Crucifixion Creek

by Barry Maitland

  ‘So what did you want to talk about?’

  ‘I wanted to ask you again about Potgeiter.’

  ‘Potgeiter? I told you, I don’t know any Potgeiter.’ Rizzo pulls off his helmet and makes a big thing of pulling a cloth from his pocket and wiping his brow.

  ‘That’s funny, because he knows you. Curly, isn’t that what they call you?’

  Rizzo’s hand drops from his face. He stares at Harry, quite still. ‘Curly?’

  ‘Yes. Potgeiter has told us everything—Oldfield, Mansur, the children from Jakarta, how Greg died, and your special role in it all.’

  ‘Oh God…’ Rizzo’s voice is a whisper. ‘I…I didn’t really know what was going on, Harry, I swear. Whatever he’s told you…’

  ‘The parties Oldfield took you to, your private work preparing the houses for the kiddies. That’s the word he used—kiddies.’

  Rizzo groans. ‘I didn’t see anything. I mean, I wondered—but those bikies threatened me. I was scared to death.’

  ‘Show me what you’re doing down there.’ Harry nods at the trench.

  ‘What? No, it’s nothing.’

  Harry takes a step towards the broken slab and Rizzo leaps for the shovel and swings it up to his shoulder like an axe. ‘Get back, Harry. I swear I’ll…’ He stops in mid-sentence as he sees the pistol in Harry’s hand.

  ‘That’s good, Rizzo. You attack a police officer and I shoot you, with the greatest of pleasure.’

  The shovel slides off Rizzo’s shoulder and he drops to his knees, sobbing.

  ‘Get in the hole,’ Harry says.

  ‘Oh God, oh God.’

  ‘Get in the fucking hole, Rizzo.’ Harry kicks his knee and he stumbles to the edge of the trench and lowers himself down.

  ‘Pull up the plastic. I want to see what’s under there.’

  Rizzo tugs half-heartedly at the edge of the heavy black sheet. ‘I can’t. It’s pinned down. There’s nothing there, just sand.’

  Harry cocks the pistol and aims it at Rizzo’s head, and Rizzo drops to his knees in the dirt and begins tearing at the sheet. A corner gives way and a gust of foul air fills the hole. Rizzo reels back, gagging, and Harry looks down at tufts of black hair and putrefying flesh.

  He bends down and grabs Rizzo’s wrist and handcuffs it to the heavy steel reinforcing mesh projecting from the broken concrete slab.

  ‘Who are they?’

  Rizzo snivels and sobs. ‘One of the containers got held up. They were all dead when they arrived. They were going to put them down a mine shaft at Potgeiter’s property, but there were already… Potgeiter was getting worried about the smell, so they told me to bury them here.’

  ‘Now listen to me, Rizzo. The cops will arrive any minute. The others will hang you out to dry without a second thought. You’ve got one chance to survive this and that’s to tell the cops everything. Understand? You ask to become a crown witness and tell them everything. And we will know if you hold anything back, or tell any lies. Do you understand?’

  Rizzo nods so hard his whole body shakes. ‘I had no choice, Harry. I got this girl Jamila pregnant and her family threatened me, then the bikies threatened me. It was a nightmare. I’m only a builder for God’s sake!’

  ‘But you knew what was going on—what Oldfield and the others were doing with the children. That’s what you tell the cops, it’s the only thing that’ll save you. In the time that’s left before they arrive you must go over everything in your head, every detail, and make a full confession.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I want to.’

  Harry leaves him. When he reaches his car he calls Deb’s mobile. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘On my way out to Orchard Hills. They think they’ve found your girlfriend.’

  ‘Let them deal with that, Deb. I’m at a factory unit in the Creek, Rizzo Construction, next to the Crow compound. Get over here with backup and crime scene. There are bodies here, and a witness, Peter Rizzo. He was involved. He wants to make a full confession.’

  There is a moment’s silence, then she says, ‘Is this for real? What the hell’s going on, Harry?’

  ‘Just get here, Deb, fast as you can.’ He rings off.

  There is music faintly audible at the front porch of the Point Piper home—Mozart, something poignant from the Vienna years. Harry takes a small plastic bottle of hydrogen peroxide from his pocket and sprays and wipes his pistol, which he wraps and tucks into his belt. He rings the bell and the music fades. Oldfield opens the door and Harry just stares at him for a moment, trying to reconcile the urbane features with the truth he now knows.

  ‘Well, Detective Sergeant Belltree? What can I do for you?’ But Harry thinks he can see a flicker in Oldfield’s eyes, as if he already understands.

  ‘A few minutes of your time, sir.’

  Oldfield glances over Harry’s shoulder, then shrugs. ‘Very well.’

  He leads the way to chrome and leather seats—authentic Barcelona chairs—and they sit, facing each other across the glass-topped Barcelona coffee table.

