by Bob Goodwin
‘You know who it is, don’t you?’ asked Cathy, totally ignoring the previous remark. ‘It’s Briggs, isn’t it? You’ve suspected him for a while, that’s why you’ve been riding him.’
‘Continue straight ahead and go down McPhail Road, then shoot down the highway.’
‘Am I right? Is it Briggs?’
The inspector slammed both his hands hard on the dash. Johnson jumped.
‘Shut up! For five minutes just shut the fuck up!’ he bellowed. ‘It’s not a bloody competition for Christ’s sake. I’m wrong, you’re right! Who gives a shit? We’ve got the information and now we can act on it. And you can cut out all that girlie crap. I’m sick of it!’
Cathy’s moistened eyes glistened in the headlights of the passing vehicles. She was determined not to give the fat man any indication of how he had made her feel. Her first inclination was to punch the rude blimp squarely between his podgy eyes, but as she drove and had time to think, she realised his behaviour since Snake’s message was uncharacteristic. Sure, he was often loud, rude, and insulting, but this was different. There was a troubled tone behind his shouts and an agitation beneath his anger. They turned onto the highway. After a few more minutes of silence, Cochran spoke.
‘Take the Anzac Avenue exit.’ Cathy remained quiet and followed instructions.
‘Now second on the right and pull up at number forty-two.’
It was a neat, low-set brick home. There seemed to be nothing in particular to set it apart from the many other similar suburban dwellings in the area. A narrow cement path extended from a small metal gate and brick fence to the front porch. A light set into an amber glass shade illuminated the entrance with a peaceful yellow glow.
John Cochran stood at the door, fumbling with a set of keys pulled from his pocket. Cathy looked wide-eyed at the inspector. Her mouth opened as if to speak, then closed. He unlocked the door and marched in, flicking on the light as he entered. Cathy tagged along behind while Cochran briefly checked each room. He pushed open the main bedroom door.
‘The bastard’s not here. Shit!’ A pillow from the double bed flew across the room, landing on top of a chest of drawers. A framed black and white photograph teetered on the edge for a moment before falling to the floor. Cathy knelt and picked up the cracked framed picture. It was a photo of three people; John Cochran, Emily Cochran in the middle, and Sergeant Alistair Carter. Both men had their arms over Emily’s shoulders.
‘Oh, my God. It’s Carter! Fuck! I’m so sorry.’
‘Damn you. Damn you, Carter. Why couldn’t you be here? Why?’ cursed Cochran. He dropped himself onto the bed, leaned back on his arms and threw his head back.
‘Policeman’s Ball?’ said Cathy, still studying the picture.
‘How is it possible? The guy’s been a friend of mine for years. I’ve spent many nights here at this house. I’ve even got a key to his front door. We’ve been out together; shared good times; shared stories; shared problems. I never knew. Never had a fucking clue. What an idiot I am. He must have had many a laugh at my expense.’
‘Why are you so sure it’s Carter? I don’t want to harp on about this who’s right and who’s wrong thing, but is it possible you could be mistaken?’
‘I’m sorry about that. I was out of line. But when you find out something like this it just doesn’t sit too well in the guts. And no, I’m not mistaken. Marshall and Carter worked on that list of names together. Carter said that he checked it through a second time. Who do you think prompted me to take the watch off Devlin’s flat? And then, just by coincidence, some arsehole goes in and shoves dental files in the dunny and a book in the bedside locker. The other morning he inadvertently says Bodytune instead of Bodytone. Finally tonight, all these fucking incidents all around the city. All a calculated ploy to keep us off the scent, of that you can be sure.’
‘How could you know? These people are so secretive and devious.’
‘Of course I should know, I’m a bloody cop for Christ’s sake. It’s my job to know! Looking back now I was given a clue. Two years ago, I had very nearly saved a girl from jumping off the Story Bridge. She was prattling on about all this devil stuff. Sacrifices and shit. I was an arm’s length away. Carter directed a squad car there with lights and sirens and that’s what scared her. Made her jump.’
‘So sorry. But you’re not expected to be dissecting your friends,’ replied Cathy.
‘Perhaps not. But from now on it might not be a bad idea. You have no idea what this is like. No idea at all.’
