Helen shivered again. Mac put his arm around her and they left the group. They moved out onto the verandah. He turned to face her and placed a hand on each of her shoulders. He said, “Jan and Sep was no surprise.” She studied the wooden floor between them as though anticipating his next words. “How about us, Love?” he asked.
“Well…How about us?” She answered him with his own question.
“I want to marry you, Helen,” he shuffled his feet, “I want to be with you all day, every day. What do you say?”
“Yes,” she began with a whisper, “yes. Yes. YES!” She hugged him to her.
They clung to each other in silence as they watched the red sun retreating below the horizon, fleeing a triumphant purple twilight. Mac was the first to speak, “I’ll need some time, Love. I don’t think I could live in the city,” he looked thoughtful, “I’ve been on my own now for so long I’ve become a bit anti-social. I’m comfortable away from people.”
“You’ll soon get over that.” Helen kissed him.
“I don’t think so. For half of my adult life I’ve been alone. Over time antisocial has become my nature.”
“Mac, ever since that first night when you were brought unconscious into casualty I sensed you were a strong person. And then up on Glennie Creek I learned a lot about you.” She looked out across the sea of sugarcane. “You’ll get over this, my love. And anyway,” she put her head on his chest and added, “even if you don’t I know a little place on a creek just off the Olive River, I’m sure I can get us a good deal on it.”
Curlews wailed their sorrowful chorus across the deepening dusk. “Why do they mourn on my happy day?” she asked.
“Over time, it’s become their nature.” He kissed her.
Chapter
83
In the case of the State of Queensland v John Cade – Accessory to Murder it took some time to sort out state’s rights in the apportioning of pertinent evidence. The Queensland judiciary were happy to do a deal with New South Wales as long as there was no chance Cade could escape their gaols by some obscure technical point.
When Russell Byers walked into the station at Darlinghurst, surprised by a round of applause, the old cop couldn’t suppress a smile. “Good on yer, Rusty,” plainclothes and uniforms crowded to cuff and slap at him. He carried a large cardboard carton of documentary evidence which he plonked on his desk.
While hands were grasping his he saw, over the heads of his fans, Jack Arkwright beckoning from his office doorway. Among the bits and pieces in the carton was the battered notebook of Carlos Salazar. Byers retrieved it before making his way to the Super’s office. The book had been found in Salazar’s shirt pocket. The shirt was part of the clothing which had been washed up and scattered along the banks of Glennie Creek. It had been torn free in Salazar’s ultimate struggle with his nemesis. The Colombian’s shoes and socks remained in the creek bed, planted there under a metre of cloying mud by his pistoning, panic-stricken legs. The removal of Salazar’s clothes by the big ‘saltie’ was eerily ironic. It was a role reversal, it’s what we do, the old detective thought, before we eat marine creatures we skin them.
As Byers sat he pushed the notebook across Arkwright’s desk. “I’ve got the bastard’s diary here, Jack, pity it’s not legible. Saltwater did a job on it.”
“We’ve got some good processes now, Russ,” Arkwright reassured his old friend, “state of the art. Forensics will lift it all out of there.”
Byers waved in the direction of the squad room desks beyond the glazed wall of the Super’s office, “I hope so, Jack. There’s a badly bent one among ‘em out there.” Byers got to his feet and returned to his desk. He took his notebook from his pocket and searched through it for his neighbour’s phone number. He would be home that evening, he would tell her she could turn Extom out into the street at any time today that she liked. He was sure by now the irascible old neuter would be missing him and impossible for her to control. The other detectives milled around his desk. Questions were many. Was he sure that Salazar was the Sydney killer? Bit of a coincidence wasn’t it, running into him up there? How could he be so sure it was him, anyway? How did you get him?
“Whoa! Cut it out you blokes, simmer down and I’ll tell you. You’re right, it was a bloody big coincidence but his DNA fingered him. Besides that he kept a diary. That should tell us a bit more about the bastard.” Byers threw his notebook onto the desk top, it landed near his phone with a slap as he fielded questions. “But I didn’t get him,” he continued, “a very small group of good people and a very large crocodile with a bad attitude did the job for me.”
Rod Hanson, a self proclaimed teetotaller, perjured by his red face and a belly which hid his belt buckle, pushed Russ into his chair. “What!” Hanson shouted, “You mean it was pure arse?” The others spun Byers in his chair and ruffled his hair. “Jesus! Russ,” he heard someone jeer, “We thought it was some of your shit hot detective work, you’re a bloody old fraud.” They deserted him.
Russ grinned, he was warmed by the camaraderie, he reached for his notebook. “Now to rescue old Extom,” he murmured. The notebook was gone. He searched the floor – not there. The warmth disappeared. In that instant he knew one of those present was the bent one. And whoever that was had wrongly identified Byers’ own notebook when the old cop threw it onto his desk, as Salazar’s diary. He went into Arkwright’s office, “It’s one of them on this shift, Jack,” he explained his reasons and then told his boss, “I’m taking the rest of the day off, I’ve got a lot to do.”
