‘What are you doing?’
‘We’ve got to make it look right. Step back into the yard.’
Still reeling from what had happened, Bromley did as he was told. The pocket auto exploded and as the muzzle flashed he fell to the ground with a searing pain in his right shoulder. He heard two more shots but felt nothing.
Knocker turned, tripped over the body of Gary Bisley and cursed as he dropped the automatic into a pile of potting mix. He picked it up, wiped it clean of soil and prints, and placed it in the dead boy’s hand. Then he walked over to Bromley and propped him up. ‘I’m sorry, Tommy, but I want you to listen to me before the shock hits you. We walked towards the gardener’s shed in the churchyard and the door opened. Three shots were fired and we fired back. Get that in your brain and remember it or we’ll both hang.’
Thomas Bromley felt his shirt being unbuttoned as he stared up at the night sky. He heard Knocker talking to him from far away.
‘Three shots were fired and we fired back. Remember, Tommy, three shots were fired and we fired back. Remember, Tommy … Remember Tommy … Three shots … Three shots … We fired back.’
A flashbulb popped. And then another. Tim O’Brien knew his job. He knew that any minute some copper would tell him to stop taking photographs and probably call him a ghoul. So he popped, and he popped. First the bodies in a wide shot to cover the horror of the shootout. Pop. Then close in, to get the details. Pop. A bloodstained flickknife. Pop. Glazed, half-open eyes. Pop. A lifeless arm draped awkwardly across a blood-spattered shirt. Pop. A weapon hanging loosely from a dead hand: a small pocket automatic. Pop. Pop. Pop.
Then he saw it. In a pile of fresh potting mix. The imprint of a gun. It was exactly the same shape as the gun in the dead kid’s hand. He must have dropped it during the gun battle and then picked it up and resumed firing. Probable, but not bloody likely. Not with a ruthless bastard like Knocker Reid involved. Tim O’Brien’s hair began to prickle up the back of his neck. Get the shot, he thought feverishly, get the shot.
O’Brien’s hand fumbled for a fresh bulb. He loaded it and aimed the camera at the gun imprint. Then, through the view-finder, he watched as a brightly polished shoe landed on the imprint and erased it forever. He felt a hand grasp his collar.
‘I think that’s about enough, Timothy, don’t you?’
O’Brien was jerked to his feet and found himself looking into the face of George Everard.
‘You’ve got your scoop and I’ll make sure no other photographers shoot this scene unless they’re policemen.’ Everard turned to the man standing behind him. ‘Well, Lucky, do we have a deal or not? I’ve kept my side of the bargain.’
Bill Norris stared at Everard’s shoe. ‘That would have been an interesting shot, Inspector.’
‘Now, Bill …’ Everard smiled but his eyes held a warning. ‘Why make a mountain out of a pile of potting mix? You’ll get your story as it happened, straight from the horse’s mouth. Be at my office in one hour and you’ll get your exclusive in time for the morning edition.’
‘Suits me.’
‘Now get yourself and O’Brien here out of my crime scene. I wouldn’t want any evidence destroyed.’
‘Heaven forbid,’ said Tim O’Brien. Everard turned back to him and his blood went cold at the look on his face.
‘Don’t make jokes about heaven in the presence of the dead.’
The three men moved out of the potting shed and parted company. Everard looked about him at the arc lights set up over the yard of the church. Uniformed policemen were keeping the crowd at bay. Two ambulance officers were carrying Tom Bromley on a stretcher through the front gates and flashbulbs popped like star shells on a battlefield.
Sergeant Knocker Reid stood against the church wall smoking a cigarette. He flicked it away as Everard approached him.
‘It looks like a slaughterhouse in there, Knocker.’
‘It got a bit out of hand,’ Knocker admitted warily.
‘Are you sure you told me everything?’
‘Positive.’
‘That pistol better be cold.’
‘It is. Totally untraceable.’
‘It’s a pity about the other two boys.’
‘I feel the same way, but what’s done is done.’
Everard slapped the cold stone wall of the church. ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, but this is going to cause a furore. You make sure you stick to your story like shit to a blanket.’
