by Peter Watt
He knocked and entered Sarah’s office. Her perfume filled the luxurious room, which was decorated in a manner which conveyed understated power.
‘Mr Johnson, take a seat. Would you like tea or coffee?’ Sarah asked politely from behind her desk.
‘No, thank you, Miss Macintosh,’ Johnson replied, taking off his hat and placing his carpetbag by his chair.
For a moment Sarah stared at him and Johnson was reminded of his days with a British police unit that had served in Ireland against the Irish Republican Army, fighting a guerrilla war to remove the occupying British army after the Great War. She had a natural talent for making a suspect feel uneasy, and he knew his failure to remove Tom Duffy made him a suspect.
‘I paid you good money to carry out a simple task,’ Sarah said. ‘You came highly recommended. Mr Duffy is only one man.’
‘With all due respect, Miss Macintosh, I was not aware he served as a sniper in the Great War,’ Johnson said wearily. ‘He has the high ground, and any assault on his position would require the services of experienced fighting men.’
‘The court conditions require that Duffy not be on Glen View at the time of the first hearing,’ Sarah said, leaning forward. ‘I don’t care how you get him off our land – or even how much it costs. All I care is that I receive a telegram in the next few days saying that the matter has been resolved.’
‘I had an idea on the way down to Sydney,’ Johnson said. ‘I know of three lads from my days in Ireland who are now living in Sydney. They were Black and Tans, and not afraid to do any dirty work necessary to terrorise the Paddies. We used to give them ten shillings a day, but for a couple of quid a day and costs, I know I can employ them to get rid of Duffy. With a Paddie name like Duffy, they would probably kill him for nothing anyway.’
‘I did not hear your last statement, Mr Johnson,’ Sarah said sternly. ‘I would only expect to hear of Mr Duffy’s death in the event of you or your men defending themselves against a man refusing to obey a lawful direction to leave my property.’
Sarah had read about the Black and Tans. Apparently they were usually former British soldiers who were recruited to protect the Royal Irish Constabulary from attacks by the IRA. The force was initiated by Winston Churchill in 1920 and gained its name because of a shortage of uniforms – they had to wear mixed army and police uniforms that gave them a two-toned appearance. But fighting in the trenches of the Great War had not prepared them for counter-insurgency warfare, and they soon suffered heavy losses against the more experienced rebel Irishmen. In retaliation they waged a ruthless war against innocent men and women, which only assisted the IRA recruitment. Many atrocities were committed by members of the British paramilitary force, who developed a reputation for being undisciplined and out of control.
‘Of course,’ Johnson said with a half-smile.
‘Just between you and me, Mr Johnson, I’m prepared to pay a very generous bonus to you and your men if Tom Duffy does not survive your lawful attempts to remove him,’ Sarah said. ‘Do you understand me?’
‘Perfectly. I will make contact with the lads,’ Johnson said, retrieving his hat and bag. ‘I last heard they were working as builders’ labourers in the city, and I know where they drink.’
‘Good,’ Sarah said, retrieving a fountain pen to write a cheque for expenses. She passed it to Johnson, who placed the slip of paper in his jacket pocket. Now, it was just a matter of rounding up his three proven killers. But first he was going to find a good hotel for a bath and sleep.
*
Sergeant Jessica Duffy knew the beach outside Cairns like the back of her hand. She had trained there before her mission to New Britain. Soaking wet and gasping for air, she splashed through the warm water with the Bren gun in her hands. It was a long time since she’d been drilled in hand-to-hand combat, preparing explosives, navigation exercises and using the latest radio transmitters.
‘Jessie, working in an office has made you soft,’ Major Mike Unsworthy taunted her from high up on the beach.
Jessica came to a stop, leaning forward in her exhaustion and attempting to get her breath. ‘Why don’t you have a go, sir?’ she gasped. ‘You might have been too long in the office too.’
