Read Online The Tattooed Man by Alex Palmer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Alex Palmer
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wall? Why do you need to look at them?’ she asked.
‘I don’t look at them all the time. Sometimes I take them down and put them away because I don’t want to see them for a while. I just need to knowthey’re there. They take the pressure out of my head.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I see things like this all the time in my job and I can’t pretend I don’t. This is what we do to each other every day. I know what that means. Someone else knew that as well. They knew enough to put it down on paper like this so it has some meaning.’
‘Someone else knew how we get a real thrill out of hurting each other,’ she said softly. ‘That won’t ever change.’
He wondered what lay behind her words. Perhaps, since he was opening himself up to her like this, he should have asked her. He knew that she had grown up in New Guinea, a childhood that was still a vivid and beautiful dream in her mind. The dream had been shattered when her mother had died suddenly of cerebral malaria when Grace was fourteen. Her father had brought them all back to Australia where Grace had spun off into a cycle of wildness that hadn’t ended until she was in her twenties. For a few years she had been an alcoholic, although no one would have ever guessed that now. Somewhere along the way she had also acquired a faint scar that ran like a silken thread down the length of her neck. He had never asked her and she had never told him who had put it there or why. All the times they had made love, he’d never once intentionally touched it or put his mouth to it.
‘I’d better see what the commissioner wants.’
She looked over his shoulder as he opened his inbox. Three emails, all with the same subject line and attachments, were waiting for him. Two had been forwarded: one from his son, the second from the commissioner. The third had been sent directlyto his personal address from an unknown source. The time identified them as being sent sometime after midnight. The subject line read: They gather for the feast. Harrigan opened the one addressed to him first. The message consisted of a URL followed by the words: Ex-Detective Senior Sergeant Michael Cassatt leaves his grave and arrives at Natalie Edwards’ table at Pittwater for dinner.
Three pictures had been attached to the email. Harrigan didn’t look at these immediately but went to the website. The words They gather for the feast flashed on screen again. The first image took his breath away. In sharp colour, the dead sat at the table on the patio at Pittwater, assembled for a meal they would never eat, Cassatt at the head as if presiding over them. He heard Grace draw her breath in sharply.
‘Oh my God,’ she said. ‘Is that what you saw? How did you recognise him?’
‘Intuition. We looked at his left shoulder, he had a tattoo there. Why send this out? What’s the point?’
‘Is that man with the glasses Jerome Beck?’
‘Yeah, that’s him. Will anyone else recognise him now? Is that the point?’
He went to the next photograph. Cassatt lay in his unidentified grave, recently dead. In the narrow trench, his face and body, just recognisable, were shockingly marked.
‘Someone worked him over before he died and they weren’t gentle,’ Harrigan said. ‘What did they want? And why tell the world like this? If you’re going to splash it all over the net, why not tell us where his grave was as well?’
‘They can’t want you to know. It’s like advertising,’ she said. ‘Or reality TV. They want usto think it’s real life. Except that it’s artificial from the beginning.’
‘Whoever did that to Mike must have buried him as well. They have to know where his grave was. Whoever that person is, they’ll know someone was looking over their shoulder while they were doing it.’
‘Why wouldn’t this be from the person who killed him?’ Grace asked.
‘I think it’s more likely it’s not,’ he said after a few moments’ thought. ‘This is someone telling us what they
‘I don’t look at them all the time. Sometimes I take them down and put them away because I don’t want to see them for a while. I just need to knowthey’re there. They take the pressure out of my head.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I see things like this all the time in my job and I can’t pretend I don’t. This is what we do to each other every day. I know what that means. Someone else knew that as well. They knew enough to put it down on paper like this so it has some meaning.’
‘Someone else knew how we get a real thrill out of hurting each other,’ she said softly. ‘That won’t ever change.’
He wondered what lay behind her words. Perhaps, since he was opening himself up to her like this, he should have asked her. He knew that she had grown up in New Guinea, a childhood that was still a vivid and beautiful dream in her mind. The dream had been shattered when her mother had died suddenly of cerebral malaria when Grace was fourteen. Her father had brought them all back to Australia where Grace had spun off into a cycle of wildness that hadn’t ended until she was in her twenties. For a few years she had been an alcoholic, although no one would have ever guessed that now. Somewhere along the way she had also acquired a faint scar that ran like a silken thread down the length of her neck. He had never asked her and she had never told him who had put it there or why. All the times they had made love, he’d never once intentionally touched it or put his mouth to it.
‘I’d better see what the commissioner wants.’
She looked over his shoulder as he opened his inbox. Three emails, all with the same subject line and attachments, were waiting for him. Two had been forwarded: one from his son, the second from the commissioner. The third had been sent directlyto his personal address from an unknown source. The time identified them as being sent sometime after midnight. The subject line read: They gather for the feast. Harrigan opened the one addressed to him first. The message consisted of a URL followed by the words: Ex-Detective Senior Sergeant Michael Cassatt leaves his grave and arrives at Natalie Edwards’ table at Pittwater for dinner.
Three pictures had been attached to the email. Harrigan didn’t look at these immediately but went to the website. The words They gather for the feast flashed on screen again. The first image took his breath away. In sharp colour, the dead sat at the table on the patio at Pittwater, assembled for a meal they would never eat, Cassatt at the head as if presiding over them. He heard Grace draw her breath in sharply.
‘Oh my God,’ she said. ‘Is that what you saw? How did you recognise him?’
‘Intuition. We looked at his left shoulder, he had a tattoo there. Why send this out? What’s the point?’
‘Is that man with the glasses Jerome Beck?’
‘Yeah, that’s him. Will anyone else recognise him now? Is that the point?’
He went to the next photograph. Cassatt lay in his unidentified grave, recently dead. In the narrow trench, his face and body, just recognisable, were shockingly marked.
‘Someone worked him over before he died and they weren’t gentle,’ Harrigan said. ‘What did they want? And why tell the world like this? If you’re going to splash it all over the net, why not tell us where his grave was as well?’
‘They can’t want you to know. It’s like advertising,’ she said. ‘Or reality TV. They want usto think it’s real life. Except that it’s artificial from the beginning.’
‘Whoever did that to Mike must have buried him as well. They have to know where his grave was. Whoever that person is, they’ll know someone was looking over their shoulder while they were doing it.’
‘Why wouldn’t this be from the person who killed him?’ Grace asked.
‘I think it’s more likely it’s not,’ he said after a few moments’ thought. ‘This is someone telling us what they
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