by Peter Watt
Suddenly the hairs on the back of Michael’s neck rose. He felt that he was not alone and that someone was standing behind him. He had never experienced such intense fear before and he stood frozen to the spot. He fought to reassure himself that it was his imagination. If he turned around the fear would go away. With every ounce of his physical and mental strength, Michael forced his attention to the entrance of the cave, and there he saw the outline of a wedge-tailed eagle staring at him. His scream echoed around the cave wall and the giant eagle hopped away to take flight.
Michael could feel his heart beating like a hammer in his chest and his legs were so weak he slumped to his knees. In his mind he was trying to convince himself that the event was natural. But then a voice came to him: Why are you here, Michael Macintosh? It had to be his own thoughts, Michael told himself, and rose unsteadily to his feet. The circle of daylight beckoned to him from the entrance.
A second wave of fear suddenly swamped him. Again, he was not alone. He swung around and saw the hazy figure of an old Aboriginal man standing at the back of the cave. He was armed with a long spear and wooden clubs tucked into the string band around his waist.
Michael bolted from the cave into the reassuring sunlight, his heart beating violently in his chest. He ran and stumbled down the trail until he reached his mount grazing on the desiccated native grasses.
Michael untethered the reins and swung into the saddle, urging his horse into a canter until he was satisfied that the hill was well behind him. He reached the Glen View homestead just before last light, the events in the cave still ringing in his mind.
When he finished unsaddling and rubbing his horse, he made his way from the stables to the lights of the house. Jessica was in the kitchen preparing a beef stew on the big cast-iron combustion stove.
‘Hello, Michael,’ she greeted. ‘Did you have a good day?’
Michael did not know how to answer. How could he tell his aunt that he’d seen an apparition?
‘Did you visit the sacred cave?’ Jessie asked, seeing how pale Michael looked.
He nodded and slumped into a chair in the kitchen. ‘I think I saw a ghost in the cave,’ he said finally.
Jessica wiped her flour-covered hands on her apron and sat down at the wooden table opposite Michael. ‘Was he an Aboriginal man with a grey beard, and armed with a long spear?’
He looked up at his aunt in surprise. ‘How did you know that?’
‘Because if you were in the cave it was probably Wallarie,’ she answered with a gentle smile. ‘You are fortunate because it has been such a long time since anyone has seen him.’
‘Is Wallarie that man my mother sometimes mentions?’ Michael asked in an awed voice. ‘I have heard her say he haunts our family.’
‘Wallarie is the spirit of these plains,’ Jessica answered. ‘He protects us, and sometimes we see him when the big eagles fly above Glen View. For him to appear to you is a good sign because it means he will always protect you.’
Despite what he had seen with his own eyes, Michael still found it hard to believe what Jessie was saying. And yet . . .
That night Michael’s dreams were haunted by the spectre of an ancient Aboriginal warrior. The following day he left Glen View Station for the next stage of his life in England, where wedge-tailed eagles did not soar in the low grey skies.
THREE
Under the canopy of the rainforest giants on the Thai-Malay border, a group of six men armed with a motley collection of small arms sat in a semicircle facing a young man standing before them. Sam Po was their leader and legendary for having assassinated the high commissioner of British Malaya. Sam Po was of Eurasian heritage but identified as Chinese. He was a good-looking young man, but close inspection revealed a cruel darkness in his eyes. For years he had led raiding parties, executing Malay police and government officials in remote kampongs. His fanatic dedication to the Communist cause was not disputed amongst his small band of followers, and he had sworn that he would never be taken alive.
The dim light filtering through the jungle canopy in the rugged hills of the border region hid the despairing looks of one or two of the Communist guerrillas. Their lives had been hell as they were pursued by the Australian troops and their allies in the district assigned to Sam Po. Short on food and medical supplies, they had seen their number reduced by typhus and malaria, and those remaining were secretly considering the generous terms of the amnesty offered by their enemy.
