Crooked House

by Peter Menadue

  I wore a straw boater and a pastel sports jacket. A German language newspaper was spread out in front of me. I was reading about Hitler becoming Chancellor. That was strange because, except in dreams, I couldn't read German.

  An elegant waiter delivered a cup of coffee. As I picked it up, I heard a shot. The cup shattered, spraying coffee all over the newspaper. The coffee turned to blood which ran off the sides of the table.

  I looked out across the square and saw Flat-face running towards me, firing a Mauser pistol.

  Bullets whizzed past my head. One hit me in the arm. I crashed to the floor and snapped awake, bathed in sweat. Then I realised it was only a dream and sighed deeply. Thank God. I silently prayed that I never saw Flat-face again.

  I glanced at my watch. Just before seven. I wouldn’t get back to sleep, so I rolled out of bed, showered and dressed. As I slipped past Alan’s bedroom, his massive snoring hinted he was still asleep.

  Alan had the Canberra Times delivered every morning. I strolled outside and stalked around his overgrown lawn. Dewy grass soaked my bare feet and shins. I kept an eye out for spiders and snakes.

  The paper lay in a clump of thick weeds. I carried it into the kitchen, ripped off the plastic sheath and unfurled it on the table.

  Suddenly, I saw Flat-face again. There was a large photograph of him at the bottom of page one. Holy shit. My heart ricocheted around inside my chest.

  I looked at the story next to the photo.

  SYDNEY CRIMINAL

  FOUND DEAD IN

  MOTEL ROOM

  A notorious Sydney crime figure, Jack Cooper, was found shot dead in a Canberra motel room yesterday afternoon.

  The body of Mr Cooper, 53, was found in the Big Western Motel, in Reid. He had been shot twice in the chest.

  According to a spokesman for the Australian Federal Police, Cooper booked into the motel four days ago, under an assumed name.

  The spokesman said that, at present, the police have no idea who killed him.

  "It’s not even clear why he was in Canberra," the spokesman said. "But you can be sure he wasn’t here to visit the National Gallery.

  "Cooper had a lot of enemies. His death probably resulted from a gangland vendetta."

  Cooper was well known figure in the Sydney underworld.

  During the 1970s he spent five years in prison for armed robbery. After being released, he worked as a minder and debt-collector for a number of crime bosses. He was arrested several times for assault, and never convicted.

  The Wood Royal Commission into the NSW Police Service heard evidence from a police informant that Cooper paid bribes to corrupt police and was involved in the heroin trade. However, no charges were laid against him in relation to those allegations.

  During my life, I’d read a lot of newspaper stories. But none gripped or rocked me like that one. It contained one stunning revelation after another. Indeed, it took me quite a while to digest them all.

  Now I knew the man who ran my car off the road and tried to kidnap me at Canberra Hospital - Flat-face - was a notorious Sydney criminal called Jack Cooper. I also knew he wouldn’t bother me again, because someone had punched his ticket. Of course, his accomplice was still at large. Hopefully Cooper’s death would keep him distracted.

  We are often told that every man's death - even an enemy's - is a tragedy to be regretted. I hadn't questioned that precept until now, when it dissolved into bullshit. When old Flat-face died, the bell didn't toll for me. Not even a ting-a-ling-a-ling. If I ever met the guy who whacked him, I’d definitely congratulate him. Though I wouldn’t let him date my daughter, of course, I would certainly buy him a beer. In my head, a little man put on his dancing shoes and did a celebratory fandango on Flat-face's coffin. Ooga booga, cha cha; Ooga booga, cha cha.

  However, many questions remained unanswered. Why did Cooper try to kidnap me? Did he think I had something important in my possession? And if so, what?

  Further, there was obviously some link between him and the deaths of Yvonne and Joanna. What was it? And did he kill them?

  And finally, who killed Cooper? And why?

  I had no answers, and couldn’t even make intelligent guesses.

  "Were you making that noise?"

  I glanced around. Alan pattered into the kitchen, wearing what I hoped was his number-three suit and a ragged blue tie.

