Getting out of bed, she walked over to the open window and stared down at the empty street. She’d dealt with a false confession once, had been told about them at the Academy. The urge some people have to confess comes, the lecturer had said, from guilt that might or might not have any objective basis at all. She shivered, although it was not cold.
Being uncomplicated had always been very important to her.
Sunday 8 am, back at her desk. On the way in she’d hit the wrong button on the radio, got some ABC talk station.
‘So, Stephen Brunton, what do you say to critics who claim your proposal to jail users of recreational drugs is punitive, even if it does make economic sense? Economics can be just a little inhuman, can’t it?’
‘On the contrary, like all good economics, my proposal is deeply moral. It seeks to make people responsible for their own actions, for the effect of those actions on others. It’s a bit like putting a price on carbon, or waste disposal. If people have to take into account the true cost of their behaviour, they might change that behaviour.’
Mabey’s husband had a good voice, full of charm: you wanted to believe what he was saying. Maybe he should spend more time with his stepson, though. Kicking a ball around.
The big office had that deadness they get when you’re the only one at work on the weekend, and she felt mildly depressed. Edi Sande would go into the box tomorrow. Repeat his corroborative story in return for a Section 198: he’d leave court cleansed of his sins, and Rafiq Habib would be close to an acquittal.
Across the floor, two cops came in, men she didn’t know in shorts, ignored her and sat down at desks. The Feds still had nothing for her. Vella rang, worse than useless. She called Knight to ask if he’d had any success pushing his Beirut contact. They needed to find the doctor, at least.
‘No. But that pig was never going to fly, was it?’
Maybe Knight’s memory was shot. He said things that suggested he’d forgotten previous conversations. ‘You thought it had a chance.’
‘Andrew Ferguson’s not paid to make things easy for simple coppers. What else is happening?’
She told him something she hadn’t mentioned yesterday, how Brian Harris had been in court Friday, was taking an interest.
‘Typical Brian. Attention to detail.’
‘What?’
‘Any help?’
‘None at all.’
‘Brian can get his own take on things, become a bit obsessive.’
‘He and you have some common interest in this case? Something I don’t know?’
‘What do you mean?’
Not rejecting her comment outright. ‘He’s made some comments about you.’
‘Anything in particular?’
‘No.’
‘I’ve got to go. Stay in touch.’
‘What am I supposed to be doing here?’
‘You’re a bright young officer, don’t tell me to get fucked again. I’m sure what you’re doing is fine. Long as it’s something.’
‘You’re going cryptic on me again,’ she said, but he was gone.
Bec had told Wallace not to come in. Didn’t know why she was here herself, still going though the [email protected] records.
As she read, she was almost impressed with the way Knight had created a case out of what was there, got the DPP to run with it. Much of the investigative work had involved disproving alternative possibilities for Teller’s shooting, in particular The Five and the Deebs. The theory of a circumstantial case like this was that if you disproved the impossible, what was left was the truth, however little direct evidence you had.
But what if there was an alternative no one had thought of, because you had absolutely no reason to do so? Enter Aunt Dalia.
The phone rang, Wallace: ‘You seen the news? Woman shot outside Jackson’s Gym. Tall, long blonde hair.’
Her elbows came down on the desk, hard. ‘Zames?’
‘No ID yet. St Vincent’s. Meet you there.’
Hung up, logged on to COPS, got the incident report. About one hundred and sixty centimetres, baseball cap and T-shirt, no name but the details matched. Someone saw you, Harris had said.
Downstairs, got her car out of the underground garage and pushed it towards the city, thinking about Harris’s call. He was in the mountains, so he wouldn’t know about the shooting. When he found out, he’d go crazy. It struck her he was a man who cared passionately about the things he owned, and in his mind he owned the Drug Squad, Strike Force Condor, owned part of this trial.
In her distress Bec drove too fast, was fortunate with the traffic. Turned on the radio and heard about the shooting, they even mentioned Jackson’s. Rang Bondi, they switched her through to one of the detectives at the hospital, phone engaged, she went back, got an inspector, still no ID on the victim. One shot through the upper chest, hanging on, no useful witnesses. Presumably she’d had a bag? Missing.