‘I will. I’ve been through this bullshit before. You make sure Bromley sticks as well.’
‘Tommy’s my man. He’ll do whatever I tell him.’
‘He’d better, or we’re all down the gurgler.’
‘Nobody’s going down!’ snapped Everard. ‘Not you, not Tommy not me, not anyone! Do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Thirty-Three will stay as it is!’ He let go a deep sigh. ‘In a strange way, sergeant,’ he said, surveying the scene at the potting shed, ‘this incident might be just what I need.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Read tomorrow’s papers. You and Bromley will be recommended for bravery commendations and Thirty-Three Division will come out smelling like a rose or my name’s not George Arthur Everard. Now, keep your wits about you and stick to your story. There’ll be an internal investigation but you can handle that standing on your ear. Those blokes couldn’t find their bare arses with both hands.’ He tapped his nose with his forefinger and winked. ‘Play the game, Knocker, and we’re on our way.’
‘I’m with you, boss.’
‘Good man.’ The Prince of Darlinghurst turned on his heel and walked off into the lights, brushing off several reporters with an enigmatic smile and an imperious wave of his hand.
Jane Smart waited in the darkened entrance to the police horse stables fifty yards from the building that housed the Thirty-Three Division. People had been coming and going in a flurry of excited energy since Stan Ames had dropped her there. She’d recognised a number of them. Several top coppers were among those to arrive and for the last half-hour, Lucky Norris, the newspaper reporter, had been pacing up and down outside, smoking one cigarette after another. A black sedan pulled into the parade square and she drew back into the shadows.
George Everard got out of his car. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting, Bill, but I can assure you it’ll be worth your while.’ He placed his hand on Norris’ shoulder and urged him into the building. As he did so the flare of a match caught his attention. He looked towards the stables then patted Norris on the arm. ‘Go upstairs and tell one of my men to make you a cup of tea, Bill. I’ll be along in a minute.’
Norris did as he was told as he saw Everard stride off towards the stables.
Jane shrank back inside the stables. She watched the huge man striding towards her and began to shake. His silhouette filled the doorway. Then she heard his voice.
‘Jane?’
She couldn’t answer.
‘Jane, where are you?’
‘Over here.’
He slowly walked towards the voice while his eyes adjusted to the darkness. Then he saw the glow of her cigarette. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘You told me to come.’
‘A man was killed tonight, Jane.’
‘I know. I kissed him when he died.’
Then he was in front of her and took her by the arm, pushing her backwards, roughly, towards the harness room. He opened the door and turned on the light, then pushed her into a chair. ‘Wait here. I’ll be a while, but no matter how long that is, wait here.’ He turned off the light and left her sitting in a beam of moonlight.
Once again she watched his silhouette fill the stable doorway, then he was gone. She drew on the remains of her cigarette and began to shake again. She tensed her thigh muscles and let out a long cloud of smoke, then put her head into her hands and sobbed. ‘Christ, Jane! What’s the matter with you?’
Sergeant Jimmy Fadden sat at his desk in the Thirty-Three offices, nervously awaiting the
arrival of his boss. The news of the shooting had come through several hours before and George Everard had taken off like a rat into the sewer. Since then Joseph Hartford, the Chief of Detectives, had arrived and all sorts of other bigwigs, including the bishop of the Church of England. Now the fucking newshound, Lucky Bill Norris had turned up, saying the boss had told him to. Stories had filtered in to Jimmy of what had taken place, but he knew better than to talk to anyone before he spoke to his boss and got his brief. He lit a cigarette and silently thanked God that he’d been assigned to office duties for the week. ‘Constable!’
The young constable spun around from his typewriter. Shit, what now? he wondered. Sergeant Fadden was as nervous as a cat. ‘Yes, Sarge?’
‘Get Mister Norris a cup of tea and see if the Superintendent and Bishop MacMillan want another one.’ Fadden saw Everard’s shadow on the wall of the stairwell. ‘And get one for the boss.’
‘Righto, Sergeant.’
‘I won’t keep you much longer, Bill,’ said Everard and headed for the toilet. ‘Sergeant Fadden, follow me.’
