by Tim Ayliffe
PROLOGUE
Fallujah, April 2004
‘I’m done, Bailey.’
Bailey handed Gerald the green army canteen that Captain Alessandro had given him the night before when they were stocking up for the run into Fallujah.
‘You just need some water. Drink it.’
Gerald grabbed the canteen and took a long gulp.
‘Twelve hours, Bailey. That’s how long it’s been since we walked into this hellhole. I reckon we’ve made it, what – two hundred metres?’
‘Nah . . . one hundred.’
Bailey took back the canteen and had a swig for himself. It tasted good.
‘Where the hell’s Bravo company, anyway?’ Gerald said.
‘They told us to wait here. It’s too dangerous out there.’
‘Snipers, mortar rounds and that bloody chanting that keeps playing from the mosques like a broken record.’
Gerald was speaking so quickly that Bailey could barely understand him.
‘You’re just tired, mate. Soon we’ll be back in the green zone drinking Buds and laughing about this.’
Gerald stood up. ‘I’m going outside to take a look.’
‘Careful, mate. They told us to stay here for a reason.’
‘Fuck it. I need to see what’s going on.’
Bailey watched Gerald walk to the bedroom door and disappear down the hallway. The house they were sheltering in had been almost destroyed by a mortar round. There were so many holes in the battered structure that it looked like a half-eaten block of Swiss cheese.
Bravo company had told them to stay out of sight on the first floor until they had secured the area. It was too dangerous upstairs – difficult to run for it, when the time came.
Bailey got up to follow Gerald. Live or die, they had to stay together. Orders from Captain Alessandro.
There was an explosion down the hallway. Dust filled the air and Bailey lost sight of Gerald. His ears were ringing from the loud bang of the bomb that had landed nearby and he was disorientated. Dust was forming concrete blobs in his mouth, making it difficult to breathe. He tried to wave away the smoke with his hands so that he could get his bearings and figure out what had happened. His disorientation was turning to panic.
‘Gerald! Gerald! Gerald!’ he yelled.
‘Run, Bailey! Run! This way! Get out! Get out!’ Gerald’s voice echoed back down the hallway.
Relief. Gerald was alive. Now fear.
‘Bailey! Get out of there!’
Rapid gunfire was punctuated by the sound of more voices. American, Arabic too.
The wall beside Bailey blew open, knocking him to his knees. He lay there covered by pieces of the shattered wall, coughing, his lungs trying to wrest the oxygen from the dust.
‘Gerald! Where are you?’
Pop! Pop pop pop!
The gunfire was moving further away.
No more voices.
He could hear footsteps, someone running towards him.
Bailey pushed away chunks of plaster and brick that had fallen onto the backs of his legs, and clambered up off his knees.
‘Gerald?’
Nothing.
The smoke and dust in the air was so thick, Bailey couldn’t see more than a few feet in front of him.
‘Billy? Mac? Marlon?’ He called out the names of the marines he could remember.
The footsteps were getting closer. They stopped in front of him.
Through the dust cloud, Bailey could see a black headscarf and a pair of dark eyes staring at him. Piercing, hate-filled eyes.
‘Dog!’
The man raised his rifle and spun it around, knocking Bailey to the ground with the butt. Then, as if in slow motion, Bailey watched as the butt slammed into his head again.
CHAPTER 1
Sydney, Tuesday
On the carpet of a small Rushcutters Bay apartment, near the mouth of Sydney’s Cross City Tunnel, a woman lay dead. Her face was a sickening shade of blue and red. The dark welts in her neck suggested that she had been strangled. But that was a problem for the police, not John Bailey.
‘I want you on this one,’ Gerald had called to tell him earlier that morning.
‘Why? Sounds like a murder, and since when did I get assigned to crime and grime?’
‘It’s more complicated than I’m telling you. You haven’t filed a story in months, and I’m not paying you to sit around in late-night bars telling war stories to rich divorcees in Paddington any more. Got it?’