‘I think I might.’
‘Oh no, not this again. Spare me, please.’
‘It’s like suddenly waking up and finding out that your right arm is missing. The worst thing is, you realise it never belonged to you in the first place. Someone with all the privileges of a friend has been revealed as an impostor after trespassing through your mind. Your psyche has been raped.’
John Cochran sat forward. Cathy stood, took a few short steps, and handed over the broken picture. He lightly ran his fingers over the cracked glass.
‘You’re an interesting woman, Johnson. Whoever caused you to experience such feelings? Obviously, someone who never deserved you in the first place.’
‘What’s our next step, J. C.?’
‘First, you get on the radio and get everyone, except Dempsey and Hogan, back to their original positions. Then get back in here and help me search this place.’
* * *
Dempsey crept quietly back towards the parked vehicle. He stopped a few metres short, picked up a rock, and tossed it over the car. Like a flash the young constable’s head spun round to the direction of the sound. He could see a few of the taller trees sway gently with the breeze. There was a multitude of darkened shapes out there. He slid slowly down in his seat, his eyes just peering over the top of the car door. Dempsey reached in through the other window and jabbed him on the shoulder with a small stick. He successfully scared the living daylights out of his young apprentice, who jerked into the door, causing his nose to strike against the lock button.
‘Ah! Jesus!’
‘Shut up, you bloody fool. Do you want to give away our position? What the hell are you doing? Junior, have you been sleeping on duty?’
He sat upright, squared himself up in his seat and hastily brushed a few creases in his shirt with his hand.
‘No, sir. I haven’t been sleeping. Honestly. There was a sound. I thought there was something…I mean someone out there.’
‘Will you settle down,’ interrupted Dempsey, dismissing the young man’s concerns with a wave of his hand and sitting himself back in the car. ‘Just tell me, are there any messages? And clean up your face, will you?’
Junior blotted a small cut on the end of his nose with a handkerchief and passed on the inspector’s latest message, which Dempsey noted carefully in his diary.
‘That’s all?’
‘Yes, sir. What does it mean?’
‘It means, Junior, that you don’t go to sleep,’ said the detective, waving his finger.
‘I won’t, sir, and I wasn’t before. I was just concerned there was someone — ’
‘Listen. This stakeout might be the real deal. The boss has said we need to stay put. Hogan is on his way. You just be concerned about doing a good job, sport.’
‘I want to. I want to do a good job. It’s important to me.’
‘Well shit, that’s just so lovely I might need to have a little puke. Now, I’m going back out there again. Don’t forget…’ the detective tapped himself between the legs, formed a gun shape with his hand and pointed it at the constable’s groin. ‘Bang, bang.’
Dempsey returned to his strategic surveillance point, lying down behind the gardenia shrubs towards the rear of the small beach house. This location allowed him clear vision of front and rear entrances and a glimpse into the lounge area through a gap in the curtains. And besides, the bed of small wood chips offered more comfort than would the moist grass or gritty sand.
The young
constable was again on his own, peering nervously out into the darkness and checking out any silhouetted movement in the house.
Someone near a half-lit window struck a match. The light flared brightly for a moment then settled as a candle took up the flame. Junior stared intensely. A woman placed the candle on some large rectangular object. The procedure was repeated. A second candle joined the first.
‘Oh, my God,’ whispered the constable. ‘It’s not happening. Do these devil people use candles? Oh, my God. Please tell me it’s not happening.’ He rested his sweaty palm lightly on the car horn and looked out the rear window, hoping to see the faintest glimmer of approaching car headlights. There was nothing.
* * *
Cochran and Johnson were back where they’d started, in the bedroom. If there had been any doubts about Carter’s involvement before, finding the book Sorcery and Magic by Oswald Madison had dispelled them. It had been carefully tucked away beneath some old jumpers in the top of a tall linen closet. Cochran looked about the room. All drawers and cupboard doors were open, the bed was stripped, and clothing was strewn all over the carpet.
