‘Get dressed, dear,’ she said absentmindedly and went down the hall into the kitchen. She poured herself a cup of tea. She sat at her kitchen table and a wave of melancholy swept over her as she thought of her life with Harold. He was the only man she’d ever known. The only man she’d ever really kissed. He’d been young and handsome then, and he was the son of the notorious George Everard, the Prince of Darlinghurst.
Her father-in-law had been an imposing figure to her as a young girl. When she’d first been introduced to him, he’d stared through her for what seemed like a lifetime. Then he’d smiled the softest, warmest smile she’d ever seen. ‘So, you’re the lass that’s got hold of my boy?’ he’d said and kissed her cheek. ‘He’s a lucky lad.’
Over the years she’d come to know him well. He was everything everyone said he was. A villain. A devil. Her mother-in-law Maude even said so: ‘He’s the devil incarnate! he’s my husband and I’ll stand by him. I’m bound to him in the eyes of the church, but he’s turned from God and try as I might, there’s no turning him back.’ She’d actually said it in front of him in their kitchen one night, not long after Vera and Harold were married. Vera had tensed, waiting for his response, but George had just sat there, staring at something only he could see.
Vera could only imagine what George would do to anyone else who spoke to him like that. She could sense the violence and power in the man. She’d heard the stories about him from her own father and others, but as far as she knew, he’d never even raised his voice around Maude. Where Maude and the children were concerned, George was a huge, silent, gentle beast.
She poured herself another cup of tea and looked in at the children settled in front of the television, then sat back down and thought about George’s son. Her husband.
Harold was not like George at all. He was a gentle man and a good father. But then, so was George. Harold was a good provider. Then again, so was George. The difference between father and son was that Harold didn’t have the violence in him. That was it. Harold didn’t have the smell about him, the male smell. Harold didn’t even sweat. He was fastidiously clean—something he’d learned from his mother. And Harold had God, as did Vera, and in Him lay their salvation.
Vera got up and began to prepare Harold’s breakfast. God would provide and her husband would climb the ladder of success. He was already a sergeant—on the Commissioner’s staff, no less! And his work kept him away from the streets. His father’s streets, where the violence lived. The underworld. The word made her shiver. The underworld. And his father, that big gentle beast, was prince of those streets. The Devil. She crossed herself and called to her husband. ‘Harold, come on. There are things to be done or we’ll be late for Mass.’
Centennial Park was created in Sydney’s eastern suburbs in 1888 to mark the first one hundred years of white settlement. Its walkways were lined with beautiful trees. Duck ponds were scattered here and there and picnic spots were filled with excited voices and shared family laughter. It was a favourite spot for Sydneysiders on Sundays.
Thomas Bromley walked up the grassy slope from the duck pond to where a woman sat on a blanket smiling at him. She picked up a bottle of beer and waved it at him.
‘It’s a dry argument, Inspector,’ she said as he arrived and handed him the bottle and an opener.
‘I sincerely hope you’re not trying to solicit an officer of the law, madam?’ He took the bottle and the opener from her.
‘I certainly am, officer,’ she replied and lifted the hem of her skirt, revealing her long, bare brown legs. ‘How about it?’
He grinned. ‘You park tarts are the worst in Sydney.’
‘Haven’t you got the nerve?’ she asked slyly, raising her skirt fractionally more to show him that she had removed her panties.
‘Josie!’ He looked around to make sure no one else could see.
She laughed. ‘Tarts make love to men in parks. Why can’t wives?’
‘Because it’s an arrestable offence. Now get over into the bushes and put your knickers back on.’
Josephine Bromley adjusted her hemline and looked at her husband suggestively. ‘Let it be our little secret.’
Bromley sat down next to his wife. ‘You’re hopeless, you know?’ he said admiringly as he opened the beer.
Josie leaned back against a tree and sighed. ‘I love coming here on Sundays, Tommy. We hardly ever do it any more. This is the first time we’ve been here in months.’
He shrugged. ‘It’s the job, love. I can’t help it. Everard has faith in me. I can’t let him down. I owe him, Jose. We owe him.’
‘Thirty-Three is becoming an obsession with you.’