Bailey ignored the insult because he wanted to know more. Maybe the journalist in him was still in there. Somewhere. Still, he couldn’t resist having a dig back.
‘Right, sounds like it matters. Someone you knew. Anything you need to get off your chest?’
‘No, mate. Just go. We’ll talk later.’
Bailey could tell that Gerald wasn’t up for playing the game, so he backed off. ‘Better get moving, then. I’ll let you know.’
‘Thanks. And Bailey?’
‘Yeah?’
‘You speak only to me about this one. Right?’
‘Okay, boss.’
Gerald hung up.
Bailey knew that his old friend hated being his boss, so he reminded him whenever he could. He also knew that Gerald had been good to him since he’d arrived back from London a broken man.
For the first time in as long as he could remember, Bailey was resigned to doing his job.
Two police cars were parked outside the apartment complex, one marked, the other one of those turbocharged Holdens that plain-clothed cops drove these days. The front door of the building was wide open. This crime beat was easier than he remembered.
Bailey walked along the corridor towards the police tape blocking the entry to apartment 9B. The pungent smell that had alerted the neighbours was stinging his nostrils. The body must have been there for days, maybe longer.
The blue and white strips of plastic crossed the open door in a zigzag that stretched from top to bottom. He peered through the triangular gaps. The apartment was tiny, even by inner-city standards. He could see almost everything. A pristine linen-covered couch by the window, matching armchair, coffee table – all organised neatly in front of a flatscreen television fixed to the wall. Expensive sound system discreetly wired in. Stylish photographic prints of Bondi Beach hung on the walls and a decaying bunch of gardenias sat in a flash vase on the marble kitchen bench. Despite the size, Bailey was in no doubt the apartment had cost a bomb. Sydney property prices were bloody ridiculous.
Two male police officers in blue uniforms stood talking with a woman in a dark suit and a neat ponytail. By the body language of the men in blue it was clear that she was in charge. They were whispering by a window that overlooked Rushcutters Bay Park, occasionally gesturing to the white body bag lying open on the carpet at their feet. Bailey could see one side of the victim’s face. She was beautiful. Blonde hair, sophisticated makeup and a large diamond in her ear. She had obviously looked after herself. The discolouration in her skin and the marks on her neck suggested that her death wasn’t an accident.
Bailey held his hand to his nose. He could smell the soap from his shower and the booze from last night’s session seeping through his pores. Anything to compete with the odour wafting from the corpse.
He swallowed.
It had been a long time since he’d seen a dead body, just not long enough to forget. That smell, always the same. Unless it was burning.
The police officers continued their conversation, oblivious to Bailey’s presence at the door. His eyes traced the room for clues. No overturned chairs, no sign of forced entry, no blood on the carpet, no broken photo frames, no marks on the walls. Nothing. If this girl had been strangled, why was there no sign of a struggle?
Bailey knelt
down and poked his head through the police tape closer to the floor. A pair of yellow high-heeled shoes were splayed on the cream carpet by the door. The shoes looked expensive. She did, too. A professional robbery she’d interrupted? Maybe the cops had found her lying by the door where she had tried to escape her killer?
Bailey quietly pushed his head further between the tape to take in more of the room, imagining her body on the carpet beside him. The door had been pushed back hard against the wall, denting the plaster. A belt was hanging from the handle, tied at one end to the knob. The buckle end was dangling halfway between the lock and the carpet. Maybe it wasn’t robbery, or murder, after all; just some weird sex game gone wrong?
‘Can I help you?’ One of the policemen had spotted Bailey crouched on his knees by the door.
Bailey didn’t answer.
‘Mate, I’m asking you a question.’ The cop clicked his fingers. ‘What’re you doing here?’
Bailey casually got to his feet. ‘Just seeing if you guys needed any help.’
‘Smart arse. How about I –’
‘Bailey, is that you?’ The plain-clothed policewoman turned around.