‘I don’t want to miss the morning edition,’ said Norris.
‘You won’t, Bill. Sergeant Fadden, a word.’
Fadden quickly followed his boss into the toilet and was shocked to see the strain in his face.
‘I’ll be brief, Jimmy. This is the story. It is absolute gospel as far as the division’s concerned and all you need to know.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Everard opened his fly and started urinating. ‘The normal procedures were followed. The fight started as planned then a kid called Bisley stabbed young Constable Johnson in the back. Johnson’s dead.’
‘Shit.’
‘Bromley and Reid found the murder weapon and gave chase. Three youths were apprehended in a potting shed in the grounds of Saint Andrew’s church.’
‘Bishop MacMillan is in your office with Hartford.’
‘Listen to the facts! The sergeants approached the shed and three shots were fired. Bromley was hit in the shoulder. They returned the fire and all three youths were killed. That’s the brief. Got it?’
‘Got it, boss.’
‘Don’t ever change a word of it,’ cautioned Everard as he finished relieving himself and buttoned his fly. ‘No matter what’s suggested. As it turned out there was one gun involved. There could have been two or three, the sergeants were not to know. They returned fire and that’s it!’
Fadden followed him back out to the office, now fully aware that a fabrication of evidence had taken place—but young Johnson was dead and as far as Fadden was concerned, he knew the truth. The boss had told it to him.
‘Just five more minutes, Bill, I promise,’ said Everard as he entered his office.
Bill Norris nodded, resigned, and sat down with his cup of tea.
Superintendent Joseph Hartford sat in Everard’s office with Bishop MacMillan and stared at the green and grey walls. He’d been noticing the colours more and more lately. They were beginning to give him the shits. The silence between the two men was palpable. There was nothing he could say until he’d received the facts. His shoulders sagged with relief when Everard entered.
‘It’s a bad night all round, sir.’
‘It certainly is, George.’ Hartford turned to the bishop. ‘George, do you know Bishop MacMillan?’
Everard shook hands with the bishop and the shit hit the fan.
‘Your men have desecrated God’s holy ground, Inspector.’
‘They’ve what?’ Everard couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
Hartford tried to intervene. ‘I hardly think that’s—’
‘My men what?’
Outside the office Sergeant James Fadden winced at the sound of Everard’s raised voice. The minute the bishop had walked in Jimmy knew there’d be trouble. He looked quickly at Bill Norris, who was grinning like a Cheshire cat. Fadden picked up a pen and began scribbling a note.
Inside Everard’s office the air began to crackle.
‘Your henchmen killed three innocent boys in the grounds of my church.’
‘Your church? Your church??’
‘That’ll be enough, George,’ said Hartford in a futile attempt to calm the man down.
‘Innocent boys, my arse!’ Everard’s blood began to boil. ‘You listen to me you bastard, those boys, as you call them, were three of a gang of callous young thugs. They prey on people like hyenas. They burn newspaper boys with cigarettes. They drink and fornicate regularly in that bloody shed, on the holy turf of your fucking church! And the bastards just murdered one of my men!’
‘Now just a minute, Inspector!’ blustered the bishop, ‘I won’t be spoken to like that. I’m a powerful man in this community and—’
‘I’ll speak to you however I damn well please, you son of a bitch. How dare you enter my office after one of my men has been killed and take the holy ground as if you were addressing some civic ladies luncheon—’
‘That’s enough!’ Hartford roared.
Everard and the bishop faced each other, fuming with rage.
‘Inspector Everard, you will apologise immediately to Bishop MacMillan. That’s an order, Inspector.’
George Everard reached out a hand and grasped the mantelpiece over his office fireplace. He sighed heavily and turned to the bishop. ‘Bishop MacMillan, please accept my most humble apologies. My behaviour was totally inexcusable.’
Bishop MacMillan was taken completely off-guard. ‘My dear man, I’ve just witnessed an angry outburst from a tired, sad human being, grieving for the loss of young life. Of course I forgive you, as does the Lord your God.’
