by Tim Ayliffe
‘Marty’s a good guy, right? You trust him?’
Scarlett laughed at Marty through her sobs. He was sitting at the bottom of the staircase on the other side of the room, watching them. ‘Yeah, he’s a good one.’
‘That’s good, because I need you two to stay here. Don’t let anyone in and don’t leave until you see my story appear on The Journal’s website, okay?’
‘Marty’s flat’s upstairs. We’ll go there.’
‘I need to go now. I don’t know what this photo means, only that it could change everything.’
‘How?’
‘That’s what I’m going to find out.’
Bailey slipped the photograph into his jacket pocket. He took a long swig of his beer, slid off his chair and placed the nearly empty glass on the table.
Scarlett stopped Bailey before he turned to walk away. ‘You take care, old man.’ She pulled him in and gave him a peck on the cheek.
Bailey reached out and grabbed the glass. He hated not finishing a drink.
‘You too, Scarlett.’
He thanked Marty for the beer and limped up the staircase faster than he had travelled down.
He didn’t notice Ronnie waiting for him outside on the street. ‘How’d you go, bubba?’
Bailey spun around, startled, and annoyed at having triggered another rush of pain in his ribs. ‘Do you always have to sneak up on people, Ronnie?’
‘Yeah, bubba,’ Ronnie said. ‘Part of the training.’
‘Well, stop it. It’s starting to piss me off.’ Bailey could feel the days catching up with him. ‘We need to get back to the paper.’
CHAPTER 36
Dexter
Detective Sharon Dexter loved watching the morning arrive at Maroubra Beach. It was the one thing she missed about the place. The orange glow of the sun, the clean air and the sounds of the waves dumping water on the sand. The cloudless days were her favourite, when the stars and the moon lingered hours after the sky turned blue.
Today was a blue sky day.
Dexter had parked her car at the northern end of the beach. It was the best spot to take in the sunrise and watch the surfers. She knew the sands here better than any other beach in Sydney because for two years she had shared them with the married man who presumably was still sleeping in the apartment building behind her. She touched the cool metal of the cuffs hanging from her belt, imagined wrapping them around his wrists. Taking him down. The water was building in her eyes, reminding her that she was human. The thought of having shared a bed with a man who had helped carry out a murder was almost too much.
Dexter had been staring at the ocean for more than twenty minutes before she called for a squad car to meet her outside the home of Police Commissioner David Davis. Humiliated for ever having loved him, she knew that she had to be the one to bring him in. It was tearing at her insides, but she wouldn’t hide from it. She thought about her father, the principled publican who had raised his daughter alone, with a broken heart. The Dexter name was built of stern stuff and Bruce Dexter would have told her to do what was right.
A police car pulled up and two young uniformed officers stepped out, a man and a woman. Dexter had been sitting on the bonnet of her car and she slid off to meet them.
‘Detective.’ The young woman closed the door, checking her belt and vest were holding tight. ‘I’m Constable Lucy Craven and this is Constable Hamid Khan.’
It was the end of the night shift and they both looked tired.
‘Detective Sharon Dexter.’
‘Got the call out for back-up. What’s going on?’ Constable Craven said.
‘I’m about to arrest someone for murder.’ Dexter didn’t flinch, she was ready. ‘You guys okay with that?’
‘Better than handing out speeding tickets,’ Constable Khan said. ‘What case?’
‘Prostitute was murdered in Rushcutters Bay a couple of weeks back. Bloke across the road was spotted on security cameras. Just got our hands on the vision – we need to move.’ Dexter was careful about how much she told them.
‘Warrant?’ Constable Khan said.
‘Yeah.’ Dexter held up an envelope. ‘Justice Watson wasn’t happy with the early morning call but he obliged.’
In fact, Justice Watson had been floored by Detective Dexter’s request when she woke him. He had only agreed to sign the warrant after Dexter threatened to leak to the media his reluctance to do so. The list of public figures that Bailey was taking down was already a long one; Dexter knew he’d be happy to make room for another.
