‘So, slums, all slums. Are they working for a charity maybe? Or Australian foreign aid?’
‘First I’ve heard of it, Anton. Could the driver tell you anything else?’
‘Not much. Commissioner Gunardi made him nervous. One day the Australians were counting out money on the back seat. Gunardi took them to nice restaurants for their lunches. That’s about it. They only used the driver during the day. If they went out in the evenings they would get taxis. According to the concierge they went out one night to Taman Lawang, red light district, famous for ladyboys, and another night to Star Luck Disco. It’s kind of notorious, ladyboys again, and other things.’
‘I get the picture.’
‘Just your usual Australian tourists, Kelly.’ He laughs. ‘Do you want me to go on with this?’
‘What more can you do?’
‘I don’t know. I could talk some more to the driver, see if he remembers any conversations about the slums. It would mean more money. He’s worried about Gunardi, as I said. Five hundred dollars might get him to remember more.’
‘Okay. Do your best.’
Kelly puts the phone down and sits for a while, doodling on her pad, then looks across at Hannah, head down, checking a list. ‘Fancy a reporter’s assignment, Hannah?’
‘Totally.’
‘Why don’t you ring Counsellor Potgeiter and ask him for an interview today. Say you’re writing an article on cutting planning red tape, and you believe he has some interesting ideas.’
‘Okay. Am I interested in his ideas?’
‘Absolutely fascinated. Just don’t mention my name.’
Kelly listens as Hannah makes the call. She has a lovely telephone voice, very feminine and flattering. She rings off and grins at Kelly.
‘Twelve-thirty. I think he wants to take me to lunch.’
‘Perfect.’
*
Potgeiter advances on them across the bright green carpet of the town hall foyer. He has a pugnacious thrust to his jaw and an unpleasant curl on his lips, impersonating a smile. Kelly hangs back, brandishing the largest camera she could find in the office. Potgeiter barely spares her a glance as he takes Hannah’s arm and steers her towards the lifts.
As the lift doors close he looks pointedly at his watch and says, ‘Tight schedule of course. But if this is going to take more than ten minutes we could continue in the coffee shop next door over a sandwich.’ He says this to Hannah, who smiles and says, ‘Lovely.’ He beams at her, then flicks a glance at Kelly, who mumbles about having to get back to the office. That cheers him up, and Kelly reflects ruefully that it wasn’t that hard to turn herself into a frumpy inarticulate lump.
When they get inside his office she gets him to pose in the oversized leather chair at his desk, pretending to answer the phone and writing in his diary. With a fountain pen, the wanker. Then she takes a chair over to the side and fiddles with the camera controls.
‘Councillor Potgeiter,’ Hannah begins. ‘Thank you so much for agreeing to see me.’ She switches on her recording device.
‘Not at all. Always happy to talk to the press. How did you come to think of interviewing me?’
‘I understand you raised some very interesting points in the recent council debates on DCP 86 and the Local Environmental Plan. I’d really like to get at the philosophy that obviously underpins your arguments. Could you tell me about that?’
Potgeiter puffs out his cheeks. ‘Philosophy, eh? Well, it’s quite simple really. We live in a capitalist country, and it’s up to public organisations like ours to facilitate the workings of a free market economy and not get in its way.’ He beams and continues to develop the argument.
Eventually Hannah breaks in. ‘And I believe you’ve undertaken study tours recently to investigate how other local authorities manage these issues.’
‘Study tours?’
‘Yes, for instance last April, to Tasmania.’
‘Ah, yes, yes, of course.’
‘Was it useful?’
‘Oh, yes, up to a point.’
‘How about Indonesia?’
Potgeiter’s jaw drops open, and from the sidelines Kelly’s camera clicks rapidly as she captures the bovine expression. Potgeiter turns on her and spits, ‘Do you mind?’ Then to Hannah, ‘Why on earth do you say Indonesia?’
‘I just thought that the problems of responding to market forces in a populous third world country like Indonesia would highlight a number of town planning issues.’
‘Well…maybe, but it’s a bit distant from the problems of western Sydney.’ He laughs, coughs, takes a handkerchief out of his pocket and wipes his mouth.
‘Have you ever been there, to Indonesia?’
‘What? No, never. But look, as I was saying…’
Now Kelly speaks. ‘So you deny being in Jakarta last April when you said you were in Tasmania?’
He turns to her, face turning deep scarlet, eyes bulging, as if seeing her for the first time.
‘We’re just giving you a chance to retract your earlier statements,’ Kelly says calmly.
He is rising from his chair, spluttering. Finally he finds the words. ‘Get out, the pair of you!’ he splutters. ‘Get out this minute!’
As he comes around the desk, fists bunched, Hannah grabs her recorder and notebook, Kelly her camera, and they both run for the door.
*
Back in the office they get to work on the article. Kelly has several wonderful photographs of Potgeiter goggling monstrously at the camera. They are almost ready to run it past Catherine when another call comes in from Anton.
