motor start up. By the time he got there, Austin was standing in the boat with one hand on the throttle and the other pulling a rope on board. He saw Troy and waved, then the boat jumped away from the dock. Troy yelled to the police boat nosing around the moored yachts at the top of the cove, pointing at Austin’s vessel. But the two men on board were looking in another direction, and when they noticed Troy a minute later they just motored up casually.

 

‘Can we catch that boat?’ he said. ‘If you haven’t got anything better to do?’

 

But Austin’s craft was only just visible in the distance, slipping behind an island in the direction of the Harbour Bridge. Jim Austin, from being a man Troy could reach out and touch, was now just another of the city’s four and a half million people.