‘We are not beaten,’ Sam said in a strong voice. ‘The British have deployed an army to hunt us, and yet we have been able to strike at the place and time of our choosing. Under the leadership of Comrade Chin Peng we will prevail, just as the Vietnamese have prevailed against the French and just as Mao has prevailed against the American-backed imperialist forces. We will prevail and you will be remembered as heroes of the struggle.’
His speech did not seem to inspire his group, and he glared at them.
‘Comrade Tek, I have an important mission for you,’ he said, looking directly at one of the men sitting before him. ‘You are to travel to Kuala Lumpur to deliver a message to our party members there. I will brief you on the contents of the message after we have eaten, and you will be issued with supplies for the difficult trip south.’
The young Chinese man nodded his head without looking at Sam. Comrade Tek had come to the end of his tether with the cause and had been considering desertion. Now Sam had given him the opportunity. He would surrender himself to the British and be paid generously to do so. He’d get more if he could also hand over a weapon. Even more valuable still was the information he had about the whereabouts of Britain’s enemy on the Thai border.
Sam took his handful of cooked rice seasoned with curry powder and sat with his back against the trunk of a forest giant, his Sten submachine gun across his lap. He ate slowly, savouring every grain of rice in his meagre meal, and thought about the only woman he had ever loved. She had been four years older than he, and the daughter of the merchant who had taken him in from a life of begging on the streets. The girl had been a nurse and a committed member of the Malayan Communist Party. The Malay police had captured her with compromising documents when she had been a courier between the armed fighters in the jungles and the party cadre in the cities. In captivity she had taken her own life, and Sam had never forgiven his enemy for what he perceived as her murder. It helped to drive him through the torrential rain, humidity and harsh conditions in the field over the long years of leading his band of guerrilla fighters. So long as he had a heartbeat he would fight for the cause, and to avenge her death.
*
Almost four thousand miles south in the Australian city of Sydney, a detective sergeant sat at his desk staring at a battered folder. Detective Senior Constable Brendan Wren had finally been granted status after his plainclothes service under the notoriously corrupt Detective Inspector Lionel Preston who had recently retired to his coastal home north of Sydney. Preston had been an arrogant pig of a man, and the source of his wealth was no secret to those who worked for him. Preston had always singled out Brendan for ridicule and made his life miserable. But he was now gone, and the detective had recovered the file that had haunted him for all those years since he had been a newly appointed uniformed constable, investigating a hit-and-run on the night Australia celebrated the end of the Pacific war.
Preston had forced Brendan to drop his investigations into the death of a Miss Allison Lowe when the eager young constable had tracked the offending vehicle to the Macintosh Enterprises. Brendan had joined the force believing all were equal before the law, but that day Preston had taught him a lesson: those in high places were beyond justice.
‘What you got there, Brendan?’ asked a fellow detective constable, leaning over his shoulder.
‘Just a case I had when I first got into the job,’ Brendan answered, pushing the file into the top drawer of his desk.
‘Any
thing in it?’ asked Detective Constable Mick Prowse.
‘Not a real lot,’ Brendan answered, closing the drawer, picking up his hat and rising from behind his desk. ‘Nothing I can act on. Come on, there are a couple of break and enters we have to go out and check on.’
Brendan kept to himself that he intended to eventually solve the case, and by doing so he’d reveal his old mentor, Detective Inspector Preston; the well-known underworld figure, William Price; and the head of a financial empire, Sarah Macintosh, as an unholy trinity. He intended to have them brought before a court on charges of conspiracy to murder, and murder.
Brendan and his partner stepped out onto the busy streets of the inner city. One of the break and enters had been on a deserted boxing gym belonging to someone Brendan knew, Harry Griffiths. It was not of great importance as whoever had broken in had just carried out acts of vandalism, but it was an excuse for Brendan to contact the man who had once been a good friend of his policeman father and who had ears and eyes throughout the city’s underbelly.
