to fly the flag.’
‘Politics,’ spat Edward.
‘Politics,’ agreed Conan and shrugged. He was already irritated by the distance, the crowds, the weird smells and the heat – now he had Edward’s chip to deal with.
Edward muttered something to himself then slid a couple of plastex files across the desk. There was a code on the covers that he could use to access the record bank – the files contained a small number of personal effects found on the bodies. Both men had been Malay Chinese and, apparently, close friends. They had not been known to police as gang members, but everything about their deaths suggested gangland execution. The location, the butchered throats, but most importantly, the DR carved into both of their foreheads. And both had had their left eyes removed.
‘Didn’t that strike you as odd?’ asked Conan, trying to conceal a shudder as he placed the forensic photographs face down on the file.
‘What?’
‘The DR brandings … but also the eyes removed? Bit of a mixed message, wouldn’t you say?’
Edward laughed.
‘Thank God for Sydney,’ he sneered, ‘sending us their finest officer to shine a torch through the darkness!’
‘You don’t think it strange that the bodies bear the marks of two different groups?’
‘Just part of the usual fun and games up here … Tools.’
‘Left eye missing suggests Habal Tong radicals,’ continued Conan, determined to understand the local customs. ‘It means the victims saw something they shouldn’t have?’
‘Their tongues were cut out also,’ reminded Edward, with a grim smile.
‘But they had DR carved on their foreheads. That’s the mark Dedd Reffo leave … but Dedd Reffo and Habal Tong are mortal enemies.’
‘Habal Tong are enemies of no one,’ insisted Edward, ‘… except to those who betray their secrets.’
‘The point is,’ said Conan, ‘presuming these blokes weren’t killed by a coalition of two opposing groups … why would both marks be inflicted on the bodies?’
‘As a warning,’ said Edward, as though the answer was too obvious for words.
‘A warning to whom?’
‘To everyone.’
• • •
‘Here are the extra files you wanted.’
Conan sat in a spare office grudgingly provided by the AFP who mostly worked in an open plan environment. Hovering in the doorway was Loongy’s deputy – Agent Ping – who placed a couple of plastex boxes on the desk.
Agent Ping was tall and slim with dark eyes endlessly amused.
‘What’s it like having Loongy for a boss?’ asked Conan, carelessly allowing his irritation to show.
‘Loong’s not so bad,’ shrugged Agent Ping, ‘… as long as you know your place.’
‘My place seems to be the bottom of his shoe,’ said Conan, ‘and he’s trying to scrape me off.’
‘Very funny,’ said Agent Ping, and left without laughing.
The plastex files lay open on the desk in front of him – the two murdered men had not carried much on their persons. Both had wallets with plastic and paper cards. One had a number of sticky notes covered in tiny Asian characters and the other (written in English) had a folded list of names, dates and numbers, which was described in the file as a barter record.
He sent the sticky notes to be translated and considered the next item – a business card of one of the murdered men (Michael Wing Ho, importer) with blurred handwriting on the back. The thing that interested him about the card was where it had been found – in his shoe, according to the file. Clearly it was important to the victim if he had taken the trouble to hide it and, as it was his own business card, the importance could only lie in the illegible handwriting.
He placed the card back in its forensics bag and sent it off with the sticky notes to be hyperlit, magnified and translated – to the extent that was possible after the sweat from Wing Ho’s feet had caused the ink to run.
The toxicology report listed nothing unusual with the exception of alcohol and traces of Crimson – the latest designer drug – in their blood.
The last thing in the file was a list of phone records for the month. The two men had called each other frequently but it was the last calls that interested Conan. Bruce Fong’s last three calls had been to Wing Ho, but Wing Ho’s last call had been to an unidentified number.
Just for the shits and giggles, Tools tried the number and was unsurprised when the recorded voice informed the number was no longer in use. He dialled another number and found himself talking to Lucia back in Sydney.
‘Hey Conan?’
‘Hey Lucia.’
‘What can I do for you?’
There was a hint of suggestion in her voice, despite the risk, and Tools grinned, genuinely fond of her.
‘I need a trace on a number.’
He read the number out and heard her groan.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘That’s a cryp.’
‘Is that a problem?’
‘No … just a hassle.’
Cryp numbers were unhackable quantum generated numbers – constantly changing. If you dialled the number and were accepted by the owner, then a regular ping would be sent by the owner’s phone to your phone to update and thus allow you to go on calling.
‘Do you have the phone from which the number was called?’ asked Lucia.
‘No.’
Another groan.
‘Okay,’ she sighed, ‘I’ll do my best, but you owe me.’
‘I already owe you.’
‘Well, at some point I’ll be calling in your tab, Conan Daniel Tooley. And I hope you’ll be man enough to honour your debt.’
There was a supercharged silence of several seconds as Conan wondered how to respond in a way that would continue the subtle flirting without putting their jobs in jeopardy. Calls into the Sydney office were routinely monitored for security purposes.
‘You know me, Lucia Francesca Baresi,’ he eventually replied. ‘I’m a man of my word and will stand ready to serve you when I return.’
‘Truly?’
Conan winced at her change of tone and said, ‘Gotta go. Let me know if you trace the number.’