Mike Unsworthy stood up and ambled down to where Jessica, wearing the clothing of a male soldier, was still doubled up. ‘I’ve recently returned from an undisclosed place up north,’ he said. ‘And my office was a clearing in the jungle. Now, strip the Bren.’
Jessica sank to her knees on dry sand and went through the complicated but familiar process of stripping the light machine gun, which was in fact anything but light. ‘Piston, barrel, butt, body and bipod,’ she muttered to herself as the weapon came apart in pieces.
‘Put it back together,’ Unsworthy commanded, and Jessica expertly reassembled the gun. She turned to her tormentor. With a grin, he tossed her a loaded, curved magazine. Jessica caught the full magazine and locked it into place on top of the machine gun.
‘See that downed coconut tree about fifty yards down the beach?’ he asked. ‘See if you can hit it with a full mag.’
Jessica lay down behind the weapon, gripping it as she had been trained. She flicked off the safety cap and squeezed the trigger, observing her first burst of three rounds kicking up sand just low of the fallen tree. With a slight adjustment she fired another short burst and was satisfied to see the tree shudder under the impact of the powerful .303 bullets. The Bren gun had a reputation for very accurate fire and, as such, was popular with Australian troops. Satisfied she was on target, Jessica fired three-round bursts until the magazine was empty.
‘Well done,’ Unsworthy congratulated her, observing the fall of shot. ‘I think the last couple of weeks of training has got you back into shape.’
Jessica cleared her weapon and slowly stood up, sweat rolling down her face from under the American military version of the baseball cap, under which she had piled her hair. ‘What’s next?’ she asked.
‘A picnic lunch,’ Unsworthy said, straightening himself, and taking the Bren from Jessica’s hands. ‘Officially, lunch will also be your briefing on your new mission up north,’ he continued, as she followed him to the edge of the beach under the swaying palms, where a blanket and wicker picnic basket were spread out. Jessica slumped down on the blanket and the British officer produced a lukewarm bottle of champagne.
‘Sorry it’s not on ice but at least it’s the real froggy stuff.’ He poured the champagne into two metal mugs. ‘To your mission, and returning to the bosom of those who care about you.’
‘Do you give the men of the unit the same treatment?’ Jessica asked, sipping the champagne.
‘As the only woman we have – and do not admit to having – you get special treatment,’ Unsworthy said. ‘We and the Yanks are sending you to Singapore.’
‘Singapore,’ Jessica echoed. ‘But it’s still in the hands of the Japs.’
‘We have intelligence from our Yankee brothers in the Office of Strategic Services that as Mac advances, the Nips are killing prisoners. But to his credit he has made a couple of pretty spectacular rescues from POW camps in the Philippines. We need you in Malaya to collect intelligence on what’s happening around Singapore, particularly Changi prison. You’ll be working with the local communist Chinese resistance in the area.’
‘Why was this not a task for our men?’ Jessica asked.
‘Our friends in the OSS recommended you after your successful rescue of their wayward colonel,’ Unsworthy answered. ‘They hold you in high esteem, as it seems you also did a classified job for them in another matter they will not speak about. And, I have no doubt, neither will you.’
Jessica knew what he meant. Her mind went back to killing the British traitor to avenge the death of the American officer she had loved. She raised her mug, took a long swig of champagne and let the bubbles go to her head.
Singapore. That was where
young Patrick’s mother was being held. In the back of her mind, she also knew the mission could be a one-way ticket.
TWELVE
It had never been in doubt that Captain James Duffy, USMC, would apply to return to flying duties. The weeks had passed and the burns to his legs had healed, leaving severe scarring, but they were functional again. James had spent his time convalescing at his grandfather’s sprawling estate, undergoing rigorous physical training: running through quaint leafy streets, and working out with weights in the garden.
Many invitations had arrived for his attendance at social and public events but he politely declined. He concentrated on getting well enough to pass a medical board exam to resume flying combat missions in the Pacific. Always at the back of his mind were two other factors: meeting again with Julianna, and revenge for his sister’s murder.
