Crucifixion Creek

by Barry Maitland

  Bob the Job is in a foul mood. He shakes the rolled-up paper at them like a weapon. ‘We don’t need a strike force or a murder squad in this state, we just need Kelly fuckin’ Pool. She knows it all! Where is she getting it from? Aren’t we tracking her?’

  ‘Yes, boss,’ Deb says. ‘We know she paid a visit to Central Station last evening, then drove straight back to the newspaper office. We think she must have met someone there who gave her this stuff.’

  ‘You think? Don’t you know?’

  ‘The guys lost contact with her in the crowd for a few minutes.’

  ‘Jeez, they’re as useless as tits on a bull. The commissioner spat a turd when I told her about the hard drive last night. Reckons it could cost us all our jobs.’

  ‘What do you want us to do?’

  ‘Wait. The commissioner’s reviewing the situation. Till then we wait.’

  Deb is very pale when they leave his office.

  Harry says, ‘It’s not your fault, Deb. There’s nothing we could have done.’

  ‘That’s not good enough, is it? He’s right, we’re bloody pathetic.’ She grabs her coat. ‘Come on.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘To interview your girlfriend.’

  She sits silent in the passenger seat, coiled tight, while he drives. Collateral damage, he thinks.

  The offices of the Bankstown Chronicle are almost deserted when they arrive. The receptionist explains that Mr Westergard and Ms Pool had a late night on the paper last night and won’t be in till noon. ‘Everybody’s been ringing in, wanting to speak to them. It’s just amazing.’

  ‘Well we’re the police,’ Deb snaps. ‘So you ring him up and tell him that if he and Ms Pool don’t get their arses down here quick smart we’ll go and drag them out of bed and they can spend an amazing night in the clink.’

  The girl jumps to it, and after a few minutes comes back with the information that Westergard and Pool will be with them in fifteen minutes and would they like to come to the meeting room and have a cup of coffee while they wait.

  She leads them through the office area to a small meeting room. On the way Deb asks if the desk in the middle of the room surrounded by a storm of journalistic flotsam is Kelly Pool’s. The girl nods. ‘Yes, the cleaners know to leave her area alone.’ The phone at the front desk starts ringing and she hurries away. Deb waits till she’s gone, then goes over to Kelly’s desk and pokes around for a moment. She takes something from her pocket, strips off a wrapping and reaches her hand beneath the desk. Then she goes over to a cubicle marked ‘Editor’ and does the same thing to his desk before returning to Harry who has been standing watching her.

  It’s more like half an hour before they arrive, Deb becoming twitchier with every passing minute. Her grim mood contrasts with that of the two journalists, who look buoyant and eager to start a new day.

  ‘Sophie looked after you? Wonderful.’ Bernie Westergard beams at them. ‘How can we help?’

  Kelly is settling herself in a flurry, searching through a large shoulder bag. She produces a recorder and notepad. She avoids looking at Harry.

  Deb introduces herself and Harry, her manner stiff and formal. ‘We are detectives assigned to Strike Force Gemini which is investigating the deaths of Alexander Kristich and Benjamin Lavulo at the Gipps Tower last Thursday night. It’s clear from your recent newspaper reports that you have information relating to this matter and we would like to know what it is.’

  ‘I see.’ Westergard looks vaguely puzzled. ‘Well, I think we’ve published just about all we know about the two deaths, haven’t we, Kelly? I’m sure you know far more about it than we do, inspector.’

  ‘You’re saying that you do not intend to publish any further information about those deaths?’

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t promise that. We’re getting information coming in all the time from concerned members of the public. Who knows what may crop up?’

  His geniality is getting to Deb, Harry sees, but the little silver recording machine is restraining her. He wonders how long it will be before she explodes. ‘Look,’ he says, ‘we’re running a murder investigation. Do you have any information that may be relevant to our enquiries?’

  ‘Well, how can I tell?’ Bernie beams. ‘I don’t know where your enquiries are taking you.’

  ‘Well, let’s start with Crucifixion Creek. I think you once indicated to me that you were convinced something was going on there, Ms Pool? Is that right?’

  ‘Yes. I tried to get you interested and you didn’t want to know. You referred me to your media unit.’

  ‘So tell us now.’

  ‘Well, I think it’s a lot bigger than the Crows. I think—’

  But Bernie raises his hand. ‘Just a moment, Kelly. I can assure you that we have no firm evidence of any criminal matters that we could pass on to you. We have suspicions, but we’re in a different position to you. We don’t need proof of wrongdoing to raise issues of public concern. We ask questions, that’s all.’

  ‘Bullshit!’ Deb bursts out. ‘You stated as a fact that methamphetamine was found in the raid on the Crow clubhouse. That wasn’t a question, it was a fact, and one that wasn’t in the public domain. By releasing that information you undermined our enquiries. You did it again by releasing information about Kristich’s computer.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ Bernie sighs, but still with that twinkle in his eye, ‘I fear that the court is annoyed with us about that. The matter was sub judice. We may have to pay—’

  ‘I’ll make you pay big time, if you don’t tell me how you came by that information.’

