by Ray Smithies
‘What happened?’
‘I don’t know. It’s as if a bomb’s exploded.’
‘Where are you now, Em?’
‘I’m standing in Covert Road just up from the Pitt Street intersection.’
‘Don’t move. I’m coming straight away!’
‘Hurry, Tom.’
I had finally caught up with Emily, having parked my car three blocks away in Elm Street, near St Patrick’s Church. The walk up Bridge Street had attracted a fair crowd, all ambling in the same direction to see what the commotion was all about. On sighting my wife I detected a tear gathering momentum down her left cheek. She looked a thorough mess.
‘Oh Tom, I’m so glad to see you. This is simply terrible!’ she declared, hugging me tightly as if there were no tomorrow.
I looked on the Covert Road massacre and devastation in total disbelief. All the essential services were here scrambling around in organised chaos. An ambulance had just departed with two survivors, while a second was arriving to take a further couple to hospital. Firefighters continued to assess the building structures and assist the paramedics wherever possible. I counted at least four bodies lying face down on the road, let alone others who may have perished inside the buildings.
Four people had come forward who were delegated with the body pick-up operation. I noticed Forbes rush to their side, issuing orders not to have the bodies removed. Subsequently the four corpses were draped to shield their presence from the gathering public. After all, forensics had a role to play prior to their release. Two of these men plunged into deep shock on seeing the ghastly devastation and mutilated bodies. I could only contemplate that the horrors they face must be very disturbing. Fighting to overcome shock would be a massive problem for the body pick-up teams. I envisaged some government body sending in a group of specially trained psychiatrists to help this operation cope with the consequences. I also believed those who worked on the body collection didn’t fully comprehend the tragic aftermath and what this would likely lead to in the future.
Inevitably the media had arrived in droves. Many of the journalists had remained in Pedley following the hill atrocity, in addition to preempting that arrests would soon follow. The renewed interest and fascination with the subterranean passageways had persuaded others to extend their stay. The case still drew national coverage and most of the media representatives were under instruction to remain in Pedley until the matter was resolved. This latest deplorable act was giving the media fraternity a field day.
I saw Ashley Collins from the Advertiser, who was not one to miss an opportunity, interviewing some bystanders on the far side of Covert Road. For better or worse, it suddenly occurred to me that I would be seeing more of this reporter, given he had just been granted a seat on the local committee which I was scheduled to chair tomorrow night.
I noticed Forbes and some of his men were doing their site inspections having just returned from Broadbent’s. To say I was astonished to see this extent of damage would be an understatement. The blast, assuming it to be of nitroglycerine mixture, was extreme to say the least. I could only imagine the people responsible must have planted an exceptional and unnecessary large amount of explosives. The damage caused to Broadbent’s adjoining neighbours only reinforced the idea.
~ * ~
Forbes walked across to assess the inside of Maxim’s having seen numerous paramedics enter its premises. The scene was reminiscent from previous sites, but in this instance there were more demands placed on the medics. Four elderly men were being treated for multiple injuries, the most apparent being broken limbs. Forbes observed their attire to be outdoor bowls. Despite their apparent discomfort and grief, all four men appeared to have survived the ordeal.
Not so lucky was a young girl who was pronounced dead as a result of the large piece of glass embedded in her skull. A friend covered in glass fragments and bleeding profusely was determined not to leave the young girl’s side. She could not accept that her friend lay dead beside her. Understandably the paramedics were having a difficult time convincing her that an ambulance was in waiting. The remainder of Maxim’s patrons appeared to be void of life threatening injuries. Although in need of treatment, their wounds appeared to be only superficial with the likelihood of an ambulance taking them to outpatients for assessment.
Forbes gazed on the people throughout the coffee lounge, totally dismayed with what he saw. As if there hadn’t been enough carnage already. The Molly Bloom disaster and Pedley Hill atrocity was bad enough, but this catastrophe was beyond belief. This was totally unexpected and unacceptable. He was fully aware this was the work of Traffik in an act of retaliation, but to shamelessly involve innocent people was inexcusable. Finally the inevitable statistics were about to be revealed. Forbes’ worst fears were to be confirmed. His detective approached with the dreadful news.
‘Twelve fatalities, boss. Four from Broadbent’s, five located on Covert Road and one each from Stamford’s, Henderson’s and Maxim’s Coffee Lounge. With respect to casualties our last count puts the figure at seventeen,’ declared a shaken Parnell.
‘My god,’ said Forbes, unable to express his reaction in further words.
‘The paramedics will have the last of the survivors in their ambulances within ten minutes,’ Parnell added.
‘Obviously this is not the work of amateurs,’ Forbes said. ‘It’s a deliberate effort to kill, maim and cause maximum damage and disruption. This has to be my blackest day and I’ll get these bastards if it’s the last thing I do. I’m appalled at the sheer number of innocent bystanders. To put it bluntly, this is nothing short of evil and this gangland retaliation has got to stop before we see further reprisals. Today has taught me they will stop at nothing and are oblivious to who they kill along the way.’ Forbes’ initial shock was now replaced with anger. ‘Contact the usual forensic team and have them arrive here by this afternoon.’