Chapter
84
Jack Arkwright signalled from his office with a large manila envelope. Russ knew immediately what it was, the deciphered diary of Carlos Manuel Salazar. During the preceding month, since Russ handed Salazar’s diary to Arkwright, each avenue of the old cop’s investigations had come to a dead-end. There had been nine detectives, besides himself, working the shift on the day his notebook went missing. Russ recalled them by heart.
Jack Arkwright, Russ’s boss, he already had the diary in his possession when the notebook went missing. He also had the authority to inspect any of his detectives’ notebooks whenever he wished. He was above suspicion. Arkwright had also provided Russ with a warrant to view the bank accounts of any officer whom he suspected. Russ suspected them all. To appear fair to the others he checked out Arkwright as well.
Rod Hanson was a plodder, a redneck, but honest. His banking history showed a regular alternation of colour, from black to red and back again.
Fred Armstrong, Wal Cameron, Al Forsyth and Jim Wentworth all had bank accounts similar to Hanson. They were all relying upon their superannuation to finance their retirement.
Mick Sykes was different. He had married the only daughter of a rich man – the tycoon M. J. Emerson. And Muriel Sykes had been brutally slain by Salazar, the very man that Mick Sykes had been after. Sykes lived in a large house and had an even larger bank account. He drove an expensive car but his trappings of prosperity came to him by way of inheritance.
Zeke Cohen at first interested Byers. Cohen, like Sykes, had significant assets which he claimed came from shrewd deals. His job, as a police officer, was to work within the Jewish community where he knew the customs and the practices of the people he had to investigate. He could step around and over the sensitivities which gentile cops would trample. As a result of Cohen’s detective work within the pale many windows of financial opportunity – given, taken and forced – were available to him. He was no dummy. He was an astute investor in his own financial welfare. All of the deposits and withdrawals on his bank statements checked out kosher. Cohen, Russ reflected, was an officer he would welcome as a future partner.
The last, Tony Benfield, was the recent replacement of a retiree. Russ was sure that he was too young and too inexperienced yet to be the bad apple in this case. So, who did that leave? Nobody.
Byers sat down in the chair opposi
te as Arkwright pushed the envelope across the desk. “They lifted everything, mate,” he shook his head and shivered, “it’s a complete account of each murder. All those in North Queensland, all those down here and there’s even a description of his work in Colombia. It’s all there, it’s disgusting. Jesus! Russ, there’s some sicko’s in this world.”
Chapter
85
Russell Byers sat long after midnight in a comfortable lounge chair. He stared sightlessly at a muted TV. Extom was curled and purring in his lap. The old cop felt uneasy in the stomach. The diary made sickening and frightening reading. Salazar had kept a meticulous record of his victims whom he seemed to have rated with stars after their names. The old cop also felt uneasy of mind. Something illogical was disturbing the ordered pattern of his thoughts.
Without waking the cat Byers placed it in its basket. Russ knew that when he woke in the morning the old cat would be sharing the warmth of his bed. Sleep was a long time coming and before it did Russ had a mental chuckle as he felt Extom clamber up the hanging quilt to settle, engine running, at his feet.
At dawn the old cop sat bolt upright. Extom was almost as quick, he came up snarling and spitting, looking for someone or something to claw. “It’s all right, old timer,” Byers soothed the cat and reached for the bedside lamp. He flicked once more through Salazar’s diary. “That’s it!” he shouted triumphantly, “I knew there was something wrong.” He showered and dressed and then fed himself and the cat. Before nine o’clock he was heading for the city.
Where to start? He had with him a team photo of the crew from Darlinghurst taken at the Police Track and Field Games. Byers’ first port of call was a Kodak store where he had a crew member in the photo cropped out, enlarged and enhanced. He still wasn’t sure what to do. He visited the security branches in the head offices of the many local and overseas banks.
He swore them all, legally, to secrecy and left them each with a copy of the enlarged, enhanced print and instructions for its use. He visited the Downing Centre and checked court records.
Six weeks later Byers was ready. He briefed his boss.
“I want the complete day shift in the briefing room at ten this morning. We have a problem to resolve,” Arkwright told them. There was nothing untoward about his demand. It was his usual address when planning a concerted campaign. As the detectives passed through the briefing room doorway they did, however, spare a glance for the two uniforms stationed there. Cohen was the last to enter. He raised an eyebrow as one of the uniforms followed him in and locked the door.
“As you all know,” Jack Arkwright began, “Russell here has spent most of his time lately on the trail of Carlos Manuel Salazar. Although until he was killed none of us knew his name. Russell did, however, through a DNA print out, connect our Sydney serial killer with an Interpol fugitive. And then in a thorough piece of police work in his search for an escapee he came across similar DNA evidence. Unfortunately a large crocodile ate our suspect,” chuckles around the room. “But in the absence of hard evidence we have enough circumstantial stuff, and the confessions of his partner to convict the suspect posthumously.
“During Russell’s long investigation he came across evidence of corruption. Sadly he has traced it to one of you in this room.” Heads swivelled and a hubbub arose among the Superintendent’s audience, “I’ll let Russell take over now. Russ it’s all yours.”