  ‘Oh now, inspector, please. There’s no question of us revealing our sources, you know that.’

  ‘I can make a case that you have materially obstructed a homicide investigation. I can have you both arrested.’

  Bernie sits back with the sort of benign smile worn in religious paintings by Christian martyrs being flayed by barbarians. ‘You may do your worst, inspector. The people will decide on the justice of the matter.’

  Harry tries again. ‘We’re seeking your cooperation, Mr Westergard. You have seriously pissed off the whole of the New South Wales police force and exposed yourself to possible prosecution. A bit of cooperation would be timely for both of us.’

  Bernie adopts a more serious expression. ‘Look, as far as the computer business is concerned, let’s just say that we have legal friends who are always on the look-out for Nathaniel Horn’s spoiling tactics. As for the meth, well, what else do outlaw motorcycle gangs do? And there were the rumours, right, Kelly?’

  ‘Yes. People living in Mortimer Street complained of strange smells coming from the clubhouse. Then the raid. We put two and two together.’

  ‘And what about your next revelations? Is there anything you’d like to share with us?’

  ‘Well, we have an abiding interest in corruption. It is the poison that eats away at our democracy from the inside.’

  ‘From your next editorial?’ Harry says.

  Bernie chuckles. ‘We believe there may be some kind of property scam going on in our neck of the woods, centred on the Creek. One of our elected representati
ves, Councillor Potgeiter, has been doing some odd things lately. We’re hoping to prod him into showing his hand.’

  Potgeiter, Harry thinks, Pot, Pol Pot, Pol—could that be it?

  ‘Nothing to do with Kristich, then?’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t say that. We think he may have been involved in whatever’s going on. But we don’t envisage any more murders, if that’s what’s bothering you.’

  When they are gone, Kelly settles down to work on her fourth day of revelations. For her it is the most important episode, but also the riskiest and most speculative. It is The Great Creek Conspiracy, the bee in her bonnet that has been buzzing around ever since the siege and her first conversation with Phoebe Bulwer-Knight. The picture of the ‘three kings’ clinched it for her, and yet it is proof of nothing, and she knows how dangerous bees in bonnets can be. All she can really do is raise questions. Why was Kristich acquiring properties in the Creek? Why are properties in the Creek being firebombed and evacuated? Could it be connected to the proposed new southwest underground rail line? Everyone knows it will create a property bonanza wherever the stations are located, but the announcement on the route has been delayed again and again. The Kristich files might provide answers, but they are still in legal limbo. So she has no proof of anything, only speculation, and a cast of characters, which the three kings photograph has confirmed: the financial shark (Kristich), the state government minister (Oldfield) and the property developer (Mansur), backed up by a chorus of venal supporters, the local council (Potgeiter), the enforcers (Crows), and, just possibly, the bent cops (Strike Force Gemini).

  She spends the day trying to find something tangible. A tip-off from a member of the public sends her down to Rose Bay where Mansur’s yacht Rashida is moored. She hires a small boat and goes out to it, but a crew member who appears to speak little English tells her that no one else is on board. She goes on to Ozdevco Properties’ registered offices, but is refused entry. It’s the same everywhere she tries. Everyone, from Oldfield to Potgeiter, is unable or unwilling to speak to her.

  In the end she makes what she can of the material she has, backed up by plans from the Department of Infrastructure and Planning and other public documents. She shows it to Bernie Westergard, who is uneasy. But there is a momentum now that they cannot afford to lose. New advertisers have been pouring in and they are doubling the size of the paper. He fiddles with this and that, changing the headline then changing it back again, and finally agrees to let it go.

  It is almost midnight when Kelly leaves the office. She is exhausted and calls a cab, which drops her in the street outside her building. There is a light on in the Greek couple’s window on the second floor, but her own flat is in darkness. She puts her key in the door and calls out ‘Hello’ as she steps inside. There is no reply, and she feels for the light switch. She sighs, glad to be back, looking forward to bed, and drops her bag, pulls off her coat and steps into the living room. And stops. Everything—the TV, the table, the paintings, the sofa and chairs—everything is smashed and ripped and trashed and heaped in a ruined pile.

  ‘Jesus,’ she whispers. ‘What happened?’

  She turns towards the kitchenette and dining space and it’s the same thing, smashed crockery and appliances plastered with tomato sauce and milk and muesli and all the other contents of the cupboards and the fridge, which lies gutted on its side.

  ‘Wendy!’ she cries. ‘Wendy!’

  She runs to Wendy’s room, having trouble forcing the door open against the debris inside, and there she sees her flatmate’s bleeding legs extending from beneath the broken bed frame.

