High Beam

by SJ Brown

But Cartwright was completely unperturbed. “Oh, I think you will. I’ve two words for you, Larry. Jane Watson. I’ll keep that tawdry secret to myself if you see your way to helping me out with this.” Checkmate.

  Owen’s shoulders slumped. His carefully constructed house of cards had suddenly started to waver. If that affair got out then he could kiss goodbye to his marriage and, more crucially, to a bloody great slab of his business. He had worked too hard and taken too many risks to see it wash away through the Family Court now. The scheming bastard had him and, by the smug look on Cartwright’s face, he knew it.

  “Alright, I’ll do it. One favor. And that’s it? Forever?”

  “Definitely.” Cartwright was practically purring. Bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Just this one small thing and the problem disappears.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Wednesday 10th March 10am

  Mahoney’s holiday was not as straightforwardly idyllic as he would have wished. On the Wednesday morning he was due to appear in court. The previous month the police had apprehended a young woman who had belted a neighbor about the head with a tomahawk. Hobart, not being Manhattan or even Midsomer, did not really have that many suspicious deaths so homicide detectives dealt with all manner of crimes involving violence. The attack, over an alleged case of infidelity, was sufficiently brutal to put the female victim into a coma.

  As investigating officer for CIB, Mahoney had made the arrest and was therefore bound to appear at the preliminary hearing at the Magistrates Court prior to the full case being heard at a later date at the Supreme Court. No matter what the crime, even murder, all cases first went before one of the eight Hobart magistrates. Indictable offences, as this was, were then set for hearing at the higher court. Mahoney would not be needed as a witness but it was good form to be there to support the police prosecutor at all significant points and to respond to any questions the magistrate may have at this early stage.

  He had driven up from Dover that morning. An easy drive on a clear day until he hit the bottleneck at the city end of the Southern Outlet. Even then it had not been exactly horrendous. Friends from the mainland were always amazed that locals would even complain about traffic: compared to Melbourne there simply weren’t any problems. Having parked undercover at Police HQ, he walked the twenty meters along Liverpool Street to the court building.

  Opposite the Royal Hobart Hospital, the facade and interior had been radically updated since his initial stint as a uniformed officer in the ’80s. The old brick Victorian frontage was now a double-storied construction of glass panels. So justice could be seen to be done, perhaps. It actually looked rather good and had a huge benefit of allowing in natural light to make the public areas feel airier and a bit more hospitable. It was a massive advance on the previously cramped and Dickensian atmosphere the old building generated.

  He went in, proceeded through the body scanner and walked upstairs to Court Number Four. Inside, the room was modern and far less intimidating to average citizens. In the media box was Susan Hart, the designated court reporter for The Mercury. She walked over to chat. Dressed in a grey skirt with matching jacket, she smiled, tucking luxurious auburn hair behind her ear. “Detective, good morning. This one could be quite interesting.”

  “Susan, good to see you. You look well.” Aside from being a damned good reporter, she was an attractive woman with bright green eyes. Keeping competent members of the media onside had many benefits, not least that it could mean an objective rendering of police conduct may eventuate.

  “As do you, John. Bit of a tan there. Don’t tell me you’re taking a break.”

  “Sort of. Turning into a bit of a busman’s holiday now but I’ll get back down the Huon this afternoon. You’re always welcome, you know. Seafood, sunshine, serenity.” He was unsure if he really meant to extend the invitation: it had just popped out of his mouth.

  “Thank you. Yes, that would be nice. This weekend perhaps.” She gestured to the paper under Mahoney’s arm. “Rachel’s upset about what one of the subs did to her page 3 story.”

  “With good reason, I’d say. Thank God they didn’t print ‘boongs’. May as well have.” A short article that morning announced that the former Premier had agreed to assist Aboriginal communities with the red tape of mining claims. The bold headline proclaimed he had a “job helping blacks”. Mahoney had a vision of the subeditor chewing and spitting tobacco as he typed.

