by JR Carroll
The CD Jimmy had just listened to was a record of wiretapped telephone conversations between various people who, going by their hesitant voices and coded language, were active criminals. Only one section of it was of interest to Jimmy, and that was no doubt the reason Pat had sent it to him. He didn’t have any idea who was speaking to whom, and the running sheets didn’t help in this regard as the speakers’ names were blacked out with a marker pen. But the date-and time-stamped text was mostly there except for a few sections that had also been blacked. Pat had highlighted the parts he wanted to bring to Jimmy’s attention.
What Jimmy had just heard—and read—was a cryptic conversation between two people in which the subject in Pericoe was to go down this coming weekend. When the other party asked if it was ‘a hospital or cemetery job’, the one who seemed to be leading the conversation said he should be ‘dealt out of the game, period. That’s the instruction.’ That made the other man laugh, saying, ‘Do the world a service, mate. One less fuckin’ shyster.’ He then added: ‘Consider it done; no fee necessary but could be calling in favours down the track, you know, when a certain business deal is, ah, consummated.’ The other man laughed at the use of the word ‘consummated’. These terms, whatever they meant, were agreed to after a fashion, and the conversation was terminated.
That was three nights ago, at 11.31pm.
Jimmy knew that Tim and Amy had gone to their Pericoe Road property for the weekend. He’d had lunch with Tim on the Tuesday, and Tim had told him of their plans for a weekend in the bush, among the feral pigs and leftover hippies. Pat knew that Tim was an old mate of Jimmy’s.
Jimmy understood how this wiretapping business worked. They would obtain warrants to listen in on certain people, who would conduct suspicious conversations with other parties, and so the operation grew. It was a ripple effect, as new players entered the frame. When somebody rang in to a tapped phone, they too were drawn into the ever-widening net. Some criminals were cunning enough to use multiple throwaway prepaid mobile phones or payphones, but many were not. Others didn’t seem to care, even if they suspected their phones were being tapped.
The surveillance team might not know—initially at least—who some of the participants were, but tracked their conversations and movements anyway until all the jigsaw pieces were in place. In many cases, the planning and execution of unrelated crimes came to light in this way, by following each lead as it showed up, seeing where it went, who else was implicated.
Unrelated crimes. You could never tell where an investigation would lead. One of Jimmy’s jobs earlier in the week was to keep a watch on his old sparring partner, Dale Markleigh, formerly of the New South Wales police. He’d recently been released after serving years for murder, and his presence had been noted in the ACT. Police curiosity was aroused by his presence alone, holed up in a serviced apartment, and Jimmy put a crew together to follow him around, filming his activities. What Jimmy discovered when he watched one of the DVDs gave him a bit of a shock—more than a bit.
Jimmy couldn’t tell who the two conspirators were in Pat’s case, because he’d blotted out the names. Underneath could be either a name or the word ‘unsub’: unknown subject.
Pat had blacked out the information to protect the integrity of the operation—and his own arse. He would get into serious, career-ending trouble if he was found to be leaking such sensitive information to an unauthorised person, even if that person was another cop. You didn’t want to face charges of perverting the course of justice if these disclosures came to light. Pat had stuck his neck out a long way by sending Jimmy this material. It followed, then, that he must’ve been deeply concerned that the threat to Tim and Amy was real, and imminent.
Jimmy briefly wondered why, in that case, the Unicorn cops didn’t follow it up themselves, but there could be any number of reasons for that. It wouldn’t be Pat’s decision alone, and maybe they didn’t want to jeopardise the overall operation by showing their hand at this point. It was probably outside their brief, a peripheral issue; maybe they didn’t take it as seriously as Pat obviously did, or didn’t care. Whatever.
The bottom line was that Jimmy had to find a way of warning Tim. But it was too late. They’d already gone. He looked at his watch. Christ, they were already at the farm house by now, in the deep, dark woods, miles from anywhere.
Blissfully unaware.
He tried Tim’s mobile. As expected, no service. Pericoe Valley was a dead zone.