Hit Anzac Bridge, the long cross-city tunnel, almost empty, hung a right up into Darlinghurst, parked at the entrance, sign on the dashboard, raced in. Wallace was waiting with a uniform who led them to intensive care. Lots of corridors, white and blue.
The local detectives were outside ICU, introduced themselves, their names a blur. Bec asked how the victim was.
‘What’s your interest?’
Bec wanted to hit him, was losing it. Wallace explained.
The other said to Bec, ‘You think she might have been shot because you were seen speaking with her?’
Staring at her with interest, light bulb almost visible over his head.
‘Possibly.’
‘We have no ID yet.’
‘If I could just see her.’
‘She’s going to make it.’
The corridor seemed brighter, for a moment the hospital smelled sweet as she thought about luck, the precise course of a bullet through tissue and bone. Nodded dumbly and they led her in and stopped next to a bed. She looked, then away at the other beds, then back to the woman who was not Sharon Zames.
Outside, Wallace stood on the footpath, absorbing the heat. ‘Feel like a spot of lunch?’
‘What about your family?’
Yesterday he’d talked at some length about the arguments with his wife, the two boys in daycare, how they brought illnesses home all the time.
‘The kids are going crazy this weekend. I dunno.’
He looked at her almost beseechingly and she shook her head, said she had to get back to the office. Although she had nothing to do. Sometimes she thought her own life was too simple, but Wallace was a reminder of how easily things could slip the other way, towards chaos. Leanne Walton would probably disagree with that, but Bec felt it strongly.
In the car she sat for a while in a daze, feeling twice blessed, might leave this alone now, let the trial take its course. Considered calling Knight to update him, decided against it—sick of cryptic. Had joined the force because it was a giant machine for solving problems, and Knight was like a cog that had started to slip.
She turned on the engine and began to drive back to Parramatta. The switch rang, asking if she’d take a call, a woman, said it was urgent. She said sure and the call came through.
‘Ms Policewoman. We need to talk. Now.’
It was an address in Chippendale. When Bec arrived fifteen minutes later she saw it was on a busy street. Zames appeared from an alley across the way, wearing a long orange floral dress, floppy straw hat and big glasses. Black-and-white-striped canvas bag.
Slid into the front seat and said, ‘Let’s drive.’
‘I’ve got to call my partner—’
‘Just fucking go!’
She stared. Zames’s long hair was down, the dress suited her, display of tanned breasts, flatter than yesterday but still full.
Bec pulled out into the traffic. ‘I’m glad you weren’t shot.’
‘I slept in this morning. Usually go to the gym at seven.’
‘You’re off to the beach.’
‘It’s a disguise.’
Bec pushed the car up Abercrombie, said, ‘Are you afraid of anything?’
‘That girl, how is she?’
‘She’ll live.’
‘Okay.’ Zames exhaled, slumped with relief. ‘Marianne Lewis, most probably. We get mistaken for each other. You know, tall blondes, boobs—’
‘Three studs in her left ear?’
‘In a relationship, works in a frock shop up the Junction. Not an enemy in the world.’
‘So—’
‘Someone’s trying to kill me, Ms Policewoman. Because you spoke to me in public.’ Bec still couldn’t see the logic, shook her head. ‘No other reason, I’ve been a good girl.’
They turned the corner and found themselves stuck on Cleveland Street, vehicular sewer. Bec wanted there to be another reason for someone to shoot Sharon Zames, but she couldn’t think of one.
She rang Bondi, gave them the name: Marianne Lewis. Then she started to call Wallace, and Zames grabbed her arm. ‘I’m wondering, did I make a mistake in ringing you?’
‘Who would want to shoot you?’
Not a question to set her up for the Nobel Prize, but you had to start somewhere, give people the chance to work their way into things.
‘No comment.’
‘What are they afraid of?’
‘Afraid of a woman, is that what you mean? What could I do to hurt them? Oh shit, this traffic.’