‘Sharon Dexter.’ The name came out of his mouth before he could stop it. Same compelling eyes, hard to meet. Same figure, same presence, even more assured than he’d remembered.
He gathered himself. ‘Had I known it was you over there I would have pushed all this tape out of the way and let myself in.’
‘You almost did. But these days we’ve got a few more rules to keep people like you away.’
She held his gaze.
‘You two know each other then?’ The young cop again. Hostile.
His tone reminded Bailey why he disliked cops. Some people just weren’t smart enough to wield power. The good ones held it close. Others let the might of the badge define them. It made them impatient and angry. On edge, always.
‘A detective in the making you got there, Sharon.’
‘Mate, I will escort you downstairs if –’
‘He’s just stirring you, Rob.’ Detective Dexter hated working with hotheads. ‘Constable Rob Lucas, meet John Bailey – a man who enjoys taking the piss. It’s why he once spent a night in prison. Isn’t that right, Bailey?’
‘You’ve got a good memory, Sharon. Although it’s not surprising since it was you who put me there.’
‘So it was. How’re you, anyway?’ She started walking towards him.
‘Depends what day –’
‘More importantly, what are you doing here?’ She was standing in front of him now, close enough to clock his shabby flannelette shirt, his podgy middle, sandy hair speckled with grey, and handsome face wrinkled and weathered by a life lived hard. ‘Crime beat’s a bit beneath you these days, isn’t it? Aren’t you supposed to be off covering some civil war somewhere?’
‘Haven’t been doing that for a while now. Prefer the easy life.’
Both of them knew this was a lie.
‘This seems like an excessive amount of tape to use on a door. Any chance I can come in?’
‘No bloody way!’ Lucas said.
‘Okay, pal.’ Bailey waved his hand at the red-faced cop on the other side of the room. ‘Just relax, would you?’
‘Rob, I’ve got this.’ Dexter lowered her voice. ‘Seriously, Bailey, things are different these days. What is it – twenty-five years since you were following cops around?’
‘Something like that,’ Bailey said. ‘One in particular.’
She gave him a steely look – a warning not to go there. ‘Yeah, we might have different recollections about that.’
‘Gerald’s put me on this. Punishment for being lazy, he tells me.’
‘The lovely Gerald,’ Dexter said. ‘How’s he doing? Still think journalism’s the world’s best crime-fighting organisation?’
‘That’s our Gerald. Although he’s virtually on the wagon these days. Boring. Nancy’s banned him from seeing me outside of work.’
‘She was always smarter than you two.’
Dexter looked like she was about to say something else, then looked away.
Bailey smiled, awkwardly. ‘So, what do you –’
‘Anyway, no, you can’t come in.’
If they were ever going to talk about what had happened between them, now was not the time.
‘So, what can you tell me?’ Bailey said.
‘On the record, this looks pretty straightforward,’ Dexter said. ‘Accidental death. No sign of an intruder. No sign anyone else was involved. Knickers were on – no sticky stuff anywhere.’
‘And unofficially?’ Bailey wanted something off the record. Anything that might explain why Gerald had forced him out of bed and sent him to a crime scene.
‘Not today, Bailey.’
‘C’mon, Sharon, I know you. You must have more than that?’
Dexter paused, moving closer to the tape so she could slip Bailey her card through the plastic strips. ‘Highly paid prostitute dies playing choker-sex Michael Hutchence style by the door. Could be anything. I’m looking into it.’
‘And?’
‘That’s plenty, Bailey,’ she said. ‘You’re the only reporter I’ve spoken to and, as I keep telling you, things are different.’
‘Got a name?’
‘Catherine Chamberlain. You can print that, but it’s all you’re getting out of me today.’
‘Okay.’
Bailey slipped her card in his pocket and turned to walk down the hall.
‘And Sharon, one more thing.’
It was Detective Dexter’s turn to stick her head through the police tape.
‘What?’
‘It’s good to see you . . . and you . . . you look good.’
‘Don’t start that shit with me.’
