Drive By

by Michael Duffy

  ‘Boss?’

  ‘Blokes who weren’t on the take from local hostelries brought their own lunch to work.’

  She kept her eyes on the road, away from his gut. He explained how Harris had gone on to work the drug side of things, had given evidence against some corrupt officers in the early nineties, which had made him unpopular in certain quarters.

  ‘Most quarters.’ Knight paused, turned off the radio. ‘One thing you learn, where opinion is concerned, most people are cowards.’

  He glanced at Bec, who did not know how to react; she would have said she had instincts, not opinions. Knight went on talking, about how Harris’s career had stalled, then jumped ahead after the Royal Commission, honest cops suddenly in fashion. Since they’d met him at Roselands last week he’d taken another leap: appointed acting commander of the Drug Squad while his boss was on long-service leave. ‘Man’s a hero, example to us all.’

  No sarcasm there, but a certain flatness of tone indicating reserves of meaning. Miss Peach would not have approved. ‘He played league, too small of course. Broke his back once, sort of. Most men would take that as a sign but he recovered fully, went back to the game.’

  ‘Kids?’

  Knight shrugged. ‘Two. He’s one of those blokes whose life has been very, ah . . . logical. Logic has worked for him.’ Pause. ‘They tend to assume everyone else’s life can be like that too.’

  Bec thought about her friend Magda, desperately wanting kids of her own. Married someone she didn’t love and had them, was happy now. ‘Add that to idealism,’ she said, getting back to Brian Harris, ‘it must be quite a mix.’

  He nodded and became discursive, said Brian was one of those people who mean a lot to you at one stage of your life, and then you drift apart. Later you sometimes wonder how you could have let this happen, while at other times you wonder how you could ever have been so close to them.

  ‘I’m not talking about women,’ he added quickly.

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Sex confuses everything. I’m sure women feel the same.’

  ‘I expect so.’

  This rush of confidences was surprising. Some people, she knew, used personal disclosure as a weapon. Knight was silent now, looking out the window, breathing heavily. Sometimes he did that, she’d spotted it last year, the deep breathing starting suddenly inside his massive chest. Hoped he wasn’t ill.

  Harris was in the commander’s office with a big map spread on the desk. It showed the state’s north coast, a long strip of beaches with mountains rearing behind them, covered in forests and national parks. The set-up was beloved by dope growers. Harris came around the desk and clasped Knight on the shoulder, shook his hand with pleasure, as though they hadn’t met in years. Knight smiled and there was a wariness in his eyes Bec had never seen before. Harris shook Bec’s hand, more smiles, this time less complicated.

  On the walls of the large office were a framed DEA cap and security tag on a lanyard, and a large photograph of a helicopter above a green crop surrounded by green mountains.

  ‘One year’s secondment,’ Harris said, seeing her interest. ‘Colombia, LA. Fabulous people, recommend it strongly. Spraying coca plants, destroying drugs at their root, literally. Doesn’t get much better than that.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You kill the crop and it’s over red rover. No question.’

  One more smile then he picked up a digital recorder. ‘Another present for you Russ, courtesy of the Crime Commission. Rafi and his good mate Edi Sande.’ He pressed a button.

  Habib: ‘They fuckin’ haven’t got a fuckin’ clue.’

  Sande: ‘That’s fuckin’ good, is it mate?’

  Habib: ‘Fuckin’ haven’t got the forty or nothin’.’

  The weapon that had killed Teller had been a .40-calibre Glock. That information had not been made public.

  ‘Two days ago,’ Harris said.

  Not all the evidence in a trial had to come from the time of the crime or before it. Sometimes, something said afterwards could be powerful. It might suggest acknowledgment of guilt.

  ‘You talked to Habib?’ Harris asked.

  ‘Twice. I’m still confused about motive. You said the Habibs learned Teller helped put Imad away, so Rafiq killed him in revenge. But Teller had nothing to do with Imad.’

  ‘I didn’t say it happened,’ Harris said. ‘I said it’s what the Habibs think happened.’