After a short walk along the busy streets filled with cars and trams, the two police officers came to a building marked for demolition. It was to make way for a multi-storey building in this prosperous city that had been booming in the years following the war. Brendan knew that Harry Griffiths still lived in his small rooms above what had once been a popular boxing gym. But many of its star fighters had gone to war and not returned. Boxing was losing its appeal amongst the new generation of young men who found themselves in full-time work and too busy to fit lives around the long hours and tough programmes Harry insisted his pupils follow. He was now a war pensioner, occasionally working for his old friend Sean Duffy to supplement his pension.
Brendan pushed aside the front door barely hanging from its hinges and entered the musty-smelling building. Pigeons scattered in flight from the rafters above a raised dais that had once held a boxing ring.
‘Harry, you here?’ Brendan called, and his voice echoed around the empty building.
‘Who’s that?’ a distant voice responded.
‘Detective Senior Constable Brendan Wren, Harry. I met you a few years back. You used to work with my dad before the Great War.’
Harry appeared wearing a singlet and old trousers held up with braces. He had not shaved in days and his eyes were rheumy, probably from a heavy night of drinking, Brendan thought. Harry had once been a big and powerfully built man, but now he looked old and shrunken. He made his way down the rickety stairs to stand before Brendan and his partner. For a moment he squinted at them, but then he broke into a slow smile, extending his hand in the process.
‘Bloody hell, it has been years,’ Harry said. ‘How are you, young fella? How’s your dad?’
‘Sad to say the old man died a few years back,’ Brendan replied, realising with surprise how powerful the older man’s grip was. ‘We got the message that you had a break-in last night.’
Harry glanced around at his gym. ‘Not much in it – except they took a few old photos of my former fighters that were still hanging on the wall. They don’t have much value other than sentimental. I just wanted to report the matter in case any of the photos ever turned up. Probably only knocked them off for the frames they were in.’
Harry described the photos and Brendan’s partner duly took down their descriptions. When they were finished, Brendan turned to his partner. ‘Mick, duck across the street to the cafe and order us a couple of sandwiches. I’ll catch up with you.’
‘Harry,’ Brendan began when Mick had left, ‘do you remember a young woman called Allison Lowe who was killed on VJ Night?’
The question caused Harry’s eyes to mist and he pulled out a dirty handkerchief to wipe them. ‘Bloody dust around here gets in your eyes,’ he said. ‘I remember Allison well. She was a beautiful girl who was going to marry a young man called David Macintosh who was like a son to me.’
‘Macintosh,’ Brendan echoed. ‘Is he related to a woman called Sarah Macintosh?’
‘She’s his first cousin,’ Harry said. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘It’s just that the hit-and-run never went over well with me as an accident, and Sarah Macintosh’s name cropped up in my initial investigation. I was stopped from interviewing her by Detective Inspector Preston.’
‘That bastard,’ Harry spat. ‘I hear he’s retired and living in the lap of luxury, thanks to all the payoffs he got. I know Preston and Billy Price had something to do with Allison’s murder. But proving it is just about impossible after all these years.’
‘Not if I can help it,’ Brendan said quietly. ‘I still have the file in my desk, although it’s light on evidence, and now I don’t have Preston around to stop me investigating the incident.’
Harry looked closely at the young man. ‘You do that, son,’ he said. ‘You need to talk to my old cobber, Sean Duffy.’
‘I know Mr Duffy,’ Brendan grinned. ‘He and I have been up against each other often in the magistrates court. He’s as cunning as a sewer rat, and a tough man when it comes to defending his crims.’
‘That’s Sean,’ Harry agreed. ‘But you wouldn’t find a more fair-dinkum bloke if you searched the entire world. Allison was his law clerk when she was killed. He knows a lot about the case.’
‘I’ll look him up as soon as I can,’ Brendan said, extending his hand. ‘It was good to catch up with an old cobber of my dad.’
Brendan exited the building into the bright sunshine of the day and walked across the road to join Mick Prowse, who was sitting at a table with a cup of tea and two lots of sandwiches.
