by Peter Watt
‘Her father had him on the payroll,’ Sean said. ‘I suppose she just picked up where her father left off before his unfortunate accident.’
‘You know,’ Harry said reflectively, ‘as an old copper my instincts say the accident should have been looked into more closely. I was talking to an old cobber from our days before the last war, and he was at the Macintosh house the night Sir George’s body was found. He said he saw blood smeared on the old bastard’s face that didn’t seem to fit the situation. He commented to Preston about what he saw, and Preston told him to keep his opinions to himself because he wasn’t a trained detective.’
‘Do you think that Sarah could have murdered her own father?’ Sean asked.
‘From my past experience with homicides, the first person you look at is the person closest to the victim,’ Harry said, finishing his drink. He signalled to the barmaid for another round of beers. ‘It seems Preston accepted Sarah’s statement at face value, and the coroner closed the case as an unfortunate accident.’
‘What else is Sarah Macintosh capable of?’
‘Bloody hell!’ Harry exclaimed. ‘I think I know, and if I’m right, there isn’t much we can do.’
Sean glanced at his old friend. ‘I think I know what you’re thinking,’ he said. ‘And if we are both right, Allison is helpless against Preston and his boys. It is going to be a set-up.’
‘It would cost a few quid to carry out any counter-operation,’ Harry said.
‘Money will not be an issue,’ Sean replied. ‘Whatever it takes.’
‘I’ll need help if we are to conduct twenty-four-hour surveillance,’ Harry said. ‘I would need to round up a few of the boys, and convince them that standing in the rain day and night is worth it.’
‘I’m sure you’ll be able to convince them,’ Sean said with a grin. ‘After all, half your friends and acquaintances are also clients of mine, and owe me one or two favours.’
Harry raised his glass. ‘Here’s to a couple of jokers who have been fortunate to have walked the other side of the legal line from time to time.’
*
Patrick Duffy and Ken Murphy found a warm spot in the school grounds during their lunch break. They sat against a wall, away from the rest of their classmates, enjoying the winter sun and a break from the periods of intense learning.
‘You were making funny noises last night,’ Ken said. ‘You sounded like you were frightened of something.’
Patrick remembered the nightmares. There was the ghost of an old Aboriginal man when he and Terituba had found the desiccated body half-buried in the creek bed, and the sudden apparition of many Aboriginal figures. Mixed with the memory of the nightmare was an image of his mother being beheaded by a Japanese soldier.
‘I’m not frightened of anything,’ Patrick retorted.
‘Why were you crying then?’ Ken persisted.
‘If you’re my cobber, you won’t tell anyone,’ Patrick said.
‘Boys, what are you two doing here?’ came the voice of Father James. The boys had not seen him approach. ‘You should be down on the sports ground with the rest of your class, kicking the footy.’
Both boys rose to their feet. ‘Yes, Father,’ Patrick said.
‘Get your hands out of your trouser pockets, Murphy,’ the priest said. Ken immediately removed his hands. His pockets had been warm and it was a cold day.
‘You’re playing breakaway this Saturday, Duffy,’ the priest said in a less stern tone. ‘Father Clancy told me you’re a natural at rugby.’
Patrick was pleased to hear the compliment and thanked him. Both boys sidled towards the rowdy pack of boys kicking and passing the rugby ball around on the oval. The priest was only a few paces behind them.
‘I’ll see you down there, Murph,’ Patrick said and stopped to let the teacher catch up.
‘What is it, Duffy?’ the priest asked, seeing that one of his favourite pupils had obviously waited for him.
‘Father,’ Patrick asked with a puzzled expression, ‘are there such things as ghosts?’ The priest was also his maths teacher and Patrick liked and trusted him.
The Jesuit looked into the young boy’s face and could see the seriousness of his question. ‘The only ghost I know of is the Holy Ghost,’ he said with just a hint of a smile at the boy’s question.
‘But are there other kinds of ghosts?’ Patrick persisted.
‘The Church teaches us that ghosts do not exist.’
‘What about devils and demons?’ Patrick asked.