‘Who’s the guy we’re arresting?’ Constable Craven asked.
‘One of the girl’s clients.’ Dexter had been rehearsing what she would tell them because she didn’t want Davis’s name hitting media outlets, scooping Bailey.
‘What’d you want us to do?’
‘You,’ Dexter pointed to Constable Craven, ‘come with me.’
After the trouble she’d been having with Rob Lucas, she wanted a female at her back, someone who would never be invited to join the boys’ club.
‘Constable Khan,’ Dexter said, ‘you wait down here. Watch who goes in and out.’
He looked disappointed. ‘Sure.’
Constable Craven followed Dexter across the road to the main entrance of the apartment building.
‘Sea Breeze.’ The young cop read the sign on the wall. ‘Nice building. This bloke must have cash.’
Dexter could have told her that he had a beautiful apartment too.
She withdrew the key that Davis had once given her and opened the door to the foyer. ‘Been watching him for a week. Had a key cut,’ she lied.
They caught the elevator to the seventh floor. Dexter’s heart was pounding.
‘You okay?’ Constable Craven had noticed the change.
‘Yeah, thanks. Been a long night.’
They walked down the corridor and Dexter raised her index finger to her lips.
‘Wait out here,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll knock and go in alone. I need to talk to him for a minute before we take him in.’
Constable Craven nodded. It was Detective Dexter’s case. She was happy to follow orders.
Dexter hesitated when she reached the door to Davis’s apartment. After a few deep breaths, she was ready. It had to be done. It was the right thing to do.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The sound of footsteps could be heard inside. The door clicked open.
‘Sharon.’ Davis was swaying slightly in the doorway. He didn’t look surprised to see her. Dressed in a white shirt and trousers, his feet were bare and he looked like he hadn’t slept.
‘Who’s that?’ He pointed at Constable Craven, her head leaning to one side, trying to see the man talking at the door.
‘She’s here if I need any help.’ Dexter had her game face on.
‘You won’t. Come in, let’s talk.’ He said it like it was an order.
Dexter watched Davis walk back inside, then turned to Constable Craven.
‘What the fuck?’ The young constable mouthed the words to Dexter.
Dexter gestured with her hand for her to stay put, then threw the key to the front door onto the carpet near Craven’s feet – just to be sure – and closed the door behind her.
The apartment looked the same – neat, few decorations and furnishings, which Dexter had always found cold. The paintings on the walls were the type of bright, airy canvases you’d expect to find hanging in hotels. But she’d always loved the large open-plan setting, cleverly designed around the magnificent view of the Tasman. The dining table, lounge area, even the stone-top kitchen, were all positioned so you could eat, relax, entertain and cook while looking at the water.
Davis sat down in the shiny leather armchair by the window and stared out at his three million dollar view. A half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s was sitting on a coffee table beside him. He poured himself another.
‘Know why I’m here?’ Dexter said.
‘Sit down.’ Davis pointed at the chair oppos
ite and returned to watching the waves. He wasn’t taking orders. He was giving them.
‘Beautiful sunrise. Really got lucky with this joint, huh, Sharon? You remember those mornings when we’d wake to that light, take an early walk on the sand?’ He was slurring his words.
‘Yeah, I remember.’
‘We were good together.’
‘Imagine your wife thought the same thing about the two of you.’ Dexter needed to be careful, she couldn’t let this get personal.
‘That was complicated, Sharon. You knew that. Finances, houses, kids.’ Davis sighed and took another sip of his whiskey. ‘I really let those kids down.’
‘I’ll ask you again, David. Do you know why I’m here?’
He turned and looked at her. ‘I’m not who you think I am.’
‘Then who are you, David? Tell me.’
He finished his drink and poured himself another without bothering to offer one to Dexter.
‘He had me, Sharon.’ Davis was mumbling, staring at the sea. ‘Had me over a fucking barrel.’
‘Who had you, David?’