  Susan smiled in acknowledgement. “Here’s hoping he doesn’t get this one. Probably come up with ‘Axe murderer on loose in Gagebrook’. Anybody in those places must think society has got it in for them.” She was referring to a cluster of suburbs on Hobart’s northern fringe that produced a disproportionately high number of criminal offenders. Readers in more comfortable locales lapped up the seemingly endless parade of news stories involving seemingly random violence: theft, vandalism, alcohol-related driving offences etc. That these very same suburbs experienced disproportionately high levels of unemployment, teenage pregnancies, drug abuse, broken families and poverty rarely got a mention. Cause and effect.

  Mahoney felt you generally ended up with the sort of society you allowed to be created. A recently retired magistrate had remarked that a very sobering aspect of his thirty odd years on the bench had been that he had been obliged to hand out varying sentences to quite a number of members of four generations from the same family. He noted that none of them had ever held a job. Inter-generational poverty was surely a contributing factor to inter-generational crime. This was the harsh reality of the Timsons and the Molloys.

  Their amenable chat was curtailed by the entry of the police prosecutor and legal aid barrister. Mahoney acknowledged his colleague then took his seat. The Clerk of the Court announced the entry of the magistrate and another act in the theatre of jurisprudence was set to begin. Members of the accused’s extended family had also filtered in and were seated to Mahoney’s left in the front row of the public gallery. Apart from the slightly elevated bench, all the other participants in this small drama were on the same level, spatially at least.

  In his grey suit and accompanying pieces of apparel, he felt at odds with the fashion choices of those seated nearest him. Despite the warm weather, the males were almost uniformly in boots, stovepipe denims and flannies. Echoing the latest craze among some professional footballers, shaved heads were on display apart from one blonde youth with a back to front baseball cap on his head. Females sported lurid tank tops with skirts at a fairly daring length.

  The court having been called to order, the accused, one Montana Stripley, was brought up from the remand cells where she had been held over the long weekend and was ushered into the dock. Given that she had been delivered a change of clothes, Mahoney, and most probably the magistrate and most certainly the court appointed defense lawyer, were disconcerted to see her parading in a tight T-shirt emblazoned with the logo FCUK U 2. It reminded Mahoney of the old joke about the dyslexic agnostic insomniac. He doubted the bench would see the humor.

  Her immediate apparent manner of ill-concealed aggression to all and sundry did not suggest remorse at her deed. In her home she had asserted that the “bitch deserved it for gobbing my Jamie”. Mahoney’s sardonic thought at the time was why wasn’t it Jamie she had brained instead of the victim? Although that claim was inadmissible as evidence, she had, under caution in a taped interview, made further inflammatory comments that would lead any reasonable person to assume her guilt. As the prosecution had two seemingly reliable eye-witnesses to the assault, and that one of the uniforms had found the tomahawk in her carport with the victim’s blood and her fingerprints only on it, her plea of “Not guilty, ya poncey nuff-nuff” was ill-advised as well as just plain stroppy.

  Expectedly, the committal hearing was adjourned so that her case could be transferred to the Supreme Court. Mahoney doubted that a further week in remand would mollify her. The current imbroglio did not suggest that sentencing her would be
an easy matter either. As he departed, Mahoney mimed a ‘call me’ hand signal to Susan Hart and began the journey back to his holiday idyll. And for most of the journey wondered how he would feel if she actually did take up his invitation.

  CHAPTER 12

  Wednesday 10th March 1pm

  “You don’t want much, do you?” Larry Owen sneered at the man opposite.

  “Not really, considering the totality of things.” James Cartwright was impervious to the sarcasm. In the exchange he held the trump card: knowledge. He had the whip hand and he felt no compunction in utilizing his advantage. Given the severity of his problem, there was no hesitation in turning the screws on his brother-in-law. Wasn’t even greater pressure being applied to him?

  In much the same way as a bookie laid off a dicey bet or an insurance company re-insured a risky proposition elsewhere, he was very prepared to re-direct the strife threatened him, onto others. His reputation and academic career were in peril. He’d been played and he felt sure he didn’t deserve the potential repercussions. Even if the immediate danger had been defrayed by Fotheringham’s influence, there was no guarantee the whole incident wouldn’t come back to bite him. He couldn’t allow that.