  Bec looked at Knight, who scratched his gut. She saw he’d planned this conversation beforehand, had an idea of how it would go. He said, ‘Imad and Farid, they’re not stupid.’

  ‘Jeez, mate.’ Harris threw his hands up. ‘Been through this. Someone’s created a fantasy to feed into their paranoia. Someone who understands what those people are like.’ Knight kept scratching. ‘We have other intelligence to that effect, that they wanted Teller deceased.’

  ‘Who from?’

  ‘I can’t tell you.’

  ‘This is me, mate.’

  ‘Even you.’

  ‘Friends in Kent Street?’

  The Crime Commission was on Kent Street. It did not always share what it knew with the police, but Harris would have a deep relationship, if anyone did. He smiled, his thin lips almost disappearing. ‘No comment. You’ll just have to trust me, Russ.’

  ‘Ah, the knowledge problem.’

  ‘The fucking what?’

  ‘The fucking knowledge problem.’

  Bec hadn’t heard the expression before. She liked it.

  Harris looked annoyed, then smiled. Bec saw how his changing emotions would keep others on their toes, and how Knight had his measure. Something to be learned here.

  She said, ‘Even if the Habibs did believe it, would Rafiq be the killer? Why not give the job to one of their soldiers? There’d be—’

  ‘Honour,’ said Harris. ‘This was about avenging an insult to family.’

  ‘So why not Farid, why not do it himself?’

  He examined her face sourly, but Knight was nodding. Harris said, ‘I’d say either Farid is just too smart, or he knew we have surveillance on him. You try to maintain security, but on a long job like this, word leaks out. These guys hire private dicks to keep an eye on us. They tap phones, there’s reason to think they might have sources in the job.’

  Bec glanced at Knight, who didn’t seem surprised by any of these claims. She said, ‘How much do you know about Teller’s background in Melbourne?’

  ‘You’ve been told the lot.’

  ‘There’s no doubt he was a major crime figure down there?’

  ‘No doubt. Why the hypotheticals?’

  Their information on Teller seemed a little thin, although there was nothing she could put a finger on. She filed it away, said, ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Not in the first rank, more an up-and-comer,’ Harris said impatiently. ‘He blossomed in Sydney’s sunnier climate. Look him up on the internet.’

  Knight glanced at Bec, seemed to be weighing up something. Then he said, ‘So, Beric—’

  ‘The one you really should talk to.’

  ‘I have. He clammed up. Are you still watching these people, the Deebs? Beric?’

  ‘Sure, though Steve’s gone off the radar.’

  ‘You heard anything more that might help us?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Any thoughts?’

  ‘That not enough?’ Harris pointed at the recorder.

  ‘I’m a greedy bastard, mate. You know that.’

  ‘I do. Look, you should charge Rafiq Habib with murder, that’s my thought for the day. Too easy for you?’

  The two men smiled at each other, intensely.

  Finally Knight said: ‘The Porsche. Rafiq’s a twenty-year-old university student.’

  ‘The car is in the name of Honest John, he was paying it off, probably with drug money from Farid. They’re trying to build up a credit rating for John so he can make some larger purchases down the line. Help get more legal assets onto the family books. These pricks all think they
can cross over one day, become legitimate.’

  ‘It’s the way it goes,’ said Knight. ‘All great fortunes are based on a crime.’

  ‘Is that right?’ said Harris.

  ‘It’s a saying. From history.’

  It was an interesting idea, but Harris didn’t seem to think so. He scowled again, angry at something. Bec saw how he used disapproval to get people to accept his thinking on things. But this too didn’t work with Knight.

  Harris said, ‘Well that’s our job, isn’t it? To change history.’

  Knight directed Bec to a pub, where he drank a schooner of Old and then stared at the empty glass. ‘You seemed to have a problem with Brian. Everything okay?’ Not a criticism. More like he wanted to talk about it.

  ‘Not many crims change cities. We don’t know any reason why Teller did.’