Everard looked into the bishop’s eyes. ‘As young Johnson died, sir, I believe he reached out towards the door of your church and tried to crawl towards it. I was told by witnesses that his dying words were “Oh my Christ”.’
The bishop bowed his head. ‘May the Lord have mercy upon his soul.’
‘Amen, Bishop,’ intoned Everard. ‘Amen to that.’
Several moments of silence filled the air. Hartford finally coughed. ‘Gentlemen, it’s always sad when death comes to a member of the Force. Especially in the line of duty, but it’s even sadder when it’s brought about by foolish young men like Bisley, Simmonds and the other young one. What’s his name?’
‘Phelps, sir,’ said Everard looking at Hartford.
‘Phelps, of course. George will you explain the facts to the bishop. He’s the unfortunate man who will have to counsel their grieving parents.’
‘My dear Bishop, it was all a terrible black tragedy. Bisley stabbed Constable Johnson on the Town Hall steps and then ran off. I’m sure he did it in a moment of youthful anger, but the fact remains that he took a life. Then he obviously panicked at what he’d done and ran off.’
‘God rest that poor boy’s soul.’
‘Amen. He ran to the rear of your church. The potting shed has been used for some time by the gang known as the Overlords. Simmonds and Phelps followed him and unfortunately they were in the shed when my sergeants arrived. We believe Bisley opened fire. Three shots. One of which hit Sergeant Bromley in the shoulder.’
‘God in heaven forgive the sins of man.’
‘Amen to that too, Bishop. My men had no idea how many guns had fired those shots. It could have been that all the boys were armed. They had no idea and acted accordingly. They returned the fire and all the boys died.’
‘May they rest in peace,’ whispered the bishop, whose hands were clasped in prayer.
‘And that as well,’ nodded Everard solemnly. ‘My men are victims in this too, Bishop MacMillan. They were forced to take life in order to preserve their own.’
Tears flowed down Bishop MacMillan’s face as he uttered up a silent prayer.
Everard and Hartford gave each other the briefest of looks as they sat and lowered their heads.
When the bishop had finished, Everard rose and placed his hand on MacMillan’s shoulder. ‘Bishop, there’s one thing that we must ne
ver let be known. That gang of street hoodlums had been using your potting shed for orgies of drink and fornication. It’s something better left unsaid. I don’t think it’s fair to have your congregation imagining naked young teenagers, staggering around the church grounds at night, vomiting and pissing and having young women all over the place. I know you’re a servant of the truth, Bishop, but if you don’t mind, I’d rather that part of it remained a secret.’
The bishop’s head came up abruptly. ‘Oh yes! Oh yes! My word, yes!’
The conversation was interrupted by Sergeant Fadden, who entered the office with a note in his hand. ‘Excuse me, sir, but this is urgent.’ He handed the note to Everard. It read: Mention Tommy’s condition. It will break up the party if you need it broken up.
Everard screwed up the note and looked at the others. ‘I’m afraid it’s Sergeant Bromley. It’s a lot more serious than we thought. We’d better get down to the hospital, Joe.’
‘Would you like me to accompany you both?’ asked the bishop.
‘He’s a Catholic.’
‘Oh, quite. I’ll pray for him.’ Bishop MacMillan stared at the faces of the three policemen. ‘Well, I’d better get about the Lord’s work.’
‘And we’ll get about ours, Bishop,’ said Hartford. ‘I’ll make sure you receive a full report on the matter in due course.’
‘God bless you all’ said Bishop MacMillan and left the office glad to be out of such an unholy place.
‘Thank you, Sergeant Fadden, your timing was perfect,’ said Everard as he showed Fadden out and closed the door.
Hartford was shaking his head in disbelief. ‘Vomiting and pissing and having young girls?’ he grinned.
‘It’s probably true. What’s it matter? The bishop’s scared shitless and we’ve got the church in our pocket.’ Everard sighed and sat down behind his desk.
‘Okay, tell me what happened?’
‘It happened just like I told the bishop.’
The two men, who shared sixty years of police work between them, stared at each other. Finally Hartford broke the silence.
A Necessary Evil Page 6