  "What noise?"

  "Sounded like a war chant, or something like that."

  "Not me. Must have been someone outside."

  He shrugged and looked down at the table. "You got the paper?"

  "Yeah, though I was a bit worried a rhino might charge out of the undergrowth."

  He frowned. "Really? You should have been more worried about dog-shit. Anything interesting in it?"

  "Not really. What’s on the breakfast menu?"

  "Weet-bix, of course." He took a pack out of the fridge and put it on the table. "You can also make yourself some toast, though the bread's stale and I’ve run out of jam and margarine."

  "I’ll have Weet-bix then."

  "OK. You also want a beer?"

  Jesus. Though I knew he liked a drink, this was a bit earlier. "No, Weet-bix will be fine."

  He looked disappointed. "OK."

  He took two bowls out of a cupboard, put them on the table and started doling out Weet-bix. "You look a lot happier this morning."

  I smiled like I was witnessing the dawn of creation. "Yeah. Nothing like a good night’s sleep."

  After breakfast, I drove us both to Parliament House, arriving a little earlier than usual.

  As we strolled down the main corridor of the Press Gallery, I turned to Alan. "Thanks for putting me up."

  "No probs. You want to stay tonight?"

  Because Jack Cooper was no longer a threat, I planned to return home, though I couldn't tell Alan that. "No, I'll be fine, thanks."

  He said: "OK. Where'll you stay?"

  "Oh, I’ll find somewhere."

  "OK. But, if you want my advice, you should get down on your hands and knees and beg Anne to take you back."

  Jesus, if Anne and I had to divide up our friends, I probably couldn’t even count on Alan. That scared me.

  He said goodbye and slipped into his bureau.

  I’d become fascinated with Jack Cooper and his violent demise. When I reached my desk, I called the Media Relations Unit at the Australian Federal Police Headquarters in Braddon. There was already a female constable on duty. I identified myself and my paper, and asked if she had any new information on the murder of Jack Cooper.

  She said: "No. But there’s going to be a press conference here at ten o’clock."

  "Thanks." I hung up and glanced at my watch. Already nine o’clock. I raced through my morning chores - reading the newspapers and the mail - before calling Dirk Tucker to give him my preliminary news list. Then I headed for the AFP Headquarters in Braddon.

  Just before ten, I strolled into its ground-floor auditorium, where several dozen collapsible chairs were arranged in front of a podium with a long table.

  About twenty reporters, cameramen and photographers were milling about, either setting up equipment or chatting. Though it was a big turnout for a press conference at AFP Headquarters, I wasn’t surprised. A lot of people wanted to know why a crime figure like Cooper got popped in a Canberra motel room.

  I felt rather strange. Only the day before, Cooper tried to kill me. Yet nobody here knew that.

  I wondered if the police had drawn a connection between Cooper’s death and those of Joanna and Yvonne. Surely, if they had, Special Agent Gilroy would be in charge of this investigation.

  I soon learnt that he wasn't. A door opened behind the podium and a man emerged. He was in his mid-forties, with a sallow face, grey hair and grey suit. He sat behind the table, now festooned with microphones. I deposited my tape-recorder in front of him and slipped off to the side.

  He said: "Good morning ladies and gentlemen. My name is Special Agent Green. I’m in charge of the
investigation into the death of Jack Cooper."

  No mention of the other murders. It seemed the police hadn’t linked them.

  Green made the usual appeal for anyone with information about Cooper’s death to contact the police. Then he asked if there were any questions.

  A female TV reporter in the front row leaned forward. "When, how and why did Jack Cooper die?"

  "He died some time yesterday afternoon, while in his room at the Big Western Motel in Reid. He died from two gun-shot wounds to the chest. As to why, we’re still looking into that."

  She quickly got in another question: "Who found the body?"

  "A member of the motel staff."

  "Has the killer been identified?"