She still had the hat on and the brim was down, half covering her face. Bec didn’t look at her, focused on her voice. Beneath the surface, something was very wrong. Might be shock, needed time to recover in surroundings more peaceful than here.
‘You’re not saying very much,’ Zames said. ‘Is this a work car?’
‘I have to contact my partner, he lives in Hurstville.’
‘Cops, it’s always pairs, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Jason and me, we were a pair.’
‘I’m sorry—’
‘Why? Why are you sorry? He was a violent crook, wasn’t he?’ Glasses off for a moment, looking at her looking. Like it was a quiz.
‘That’s right.’
‘So why sorry?’
‘He was your friggin’ boyfriend.’
Zames groaned and began to cry. It was sudden and the tears would be hot, Bec wanted to wipe them off those cheeks with her fingers. Instead, she started to punch in Wallace’s number again and Zames grabbed her arm, again, pulled it away from the phone. Strong grip.
‘If we’re going to protect you,’ Bec protested, ‘we need more people.’
‘You call him, I’m out of here.’
‘I’m sorry but it’s procedure. We—’
‘Goodbye, Ms Policewoman.’
Opened the door and got out, stood next to the car looking at the traffic jam up and down the road.
‘All right,’ Bec called.
She was breaking procedure, and this concerned her. But if she lost Zames, all the procedures in the world wouldn’t help.
Zames got back in, closed the door, reached across and turned up the AC. They drove.
‘So,’ she said, ‘you like murder work?’
‘It’s what I always wanted.’
Actually she had been thinking about that in the past year. The first one had been good, a victim you could care about. But Jason Teller . . .
‘That stuff about the pizza shop is true,’ said Zames. It had been in the media. ‘Rafi owed Jason a shitload of money for that, the reno and the bikes. The Wolves got them, ripped off their stock too, their turnover for two days.’
‘Pizza dough.’
Zames laughed, roughly, as though laughing was something she knew she needed to do. ‘Jason told Rafi the debt was a hundred and fifty, they argued over interest like they always do, but it was definitely more than a hundred. That was how much Jace had given him in cash and coke to start his business.’
So much for Aunt Dalia. Bec felt a surge of excitement. ‘Why would Teller deal with Rafiq Habib?’
‘He was getting more stuff than The Five could move, had to sell it, so he was desperate for dealers. He just met Rafiq in the gym one day and they clicked. Rafi is an idiot, that’s the key point here. And Jason too.’ She looked away. ‘Well, he could act like one.’
‘Didn’t Jason know about the Wolves?’
‘The bikies weren’t into coke, so he thought they wouldn’t care.’
Bec considered this and Zames nodded. ‘More idiocy.’
‘Didn’t the Wolves know about Jason?’
‘I guess he just wasn’t that scary to them.’
Bec let the scepticism show in her eyes and looked across at Zames, who pulled a handful of tissues from her bag and reached up under the big sunnies.
‘It was more complicated, you’re right.’ Zames sniffed. ‘He thought there was an understanding and there wasn’t. Typical gangster shit.’
‘What about the Porsche?’
‘That was to put pressure on Rafiq, like you guys said in court. Basically Rafiq didn’t give a fuck about the debt, he was a spoilt brat. Jason threatened him, threw a few punches. You ever meet him?’
Strange question. ‘No.’
‘He used to be a lovely guy but the ’roids made him so angry.’ She gave a few racking sobs, and Bec wondered if she was having a breakdown. Then, sniffing: ‘He got huge, you know, it was hard to recognise him anymore. Most people were terrified of him, but not Rafiq. They all have problems with the connections between actions and consequences.’
Odd thing for a criminal’s girlfriend to say. ‘How did Rafiq react when Jason took his car?’
‘He went ape. Rafiq had told everyone it was his, and Jace believed him, it was one of the reasons he thought Rafiq was a player. When he took the car, Rafiq just went crazy. Then he said he had the money, Jace thought he’d been real clever. We had no idea the Porsche belonged to Farid.’