The priest hesitated.
‘The devil and his demons exist,’ the Jesuit finally answered.
‘So, there could be ghosts,’ Patrick reasoned.
‘If there are spirits walking the earth they could only be evil,’ the Jesuit countered.
‘Wallarie is not evil,’ Patrick said.
‘Who is Wallarie?’ Father James asked.
‘My Uncle Tom said that Wallarie is our guardian angel. He is there when we are in trouble. Wallarie used to be a great Aboriginal warrior before he went to the spirit world.’
The priest smiled and shook his head. ‘I think your Uncle Tom is just telling you stories.’
‘No, Father, I’ve seen Wallarie’s ghost,’ Patrick said.
‘At your age you have a good imagination, and you only thought that you saw a ghost,’ the priest explained patiently. ‘As you get older he will go away. Now, go down and join Murphy.’
‘Yes, Father,’ Patrick replied, unconvinced with the answer given. He knew Wallarie’s spirit was real, no matter what other people said.
*
The following Saturday, Patrick took his place on the rugby field. The opposition were tough. Patrick was big for his age, and during a scrum was able to retrieve a loose ball from the mass of grunting and sweating forwards from either side, pushing head to head. He scooped up the ball, saw a space in the opposition and, head down, sprinted for the try line, deflecting two tackles. Even now, he could hear the cheers of his team mates urging him on. With a dive forward to avoid the last defender, he slammed into the ground between the goalposts to score a try, the first for the game.
The try converted with a kick from his team’s best goal kicker. Patrick walked back to his position for the kick-off, his team mates’ congratulations ringing in his ears. But during a skirmish for the ball that had been kicked towards them Patrick went down in the muddy field as he lurched for the loose ball. Two of the biggest forwards from the other side were on him and everything went black, his world exploding in red sparks when a football boot connected with his head.
He did not know it, but the game was stopped when the umpire noticed one of the players lying face down on the ground. Father Clancy ran forward, dropping to his knees beside him. A stretcher was organised to take the unconscious Patrick to the infirmary. A doctor was immediately called to treat him and Sean Duffy was also informed by telephone of Patrick’s condition.
Patrick had not recovered consciousness, and lay deathly pale against the clean white sheets of the bed. Sean sat by his side, in the shadows of the subdued lighting of the room, holding Patrick’s hand, not daring to think the boy would not recover from his comatose state. He continued to hold Patrick’s hand until he dozed off in the chair by the bed.
Near midnight Father James chose to see how Patrick was progressing. He opened the door to the infirmary room, and immediately froze in shock. In the dim light he thought he could see a dark shadowy figure of a semi-naked Aboriginal man with a long, grey beard, standing beside the bed, holding a wooden spear. For a fleeting second the image burned itself into the priest’s mind, and in the time it took to blink the scene was gone. The only two figures in the room were Major Sean Duffy, dozing in a chair, and the boy in the bed.
Father James stood transfixed in the doorway, his eyes darting around the room but saw nothing else. ‘Je
sus, Mary and Joseph,’ he whispered under his breath. ‘Save us!’
Awakened by the door opening Sean stirred and greeted the priest. ‘Father, are you all right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
Father James found the strength to move, and stepped inside the room on unsteady feet.
‘It’s nothing, Major Duffy,’ he said. ‘I think a conversation I had with young Patrick a couple of days ago triggered my imagination, but it was nothing.’
‘You look very shaken, Father,’ Sean said. ‘You must have a very good imagination.’
‘Patrick was telling me a story about an imaginary friend he once had called Wallarie,’ the Jesuit replied.
‘Ah, but the stories of the spiritual world are strong amongst those of Celtic blood,’ Sean said. ‘Despite our Catholicism we still have a primeval belief in such figures as the banshee and the old pagan gods. The Aboriginal people of this country share that worldly view with us. What did you think you saw?’
‘It was only for a split second, and must have been caused by the shadows of the room, but I thought I saw an old Aboriginal man with a long spear standing beside the bed, opposite where you are.’