  ‘I’ve just come from interviewing Joost Potgeiter,’ Harry says, and a bleak distance settles upon Oldfield’s face. ‘He has provided details of your role in the illegal importation of children from Indonesia for sexual purposes. Acting on the information he provided, I have also been to premises at Crucifixion Creek, where Peter Rizzo has been found disposing of the bodies of dead children. He also is in the process of making a full confession.’

  Oldfield stares at him, then his eyes swivel away to a decanter on the sideboard. ‘I would like a very large scotch. How about you?’

  Harry says, ‘Stay where you are. I’ll get it.’

  He pours one glass and sets it down in front of Oldfield, then draws the pistol from his belt, wipes the butt once more, and sets it down with an ugly clunk on the glass top beside the scotch.

  ‘What’s that for?’

  ‘It has one bullet in it,’ Harry says. ‘The police will be here in a moment to arrest you. It’s up to you what you do with it. I want only one thing from you. I want to know why you wanted my father dead.’

  ‘Ah.’ Oldfield sighs. ‘The indefatigable Harry Belltree. We’ve watched your progress with something like awe.’ He reaches for the whisky and takes a deep swallow, then clears his throat, raising his eyebrows as if contemplating the inevitable. ‘It was nothing personal on my part, Harry. But, like you, your old man was very persistent. He upset people, friends of mine.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘That I can’t tell you.’

  ‘Why? How did he upset them?’

  Oldfield gives an exaggerated shrug. ‘It doesn’t matter now. Let me give you good advice. Forget it. You can’t bring him back. Live your life for the future, not the past.’

  He cocks his head and Harry catches the sound of a siren. Distant at first, coming closer.

  ‘Your colleagues,’ Oldfield says. ‘You’d better go and receive them.’

  ‘Why?’ Harry insists, but Oldfield just shakes his head. The siren, loud now, abruptly cuts out. The doorbell rings and Harry gets slowly
to his feet. He opens the front door and shows the two uniforms his ID. ‘You’ll find him—’ but his words are cut off by the crack of a gunshot.

  39

  The critical incident team is led by the same senior officer, a superintendent from North West Metropolitan Region, who interviewed Harry after Greg’s murder. He stares balefully now at Harry.

  ‘We may as well make this a regular appointment, Belltree. March, O’Brian, and now Oldfield, in the space of a month. You need your own personal CIT. How do you do it?’

  ‘Just lucky, sir.’

  ‘Lucky.’ He glances at his two companions, who frown. ‘What were you doing in Oldfield’s house?’

  Harry tells the story. He went to the Creek to check up on his brother-in-law’s business and stumbled upon Peter Rizzo burying bodies. Rizzo said he was doing it under duress from the Crows, who were acting on the instructions of Derryn Oldfield. ‘I arrested Rizzo, called Inspector Velasco for back-up, then went to Mr Oldfield’s house to question him.’

  ‘How did you know where he lived? It’s not public knowledge.’

  ‘Inspector Velasco and I had been there once before, to question Oldfield about his relationship with Alexander Kristich.’

  The three CIT officers begin turning the pages of their files, searching for the reference, and Harry gives them the date. ‘It’s a bit complicated.’

  The superintendent’s frown deepens. ‘Who did you notify, that you were going to interview Oldfield?’

  ‘No one, sir. I was at fault there, I admit. I knew Rizzo would spill his guts to Inspector Velasco and name Oldfield, and that she’d send backup there, as she in fact did, but I should have called it in. I think I was distracted by what I’d seen in the hole Rizzo was digging. Have you been there, sir?’

  ‘Yes.’ The superintendent clears his throat, as if he can still taste the foul air. ‘So you went to a murder suspect’s home without consultation or backup, to question him without a witness.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I find it inconceivable that an experienced homicide detective would do such a thing. I can only think of two reasons why you would.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘One, to intimidate or threaten Oldfield without a witness present. Or two, to warn him.’

  ‘No, sir. I wanted to arrest him. I cautioned him and told him he was under arrest on suspicion of involvement in a homicide.’

  ‘Did you restrain him, or search him for a weapon?’

  ‘No, sir. I had used my handcuffs to restrain Rizzo, and I was about to search Oldfield when other officers arrived and rang the doorbell. I went to let them in, and that’s when Oldfield must have got to his pistol and shot himself.’

  It goes on like this for some time, the questions repeated and rephrased, details examined.

  Eventually, late in the evening, they release him, promising more tomorrow. They order him not to communicate with any other officers tonight. He has already surrendered his weapon and police ID. The double padlocks are back on his locker.

  40

  Harry spends the next morning with the critical incident team before he is finally released and told to go home. He goes back to the homicide suite, where he runs into Deb. She waves him into a meeting room and closes the door.

  ‘Harry, what’s happening?’

  ‘Don’t ask me, Deb. I’ve been with the CIT all this time. I don’t know what’s been going on.’

  Her eyes are searching his face, trying to read him. ‘You’ve really been in the thick of it, haven’t you? Rizzo, Oldfield.’