We.
‘That was why they met that night? To repay the debt?’
‘It sure had nothing to do with any aunty in Beirut. Jace was surprised Rafi had got the cash together. He should have been more suspicious.’
‘Why’d he meet him alone?’
There was so much to ask.
‘It was just Rafiq, for fuck’s sake,’ Zames said with a heaving sigh. ‘He was just a kid. And then the little prick shot my man, to get out of debt and get the car back.’
They were in City Road now, heading into Newtown for no particular reason. Bec had to get Zames into an interview room, figured she needed to keep driving until she could talk her down. She was still nervous, terrified, kept staring at the side mirror.
‘So you were scared to give evidence at the trial?’ Showing empathy.
‘I got the word from Imad Habib a few hours after Jason was shot: Don’t talk. That’s when I knew they’d done it.’
‘Imad’s in prison.’
Zames shrugged and pulled a pack of cigarettes from her bag and lit up; Bec felt sad, said nothing. ‘He had a phone that night. And my number.’
‘The Habibs—’
‘They can do anything, Ms Policewoman. Anything they want. They’ve got cops on the payroll, believe me. And not just them. Sam Deeb called, about half an hour after Imad. Jason’s death stirred up the whole ants’ nest.’
‘How did Deeb know? Or Imad?’
‘There’s fifteen thousand officers in New South Wales. These guys have sources.’
‘Why did you take the safe?’
‘For Sam. He said it had some of his shit in it.’
‘True?’
‘Of course not. Jace didn’t sell drugs for Sam. Sam just saw an opportunity to grab his stash. That guy he had in there, Steve Beric, he would have told him what Jace was up to, how much he had in the safe. Said if I got it for him, he’d protect me against the Habibs. Seemed like an insurance policy I might need. You got an ashtray?’
‘I don’t smoke.’
She opened the window.
Bec wondered whether to mention the
four hundred grand she’d found in the flat, decided against it. They’d never learned anything about that, it was not part of the trial. But if Sam Deeb knew so much about Teller’s activities, it was strange he hadn’t known about the money.
She asked Zames about her own movements following Teller’s death, heard how after she’d given her statement she’d gone home to Melbourne for a few weeks, come back and resumed her job, started to recover. Yet Harris had said she’d disappeared. Maybe he wasn’t as all-seeing as he liked to pretend.
Deep breath. ‘So, who tried to shoot you this morning?’
‘The Habibs, obviously. Rafiq’s almost off the hook. I’m the only person who could disprove this sob story he’s telling. Someone saw you talking to me and panicked, thought I might give evidence after all. You almost had me killed, Ms Policewoman.’
Bec rubbed the steering wheel with her thumb. ‘Why would they panic? It was quite natural I’d talk to you at some point and you’d say nothing, like you did the last time we spoke.’
‘You don’t get it, do you? No one had talked to me since then. I wasn’t supposed to be talked to again. Where’s the OIC, Russ Knight? Who got him out of the way?’
‘He had an emergency.’
‘He didn’t tell you anything?’
Bec felt the tension in her neck and shoulders. ‘What?’
Zames laughed. ‘No, look, since I talked to you last year I’ve said a few things I shouldn’t have. Grief, you can’t control it. Certain people might have got word, decided I was going to roll. Farid mightn’t have ordered it, you’re right, nothing had really changed.’ She was backtracking, inventing a new story. ‘But his—’
‘What do you mean you weren’t supposed to be talked to?’
‘I just mean, more experienced cops would know. My life would be in danger.’
‘What do you mean, got Knight out of the way?’
‘Nothing. It’s just—no offence—aren’t you kind of young to be dealing with something like this? It’s fucking complicated, actually.’
Zames was crying again, still glancing in her side mirror often. They were on King Street and Bec had no idea where to go next. Zames’s changing words and the situation, none of it made sense. There was a lot of fear there, and other things she couldn’t identify. A smell, too: she’d noticed that since Zames had got into the car, as though she hadn’t washed that morning. It was not exactly unpleasant.
Drive By Page 26
