that whoever has the key can gain access to the box, that’s why you don’t label them. If you want, though, I can get the court order amended — that’s fine too. I can get the judge to sign it and be back here in —’ I glance at my watch — ‘an hour and a half.

Two hours tops.’

‘Two hours?’

‘Yeah. That’s what’ll it take.’

She gives it only a few seconds’ thought. ‘Okay. Since you

have the key I don’t see any problem. The room is this way’

And she picks up the key, and I follow her out of her office.

chapter forty-eight

Most of the safety deposit boxes are a little bigger than a

phonebook, but there are perhaps a dozen or so that are two

to three times bigger. There are three walls full of them, each numbered. Erica approaches them slowly, still reluctant to be

doing this, but then she looks at her watch and remembers that it’s time to leave and Saturday night is waiting. She puts the key into one of the bigger ones, twists it, opens the door and pulls out a metal tray from within. She sits it down on the table, then points out three small rooms off to the side.

‘There’s privacy in there. Take your time,’ she says, sounding as if she doesn’t want me to take my time but to get in and out of there in under a minute. I intend to help her out there.

The room doesn’t have much legroom. I can reach out and

touch both walls at the same time without stretching. I put the tray on the table and open it.

Audio tapes are stacked side to side, the small microcassette

ones that take up less room. They are all labelled with numbers. I pull a large plastic evidence bag out of my pocket and start filling it up. There is also an accountant’s notebook, and I flick it open to see bunches of names and dates and figures before I throw that into the evidence bag as well. I step out of the cubicle and find Erica is back. She looks at the evidence bag but says nothing.

I’ve closed over the seal and signed it so it all looks more official.

I ask her to sign it too and she does, but she has to hand me the cardboard box she has filled with the printed bank statements

first.

She walks with me to the front door. The security guard is

waiting for me. “I always wanted to be a cop,’ he says. ‘Would’ve done it too, but I have a banged up knee that stopped me.’ it’s a story heard from plenty of security guards over the years. It might have been a banged up knee, or it could have been their or lack of motivation, or he failed the psych test.

The bank is almost empty now. The security cameras in the

ceiling have captured my image from a dozen different angles and I know this is going to come back and really bite me in the arse.

But that’s for another day. Maybe the same day they dig Sidney Alderman up. And today things are going well. Today my wife

hugged a photo of my daughter and I hit a lead that could take me straight to Rachel’s killer. When you get those kinds of leads, you don’t slow down for anything.

As the guard unlocks the door to let me out, Erica starts to

turn away.

‘Just one more thing,’ I ask her, and she turns back. She seems about to glance at her watch again but pulls herself out of the movement. ‘The photograph behind your desk, there’s you and

another guy — he looks around fifty, maybe sixty. He seems

familiar.’

‘He was the bank manager here for many years,’ she says. ‘You

would have seen him around if you ever came in here.’

‘Was?’ I ask, and I’m starting to figure out who it is.

‘Henry died a couple of years ago,’ she says.

‘Henry Martins.’

‘That’s right. You knew him?’

“I went swimming with him once.’

Outside, the rain is still thick and heavy, and so is the traffic.

I pass a guy scraping chewing gum off the footpaths and depositing his collections into a plastic bucket. He’s wearing a T-shirt that has a picture of the Easter Bunny up on a crucifix. It says Jesus had a stunt double, and I wonder how Father Julian would have reacted to seeing it. Another guy sniffing glue is leaning up against a bike rack watching the guy. I guess Saturday brings the crazies out a little earlier.

I get past them and run through the rain to my car.

chapter forty-nine

I’m anxious to listen to the tapes but I have no way of playing them. I dump the contents of the evidence bag on the passenger seat. There are perhaps forty tapes inside it. I open the accounts book and seeit’s a log of some kind. The dates seem to match

up with dates scrawled across the sides of the microcassettes.

I start looking through the bank statements. There are over two hundred and fifty of them, one for each month. Random amounts

and dates and names. I look in vain for Henry Martins’ name, but what seemed like a random connection between Rachel Tyler and

Henry Martins suddenly seems a lot less random.

I toss everything back into the bag and pull away from the

kerb.

I hit the mall and again struggle to find a car park. Late Saturday afternoon and it seems nobody in this city has anything better to do than come out shopping an hour before the mall closes. At the electronics store the only thing they have in stock for recording conversations is digital, but they suggest another couple of shops to try. I finally find what I’m looking for.

‘Last one in stock,’ the guy tells me. ‘Hardly anyone uses them any more. Even secretaries use digital.’

“I have a thing for old technology.’

I get back to my father’s car only to find that a trolley has

strayed from the flock and smacked into the back bumper, creating a small dent that I know my dad will spot around the time I’m

turning the car into their driveway. This is the reason, he’ll tell me, he didn’t want to lend me the car in the first place. If he realises that I’m driving without a licence, then that will confirm it. Fuck, if we can put a man on the moon, surely the digital age will reach a point where trolleys can guide their way back into the supermarket by themselves.

I load fresh batteries into the tape recorder and pick a tape at random. I’ve been pretty certain about what to expect, and when I push play my suspicions are confirmed after just a few seconds of hissing.

‘Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.’

‘How long has it been since your last confession?’ Father Julian’s voice is deep and clear. It makes me shiver to hear a dead man’s voice, and I feel sick to know he was violating all of the people on these tapes. The other voice could be anybody.

It’s a male. Could be twenty years old. Could be eighty. ‘I’ve done it again.’

‘Done what again?’

I look at the names Julian has neatly written into his log. The confessional is supposed to be completely anonymous, but I

suspect the reality is thatit’s not. I think at minimum the priest has a good idea who they’re talking to because it’s likely to be somebody from their congregation.

‘Cheated. On my wife. I know it’s wrong, Father, but the

problem is I can’t help it. It’s like another person takes over. It’s like I know what I’m doing is wrong but at the time I can’t consider the consequences.’

‘Maybe you do consider them but choose to ignore them.’

‘I don’t know. Maybe that’s true. It would explain a lot.’

I push the stop button and fast forward the tape for a while.

When I push play I hear Father Julian’s voice.

‘.. . to realise you are hurting more than just yourself.’

‘ know, I know.” It’s a woman’s voice. ‘It’s just that, well, sometimes I can’t help it. It’s like a different person takes over.’p>

‘Perhaps you should look at it from another…’

I push stop. Jesus, is this everybody’s excuse? That they aren’t responsible for anything in their lives? That their actions are justifiable because another person takes over?