As far as he knew, Julianna was with her fiancé in California. Gathering evidence against Olivia’s killer was a lot harder since the change of sheriffs in the county. So it had come down to choosing between revenge, love and flying again. Returning to the war was unfinished business. But the other two were not forgotten.
James paced himself and the sweat rolled down his body. He came to a halt in the avenue of great trees, their russet-coloured leaves heralding an early New Hampshire winter. He leaned over to catch his breath, and was aware a car was approaching from behind him. James stepped aside to let it pass, and when it drew parallel to him he saw it was the new county sheriff, Hausmann, alone in the police car. He rolled to a stop beside James, and leaned out of the window.
‘I heard that you went for a run down this way,’ he said. ‘You should be careful that you don’t get run over.’
‘That a threat, Sherriff?’ James countered, glaring at the man he hated above even the Japanese enemy.
‘No, no,’ Hausmann said with a smirk. ‘It’s just that the county would be very sorry to lose their son-of-a-gun war hero. So I thought I should patrol along this lane and make sure nothing happens to you. Just the job of a good sheriff looking out for his citizens. After all, that’s what your grandfather pays his taxes for.’
‘Go to hell, Hausmann,’ James snarled, ‘because that’s where I’m going to send you when I prove you helped cover up my sister’s murder for your old pal Wilson.’
‘Now, that is a threat,’ Hausmann snarled. ‘Not a good idea to go threatening a member of the law around here, Duffy.’
‘Not a threat,’ James said. ‘A promise.’
He could see the rage in the sheriff’s face and wondered why he had been stupid enough to push the man so far when they were in such an isolated part of town.
‘Take care, Duffy,’ the sheriff said, engaging the gears and driving away.
James was left with the uneasy feeling that he would have to watch his back. There were many miles of forest in the county and it would not take much to ensure a body was never found. James glanced at the great trees growing along one side of the lane. They had a gloomy look as the light disappeared under a tangle of tree limbs. He turned and started jogging back to his grandfather’s mansion before the light went altogether. Maybe it would be safer to return to the fighting in the Pacific, he thought. Julianna and revenge would have to wait.
James arrived home just on dusk and made his way upstairs for a wash and change before dinner. When he went downstairs he was met by the old valet, Samuel.
‘Got a telegram for you, Mr Barrington,’ Samuel said, handing James the slip of paper.
James glanced at the sender and saw it was from his old friend, Guy Praine. He read the telegram and felt a sick surge in his stomach. Julianna had been married two days earlier in New Orleans.
‘Are you feeling unwell, Mr Barrington?’ Samuel asked, seeing the stricken expression on the young man’s face.
‘Tell my grandfather I won’t be joining him for dinner tonight,’ James said, crushing the telegram into a ball.
‘Yes, sir,’ the old man replied. He turned and walked downstairs.
James stared at the floor. Now he had only two options left. Returning to combat was his priority. But first, he was going to get himself well and truly drunk.
James spent the evening in one of the less salubrious bars getting drunk as quickly as possible. The night was a blur, and when the sun came up the following day he awoke with the worst hangover he could ever remember, lying on a bed and staring at a ceiling he did not recognise. For a moment he barely knew who he was – let alone where – and strained to remember. He vaguely remembered he had been at the bar drinking, and there had been a very pretty young lady serving him drinks. He remembered she had informed him he had had too much to drink and should go home. James was surprised a young girl under twenty-one was even working in the bar. Had there been a brawl? James had flashes of tables being turned over and something hitting him over the head. After that – nothing.
‘Would you like some coffee or orange juice?’ a female voice asked and James turned his head slowly to see an older woman hovering at the door. For some strange reason she reminded him of someone he had met, but could not remember who and where.
‘If you would please excuse me ma’am, where am I?’
‘You’re at my house,’ the woman answered. ‘I’m Mary Sweeney and my husband Bernie and daughter Isabel brought you home from our bar late last night. I’m afraid that in your condition I doubt you even remember.’