  "No. Unfortunately, nobody saw the perpetrator. So anyone who saw anybody acting suspiciously in the vicinity of the motel yesterday afternoon - or has any other information - should come forward."

  A male reporter standing near me interjected. "Any signs of a struggle or resistance?"

  "None at all. So he may have been killed by someone he knew and trusted."

  Like his accomplice, Baldy.

  Another reporter said: "Was this a professional hit?"

  "It has all the hallmarks of one."

  The female TV reporter leapt back into the fray. "What was he doing in Canberra?"

  "We don’t know, though given his criminal history, he was probably up to no good."

  "When did he arrive in Canberra?"

  "We think he drove up from Sydney and checked into the motel about four days ago."

  I caught the policeman’s eye. "Do you know his movements while he was in Canberra?"

  "No."

  So the cops didn't realised Cooper was the pistol-wielding intruder at Canberra Hospital. Surely the penny would drop soon.

  The press conference didn’t quench my interest in Cooper. Back at my bureau, I got onto the internet and accessed the archives of the Sydney News, searching for stories about him. There was a large number, stretching back more than twenty years. He was obviously a big cheese in the Sydney underworld. Slowly, I read through them. They chronicled Cooper’s many brushes with the police. Usually, he out-foxed them: investigations went nowhere, charges were dropped, trials aborted. He kept wriggling off the hook, until now.

  I was growing bored until I read a story, written in the late-80s, which made me sit up straight.

  DEVELOPER ACCUSED OF

  USING STAND-OVER MAN

  A property developer was accused yesterday of using threats and intimidation to silence a critic of his controversial residential development.

  The developer, Mr George Potter, wants to build a large apartment block in Balmain.

  Many local residents have strongly opposed the plan, claiming it will cause congestion and noise. The local council had also rejected the plan.

  Mr Potter has brought an action in the Land and Environment Court, seeking to reverse the council’s decision.

  In that court yesterday, a local resident, Mr Gary Swansea, said he’d been subjected to threats and harassment since he started campaigning against the development.

  "I’ve received abusive phone calls and excrement has been pushed through my letter box," he said.

  "Only last week, a man grabbed me in the street and pushed me against a wall. He told me that if I didn’t shut up, he’d silence me permanently."

  Mr Swansea said he reported the incident to the police.

  "The police showed me a number of photographs, including one of the man who accosted me," Mr Swansea said.

  He said that man was Mr Jack Cooper, a well-known Sydney stand-over man who has served a term in prison for armed robbery.

  "Potter is obviously using Cooper to scare me," Mr Swansea said.

  I let out a long, low whistle. George Potter was the political patron of Vincent Martin. But it seemed that, in the late-80s, when a tyro property developer, he employed Cooper to intimidate critics.

  That was the only connection I found between Cooper and federal politics. So I wondered if Potter sooled Cooper onto me. But, if so, why? Maybe he did that to help his protégé, Martin, in some way? Maybe Martin had something to do with the deaths of Yvonne and Joanna?

  I was engaged in wild speculation. But that was hardly surprising when I had so few facts to tether my imagination.

  As far as I could see, my only option was to talk to George Potter and see what information I could prise from him.

  As must be obvious by now, I only had slender reserves of courage. But when chasing a good story, I sometimes forgot that fact. After consulting the telephone book, I called Potter Enterprises in Sydney and asked to be put through to George Potter’s secretary.

  Eventually, a toffy-sounding woman came on the line. "Mr Potter’s secretary."

  "Hello, my name’s Paul Ryder. I’m a reporter for the Launceston Herald."

  "You mean Launceston in Tasmania?" she asked, as if it was still a penal colony.

  "Yes."

  "What can I do for you?"

  "I want to interview Mr Potter."

  "What about?"

  "I’m writing an article about Vincent Martin. I understand that Mr Potter has taken a keen interested in his career. So I’m hoping to get some background information about him."

  "Look, Mr Ryder, I’m sure Mr Potter would love to help you. But I’m afraid he’s very busy. He certainly wouldn’t have time to give an interview."