Jimmy sat down and thought for a moment. Then he picked up the phone again and rang Canberra airport. He put on a warm, waterproof zip-up coat, checked his pockets, scanned the room. His swirling thoughts were trying to tell him he needed to bring something to the party, preferably in the form of a .38 Colt pistol, which he was licensed to own and carry. It was locked in the safe, along with a loaded ammunition clip. But—no weapons on the plane. If he were on official police business, that wouldn’t be a problem, but he wasn’t. He was a private citizen on a mission to help a friend in trouble. In any case, the Colt was his own gun, not his police-issue sidearm, which was stored at HQ when he was off duty.
It made no sense going into a possible gunfight empty-handed. He would have to think of something on the way.
Who could he persuade to go with him at such short notice? He sifted through several names. Answer: nobody. Not if he wanted to keep Pat’s information confidential. FYI only.
He threw a few items into a small backpack: Maglite torch, his Yukon Tracker night-vision goggles, black woollen beanie, gloves, something from the fridge to eat, a bottle of water. He stopped at the door, trying to collect his thoughts. What else? There was always one more thing. But he couldn’t think what it might be.
Markleigh was a good hater. Why was he in the ACT so soon after his release? The question niggled at Jimmy. Markleigh lived in Sydney; he’d always been a Sydney guy, born and bred in Marrickville. There was no conclusive link with Pat’s wiretapped phone chat between the two unsubs, but Jimmy had a gut feeling the two were connected. He’d watched the Markleigh DVD numerous times. Something in it seriously troubled him.
At the door, he patted his pockets and looked around one last time. Nothing else came to mind. He shut the door—and the phone rang.
‘Hello?’
‘Hey, Jimmy.’ His younger brother, Gavin.
‘How’s it going, mate?’
‘Never better,’ Gavin said.
Jimmy sighed softly. Gavin would not be easy to get off the line. He was a talker; if you told him you had to go, the house was on fire, he’d carry on as if you hadn’t spoken. With a few drinks under his belt—as he had now, judging by the pub noise in the background—there was no stopping him. In the end you had to hang up.
‘That’s good. Listen, Gav, I’m just out the door. Can I call you tomorrow?’
He’d used that line so often it cut no ice at all now.
‘Just wondering if you were right for the Raiders game Sunday,’ Gavin said. ‘I’ve got a crew together.’
Bet you have. Gavin had been married to his high school sweetheart for twenty-two years before she pulled the pin. Jimmy was surprised the marriage had lasted that long, but their three kids no doubt prolonged it. Since the divorce, Gavin had discovered the joys of a belated bachelorhood in spades. He was out most nights and all weekend, and rugby league was his great passion. Many times Jimmy had been dragged along to see Gavin’s beloved Raiders in action. In truth his interest in the game was slight.
Now Gavin never went anywhere without a posse. At the pub, whenever Jimmy had been bullied to attend, there was always a school of a dozen or more. Being an ex-sergeant of infantry in the army, he had plenty of mates to call on. Jimmy always thought there was something wrong with his brother, that he could never do anything on his own. The brotherhood culture was deeply embedded into his psyche, his entire attitude to life.
‘I dunno about that, mate. I might be out of town.’
‘You might be? What’s that mean?’
‘Well, I will be. I’m leaving now, as I said. But I’m not sure when I’ll be back.’
‘Sounds mysterious,’ Gavin said. ‘What’s this—black ops?’ He laughed. Jimmy couldn’t bring himself to laugh along with him. But his brother might’ve been closer to the mark than he could ever know.
‘I was hoping you’d come out for a beer tonight,’ Gavin persisted. ‘It’s my birthday tomorrow, as you no doubt realise.’ There was some irony in the last phrase.
As always, Jimmy had completely forgotten Gavin’s birthday. He was never one for remembering important dates. One year he even forgot his own birthday until someone rang him.
‘No can do, I’m afraid.’
‘That’s a pity. Listen, Jimmy, how about—’
‘Mate, I hate to cut you off,’ Jimmy said, an edge of exasperation creeping into his voice, ‘but I have to go—got a plane to catch.’