James didn’t want to lift his head as he thought it might fall off. ‘I’m . . .’
‘I know who you are, Captain Duffy,’ Mary said. ‘I doubt there’s a person in the county who doesn’t know the famous war hero of the Pacific. Getting you safely out of the bar before the sheriff arrived was the least we could do to repay you for your service to our country.’
James smiled weakly and rose up slowly, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. When he looked around he realised the bedroom must have once belonged to a boy. There were pictures of a young man in a football uniform, and later ones of him in the USMC uniform. On a drawer were trophies for all kind of sports.
Mary noticed James gazing at the trophies.
‘My boy was one of the finest athletes in the county,’ she said, and James could hear the sadness in her voice. James glanced across at the portrait of the young marine set aside on a shelf and knew the reason for her sadness. The portrait was surrounded by a black ribbon.
‘Where?’ he asked.
‘Tarawa,’ Mary replied, tears welling in her eyes. ‘My son was a proud marine. He was only eighteen when we lost him.’
‘I’m truly sorry for your loss, Mrs Sweeney,’ James said.
‘I can accept your kind thoughts, Captain Duffy, as you must have lost many you cared for,’ Mary said, wiping away her tears. ‘You must join us for breakfast,’ she said. ‘It’s about the only meal I have with my husband and daughter. Both work from mid-morning to well after midnight.’
James stood unsteadily and rubbed his face. He felt lousy but realised the actions of this family had kept him out of the hands of a man who might have ensured he had an accident on the way to the county jail. He followed Mary to a small but warm kitchen where a large and tough-looking man sat at the end of a battered wooden table. Next to him was a very pretty young woman he recognised as the girl who had served him at the bar. She had red hair, a spatter of freckles over alabaster white skin and very green eyes. Now he knew why Mary had sparked a memory. Mother and daughter looked very much alike.
Bernie Sweeney rose from the table and extended his hand. Immediately James noticed a fading tattoo on his forearm clearly recognisable as the emblem of the USMC.
‘Bernie Sweeney,’ he said with a grip that could crush iron. ‘You met my daughter last night.’
Isabel nodded at James, who was standing awkwardly at the end of the table spread with condiments and four plates of ham and scrambled eggs.
‘Take a seat, Captain,’ Bernie said, gesturing to a chair opposite his daughter. ‘The best meal you can have for a hangover. Coffee coming up.’
James thanked the powerfully built man, and took a seat. He was not sure if the ham and eggs were a cure for what ailed him.
‘You look deservedly ill this morning, Captain Duffy,’ Isabel said with the hint of a smirk. ‘I tried to warn you, but you wouldn’t listen.’
‘I apologise if I didn’t take your advice, Miss Sweeney,’ James said as Mary placed a big mug of hot, black coffee before him.
‘Please call me Isabel,’ the young lady said.
‘Well, I may not be Captain Duffy for much longer, so call me James. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance – all of you – and I wish to apologise for any bad behaviour I may have exhibited last night in the bar.’
‘You were no problem when I laid you out,’ Bernie said with a wide grin. ‘I had to before the sheriff turned up. Someone called the cops when you swung at one of our star college football players for a derogatory remark he made about the marines. I was able to drag you to a backroom. It’s no secret around town that he has it in for you.’
‘Thanks, Mr Sweeney, I think,’ James said.
‘Bernie,’ the former marine said.
‘Bernie,’ James echoed.
James swallowed some of the coffee and picked at his breakfast. It was strange, but in this room amongst these people he experienced a strange sense of peace.
‘Are you going back to the Pacific?’ Bernie asked over a gulp of his coffee.
‘I hope so,’ James said. ‘I appear before a medical board next week. All going well, I’ll be given a clearance, and back in the islands before this war is over.’
‘When do you think it will end?’ Bernie asked, chomping into his slab of ham.
‘The way it’s going, I doubt we’ll see an end for at least another year. Maybe late 1946 if we’re lucky. The Japs have shown they will die to the last man – and woman – if we invade.’