Dexter fumbled with the tape at the door and disappeared back inside.
Bailey was fifty-three years old and back working the Sydney crime beat like a cub reporter. He had to laugh.
CHAPTER 2
Bailey had to jiggle the key in his car door to get it open. Some idiot had damaged the lock with a screwdriver when they broke into his 1991 Toyota Corolla while it was parked outside his townhouse in Paddington. A meth head, most likely. All they got were the coins stashed in the ashtray for parking. Probably all they needed.
Ice was the new drug of choice in Sydney. Like heroin in the nineties, it was everywhere. And it was cheap. Forty bucks for a point. Users weren’t hard to spot, either. Especially when they were coming down. Their gaunt faces, piercing eyes and skeletal builds. Mumbling to themselves and likely to act aggressively towards anyone who dared to look their way.
Bailey felt sorry for the paramedics and hospital staff working on the front line of Sydney’s ice epidemic, especially considering users’ propensity for violence. But he wasn’t doing a story about crystal meth – that was old news. Bailey had just been staring at the body of a beautiful girl, a life snuffed out for no good reason, and he wanted to know why.
The radio blurted alive when he turned on the engine. Talkback, which he hated, but forced himself to listen to from time to time just to check the pulse of the city. The callers didn’t bother him all that much. Mostly, he found them amusing. It was the hosts that he couldn’t stand. Inflammatory morons masquerading as journalists, purveyors of somebody’s truth, the working people’s watchdog. They were the nation’s best bullshitters. Yet, somehow, they were always talking about the issues that people cared about.
Bailey had been dragged to a dinner party once and sat across from Sydney’s top dog of morning radio, Keith Roberts. Hands down the biggest prick he had ever met. The experience was even more unpleasant because Roberts claimed he was Bailey’s biggest fan.
Bailey was in a bad way at the time. He had just been summoned back to Australia after two decades as The Journal’s Middle East correspondent. The Iraq War, Afghanistan – the Bush years had been particularly damaging to his mental health. It wasn’t that Bailey hadn’t seen violence before 2001
. Beirut in 1989 was especially bad. It was just that modern warfare seemed to be more about bombs than boots on the ground. Drone strikes on one side, homemade bombs on the other. Collateral damage was rising, and journalists and aid workers were left to count the dead and work out how many of them were actually bad guys.
Bailey had counted too many bodies. More than anyone’s fair share, if there was such a thing.
Gerald was convinced that the best way to help his friend’s recovery was to invite him to as many social functions as possible. Get him out talking to normal people, then maybe he too could be normal again. Bailey knew that it was better than drinking alone so, for a while at least, he had played along.
But Gerald should have known that seating Bailey near Roberts that night at his house in Mosman was a mistake. The moment they sat down Roberts was squawking at the table like he was addressing callers on his show, answering his own questions, spouting his interpretations of the day’s news as though they were gospel.
It was almost impossible to challenge the views of a guy like Keith Roberts. When people tried, he simply raised the tone of his voice. The louder he spoke, the more right he was. Heavy with opinion, light on facts. And he was a bully.
The main course hadn’t even arrived before Roberts began sharing his personal views about the Middle East – ‘A hopeless, barbaric land,’ he’d said, ‘governed by spear-chuckers with a hateful religion.’
The dinner party was brought to an abrupt end when Bailey stood up and emptied a glass of wine in Roberts’ face.
Bailey chuckled to himself as he recalled the night, or as much of it as he could remember. It had happened almost three years ago. He was a calmer man these days, although his disdain for Roberts had never waned.
He played with the dial until he found Roberts’ familiar yapping voice so that he could listen to what the punters thought about today’s water-cooler issue – whatever that might be – while steering his old crappy car through the traffic towards The Journal’s headquarters on the other side of the city.
‘They’re coming, people. I tell you they are. Michael Donaldson tells us they are too, and he’d know. He was the ambassador in Beijing who spent a long time cosying up to red men over banquets in the Great Hall . . .’