‘Don’t start that again, love. Please. Let’s enjoy the day.’
She reached into a wicker picnic basket and took out two glasses as he uncapped the bottle. He poured the beer and they clinked glasses and drank.
Bromley placed his drink on the blanket and lay down with his head in his wife’s lap. He looked up at her and was yet again surprised by her beauty. From that angle he noticed her jawline. How could anyone have a beautiful jaw, he mused, a jawbone was not something you ever thought of as beautiful. Even her nostrils were perfect. He moved his head from side to side and could feel her crinkly pubic hair through the thin cotton dress.
‘Stop it,’ she chided. ‘You’re the one who chickened out. You had your chance. Now you’ll have to wait until we get home.’ She placed her hand on his brow and brushed the hair back from his forehead.
‘As soon as we close the front door. On the hall carpet,’ he said and felt her stomach muscles tighten as she laughed.
Bromley looked up into the branches of a huge oak tree and pondered his good fortune. He was still young, he had a beautiful wife and he was already an inspector. He was even well on the way to paying off the mortgage on their home. He closed his eyes and the image of the leaves remained imprinted inside his eyelids. He breathed deeply and other images slowly crept into his mind’s eye. Images he hated. Images that haunted him.
He was running towards the potting shed with Knocker. Knocker had his gun drawn so Tom had drawn his. The kid’s face. The muzzle flash of Knocker’s gun. His own gunsights and the flash. Inside, the dead kids. Him firing into the corpse of Gary Bisley. And another muzzle flash and a huge smack in his shoulder. ‘Three shots were fired, Tommy … remember … three shots and we fired back.’ George Everard at the hospital staring into his face, whispering, ‘It’s watertight, Tommy. Stick to the facts. There won’t be any problems.’ Then the faces of the kids’ parents at the Coroner’s Inquest. Simple people caught in a tragedy. The loss. The shame heaped forever upon their families. His evidence: ‘My full name is Thomas Bromley and I am a sergeant of Police … At approximately ten-thirty pm on … We were in immediate pursuit of the boys … the rear of the church … approaching the potting shed … Three shots were fired … I was hit in the shoulder … we fired back …’
Months later, at the awards ceremony, he had been given a medal for bravery. So had Knocker. Medals for murder. They were just three silly young kids.
Thomas opened his eyes and the leaves were still there above him. ‘Hey, Jose?’ he said,
‘Mmmm?’
‘I’ve been thinking. You know we’ve paid off over half the mortgage on the house, don’t you?’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. We’re in pretty good shape financially.’
‘So?’
‘Well, I was wondering how you’d feel about adopting a kid?’ He felt her stiffen beneath him. ‘I was only thinking about it.’
Josie was silent for a full minute. She looked down towards the water at three little children, giggling delightedly at the antics of the ducks they were feeding. ‘Go on,’ she finally said.
‘I asked how you go about it. It’s fairly complicated, but we’d be prime candidates, apparently.’ He looked at her again and saw the tears well in her eyes and trickle down her cheeks. ‘Oh, shit, I’m sorry, Josie.’ He got to his knees
and touched her face. ‘We don’t have to if you don’t want to.’
‘I want to,’ she said softly. ‘I didn’t think you wanted to.’
‘I’ve always wanted to,’ he said, stroking her cheek. ‘I didn’t think you wanted to. It wouldn’t matter that we didn’t actually make him. He’d still be ours, wouldn’t he?’
‘He?’
‘I was just talking. I don’t care if it’s a boy or a girl. Any kid would do, just as long as it’s ours.’
Josie took his face in her hands and bent over and kissed him. Then she blinked back her tears and looked into his deep brown eyes. ‘I love you,’ she whispered tenderly.
On the other side of the city, on the steps of a Catholic church, Harold Everard stood with his wife and children, talking politely to their priest. He was waiting for his mother. She always attended Mass with them. Always first in and last out, he thought. ‘Will you look after Vera for a moment, Father, while I get mother out of your church?’
‘Certainly, my son,’ the priest smiled benignly. ‘Your mother’s a good Christian woman. There’s no doubting it.’