‘I got you devon and sauce. So what’s going on, Brendan?’ he asked.
‘Old Harry was once a copper with my dad before the Great War,’ Brendan said, slipping into a seat at the formica table. ‘We were just catching up on the times they spent together on the beat around here.’
‘Yeah, and pigs can fly,’ Mick said, sipping his tea. ‘I know you, cobber. You’re up to something. It’s written all over your face.’
The trouble with working a long time with one partner was that they got to know you even better than your own family did, Brendan thought, and ordered a cup of tea. At least he knew he could trust his partner. But he would have to hide his investigation from the department. Sarah Macintosh and Billy Price were still in the game – even if Preston was out of it – and they were influential players.
*
The following day Brendan was due at the magistrates court in the city to give evidence in a case of petty theft. He had arrested a well-known pickpocket who worked the horse tracks. The defending solicitor was Sean Duffy, and after the case was decided in favour of the prosecution, Brendan intercepted Sean on the courthouse steps as he was leaving.
‘Detective, you did a good job in there,’ Sean said when Brendan fell into step with the older man. The solicitor walked stiffly, aided by a walking cane, as he had two artificial legs, a legacy of his service in the trenches on the Western Front of the Great War. Brendan knew all who were close friends called him the Major, although he did not encourage the name.
‘You knew as well as I that the little weasel was guilty,’ Brendan said. ‘Major Duffy, I did not come to gloat over justice prevailing, but on the suggestion of an old friend of yours, Harry Griffiths. It’s about a case I know you are well and truly familiar with, the death of Miss Allison Lowe.’
Sean stopped walking and looked at the policeman. ‘I think we should afford ourselves some privacy at a pub around the corner from my office. They have a good ale and counter lunch. I thought the investigation into Miss Lowe’s death had long ago been stifled by Inspector Preston.’
‘True,’ Brendan replied. ‘I won’t ask how you know.’
Sean smiled and gestured to Brendan to go inside the cool confines of the hotel. They took a seat in the corner and Brendan purchased two glasses of beer.
Both took a long
sip and then Sean opened the conversation.
‘You know she was murdered on the orders of Sarah Macintosh,’ Sean said. ‘Sarah gave the order to Preston, who in turn passed on the job to Billy Price to have her run down. The only mistake Price made was using a Macintosh company car which, I believe, you discovered in a repair shop.’
‘You are well informed, Major,’ Brendan said. ‘But it is all hearsay and speculation. And it happened a long time ago.’
‘There is no statute of limitations for murder,’ Sean said. ‘If the investigation is being reopened, I will provide every assistance I can.’
‘My superiors would never reopen the case when the coroner made a finding of death by accident. The nearest thing the coroner could recommend was that the driver of the vehicle – if ever apprehended – be charged with culpable driving causing death. To top it all off, you and I both know that if I went after Sarah Macintosh, those above me would ensure I was out on George Street in uniform directing the morning traffic.’
‘Ah, there is the law and there is justice and never the twain shall meet,’ Sean said, taking a sip of cold beer. ‘I understand your predicament. However, we can fight fire with fire. I just happen to know someone who might be willing to assist us with political clout and financial resources.’
‘May I ask who?’ Brendan queried.
‘The person I am thinking of has good reason to wish to bring to justice the person responsible for Miss Lowe’s murder,’ Sean said quietly. ‘She has a very strong suspicion that Sarah Macintosh gave orders to have her father murdered around the same time that Allison was killed. Jessica has friends in high places.’
‘God almighty!’ Brendan said. ‘Who is this woman Sarah Macintosh?’
‘One of the most dangerous people you will ever come across in your police career,’ Sean replied with a grim smile. ‘She has no human feelings of empathy and views killing as a legitimate means to an end.’ Sean explained the incident at Glen View when Tom Duffy was killed defending his land. To the world, Sarah Macintosh was a successful businesswoman who had made her name in the chauvinistic world of commerce. She was well known as a philanthropist for her work with popular charities.