  Knight examined her over the rim of his glass. ‘Not much point trying to psychoanalyse criminals, in my experience. Only two concepts matter. Honour, and low impulse control.’ He smiled. ‘With the Lebs, that’s all you need.’

  ‘Teller wasn’t an Arab.’

  ‘No. Quite right. You—’

  ‘I’m Indigenous.’

  Not sure why she’d said that. Lately she’d felt a need to tell people about herself.

  He put down the glass, wiped his hand on a paper napkin.

  ‘I know.’

  She resisted the urge to ask how. ‘You used to work with Harris?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He paused, considering the shift. ‘Brian’s got a point. Honour used to be important in our society too, the West. Now it’s not, so we tend to underrate it.’

  She considered this, like a crossword clue. ‘You mean in the job?’

  ‘With us, honour’s been replaced by the rule of law. By paperwork. It’ll happen with the Arabs too, once all their men of honour have been locked up. Or kill each other. So, what do you think of our case?’

  Bec said she thought the evidence against Rafiq Habib was dubious, and spoke about this for a few minutes. She expected some sort of explosion, but he took it well enough.

  ‘That’s a load of bollocks, of course,’ he said. ‘But don’t let go of your instincts entirely. At the end of the day, they’re the most important thing you’ve got. They just need training.’

  ‘Even if it means I disagree with you?’

  ‘No one wants a nodder. You do your job, I’ll do mine. Division of labour, makes the world go round.’

  She asked him about Sharon Zames’s claim that someone named Sally-Anne had told her Teller was dead before it appeared in the news. Who was Sally-Anne? Were they looking for her?

  ‘Been sorted.’

  ‘And?’

  He smiled heavily. ‘Sally-Anne’s boyfriend’s a cop at Roselands.’

  ‘Not on e@gle.i.’

  ‘Backlog. Speaking of which.’

  He stood up; no food had been taken.

  She followed. Knight was bad with paperwork and process, this was already clear. Might be protecting someone here too, not wanting a man punished for a bit of gossip on the phone. He’d said it had been taken care of, in the job this was still how it worked, often. It came down to trust, you could never know everything. But you could commit yourself to worthy people, if you could find them.

  Back at the office, Wallace had been checking Habib’s phone use.

  ‘Gets good the day after the murder. According to Telstra, Rafiq came in to their Newtown office late in the day and said he’d lost his phone two days ago. They checked, said it was still being used, so he cancelled it, got a new number.’

  ‘He’s a slow fucker,’ said Knight. ‘How many calls were there after the murder?’

  ‘Twelve received, eight made. Allowing for duplication, six other numbers were involved. I tracked down four, three don’t remember a thing.’

  ‘They probably would if someone else had rung. If Rafi’s name had popped up on their screen but it wasn’t him.’

  ‘Number four does. Edi Sande, three calls to Rafi and five received. Possession of coke two years ago, low end, suspended. Three of the eight calls were on the night after the shooting. He says when Rafi rang him no one spoke, when he called Rafi back the phone was answered by someone he didn’t recognise. Once he heard laughter.’

  ‘Call lengths?’

  ‘Outgoing: forty-five seconds, fifty-eight and two minutes thirty.’

  ‘He’s a patient man.’

  ‘He formed the view his friend’s phone had been stolen, and alerted him to this.’

  ‘After two and a half minutes of silence, so would I.’

  That evening, alone in the office, Bec brooded on the meeting with Harris. She went into e@gle.i and reread what they had on Jason Teller. Then she switched to Google, got four hits from the Melbourne Herald Sun, the latest about Teller’s death, the others on various crimes and trials. Harris had been right, proof of Teller’s life in black and white.

  Still she felt restless. Recalled a course she’d done at Albury with a lot of Victorians, dug in her purse and pulled out a card. DS Tony Kitchener, St Kilda, a Pom. Called the mobile.

  Kitchener was happy to oblige, Bec could hear his keyboard clicking before she’d finished her request. ‘Regular villain.’ Rattled off a list of convictions. Drugs. More drugs.

  ‘Thanks. You ever dealt?’