‘You bastard, Carter. Always so neat and fucking tidy. Everything in its place.’ Cochran backhanded the bedside lamp onto the floor. ‘Well, I hope you like your room now, you prick.’ The big man continued cursing incoherently through his teeth. ‘First, we have to find him, don’t we?’ said Cochran, talking aloud to himself.
‘What do you mean by first?’
‘Sorry, just contemplating various forms of public execution.’
‘Sounds like you’re ready to string him up.’
‘Ah! Hanging, beheading!. How perfectly delightful. Anyway, these pleasantries aren’t getting us anywhere,’ said Cochran, bringing himself back down to earth. ‘We’re still no closer to finding out where he and his cronies have gone.’
‘Well, his car’s still in the garage, so he’s either got a lift or he’s jogged to wherever he’s going.’
‘I would expect he’s been driven. Of course, it depends how close the meeting place is. In either case, he’d wear his jogging shoes. He wears them almost constantly.’ Cochran walked over to the built-in wardrobe and squatted. Several pairs of assorted shoes sat neatly in pairs on the floor. He lifted them out two at a time and scrutinised the soles.
‘His new pair of runners aren’t here. No surprise there.’ The inspector checked the last pair — a set of brown leather sandals. He tossed them over his shoulder.
‘Johnson, chuck me over that box of tissues, will you?’
Using a fistful of them as a duster, he meticulously gathered all the debris from the bottom of the wardrobe into a small pile.
‘Plastic bag. Quickly now,’ said Cochran. His open hand shot out to one side like a surgeon waiting impatiently for the next instrument. Cathy slapped a bag into his palm. Carefully he pushed the sweepings into the packet with his finger and then ran his thumb along the press seal.
‘Check it out, Johnson.’ He tossed the bag over to her, then with the support of the wardrobe door, pulled himself to his feet. ‘Well, what do you make of that then?’
‘Looks like dirt to me.’
‘Keep looking. What else?’ asked the inspector. Cathy held the packet up to the light.
‘Some small splinters of wood. And there appears to be sawdust in here, too.’ She stared straight at Cochran, who appeared to be looking right through her. ‘Goldsmith’s house?’ stated Cathy with some conviction. ‘He does use sawdust in his gardens.’
‘No, but you do know where, Johnson,’ said Cochran. ‘It was you that showed me the pictures.’
‘Okay then, a barn or sawmill maybe, as per the book. But where?’
‘Chuck me that sorcery book,’ said Cochran with a hint of urgency. Johnson obliged. The paperback partly opened itself in the inspector’s hands. ‘A popular page, this one. This looks more like an old deserted sawmill than anything else. There’s not many around; in fact, I only know of two. There’s one near Caboolture, but it’s a bit too close to the built-up area. The other is at Eaton’s Crossing, which is about twenty-five minutes’ drive from here. I’ll bet that’s where Goldsmith gets his fertiliser for his precious flowers, too. It’s time to POQ.’
‘POQ?’
‘Piss off quick. Shit, where’d you go to school? A bloody convent?’
‘As a matter of fact, I did.’
‘Jesus.’ The inspector shook his head. ‘Out to the car and on that radio. I want everyone to drop what they’re doing and get to the bloody sawmill. I’ll be with you in a moment.’ He flipped open his notepad and searched for a contact.
* * *
Hogan still hadn’t arrived, and Junior had broken into a light sweat. He heard every sound and studied every smallest movement. But most of all, he focused on the house.
‘Get with it now,’ he whispered in an attempt to reassure himself. ‘I know you’re a bit worried. But that’s okay. Gets the adrenaline going. Ready for action. Just focus on the job. Who knows? There could be a career opportunity in store after this.’
The candles seemed to be glowing brighter. The silhouettes glided effortlessly and slowly past the curtained windows. Then, unexpectedly, his worst fears were realised. Another shadow appeared at the window. It was a struggling child being held in the air by another person. At another window a man held a long, slightly bent object with both hands. It looked for all the world like some sort of weapon. The recruit swallowed heavily and slapped himself lightly on the face.
‘This is it. Time to act.’ He sucked in a couple of deep breaths then quietly pushed the car door open, hopped out, and bolted for the front door of the beach house at full pace. Behind him he heard the crackle of the radio and the inspector’s voice. He couldn’t turn back now, there was too much at stake.