‘Right. Hey, did you hear the one about Prince Charles and Camilla? Charles goes for a walk every night, see, and he passes this same hooker on each occasion. She says—’
‘Gavin! I have to go, for Christ’s sake! See you later!’
He put the phone down a bit too heavily, and immediately felt guilty. His brother wasn’t a bad man; he was just a bore, no doubt a troubled soul who meant well.
Jimmy practically ran outside and jumped into his car. It was a typical Canberra night—cold, with a hint of rain in the air. No moon tonight. He fired up his eight-year-old Lexus and began backing out of the driveway. Then he stopped.
With the car still idling he paused to consider Gavin. Jimmy had never been a particularly good brother to him. Gavin had served his country for twenty-odd years, doing tours of Timor, Afghanistan and Iraq before handing in his stripes. It was when he came back from Afghanistan, his wife Margaret had said, that he became impossible to live with. He was hyperactive, never shut up and could lose his temper at the slightest provocation. And he drank far too much, day and night.
Gavin never underwent counselling or treatment, but all the signs of PTSD were there. Sure he needed support from those closest to him, but he was so bloody difficult to spend time with.
But the conversation with his brother had given Jimmy an idea.
He pulled out his phone and punched in Vicki’s number. She answered on the second ring.
‘Hi, what’s up?’ she said.
‘Nothing yet,’ he said. ‘But I was wondering if you could do me a favour.’
She hesitated a moment. ‘Of course.’
‘Listen, Vick, I’m heading off to Tim’s place at Pericoe. You know, his weekend shack.’ Vicki had never been there, but Jimmy was reasonably sure she knew of its existence.
‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘Why at this hour?’
‘Can’t explain right now. He could be in some sort of trouble, I’m not sure. But I have to go and see if everything’s … OK.’
‘Why not just call him?’ she said.
‘There’s no mobile phone service in the Pericoe Valley. No landline, nothing. It’s Hicksville.’
‘Well, how do you know he’s in trouble then?’
‘I have information to suggest people might be out to harm him—and Amy, for all I know. But listen, all I want you to do is, if you don’t hear from me by midnight, ring Pat O’Dwyer. He’ll know what to do.’
Silence at the other end. Then Vicki said: ‘What in hell’s name are you getting into, Jimmy?’
‘I wish I could say,’ he said. ‘I have to go now, Vick. I’ll send you Pat’s number, OK?’
‘OK,’ she said, doubt—no, concern—in her voice. ‘But … if you’re worried, why don’t you just call the cops?’
‘Well … I am the cops, remember?’
‘Yes, but …’
‘I know, but I can’t go into it right now. I just have to get down there, ASAP.’
Strange state of affairs, he thought; in the end you have to count on your ex.
‘Will you make the call?’ he said.
She didn’t hesitate. ‘I’ll do it. One minute past midnight. Watch out for yourself, Jimmy.’
‘Don’t worry about me.’ He clicked off, tossed the phone onto the passenger seat, backed onto the road and took off.
10
Friday, 6.39pm
Tim was polishing off his third Crownie by the time he served up their dinner. The aroma of sizzling sausages and medium-rare char-grilled fillet steaks filled the room. He placed them in separate platters on the dining room table while Amy tossed the green salad. By now he was absolutely ravenous.
‘How about that,’ he said.
‘Smells great,’ Amy said. ‘I just love those pork and fennel sausages.’
Tim retrieved some jacket potatoes from the oven and dropped those on the table too. ‘Hot as,’ he said. He selected a bottle of Petaluma Cabernet and pulled the cork. The rich, ruby wine was poured into two large glasses. Then he sat down.
‘A feast fit for royalty,’ he said, slicing into a piece of fillet. It was bright pink in the middle, just how he liked it.
‘Shame we have no royalty to entertain,’ Amy said. She forked food into her mouth.
‘Well … I’ll be your prince if you’ll be my princess,’ he said. ‘I could be the Prince of Pig Bend.’
‘Has a certain ring to it,’ she said. ‘But we have no subjects, loyal or otherwise—unless you count the wildlife, or your mate down the road. What’s his name?’