  He shrugs. ‘They were panicking, Deb. It was only a matter of time before it all fell apart. What about Kelly Pool? What happened to her?’

  ‘She’s in Westmead. She was pretty confused, but from what we can gather, she was drugged and taken to Potgeiter’s property out west, where he raped and tortured her, then left her hanging down a mine shaft overnight. The next day he took her back into his house, then he disappeared and she managed to call for help. It’s kind of an odd story, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah. Did he do a runner? Have you picked him up?’

  ‘We found his body down the bottom of the shaft, along with the corpses of four children.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘There are strange wounds on his body. The pathologist is carrying out a second post-mortem today with another expert.’

  She’s still keeping her eyes fixed on him.

  He says, ‘Anything else?’

  ‘They reckon the gun Oldfield killed himself with was the same one used to shoot the bikies, Bebchuk and Haddad.’

  ‘Really? How does that work?’

  ‘Hard to say. We’re still trying to figure it out.’

  ‘Deb, why are you looking at me like that?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I don’t know, like I’m an alien. Or you are.’ He grins at her and she holds his gaze for a moment, then smiles too and looks away.

  ‘I don’t know, Harry. Ever since we met Kelly Pool at the siege… remember?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Ever since then things have been going haywire, and you always seem to be in the thick of it.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘Is there anything that you’ve been keeping from us?’

  ‘If I had anything to say, Deb, you’d be the first to know.’

  ‘Well…Bob Marshall’s like he’s on hot coals. He reckons when we release all of this it’ll bring down the state government.’

  ‘What about Maram Mansur? He was the other one in that Jakarta photo that Kelly published.’

  ‘Done a bunk by the look of it. His boat left Sydney three days ago. They’re trying to track it down.’

  There is an awkward silence, then she says, ‘I’d better get on. What about you?’

  ‘They’ve told me to go home.’

  ‘Okay. See you then.’ She turns away and he heads for the exit.

  Harry drives over to Westmead Hospital. Kelly is in recovery after surgery to repair both internal and external injuries. She grips his wrist and he lowers his head to hear her whisper.

  ‘You saved me, Harry.’

  ‘You haven’t told them that, have you, Kelly?’

  ‘No, but I want to. I want them all to know.’

  ‘You mustn’t. You’ll get me into a heap of trouble.’

  ‘I know. But I’m already writing the story in my head. “My night in hell.” Is that too lurid? It’s true. That’s what it was.’

  He wonders if that’s a good idea. Wouldn’t it be better to try to put it out of her mind, to think of other things? But she reads his thoughts.

  ‘That’s my way of dealing with it, Harry. It’s my way of pushing that man into a sack and throwing him away. But I’m sorry I can’t tell them how much I owe you.’

  As he returns to his car, Harry gets a call on his mobile. It is Toby Wagstaff.

  ‘Harry, Deb told me you’d left. I need to have a private talk with you. Ther
e are things I need to get straight.’

  ‘I’ll come in, sir.’

  ‘No, I want this completely off the record. The shit is about to hit the fan big time, and I want to bounce a few things off you. Private thoughts, no one else to know, okay?’

  ‘Sure.’

  What the hell does this mean? Is the squad compromised in some way? Does Wagstaff know something about Harry? ‘Okay. Where do you want to meet?’

  ‘The Creek. Meet me outside your brother-in-law’s burnt-out place. I’m down here now with crime scene at the Rizzo unit. They’re removing the last of the bodies, but they’ll have cleared the place by tonight and everyone will have gone. I’ll stay on. Meet me here at seven.’

  ‘Right. No problem.’

  41

  She has been indoors too much; she needs to get out. She checks the time on her computer and goes to the little hallway. Pulls on her coat and picks up her cane. As she closes the front door behind her she takes a deep breath, relishing the smells of damp brickwork and mould. She makes her way down the lane, taking care with the tree roots that have buckled the footpath, then turns left, up towards Crown Street. The sounds of traffic become louder, the purr of tyres and the growl of engines. She can visualise every building along the way, every cross street, feeling with her cane for the obstacles that are scattered in her path, the lamp posts, traffic signs, litter bins, bus shelters. Ahead of her she hears the bleeping of the pedestrian crossing. It has stopped by the time she reaches it, and she stretches out her hand to the pad, feeling its steady throb, like a little electronic heart. The bleeping starts again and she steps off onto the roadway. Halfway across she hears running footsteps and someone crashes into her, knocking the cane out of her hand. She steadies herself, then bends down to retrieve it. Her fingers can’t find it. The beeping is becoming more insistent as the time runs out. At last she feels the smooth tube and grasps it and stands up, but now feels disoriented, unsure which way to go. The beeping abruptly stops and engines begin to rev. She heads for the absent sound, feels a kerb with her cane and steps forward, unsure if she has moved forward or back. She stretches out a hand and feels glass, smells something musty and old—the antiques shop. Good. She takes a deep breath. Panic over. She is on the other side. She turns left and continues.