Dempsey stood and brushed a few adherent wood chips from his shirt and trousers. A glimpse of movement and the snapping sound of dry twigs drew his attention. He looked up in time to see Junior take one giant leap up three steps and lunge at the door while screaming Dempsey! in a long, loud roar as if charging into battle.
Bruce Watson, Deborah’s brother, had been showing off his extensive collection of aboriginal artefacts. He and Charlie Madden had been fooling around with the nulla-nulla, making suggestions as to how they could keep their respective women in line. The handsomely decorated straight piece of heavy wood sat firmly in Charlie’s hands. The door swung open with enough force for the interior handle to punch a neat, round hole in the plywood wall before rebounding back to almost close itself again. Junior stumbled, fell, and skidded along the floor on his shoulder, stopping at Madden’s feet. It was an instinctive act of self-preservation. Charlie raised the club. The constable managed a brief view of some earthy coloured dots surrounding shapes of goannas and crocodiles before the fighting stick struck him sharply below his ear.
‘Bloody hell, Charlie!’ said Bruce Watson, both amazed and perplexed. ‘What is going on? Who is that?’
Madden was stunned. He looked at Bruce, at the unconscious man on the floor, and then across the lounge room to Bruce’s wife. Deborah stood near the candlelit piano holding her young son tightly against her chest. No one had any answers.
‘Well,’ continued Bruce, ‘Whoever he is, he’s not going to cause us any trouble for some time. That was a spot-on shot, mate. Six and out. What a beauty!’
Bruce was an unusual character. A tall man with a square jaw and a very thin top lip, he looked like something of an ogre. But for those who knew him he was an amusing, unflappable, gentle giant.
‘He’s not dead, is he?’ said Madden, squatting down and checking the man’s neck for a pulse with one hand while the other clung to the heavy stick, just in case.
The door flew open again.
‘Freeze! Police!’ Dempsey stood feet apart, knees partly bent and arms outstretched, holding his revolver. He pointed it menacingly at everyone in turn.
‘You, drop that club. Move away from that man.
Do it slowly.’ He waved the gun nozzle, indicating which way Madden was to go. Charlie stalled in what appeared to be a defiant and courageous but rather silly act.
‘Move it, Charlie,’ said Bruce calmly. ‘A nulla-nulla is a handy weapon but I’m afraid it rates poorly against a Smith and Wesson.’
He didn’t hear what Bruce had said, but the deep voice helped to unlock Charlie’s petrified body. He dropped the stick, sat on the floor, and slid himself backwards until he touched the wall.
‘Now, everyone copy Madden and sit on the floor.’ Richard Dempsey scanned the large room. Apart from Junior lying on the floor, everything appeared to be in order. ‘Thank you. That’s very good. Now you, Mr long streak of misery, slide over against the wall too.’
‘My name is Bruce Watson. And you’re an uninvited guest in my house. I’d be pleased if you’d pick up your friend and leave.’
‘Just do as you’re bloody well told until I find out what the fuck is going on here.’ Bruce edged his way to the wall. Dempsey knelt next to the constable, grabbed his ear, and gave it a sharp twist. Junior stirred and groaned.
‘Lady, whose child is that?’
‘Mine!’ snapped Deborah fiercely. She turned the boy away. ‘He’s mine, you keep away from him.’
‘Okay, keep your shirt on. I’m Detective Dempsey, CIB. No one is going to come to any harm.’
‘Don’t you answer your radio, Dempsey?’ The detective looked up. Hogan was standing at the door chewing gum.
‘Jesus, it’s the two of them again. Bloody stalkers. You guys need to cut me some slack,’ grumbled Charlie.
‘What took you so long? Been playing pocket billiards?’ asked Dempsey.
‘Nope,’ replied Hogan, displaying his blackened hands. ‘Flat tyre. What’s the caper here?’
‘Party games,’ piped up Bruce. ‘Seeing who has the hardest head. Like to be the next contestant?’
‘Who’s the galah?’
‘That’s Bruce Watson. It looks like this is his place. And I’m sorry to say it appears that Junior here has been a touch overzealous in pursuit of fame and justice.’