  ‘No. My patch though. Want me to ask?’

  ‘No. Yes, okay. Please.’

  ‘Next time you’re in Melbourne we should have coffee.’

  Not the sharpest knife in the block.

  DAY SEVEN

  Karen Mabey sent Thomson back to the office at morning tea, bought Bec a coffee. It was one of those humid days when the moisture in the air finds the gaps in your brain, occupies them too.

  ‘So, have you learned anything?’

  ‘It’s blocked,’ Bec said, ‘the record on COPS.’

  She considered removing her jacket but there was no point, the heat was impossible to escape. They went up the stairs and found a seat in the shade.

  ‘Oh God.’

  ‘They do it for important people, sometimes their relatives. Don’t want us taking stuff to the media. It doesn’t mean anything more than that.’

  ‘Thanks for trying. You won’t get into trouble?’

  ‘I might.’ Mabey’s mouth opened, but there was no sound. ‘Give me a day or two.’ She’d had an idea, mildly risky.

  ‘Can you tell me anything?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  Mabey just sat there, looking at the table. For a moment she seemed lost, and this was unnatural. Bec blurted out something about being sorry, about the problems this must be creating for the attorney general. Mabey started to talk, still looking at the table, said it was like a war, wasn’t it? If you were a member of the government and your son was wounded, you couldn’t let that affect your public duty to support the war, to prosecute it until you won. Could you? As though it was something Bec had ever thought about.

  ‘You think we’ll win?’ Bec said, grasping at the war bit.

  ‘I used to think so. What’s happened to Ian has changed that. It’s the demand, isn’t it? That’s what Stephen says. We always talk about the supply side, but really, it’s about the demand.’ Bec didn’t quite follow, just nodded. ‘When I found out about my son, I saw it differently for the first time.’ She shook her head. ‘You have to wonder how strong beliefs really are, when they can be changed so easily. All the people out there, all of us.’ She gestured helplessly at the flow of pedestrians in the square. ‘All of us thinking we know things.’

  ‘Your husband . . .’

  ‘He’s too smart to see the war can’t be won, and I’m too smart to tell him. That’s one of the problems, Bec. Everyone’s so clever.’

  It was like seeing a wall sag or a telegraph pole bend: all wrong.

  Mate, Farid came to the house for dinner one Thursday night in the Hummer, not long after we found out Rafi had been dealing. Two of his crew waited outside because
of trouble he was having with them Deebs in Marrickville. Mama took some food out to the boys like she always did, and then at dinner there was a big argument because Shada was asking again if she could go to the uni to do medicine. Just because she’d got the marks at school there was no way the family was going to let her do anything like that.

  I mean, even the way girls dress, you can see they is different, like in baggy clothes and three-quarter sleeves and covered to the collarbone and all the rules. They don’t wear the really heavy stuff like the mama, not the abaya and the jilbab, but I tell you, Muslim girls is not looking forward to summer when the skips and the Chinks and the wogs and everything is taking off most of their clothes.

  I remember when Jamila left school and was going out with her friends, she would wear a coat and everything when she went out, and just get changed at her skip friend’s house. And then when she met Salim she had to have a chaperone, usually a girl from another good family, but this chaperone would leave her when they were out. Like once I met Jamila and Salim at Beirut by Night and I didn’t know who she was at first because of how she was dressed and there was no chaperone or nothing. I am wondering if the parents think everything is like they think it is, or do they know what is going on and just pretend, like out of sight out of mind.

  Shada is having more confrontations with the parents, not just hiding things like Jamila did, but she is losing all these confrontations so I am thinking she is not really smarter than Jamila even though she did better in the HSC, better even than Rafiq. When she left school the papa was telling her she could work in Mr Carmino’s import business in the office there and she’d got a good job with that. But lately she’d been making all this trouble by talking about medicine again and now the mama told her how just because Rafi was going to uni it was no reason for Shada to do anything like that. Like the mama says, she is a woman and everything. But Shada was having one of her bad days and in the end she goes into the bedroom and slams the door. At least we can have some peace then.