The Labyrinth of Drowning by Alex Palmer

musicians he’d never heard of before he met her. She sang their daughter to sleep in her own soft, slightly throaty voice. Other than in the shower, it was almost the only time she sang these days. He liked her voice and wished she would sing more. ‘One day I’ll join a choir,’ she’d told him. ‘Whatever you want,’ he’d replied, wanting her to be happy, even now not quite able to believe that she could be happy with him.
    When she wasn’t here, he preferred silence. Tonight, after what he’d seen just a few hours ago, this silence mixed with the sound of Ellie’s breathing gave him a sense of cleanness. He had fed and bathed Ellie, settled her to bed and read her to sleep. She had curled up on the pillow with the promise that her mother would be there in the morning. Each of these things worked against the pictures in his mind of the dead and wounded men he had seen that day. He was yet to find out if the memory would reassert itself like some malignant intrusion.
    It wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen that kind of thing before. Often enough when he’d been with the police, he’d looked cold-bloodedly at the dead, dealt in a detached way with the living, and then worked as hard as he could to find who’d done the killing.Throughout, other people did the grieving. He’d hoped he had left all that behind. He had come home this afternoon with a sense of sickness that was new to him.
    Downstairs, he poured himself a whisky. Grace didn’t drink and because of that he didn’t drink much himself. Tonight he needed alcohol to ease his thoughts. He went upstairs again and into his study, a plain room at the back of the house that looked down onto his long, narrow strip of land to Snails Bay on the inner harbour. This was where he collected his thoughts, where he worked. Joel Griffin had left almost as bad a taste in Harrigan’s mouth as the killings he’d witnessed. What did Griffin know about either Grace or him? And what did he need to do about it?
    He googled Griffin’s name and waited to see if anything new might come up from the last time he’d gone searching. There was one fact he hadn’t thought much about before: Griffin hadn’t qualified in Australia. He’d got his degree at the University of London seventeen years ago and been admitted to the bar in Australia when he had returned to the country in the mid-1990s. Qualifications gained overseas were too convenient to Harrigan’s mind. Maybe they were genuine, maybe they weren’t. But if his qualifications were fake, Griffin, as a fraud, was better at his work than any number of lawyers Harrigan knew to be genuine. At best, this fragment of information only proved where he had been seventeen years ago and when he had come back to Australia.
    The information he couldn’t find was also interesting. Griffin was a lone wolf, listed as an individual only, not connected to any particular legal firm. Unlike some other practitioners, there was no photograph attached to his contact details. This wasn’t so very unusual, but it fitted the man’s elusiveness. Harrigan phoned the number given for Griffin’s office and was answered by a recorded message, the kind preinstalled on any readily available answering machine. There was nothing to identify that you were leaving a message for Joel Griffin, barrister. He hung up without leaving his details.
    After a moment’s thought, he googled again—not Griffin, but himself and Grace. On a few occasions their photographs had madeit to the gossip columns of various media websites. Grace called it her fifteen seconds of virtual fame. Harrigan studied the photographs one after the other. On none was her scar visible.
    He heard her car outside and went down to the kitchen, relieved that she was home. Despite the lateness of the hour he had waited for her before eating, caught in his own thoughts and occupied with his daughter’s needs. Then Grace was there in the doorway, smiling. As he always did, he touched her