‘Wallarie, the old bugger,’ Sean chuckled. ‘You do have a good imagination, Father James. We know there’s no such thing as spirits in our world.’
The priest sensed the Sydney solicitor was being facetious and fought his own self-doubt about what he had seen in the room.
‘Uncle Sean,’ the raspy voice of Patrick said. ‘Where am I?’
Priest and lawyer immediately glanced at Patrick.
Sean immediately gripped the boy’s hand. ‘You’re in the infirmary and an ambulance will be coming to take you to hospital, Pat. You had a bad knock playing footy this afternoon.’
‘Did we win?’ Patrick asked.
‘No, your team lost but when you’re well you’ll be able to go back on the paddock and win the next one.’
‘I saw Wallarie,’ Patrick said. ‘He came to me and told me to wake up. He was scary because he had a spear.’
Neither Patrick nor Sean noticed the stricken expression on the Jesuit’s face. Father James felt he had just lived through one of the most profound moments of his life. Maybe the Church did not know everything about spirituality after all.
*
It was cold and wet standing in the shadows of the streetlights outside Allison’s flat. The man Harry had hired lit another cigarette and stamped his feet against the biting drizzle. He was a former amateur boxer who had once trained in Harry’s gym but had not fared well as a heavyweight fighter. Too many blows to the head had brought on the condition known as being ‘punch-drunk’. This had interfered with his ability to get a regular job, and he knew the generous pay he was receiving from Harry was more than he would get from any other job.
It was nearly 9 pm when the former heavyweight noticed two men appear at the front door to Allison’s flat. His years on the street told him that they were coppers. He could tell from the way they dressed and carried themselves. He knew Allison had gone to the movies. The two men opened the door and went inside.
He watched as a light went on in an upstairs room and then quickly turned off. He was now fully alert as the men exited the flat, and hurried down the street to where a car was waiting for them.
What was he supposed to do now? he asked himself. Thinking through situations was not easy.
That’s right – he was to go to a telephone booth and ring Harry with the coins he had been given for the job. The former boxer knew where there was a red telephone call box on the next street, and hurried to make the call.
Harry heard the phone jangle and quickly got out of bed to answer.
‘Harry, a couple of jokers just went into the place you asked me to watch,’ he said. ‘I think they were coppers.’
Harry thanked him and immediately telephoned Sean. The phone rang but Harry did not get an answer.
‘Bloody hell!’ Harry swore.
He guessed a couple of Preston’s men had done the deed he had suspected – planting something illegal in her residence. Quickly, Harry dressed and found a late-night taxi to take him to Allison’s flat. When he arrived he could see her bedroom light was on. He met his hired man, who briefed Harry on what he had seen. Harry passed him a couple of one-pound notes. The man thanked him and shuffled off into the night.
Harry crossed the empty street and knocked on Allison’s door. When it opened she expressed her surprise at seeing him.
‘Harry, what brings you here so late?’ she asked, clutching a shawl around her nightdress.
‘I can’t explain everything right now, Miss Lowe, but do you mind if I have a quick look in your bedroom?’
Puzzled, Allison agreed, and followed him up the narrow stairwell.
‘What’s going on?’ she asked when they entered her bedroom.
Harry did not reply. His eyes swept the room, settling on Allison’s single bed against the wall. Harry bent down to peer under the bed and reached under it. When he straightened up he was holding a rectangular cardboard box.
‘What’s that?’ Allison asked. ‘I’ve never seen that box before.’
‘I know,’ Harry replied and opened the box to reveal sheets of ration coupons.
‘They’re not mine,’ Allison said in shock. ‘How did they get under my bed?’
Harry stood up with the box under his arm and looked at the shocked young woman. ‘I was never here and you do not know about the box. Remember that when the time comes.’
Still confused, Allison nodded. Harry bid her goodnight, departing her flat with the box.
Early the next morning four uniformed police arrived at Allison’s front door with serious expressions on their faces.
‘Miss Allison Lowe?’ the sergeant asked.