‘Malcolm.’ He raised his glass in a toast: ‘To the royal houses of Hightower and Fontaine—rulers of Black Pig Bend.’
Amy seemed to think that was amusing enough, and raised a glass.
He gulped some wine. A fine drop, no doubt of it. ‘More of this excellent vintage, your highness?’
She gave a nod—mouth full of meat and salad—and Tim topped her up.
There followed a short silence. Emboldened by drink and the apparently convivial atmosphere, Tim decided to take a bit of a plunge into potentially dangerous territory.
‘Amy,’ he said, ‘are you happy?’
‘Happy?’ she said in a surprised, but not too surprised, tone. ‘Why, of course. Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘I don’t know. Just wondering. There could be reasons.’
She put down her fork, but seemed to have difficulty meeting his eye. ‘That’s a … mysterious remark.’
‘I don’t mean right now, the thing with the truck or the kangaroo. I mean in general. On a scale of zero to ten—where would you put yourself?’
‘Well, let’s see … I guess about six point five, seven, somewhere around there.’ She resumed eating. ‘What about you?’
‘I’d say … seven point five, eight.’
‘That’s high,’ she said. ‘Good for you.’
Tim hesitated. ‘Only, I get the feeling something’s troubling you. You haven’t been your usual self for some time now.’
She tossed her hair—a defensive gesture Tim recognised. ‘I haven’t?’
‘Amy, you know you haven’t.’
‘I’m sure I don’t know what you’re on about,’ she said. ‘And why this sudden need to interrogate me? You’re not in a courtroom now.’
But having started, Tim would not be deterred. Her responses told him he was on the right track.
‘There’s something on your mind. You don’t behave towards me in the same way now. You’ve definitely changed.’
‘That’s rubbish, Tim.’
‘No, it’s not. It’s my perception, which makes it a reality—for me at least.’ He sipped some wine, but somehow it didn’t hit the spot any more. ‘Why don’t you come clean? I’d rather you hit me with the truth than continue like this, shutting me out of your life.’
He wondered if he’d gone too far.
She looked straight at him, and for a terrifying moment Tim was sure she was about to burst into tears.
‘Since you’re determined to force the issue,’ she said, ‘I guess it’s fair to say I don’t have the same feelings towards you
that I once had.’
A large, expanding stone seemed to have formed in Tim’s chest. He was now quite certain she was having an affair.
‘But that’s no big deal,’ she said. ‘People change, with time.’
Tim was experiencing flashbacks of their wild lovemaking—a thing of the past. Those visions were at once exciting and painful.
‘I haven’t,’ he said quietly—almost to himself. He reached across the table and took her hand in his. ‘Amy,’ he said, ‘what can I do to get you back?’
‘You can’t get back what’s gone,’ she said. ‘It’s not as if you’ve had your TV stolen. It’s just … life.’
‘But I don’t want it to be gone,’ he said.
She withdrew her hand. ‘I don’t know why you have to bring this up. No good can come of it.’
‘It gives me no pleasure, believe me. None at all. I want to know—I need to know.’
‘Know what, exactly?’ she said, still perfectly calm and composed. ‘That things aren’t the same as they used to be? Come on, Tim. You don’t have to be a hot-shot lawyer to understand that.’
‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘But I’m not ready to accept it. Even if I am a hot-shot lawyer.’
‘You have to. It’s a fact.’
He poured more wine into their glasses. The bottle emptied, so he got up and opened another. This one was a Mount Edelstone. With a total lack of respect he pulled the cork and splashed it into his glass, which already contained some of the Petaluma. Then he sat down again.
It’s not as if you’ve had your TV stolen.
How could she make such a careless, off-hand remark?
Only one thing mattered: he had to find a way through this situation, clear it up once and for all. It was just like handling a difficult witness: diplomacy was everything. One wrong move, a bad tactic, could cost dearly—you lost the witness. And a whole case could turn on one testimony.
Tim now wished he hadn’t started this. It might be his undoing. But the damage was done. It seemed ridiculous that, a short time ago, they were having a high old time, carrying on frivolously about being a prince and princess.