  “You sure it’s not just that your ego was hurt? Someone had a lend of you and you don’t like it.” Owen was on the money but there was no way Cartwright would admit to it.

  “Ha. Good-looking Lebanese man.”

  “What?”

  “Asif!”

  Owen’s puzzlement cleared. “Oh, that’s a belter. You’d reckon you’d steer away from ethnocentric jibes given your problem.”

  “Ooh, my word, Larry. Well done.” Sometimes it was just too hard not to be patronizing.

  “Thanks, smartarse. We don’t all have to go to a university to be able to use a dictionary. Anyway, being a smug prick doesn’t exactly help you get what you want.”

  Cartwright paused to reconsider his next remark. The owner of the Citrus Moon café was on his way to their window table to take their orders. When he’d rung Owen that morning to arrange the meeting, this quirky café in Kingston had been agreed as the venue. Cartwright wasn’t totally happy: too near the building site where Owen was working. He couldn’t communicate this without tipping him off as to the exact nature of his proposal and he couldn’t do that…yet. And Fotheringham had been very clear on the need to avoid giving too much away on a phone line. Dodgy things, phones. Tell him the deal face-to-face. No record. Gauge his reaction. Get him tethered to the scheme.

  Both men shifted slightly in their rickety bentwood chairs to order coffees and salads. Tried reasonably successfully to keep a light tone for the tall Scotsman with a ponytail and ringed ears. After he moved back to the counter, Cartwright leaned forward. “OK, let’s start over. My smart tongue ran away from me back there.”

  Owen nodded. Didn’t believe a word of it. But he had to listen. There was a favor to be done. Might as well get on with it.

  “So, as I was saying before things got a bit tetchy, we want you to make your building site available.”

  “We?”

  Cartwright mentally rebuked himself. The change from domineering to friendly had caused him to be sloppy. He must bear in mind Larry was proving to be no fool. “Let’s just say it’s not me alone behind this bit of pay-back.”

  “Who’s we?” The mule had hit the sand.

  “Can’t say, sorry.”

  “Can’t say, or won’t say.”

  “The first.” He held his hands up in a gesture of pacification. “Believe me, the less you know the better.”

  “Need to know basis only, Philby.”

  His brother-in-law was proving to be a surprise package. “Nothing cloak and dagger. Just protecting you.”

  “How noble of you. Very altruistic.”

  “No need to be too sarcastic. I know I’m being selfish but I’m in a corner too, you know. If I could I’d leave you out of it, but I’ve been given no choice.”

  “What, someone else is blackmailing you?”

  Cartwright felt they were disappearing into a maze. He had to keep this on track. “No. Not really. Look, it is complicated but this bit is simple. You do what I asked at the start and your part in the affair ends there. I swear.”

  Owen sat back and looked out the window. The food and beverage arrived. To anyone else in the café it looked like a quick business meeting, albeit a slightly tense one. A client and a tradie haggling over a contract. After of sip of his latte Owen spoke. “Right, just so we’re clear. You, singular and/or plural, want me to make sure the unit construction site over yonder is free and clear this Thursday night?”

  “Yes.”

  “No security checks that evening?”

  “Yes.”

  A long, long pause. “And for this you swear to keep your nugget of information to yourself.”

  “Yes.”

  “Forever?”

  “Yes.”

  “And nothing comes back to haunt me?”

  “Nothing.” Was the fish on the line? “See, it’s quite a small thing to ask, really.”

  “Yeah, it is and that’s what’s worrying me. There’s a hell of a lot you’re not telling me. Not that I’d want to know anyway. Whoever’s behind whatever’s planned must have you by the balls.”

  “To put it mildly, yes. But it’s the same deal for me. Get this done and my problem disappears too. Win for you, win for me.” Cartwright hazarded a smile.

  “Don’t grin just yet. This scheme. How criminal is it?”