‘Yes,’ Allison answered. She stood with a mug of coffee, as she had just finished dressing to go to work.
‘We have reason to believe you have unlawful property in your flat and, as such, we’ll conduct a search of the premises. Do you have any objections?’
‘No,’ Allison answered, realising now why Harry had come to her flat so late in the evening.
The four police entered and she noticed they immediately went upstairs to her bedroom. Allison followed, and when she entered her room she could see one of the uniformed officers had been looking under her bed.
The sergeant looked angrily at her. ‘Where is it?’ he demanded.
‘Where is what, sergeant?’ Allison replied calmly.
‘You know what I’m talking about,’ he said, his eyes blazing with fury. ‘Do I have to tear this place apart to find what we both know is here?’
‘You may do so, but you may also know that I work for Major Duffy at Levi & Duffy, and I can assure you he’ll be told of your visit. I promise you there’s nothing incriminating here.’
A constable looked uneasily at his sergeant. All the police in the room knew of the formidable Sydney criminal lawyer, and the mention of his name made them think twice about ripping the flat apart.
‘You were lucky this time, Missus,’ the sergeant said. ‘We had a tip-off from a very reliable source that you’re dealing in counterfeit ration coupons.’
‘Well, sergeant,’ Allison said calmly, ‘your source must be unreliable, and you were given incorrect information.’
The frustrated police departed Allison’s flat. When they were gone, Allison slumped onto a kitchen chair. Her hands were shaking too much for her to hold her mug of coffee, and she burst into tears.
SEVEN
‘Round one to us,’ Harry said, grinning over the froth on his glass of beer.
Sean Duffy sat beside his old friend at their favourite bar in the city whilst a cold wind blew flurries of misty rain around the people on the street outside the hotel. Inside, the bar was packed with uniformed se
rvicemen and a few civilians wearing overalls and suits.
‘We had some luck,’ Sean agreed. ‘But if the coppers were prepared to plant evidence on an innocent woman then we are up against a formidable foe. I don’t think they’ll give up just because it didn’t work.’
‘What happens next?’ Harry asked.
‘Well, I telephoned the commissioner to protest the conduct of his police, and he apologised profusely, promising it would not happen again. I reminded him that even in time of war we adhere to the rule of law. He said Inspector Preston would be reprimanded but knowing the way they work I doubt Preston will get anything more than a slap on the wrist. He has too high a public profile for even the commissioner to cross him.’
‘Do we presume the attempted attacks on Allison are over by Preston?’ Harry asked.
For a moment Sean fell silent. ‘Not by any means,’ he said. ‘If anything, I suspect our obsessive Miss Macintosh will up the ante. I would not put it past her to attempt murder by means of a fatal accident. From now on, you and I have to try to out-think Sarah Macintosh, and be one step ahead at all times.’
‘When will her plotting ever end?’
‘Sadly, when either one or the other is dead,’ Sean replied.
Both men fell silent.
*
Lieutenant Donald Macintosh could not get the ambush out of his mind. At night it came to him in his dreams, a platoon on his flank charging across a stretch of bare ground, only to disappear when a huge explosion from two marine depth charges – concealed by Japanese soldiers in the earth and remotely detonated – caught them. He remembered bodies flung through the air like discarded rag dolls, and as stunned as he was, the ripping crackle of Japanese machine guns opening up on his platoon. But he had reacted well, and with the use of smoke grenades, extracted most of his men from danger.
The war on Tarakan had worsened since that incident, and he had the terrible task of writing letters to the next of kin of the men killed in the devastating ambush.
The company commander congratulated him on his sound action and said he was worthy of a military recognition – possibly a Military Cross. Donald did not feel worthy. Could he have seen the signs of the ambush? What could he have done better to save the lives of his men? How long ago had that been? Donald reflected as he sat on an ammunition box in the scrub, surrounded by his men dug in and manning their posts. Time had lost meaning. Had it been two or three weeks? It seemed the only time that counted was the present. His past as a highly paid member of the Macintosh companies meant nothing, and as for a promise of a golden future when the war ended . . .