  She stumbles back to her bag and pulls out a phone and rings triple-O, calling for an ambulance and police, then runs back to Wendy and tries to lift the bed off her. It’s impossible, an impossible weight, but she finally manages to heave it upright against the wall, and turns back to look, and gives a loud wail as she sees what they’ve done to her friend.

  21

  From a glimpse of window at the far end of the corridor she realises that it is light outside. In here it is a timeless bright electric dazzle. Through the glass screen she can see the swaddled figure of Wendy, still as a corpse on the intensive care bed. She has been stabilised, the damage recorded, the coma monitored. They beat her savagely, she has been told, probably with baseball bats. There are many shattered bones and skull fractures. The doctors are concerned about swelling and permanent damage to the brain.

  The police officers who called at the hospital were routinely sympathetic and comforting until she told them about Strike Force Gemini, the Crows and her work. Then they became cautious and stepped away to make phone calls. ‘They were after me,’ Kelly tells them. ‘They made a stupid mistake.’

  She gets to her feet, weary and aching from sitting there, and goes out to find a coffee. At the shop they have the morning papers, the Bankstown Chronicle among them. She picks it up, feeling sick with shame at the sight of her lead article. How glib, how easy to write clever words. How remote and pathetic they are compared to the violent reality of the world they describe. It’s her fault that Wendy is in here, close to death. She imagines once again her terror, and throws the paper into the bin.

  Towards noon Bernie calls to find out where she is. He is shocked to hear what has happened and says he’ll come to the hospital, but she says no, Wendy’s parents will be here soon and then she’ll leave and try to get some sleep. Bernie is concerned, but she can hear something else in his voice too, a note of triumph. ‘Have you been following the reports, Kelly?’ he asks. She says no.

  ‘Well, I have to say the first reactions to the paper this morning were disappointing. People were a bit dubious, starting to say we’d gone out on a limb, and then Oldfield stands up in the house to answer questions on his conduct as police minister, and he has to come clean that the Kristich records aren’t going to be released to the police after all. The hard drive is “digitally compromised”—that was the phrase he used. Big uproar, people shouting across the floor that he’s the one digitally compromised and he has to resign. Then he says he’ll be taking legal advice on recent scurrilous reports in the press, but in the meantime he’s spoken with the premier and agreed to stand down as police minister.’

  Bernie has forgotten about sounding concerned, and is getting excited. ‘I tell you, Kelly, this is a big win for us. And now they’ve really done it. Attacking you in your own home! I’ll make sure the media all know about it. You’ll get the evening news, no worries.’

  ‘Jesus Bernie, Wendy’s in a fucking coma. I don’t want to talk to bloody Channel 9 news.’

  ‘Oh. Yeah, okay, I’ll speak to them myself, shall I? Sorry, Kelly. It must be very upsetting for you. You got anyone there with you? A friend?’

  ‘I just want some time to think about this, Bernie.’

  ‘Sure, sure. And your flat was ruined, was it? You’ll need somewhere to stay. The paper will pay, Kelly. Anywhere, the Hilton, the Sheraton, wherever you like.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You sound very tired. Go and get some rest.’

  He hangs up and she heads for the lobby. As she approaches the doors she sees Harry Belltree coming through.

  ‘Kelly!’ He takes hold of her arm and moves them out of the way of the throng passing in and out. ‘You’re okay
?’

  It touches her that he seems really concerned. ‘I am, but my flatmate’s nearly dead.’

  ‘I’ve only just heard. She going to be all right?’

  ‘They don’t know.’

  ‘Hell. I looked in on your flat on the way. Looks like a Crow special.’

  ‘What, not your lot? Your Inspector Velasco seemed ready to smash a few chairs yesterday.’

  ‘No, Kelly. No, no.’

  Was there a trace of doubt in his frown? ‘Anyway,’ she says, ‘I’m done.’

  ‘Can I give you a lift?’

  ‘You don’t want to be seen with me, Harry. You’ll be compromised. And I just want to be alone.’

  When he gets back to the office he finds that another team meeting has been called. Deb is in conference with Marshall, and when they emerge she looks sombre, Marshall grim and dyspeptic. ‘Gentlemen,’ he begins, then corrects himself quickly, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I am instructed to stand down Strike Force Gemini.’

  There is a murmur of surprise and unease. He ploughs on.

  ‘Inspector Velasco will draw up a final report for the coroner concerning the deaths of Kristich and Lavulo, concluding that they killed each other with no other persons involved. A full investigation of Kristich’s financial dealings will be carried out by the fraud squad. The gangs squad will take over all matters relating to the Crow motorcycle gang. Any matters of possible corruption relating to the activities of Kristich and the Crows will be referred to the Independent Commission Against Corruption. You will complete all reports and other paperwork and return to your former duties. That is all.’