~ * ~
I continued to comfort Emily as we stood watching the unfolding events. A woman rushed passed us in a frantic state. The police allowed her entry and we could only assume a loved one had been caught up in the carnage. An elderly man to our left had left his pocket radio on, enabling the people in the immediate vicinity to hear a broadcast flash.
‘We interrupt this program to bring you an emergency announcement. Confirmed reports state that a large explosion has erupted in Pedley. Sources have not ruled out sabotage with possible drug connections. It is alleged that explosives were used to create widespread destruction. One building has been gutted, with a further five sites subjected to varying degrees of structural damage. Reports indicate fatalities with numbers unknown at this point in time. Further updates will be broadcasted as they come to hand.’
The announcer then gave the number for the emergency centre at the Pedley Shire offices.
‘Bloody hell, news travels fast,’ I said. ‘The shire has already set up an emergency centre.’
‘Tom, I can’t handle any more of this. I don’t feel up to walking home so please drive me back now,’ insisted Emily.
‘Of course.’
Seeing the strain on her face, I decided to phone Darren Burke at a later stage to get a rundown on the bombing.
~ * ~
At the time of the explosion, in the confines of the underground network, the release of energy had a devastating effect. The shockwaves of moving air pounded the ground with such force and velocity, the immediate vicinity beneath Broadbent’s collapsed like a deck of cards. Diesel fuel stored nearby ignited instantaneously and the air itself soared to unimaginable temperatures. A roar like a deafening jet engine pounded everything close at hand. Smoke and fire were billowing throughout and solid stone structures collapsed with ease. The blast and its initial impact lasted no more than twenty seconds.
From a hundred metres further along the subterranean passageways, four men literally got the shock of their lives. Fortunate to be at a tolerable distance and within the confinements of the bluestone chambers, they escaped the s
hockwave and fireball that tore down the central main corridor. Like children peering from around the corner of a school shelter shed, the trio of Sol, Charlie and Gino Palmero simultaneously and cautiously looked down the passageway, half-expecting to see a repeat of the spectacle. Smoke now hung in the air, irritating their lungs and inducing a series of coughing attacks.
Realising their captive, Arthur Simpson, was sheltered only two rooms further down, Sol decided to quickly check on the old-timer before inspecting the source of the problem. He opened the cell door to see his prisoner looking white and shaken. Confused and frightened, Arthur asked the obvious.
‘What in God’s name was that?’
‘I’m about to find out. It sounded like a bomb coming from Broadbent’s,’ claimed Sol, who started to retreat.
‘You can’t leave me here!’ pleaded Arthur, who was desperate to leave this place.
‘It’s for your own good. I’ll be back later, old man.’
Sol started running down the main corridor. Both Charlie and Gino had already gone ahead, unable to wait any longer for their accomplice’s return. Up ahead, one hundred metres or so, the realisation and magnitude of the destruction quickly became apparent. Directly beneath Broadbent’s the sight was catastrophic. The immediate vicinity had been blown apart. It was in total ruins. The smouldering debris stood nearly four metres high, almost reaching the curvature of the corridor overhead. The main thoroughfare was impenetrable and only one known exit remained.
Sol stood beside Charlie and Gino staring at the sheer scale of destruction. The blast had created a hole the size of a two-car garage, but the rubble that had accumulated from within and above ground had all but filled the entire area. To clear a pathway to either climb or descend would take many man-hours to accomplish.
The use of heavy machinery from above would take considerably less time and Sol could immediately recognise their southern operation had suddenly become very vulnerable. Heat still generated from the debris, so any thought by the police to start excavating would have to be postponed for a while.
Smoke continued to fill the area. Breathing had become extremely difficult, despite the use of handkerchiefs held firmly against their faces. It was time to retreat and inform the Piedpiper of the destruction. From a respectable distance Sol reached for a mobile and dialed his superior’s number. Their discussion was intense, with orders to remain underground until further notice. The aftermath of the Broadbent explosion was still unclear in terms of fatalities. The Piedpiper, fearing the worst, announced they should prepare for the likelihood that Neville and his men may have perished. To believe otherwise would conjure up a false sense and acceptance of the situation.
It was mutually agreed the authorities would be subjected to at least a forty-eight hour delay before access could be made. With the good fortune of having the drugs stored in an unaffected area, the regional head gave Sol orders to accumulate and relocate as much stock as possible over the next two days.
The conversation then predictably turned to accusation. Indigo and his lackeys would claim responsibility and their work might still not be finished. The Piedpiper contemplated how best to strike back. Scorpio’s numbers were depleted and therefore a full-scale attack would require additional manpower, presumably by way of city HQ. A phone call was therefore necessary to persuade Marcus Powell to send backup and quickly. For the moment the southern operation would need to ride this apparent liability and the unforeseen vulnerability the Broadbent Warehouse bombing had just created.