‘Don’t you fucking play games with me!’ His aggression shocked them both. He leaned forward and rubbed his eyes, visibly exhausted, shaking like a meth addict on the way down. He emptied his drink in one gulp this time, slamming the glass on the table, putting his head in his hands.
Dexter stared at the shattered man before her, wondering why his life – his children, his job and the accolades that flowed – had never been enough.
‘David?’ She was trying to speak with an even, calm voice. ‘Who had you over a barrel, David?’
Dexter wanted a name.
He sat upright slowly. He poured himself another Jack Daniel’s, took a long swig and sighed again.
‘Gary fucking Page.’ He was speaking slowly, taking long pauses. ‘Wouldn’t have to do it myself. Just help this Victor bloke get in, get out, get rid of any traces.’
‘You’re taking about Victor Ho –’
‘Yeah . . . Victor fucking Ho.’ He picked up his glass again.
‘David, we’re talking murder here. Victor went upstairs and –’
‘Stop fucking judging me!’ Davis turned to Dexter, almost snarling.
She needed to stop pushing, stop interrupting. Let him talk.
Dexter followed Davis’s gaze down to the sand. The first surfers of the day were stretching by the water and starting to paddle out to the break. There was a beautiful left-hander peeling around the headland and the boys in their wetsuits were in a hurry to catch some waves before the crowds arrived.
‘I should have learned how to surf. What a waste.’
‘David, I need you to tell me everything. I need you to tell me about Gary Page.’
‘You won’t get him.’ He was more measured this time. ‘He’s smarter than you and me. Prick called me two hours ago. Told me it’s over.’
‘What’s over?’
‘He had me exactly where he wanted. The power pressed on my neck, pushing me into the water. Don’t drown, don’t drown.’ Davis was waving his hands around crazily, like he was trapped in some awful pantomime. ‘Do what he says. It’ll all go away!’
‘What will go away?’
‘The pictures. He’s got pictures of me with that fucking slut Ruby Chambers – Chamberlain, whatever she called herself. Enterprising little bitch, that one. There are pictures of me with two, three women. You can judge me all you like. It doesn’t matter. Not now, anyway. Page’s right, it’s over. There’s no way back.’
‘I’m not judging you. I just want to know what happened.’
Davis was shaking, rocking gently in his chair.
‘That bitch who runs Petals, Francesca someone, she collects stuff on clients, high profile ones like me.’ Davis’s head was back in his hands, talking to the floor. ‘Page found out about the pictures, got hold of them.’
Dexter felt torn. Sickened, but at the same time wanting to comfort him, pull him back from the edge. She needed to keep him talking. The most information you ever get from a criminal is on the day you take them in. That was today. Dexter knew it. Davis knew it too.
‘What’d he say? What was he going to do with them?’
‘What d’you think!’ He sat up again, head swaying. ‘Give them to that shit tabloid The Mail. Said he’d even send them to my daughters!’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘Page and I were close, you know, as close as you can get to a bloke like him. He’d tapped me for Grayndler – Grayndler, Sharon! That’s a lifetime membership to parliament, right there. Even told me he’d find the cash to fund the campaign.’
He stopped talking again, staring at the water, like he was contemplating opportunities lost.
‘Then this fucking prostitute opens her big mouth to me one day.’ He took another sip from his drink, his third since Dexter arrived.
‘What’d she say?’
‘She tells me a story, a story about what some idiot in Page’s office had told her one night when he was paying her to bite a pillow.’
Dexter ignored the crude description. ‘And?’
‘She reckoned Page was in a conspiracy with China’s ambassador to rig defence contracts, make themselves rich. No detail. Just put it out there to me like it could really be happening. As if she fucking knew!’
‘Why would she tell you that?’
‘Why do you think, Sharon? I’m the fucking police commissioner! Said she was scared for him, looking for advice. Maybe she thought I could help, I don’t know.’
Davis threw his hands in the air, laughing like a madman.
‘What’d you do?’