‘I spoke to the driver again, Kelly. It seems that the Australians have been here before on trips to the slums. He spoke to some of his friends, other drivers, and a couple of them remember a group of four Australians going through much the same routine in previous years, with Gunardi as their guide. They claim to have interesting stories to tell, but I’m sceptical, frankly. I think they know there’s money in it.’
‘So we can’t be sure any of it is true?’
‘Hard to know. They say they came in April, at the end of the rainy season, last year and the year before. Maybe you could see if that fits with anything else.’
‘Right. Thank you, Anton.’
She checks her watch, time to see Catherine. They gather their material together and head for the glass lift.
The editor listens in silence as she reads the article, studies the photographs and listens to an excerpt from Hannah’s recording of Potgeiter.
Finally she says, ‘So what do they go over there for?’
Kelly cues up another recording, this time of the immigration officer yesterday in the Domain.
Catherine looks at her. ‘Sex tourism? Children?’
‘Could be. I know it’s a stretch to assume they’re all paedophiles because Potgeiter was, but, well, what else are they doing?’
‘You haven’t hinted at that.’
‘No, there are several things I’ve held back, including the fact that their guide was a serv
ing police commissioner. We need to do more work.’
‘I’ll say.’
‘But Potgeiter lied, and got into a fury when he realised we knew. I want to use the photograph of the group in the bar now, to see what that throws up.’
Catherine thinks, then nods. ‘Okay, we’ll do it.’ She points to one of the photos of Potgeiter and smiles. ‘And use that one.’
When she gets back to her desk, Kelly tries Harry on the secure mobile. There is no reply and she risks sending a text: I think I know what it’s all about. Potgeiter is the key. Call me.
32
Harry sits in the passenger seat of Tony Gemmell’s elderly Corolla. They listen on Harry’s police radio to the progress of the three motorcycle gangs converging on Penrith. Tony is wearing a heavy leather jacket with the Crow colours on the back, and his broad upper body half-fills the car.
For some reason the Crows are taking the Great Western Highway rather than the motorway, and a patrol car has observed them passing through Mount Druitt. Another police patrol reports them reaching the centre of Penrith and turning off onto the secondary road where the Swagman Hotel sits overlooking the Nepean River, with views from its upper veranda towards the Emu Plains Correctional Centre away to the west.
Through the windscreen Harry and Tony watch their headlights approaching. Most of the other bikies have already arrived, and the hotel forecourt is crowded with ranks of bikes, men shaking hands and embracing each other in elaborate bear hugs. A cheer goes up as the lead Crows turn into the hotel.
Tony and Harry get out of the car. The night air reverberates with hoarse shouts and the roar of bikes. They cross the road and skirt around a knot of bearded men removing helmets and sorting out their gear. Then there is a space and ahead of them they see the Crows.
‘Bebchuk,’ Tony points to the big man, ‘Capp and Haddad.’
Harry nods.
‘Bebchuk!’ Tony says again, but this time it is an aggressive bellow that casts a sudden pall of silence on the people nearby. Bebchuk and the other two turn.
‘Bebchuk you cunt, I hear you murdered O’Brian. Is it true?’
Bebchuk stares at him, folds his arms. ‘That’s what I should have done to you,’ he shouts back, then nods at the other two.
A metal baseball bat appears in Capp’s hand, a shotgun in Haddad’s. Capp raises the bat to his shoulder and runs at Tony, who ducks smartly away and punches him in the ribs, grabs his bat and begins beating his head and shoulders with it. Behind them Harry watches Haddad raise the shotgun and aim. People scatter as Harry draws his pistol and shoots him once, twice in the chest and stomach. As he hits the ground the shotgun booms into the air.
Now the forecourt erupts in panic, people scrambling away, pushing each other, stumbling through the lines of bikes which tilt and topple and crash to the ground.
Harry raises his pistol again, holding it steady in two hands, just like the firing range. Lining it up on Bebchuk who has leapt onto his bike, kicking it into life, wrestling the high handlebars. Harry squeezes the trigger, the bang almost drowned by the thunder of Bebchuk’s engine. The bike wobbles, rights itself and roars away through scattering bodies. Harry runs after it, watching its red light diminishing down the road, then runs back to Haddad and Capp’s bikes, one of which still has the key in the ignition. He grabs the helmet on the seat and jumps on. Starts it and races away.
It’s years since he rode a bike and it wasn’t a Harley. It is sheer momentum that keeps him on the saddle through the bends. When he reaches the highway he thinks he sees the red taillight up ahead, continuing south rather than east along the route they arrived on. A minute later he realises why, as he comes to the M1 on-ramp. He can’t see Bebchuk, but he guesses he’s heading back to Sydney on the motorway, and he makes the turn. Sure enough, after a couple of kilometres he sees the bike up ahead. It is travelling within the speed limit but erratically, veering across lanes and causing other traffic to brake and swerve.