  Her tone was brusque. She’d obviously had a lot of experience fobbing off officials, creditors, business competitors and reporters like me.

  I said: "Why don’t you ask him. Let me give you my number."

  "I don’t think …"

  I told her my number. "Have you got it?"

  "Yes," she said reluctantly.

  "Alright, I’ll wait to hear from you."

  "Umm. Alright. If I get a chance, I’ll mention it to him."

  She hung up.

  I’d called Potter’s secretary more in hope than expectation. half-an-hour later, she called back, sounding surprised and apologetic. "Umm, Mr Ryder, I’ve spoken to Mr Potter and he said that he’s prepared to see you tomorrow morning, at eight-thirty, here in Sydney. Are you happy with that?"

  "Yes. You’d better give me the address."

  "Oh, you won’t need that," she said tartly. "We’re in the middle of town, in the biggest building."

  "What’s the building called?"

  "Potter Tower."

  "Of course. I’ll tell the taxi driver."

  I hung up, hand trembling. Why would a mega-mogul like George Potter agree to see a press jackal like me, at short notice? Very strange. Maybe he really did sool Cooper onto me. And maybe he’d already found a replacement thug. Jesus. Was I getting too close to the flame? I called Qantas and booked a flight to Sydney that evening.

  Finally, I focused on the work I was paid to do. The meeting of Government MPs was now only 48 hours away. So Parliament House was awash with rumours and counter-rumours. A Government backbencher whispered to me that more ministers had defected to Martin, but when I contacted those ministers they denied it; another backbencher told me the PM was about to resign, but the PM’s press secretary said that was a load of crap. Eventually, I wrote my now-standard story that Martin was heading for victory and the PM was under pressure to resign and depart gracefully.

  That afternoon, when I spoke to Dirk Tucker, I told him I was going to Sydney that evening and wouldn’t be back until mid-day tomorrow.

  "Why are you going?" he demanded.

  No point mentioning the interview with George Potter. He just wouldn’t understand.

  I said: "Umm, a family funeral."

  "Who’s going to write tomorrow’s stories?"

  "Don’t worry. I’ll be back by mid-day."

  "OK. You’ve been spending a lot of time out of the bureau recently."

  Why did he care? He didn’t run my stories anyway.

  I said: "Yeah. That’s why Michael’s here: to cover fo
r me when I’m away."

  "No he’s not. Michael’s there because he drove me nuts down here. If we had a bureau in Antarctica, I’d have sent him there, though I’d have felt sorry for the penguins. That’s why I need you in the bureau all of the time."

  "I promise that when I get back from Sydney, I’ll never leave the bureau again. I’ll even piss in a bottle."

  "I’ll keep you to that promise," he snarled and hung up.

  I had a bad feeling about my job on the Herald. When I started, Tucker was friendly and complimentary. Now he hated everything I did. We were like a couple that had fallen out of love and indulged in rough sex.

  I wondered what was bugging him. Maybe he’d worked out I only intended to stay on the Herald until I got a better job. Or maybe his dog had died, or his wife had left him, or he had haemorrhoids or was just a moody bastard. Impossible to know.

  I just prayed I got the job on the Sydney News before I lost my present one.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Political journalism had brought me face-to-face with many powerful men. Most were intensely disappointing. Up close, they were as ordinary and full of shit as anyone; they convinced me that luck rather than talent governs our destinies.

  However, I’d never met a billionaire before. So before leaving Canberra, I trawled the internet to find out more about George Potter. I read that he left high school at fourteen and became an apprentice carpenter. Soon he was a licensed builder employing other tradesmen. His projects grew in size until he was a fully-fledged property developer erecting cramped and ugly apartment blocks all over Sydney. Now, according to the latest Rich List in the Business Review Weekly, he was worth almost $3 billion.

  He had a fearsome reputation. Even in the rough-and-tumble world of Sydney property development, he was known as a tough nut. He battled with unions, terrorised sub-contractors, fought with local councils, intimidated residential action groups and undercut competitors.