‘Didn’t think anything of it! It was so far-fetched, especially out of the mouth of a stupid bloody hooker.’
Davis was finding new words to insult Catherine Chamberlain, the dead woman who was reaching up from her grave, taking him down. Dexter owed it to her to make him pay for his crimes. She wanted a confession.
‘But you told Page?’
‘One night, we’re having a few drinks, discussing the timing of my entry into politics. I made a joke about it,’ Davis said.
‘And?’
‘He hit the fucking roof! I’d never seen him so mad. I told him, surely it’s bullshit. He said, of course it’s bullshit! But he couldn’t have people saying crap like that around town.’
Davis grabbed the bottle of Jack from the table, flipping the lid onto the floor. This time he took a long swig straight from the bottle.
‘He couldn’t leave it alone. I thought he’d just sack him!’
‘And by “him” you’re talking about Michael Anderson?’
‘Don’t get fucking cute with me, Sharon.’
‘What’d Page do?’
‘Two days later we meet again. Hands me an envelope with pictures of me inside and tells me the Grayndler plan is off the table until I’ve fixed his problem. The pictures are nothing but an incentive to get it done, he says. Then we’d move on as planned.’
Dexter sensed she was losing him. ‘David, we can –’
‘I thought I understood power, how to wield it, build it, hold it.’ Davis was gritting his teeth, making a fist with his hand.
‘David –’
‘Page is on another level.’ He was speaking to no one, like Dexter wasn’t in the room any more. ‘To really have power, you need to dehumanise yourself, make the end justify the means. I’m just not built like that. I thought I was, that money was power . . .’
Davis took another swig from the bottle.
‘No, no, no.’ He was shaking his head. ‘To be amoral, unforgiving, to take something that’s not yours . . . to kill . . . kill someone –’
‘David –’
‘To steer the bus into the crowd and frame someone else for driving it, take what’s not yours, never blink, let nothing get in your way, whatever it takes, get it done – that’s power!’
Davis turned to Dexter, making a fist again. ‘That’s power!’
/>
He was scaring her. ‘If you’re willing to testify, we could strike a deal. The courts would go easy on you –’
‘Are you out of your fucking mind?’
‘David, I’m sorry. I’m sorry about what’s happened to you, but two innocent people are dead and –’
‘Stop talking!’
Dexter froze. There was nothing she could say that would calm him down.
‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry,’ he said softly. ‘I’m not a bad man, Sharon. You know that, don’t you?’
‘I know, David. It’s okay, it’s okay. I know.’
He kept shaking his head. ‘I didn’t know, I didn’t know –’
‘It always seems like there’s no coming back, David.’ She tried again to bring him back to reality, the point where he would accept his fate, let her take him in. ‘We can work something out –’
‘What, Sharon? What can we work out? There’s no deal here. No deal that won’t involve prison. You know what they do to guys like me in prison?’
Dexter heard a noise at the door and turned to see the face of Constable Craven peering inside. When she turned back around, Davis was rummaging through a drawer in the coffee table. He pulled out a gun.
‘No, David. No!’
‘I wasn’t lying to you when I said this was over.’
Davis held the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger.
The bullet went straight through his head and smashed through the window. His body slumped forward in his chair, the gun clanging on the tiles. Pieces of skull, blood and glass splashed all over the room – the floor, table, armchair, and across Dexter’s face.
‘Detective! Detective! Are you okay?’
Constable Craven was calling out from the other side of the room, while at the same time wrestling with the radio on her belt to call for an ambulance.
Dexter could barely hear her. She could barely hear anything over the ringing in her ears from the gunshot.
A gentle breeze was flicking gusts of cool air through the shattered glass and onto her face. She listened to the ringing, staring where the glass used to be, searching for something to reassure her that life would go on.
She found it. First, the horizon, then the waves.
The surfers were frantically paddling towards a line-up of large creases rolling towards them. A run of ripples was bearing down, each wave growing taller, threatening to break beyond their position in the water.