Byers walked from the back of the room where he had been seated. “I first heard of this corruption,” he told them, “when I was questioning John Cade. He was Salazar’s cohort. A weak one completely dominated by the Colombian but a cohort just the same. The Queensland police have him and will probably keep him until he’s too old to commit any more mischief. He’s been charged with accessory to murder and now, I believe, with murder itself. Cade told me that a contact which he only knew as ‘Ace’ kept his boss, Phil Benson, out of trouble.” Byers audience was fidgeting, he didn’t care. He was building himself a platform from which he would jump upon his quarry.
“It was Salazar’s diary which pointed indirectly to our bent cop, Ace. It was something in that diary or rather something which was not in that diary which led me to him. You see, Salazar kept a meticulous account of all of his killings. He even rated his enjoyment of each. He awarded stars, asterisks, whatever you like to call them but Mick,” Byers turned to Sykes, so did eight other pairs of eyes, “your wife, Muriel, was not mentioned.”
“So what!” Sykes anger was swift.
“So what?” Byers repeated the words as a question, “So I wondered why. Salazar was such a thorough ghoul it should have been there. I didn’t know where to begin so I started with the money trail, it’s always good value. I had these photos printed,” Byers put them on the table, everybody took one, “and I had them circulated by fax to all of the many credit unions and bank branches throughout the land. Meanwhile at the Downing Centre court records revealed that one M. J. Emerson had been filed against for bankruptcy. He was saved from the embarrassment of insolvency only by the timely largesse of a friend, a white knight. He was broke but not a declared bankrupt. Upon his death his daughter Muriel, your wife, received nothing.
“Bullshit! You prick! She was rich.” Sykes leapt from his chair, he was ready to kill. The other detectives’ brows were furrowed in thought. Their eyes were now slitted, emitting glares which seemed to have a physical substance in them. They washed over Sykes.
“Part of what you say, Ace, is correct…”
“Cut out this Ace shit, you arsehole.” Sykes face was a deeper red.
Byers ignored the interruption. “…Muriel was rich but she didn’t know that. All she had was a piddling amount in an obscure credit union. An account which, unbeknown to her, was being fed regularly by you, Ace, and by its own accrued interest. You’ve been filmed many times on security tape making deposits. Your images, strewn through the credit union’s archival tapes, are prolific, Ace. I have copies of account statements which feature dates of deposits that match your appearances on tape.” Byers tapped a manila folder, then continued, “Imagine Muriel’s amazement at the size of her balance when just after her dad’s death you asked her to close that account. Now, as far as bullshit goes, Ace, whatever you fed her worked, didn’t it? She drew two cheques.”
Byers opened the slim file he had been holding since he started his monologue. He held two slips of paper aloft. “The first amount was for seven hundred thousand dollars the second for two hundred thousand. The first was deposited in your joint account after the executors finalised Emerson’s will. It was to represent a believable inheritance from the old man. Wasn’t it, Ace?”
The redness had now gone from Sykes face. It was ashen.
Byers stared at the man until he looked away. He then continued, “The existence of the second cheque has more sinister connotations, Ace. You see it points to premeditated murder because it was presented to your account as settlement of your wife’s estate. Yet, by its very existence, it points to premeditation. You killed her didn’t you, Ace?”
Sykes staggered and collapsed into his chair. Shoulders slumped, his mouth opened and closed like some pale faced fish. No sound came.
“You should be crocodile shit along with Salazar.” Byers motioned to the uniform, “Get him out of my sight, Constable. Take the treacherous bastard down to the cells, charge him first. Premediated murder, accessory to murder, corruption, perverting the cause of justice and anything else you think of on the way. Put my name on the charge sheet.”
After Sykes and the uniforms left the briefing room those who remained were quietly assessing their own form.
In a profession where one is in constant contact with the dregs of society the definition which should exist between good and bad can become blurred. Lost in a fog of vice. The human mind is a strange machine which works in relativities. If one plunges one’s hand into a bucket of hot water and then into a bucket of water of ambien
t temperature, one might say, “Wow! That’s cold.” If one plunges one’s hand into a bucket of ice water and then into the former bucket of water of ambient temperature, one might say, “Wow! That’s nice and warm.” It is all relative. Similarly a person constantly involved with the seamy side of life might have his ‘good’ standard lowered to a point where somebody looking on from an objective perspective might judge that ‘good’ as ‘bad’. A policeman’s lot is a tough one, and lonely. Byers judged himself lucky to have survived his term in ‘good’ shape. The rest of the cops in the briefing room silently thanked Sykes for returning them from the underworld.
Byers looked to Arkwright, “I want some time off, Boss.”
“Sure, Russ. Take what you need. These last few years must have knocked the stuffing out of you.”
“No I’m OK, Jack. But I’ve got some loose ends to tie up, I’m going back to Cairns. I’m wanted at a couple of weddings, there. And I need to rub shoulders for a while with good people. We travel too long with scum, Mate. It rubs off.”
Fin
The Cooktown Grave Page 32