  “Hardly at all. It’s a bit iffy but I can assure you neither of us will be breaking any laws.”

  “But others will?”

  “I honestly don’t think so. No.” To the extent that Cartwright had no real idea what the scheme actually was, he was being truthful. The Fixer had delegated this task to him and that was it. Less you know the better, Jimmy boy. The lack of information rankled as much as the dismissive nametag. He wanted to know. Wanted to be included. Yet he acknowledged that being uninformed could be a blessing here.

  “Righto. Even if you did know I doubt you’d tell me. I’ll sort it out. Turns out the concrete delivery for the foundation trenches won’t be this Friday now. Company has asked if they can do it Monday instead. So, I’ll knock the team off this tomorrow afternoon and the site will be clear for a few days. Suit you?”

  Cartwright was instantly relieved. He hadn’t felt like touching his food. “Yes, that will work. Thanks, Larry.”

  Owen stood to depart. At a low volume he imitated the Scottish café proprietor’s voice. “Fuck you, Jimmy. Don’t bother calling.”

  With that he walked out without a backward glance or a contribution to the bill.

  Cartwright blushed. With embarrassment, not shame. He felt small and used. Not half as smart as he wished he felt.

  CHAPTER 13

  Thursday 11th March 9pm

  The Metz was humming and the alfresco drinking area perched above Sandy Bay Road was filling up very nicely with a plethora of bright young things. On the balcony the pizza oven was casting a zephyr of charcoaled vegetable aromas as a succession of thin-crust gourmet pizzas were cooked and then transferred to waiting tables. The perfect food to snack on with a drink in one hand and to soak up some of the alcohol. And that was flowing very freely. A combination of a weekly special of $5 jugs of beer and a balmy evening had drawn another large crowd of freshly groomed twenty-somethings and a quite a few of them were drinking with both hands.

  Tomorrow was another day: a day to recover with a bit of study or a cruisey day at work as the weekend beckoned. Friday on their minds. Tonight was a warm up for the serious partying of the weekend. Guys were mostly wearing T-shirts louder than the dance music being spun and long surfie shorts or jeans. Flip-flops were de-rigueur. Girls all wore summer dresses that bore testimony to lots of healthy skin, trim midr
iffs and long firm legs. It was half a world away from Ibiza but only geographically.

  Brad Finch was in his element. Even the ordinary girls looked good and the better packages were getting into the swing of the evening. Training was done for the night. Finchy was on the prowl. His gelled hair was tousled just right and his deeply tanned face highlighted his smile. He worked out long ago that by keeping it in reserve it was that bit more effective when a gorgeous woman was looking his way.

  As was one now. A brunette with an olive complexion, dark eyes and a terrific rack. Just be patient. Smile a greeting. Then ignore her and talk to a few blokes he knew. Ten minutes later she just happened to saunter over. Just happened to perch herself by Brad’s shoulder. The other males suddenly needed a re-fill.

  “Hi, I’m Zoe, as in David.”

  Finchy got it straight away, thankfully. “Brad, how are you? Good spot to neck a few and wind down.”

  “Yes, not exactly Melbourne but pretty good.”

  “Yeah. That your hometown?”

  She nodded. “Yes, a dreaded mainlander. I just wanted to get out of that posh school, rich kid scene and grow up on my own for a while. Away from Daddy, Mummy and the Beemer in Kew. I like it down here.” The last sentence was delivered with an unreserved smile and comely eye at Brad.

  “Good idea. It’s not anywhere near as bad as a lot of people make out. Plenty of surf beaches, pubs, bands. And this summer. Right out of the box.”

  “Mmm, I’m discovering that.” Another gaze straight into Brad’s eyes. He didn’t mind: it kept his gaze level which was not easy. Was she standing just a bit closer now? He could practically brush her left breast with his arm. He tried to concentrate on what she was saying.

  “I’m pretty sure I’ve seen you at uni. Last week at the café I think it was. Talking to your girlfriend.”

  This one was easy. He could just tell the truth. “No, that’s Amanda. We’re buddies.”