They reach Silverwater, Bebchuk slowing. Harry can’t tell if he’s aware he has a tail. At the next intersection, Bebchuk lurches off onto the exit ramp at the last minute. They are heading back to home turf, Harry thinks, to the Creek. He wonders whether to get there first, but decides to stay back in case Bebchuk has something else in mind. There have been no patrol cars, no signs of police activity. Maybe they’re waiting up ahead.
But they are not, and Mortimer Street is deserted when Harry finally turns the bike into it. At the far end of the street he sees Bebchuk’s headlight reflected on the compound gates, Bebchuk a dark figure hunched against the steel wall. Then the gate swings open and he disappears inside, leaving his bike outside. Harry parks the stolen Harley and follows, drawing his gun.
Across the yard the door to the clubhouse is open, a light on. Harry runs silently to the door jamb and peers in. Beyond the pool table he sees the closed door to the little office. No sign of Bebchuk. He steps in. The kitchen at the other end of the room is lit. As he pauses in the doorway he sees drops of blood on the floor. Inside, beyond the cooker, the big fridge has been pulled away from the wall. Behind it is a doorway flush with the wall. He hears a metallic sound, clicking, sliding, takes a breath and glances through the door. Bebchuk is sprawled on the floor, wrestling with the magazine of a military automatic assault rifle. Behind him is an armoury of weapons chained in a rack.
He raises his head and sees Harry. There is blood all over his left shoulder and he is having trouble handling the gun, but now he roars and lifts it and fires a burst, deafening in the small room as Harry instinctively drops, rolls and fires.
Bebchuk’s head is down, the rifle lying on the floor beside his limp hand, and Harry jumps across and kicks it away, then crouches at Bebchuk’s side. ‘Hey,’ Harry slaps his face. ‘Hey, Bebchuk.’
An eye opens, rolls at him. ‘Hello, Belltree,’ Bebchuk croaks, and Harry blinks.
‘You know me?’
‘Oh, I know…all about you.’
‘You killed my parents. Why?’
Bebchuk grunts and blood spills between his lips.
Harry shakes him. ‘Why? Why did you do it? Who did you do it for?’
A cough, then Bebchuk burps a gobbet of blood over Harry’s front. Harry shakes him again, hard, and he mumbles something.
‘What?’ He leans closer to the dying man and hears a whisper.
‘Wanna know who tipped us off about their route?’
‘Go on.’
Bebchuk’s mouth parts in a bloody grin. ‘March…Greg March.’ He gives another little cough and Harry pulls back as a great bubble of blood bursts from his mouth. His head flops back and his body sags.
Harry rocks back on his heels, staring at the dead man. Then he shakes his head as if waking from a nightmare. He goes through Bebchuk’s pockets, takes his wallet, keys, phone, then turns and hurries out. In the club room he takes an old waterproof from a peg on the wall and pulls it over his bloodstained clothes, then runs out across the yard to the gate, all the time expecting to hear the sound of police sirens. He mounts the Harley again and drives to the end of the street. All seems quiet. He takes Bebchuk’s phone out of his pocket and rings triple-O, reporting a murder in the Crow clubhouse, then throws the phon
e into the gutter and sets off again. He rides as far as Campsie, where he leaves the bike near the station, but instead of catching a train he heads north, jogging through quiet suburban backstreets until, after half an hour, he reaches Liverpool Road. He peels off his bloody leather gloves and stuffs them in his pockets, catches a bus into Chippendale and walks home.
It is like the replay of an old movie. Once again Jenny smells the gun, the blood. He peels off all his clothes in the little utility room and shoves everything into the washing machine on a long cycle. When he closes the shower door he stands under the hot jet, watching the blood circling into the drain at his feet, willing his muscles to relax, one by one.
When he finally emerges, Jenny is waiting with a large scotch. Only then, after the first thankful gulp, does she ask him.
‘I killed the man who killed Mum and Dad and Rowdy and blinded you,’ he says, and tells her about Bebchuk.
‘Then it’s over,’ she says, and wraps her arms around him.
He holds her tight, rocking back and forward, then finally says, ‘No. He didn’t tell me why they did it, or who for. But he did tell me one thing, about Greg.’
When he tells her she cries out and shakes her head.
He holds her tighter as she sobs.
‘I’ll never believe that,’ she says. ‘Bebchuk was lying to punish you.’
33
He is late getting in to work the next day, feeling sluggish, reluctant to rejoin the world. When he arrives on the eighth floor he finds the place deserted. One of the admin staff tells him that an emergency briefing has been called on the sixth floor, and he goes down there and slips into the back of the room, like a reluctant student late for a lecture.
Toby Wagstaff is addressing the assembled officers. Behind him an image of the forecourt of the Swagman Hotel is projected onto a screen.
‘…however it seems to have taken the staff of the hotel something like ten minutes to call triple-O, and a further three minutes for the first patrol car to arrive, by which time they had all dispersed. Witnesses in Penrith report large numbers of motorcycles heading south towards the motorway.
Crucifixion Creek Page 20