~ * ~
A
n hour after the bombing, most of the bystanders had left, leaving the fire brigade and police to attend their responsibilities. The paramedics had long since departed but unfortunately, from Forbes’ perspective, they were now compensated by the increasing number of journalists. Pestering the constabulary and the occasional onlooker to complete their intended story, their persistence irritated Forbes no end. Having no intention of cooperating with these reporters, the detective instead walked onto Broadbent’s site to observe the destruction in more detail. Well aware the media fraternity was banned from entering beyond the police line, he could at least find some solitude and not be disturbed by their endless curiosity.
On reaching the central area of this once-thriving warehouse, he stood looking around at the horrendous aftermath that lay to all four sides. Piles of jumbled debris stretched the length of the site and isolated smoldering caused from exposed electrical cabling appeared to be no longer a threat. What a waste of human life, he thought. And these buildings had once provided employment and supported the Pedley economy.
Casting a vigilant eye on the thick rubble, he had hoped an opening to the underground network may have been revealed. Forbes was anxious to recommence his search, but common sense told him the clearance of debris would undoubtedly take a minimum of one or two days to achieve. To stumble across a subterranean passageway amidst these piles of building refuse was near impossible. Patience was never one of the detective’s stronger attributes, but in this situation he had no choice but to wait.
Forbes continued his surveillance of the area in the company of John Doyle. Prodding away and removing the odd piece of refuse that lay about became a useless exercise, for it only uncovered the vast amount of bricks and mortar that lay beneath. Annoyed and frustrated at the sheer volume of debris, Forbes stood with hands on hips and conceded that the elusive underground would have to be unveiled another day. Then in realising his subordinate had already searched Broadbent’s premises on two previous occasions, Forbes turned to ask a fairly fundamental question.
‘John, when you entered these premises with the search warrant, did anything at the time strike you as being unusual?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Something out of place, like a wall which had fresh paint, or part of a floor that didn’t quite match its surrounds.’
‘No, not off-hand,’ replied Doyle.
‘Then maybe a comment you made based on some observation?’ Forbes pressed.
‘Not really.’
‘There has to be something. Chances are a cleverly concealed entrance is to be found in the most unlikely of places. I wouldn’t even rule out the most blatant location, providing it fooled the observer from recognising the obvious. A bit like hiding a diamond in a chandelier, you could say Think!’ persisted Forbes.
Doyle mentally retraced the steps he had taken on that uneventful day. He remembered that nothing had appeared out of place with the main warehouse and the mezzanine area. He recalled the manager being a methodical and orderly individual who projected a place of impeccable tidiness and functionality. As for the kitchen, games room and courtyard, they seemed equally well organised. Not one aspect had prompted further investigation, but he couldn’t vouch for the two cellars, having given that duty to Carpenter. Doyle then remembered the toilet block they had examined at the tail end of their search warrant.
‘Well... there was something I did pick up on.’
‘Yes, what is it?’ asked Forbes impatiently.
‘The toilet bowl in one of the cubicles
‘Toilet bowl!’ roared Forbes with his irritating interruption.
‘The bowl was on a noticeable lean and I suggested to Bradbury that he have a plumber see to it before a major problem occurred,’ said Doyle.
‘On a lean, you say?’
‘If there was something out of place, as you put it earlier, then I can only conclude this would have to be it. I mean anyone of substantial weight would have broken the bowl at that angle. It did seem odd at the time and that cubicle should’ve been barricaded. I can’t think of anything else.’
‘A bloody toilet bowl! Blatantly obvious and yet subtle enough to deceive everybody!’ Forbes bellowed. ‘Think it through, man. My guess would be a passageway beneath the toilet block. The bowl probably acted as some opening mechanism.’
‘But that cubicle was operational,’ declared Doyle a little defensively.
‘And a
ll the more reason to divert suspicion.’
‘Um ... if you’re right, then what clever bastards.’
‘Now show me where this toilet block once stood,’ insisted Forbes impatiently.
Carefully assessing the site, Doyle led his superior to where the internal structure once stood. Not surprisingly, the immediate area provided the largest amount of debris on the block, as a result of the adjoining kitchen and toilet block collapsing into one pile. Forbes groaned on seeing the sheer accumulation of rubble that was as high as three metres in places. The removal of this rubbish would have to be carried out with machinery, but he did at least know where to commence.
Forbes knew his prognosis was only a hunch after all, but the mere thought of such a clever ploy led him to believe he had hit the jackpot. This area would now become a clearance priority with orders to provide access within twenty-four hours.
~ * ~
On learning of the feared news, the Piedpiper’s reaction to the disaster was one of shock and heartfelt sorrow for the victims. In particular, Neville Bradbury was a sad loss, both personally and from the syndicate’s point of view. The regional boss was basically a person of placid means, acutely intelligent with a shrewd business head when it came to drugs and distribution, but violence had never been a criterion for success. The magnitude of retaliation demonstrated by Traffik was almost beyond belief. Two people, who were no longer accountable, had fueled this situation with their arrogance and blinding stupidity. Yes, Victor Marlow and Brad Morgan had a lot to answer for, thought the Piedpiper.