Harold entered the church and saw his mother kneeling in prayer in front of the altar. He walked down the long aisle. As a kid he’d always thought it was the longest walk in the world. It still seemed so. His mother was kneeling with her hands clasped tightly against her chest. He stood beside her, respectfully silent, allowing her to finish her devotions.
It was then he heard it. A sound like compressed air escaping from a pipe. He listened again and realised it was coming from his mother. ‘Mum? Mum, are you—’
Maude Everard clutched her rosary beads to her chest and stared at the figure of Christ on the cross above the altar. The pain in her chest was overwhelming. She couldn’t breathe. She heard her son calling to her. He seemed a long way off. Then she fell onto her side.
Harold knelt over his mother’s twisted body. ‘Mum? Mum, Mum!’ His hands hovered over her. He felt panic rising in his throat. What should he do? He leapt to his feet and shouted, ‘Vera! Vera! Somebody! Father Mahoney!’
The pain was gone now. Maude’s eyes were fixed on the figure of Jesus. He was smiling at her. She knew it was time for her to go. A great light filled the church and she heard someone calling her name. She tried to remember something. What was it? Oh, yes. The name of that policeman. That man she was married to, what was it?
The light was getting brighter. It was blinding. She was going to Jesus. Then there was nothing but exquisite stillness and Maude Everard went to God.
Vera ran down the aisle. She could see Harold staggering as though he was drunk. He was howling like a dog, the tears streaming down his face. She saw her mother-in-law lying in front of the altar and knew instantly that Maude was dead. ‘Father Mahoney, have someone call an ambulance.’ She reached her husband and sat him down in the front pew. ‘Steady, Harold, be steady. The children are coming.’ Harold sputtered something she could not understand. ‘Harold!’ she said sharply. ‘Pull yourself together! The children are coming down the aisle.’
‘What’s wrong with Grandma?’ asked her son Shayne. He stared at the body on the floor then looked at his father.
‘Is Daddy sick?’ It was her four-year-old daughter.
Vera left Harold, then knelt in front of her children and gathered them to her. ‘Grandma Maude has gone to heaven and Daddy is sad.’
The children began to cry as Father Mahoney leant over the inert form of their grandmother and uttered the last rites.
What a way to die, thought Geoffrey Brookes, lying in a gutter in Darlinghurst on a lovely Sunday afternoon. He felt no pain as he watched his lifeblood pump out of the bullet holes in his chest. He’d often wondered how he’d go. Well, now he knew. What do you think about when you’re dying? he wondered. He didn’t know what to think. He felt melancholy. Or did he? He couldn’t think of anything. His wife? His kids? The sadness of it all began to overwhelm him. He started to cry, purely for himself. What a way to die, thought Geoffrey Brookes, shot to death by another policeman. He would never have guessed it. Then he just stopped thinking. Or did he? He didn’t know. He couldn’t remember. He was dead.
That was a hell of a day, that Sunday in 1960. A good Christian woman died in the arms of the Lord. A crooked policeman died in a gutter in Darlinghurst. And two people in a park decided to start a family. Life went on.
CHAPTER FIVE
Tom Bromley threaded his way around the tombstones until he reached the open grave. George Everard acknowledged his presence and Bromley removed his hat and listened to the priest intoning a prayer.
A number of other police officers were there. Bromley nodded briefly to Joe Hartford the Chief of Detectives and from the corner of his eye he caught sight of Knocker Reid, Stan Ames and Jim Fadden. In fact the more he looked about, the more cops he became aware of. It was a measure of Everard’s respect within the Force that so many had turned up.
George’s family was also there, Bromley saw. He recognised George’s sons, Harold, Timothy, Frederick and Noel. They were all coppers too. The youngest, Noel, was in the training school and Tim and Fred were both constables working in country areas. Harold, the eldest, was a sergeant on the Commissioner’s personal staff and Bromley had heard he was destined for greater things. Some were saying Harold was the Commissioner’s number one boy. But Bromley had heard from others that he couldn’t be trusted, that he was after personal glory and that he was greedy for rank, but wouldn’t get his hands dirty. Bromley hoped for his boss’s sake it wasn’t true.
Tom’s attention was caught by something the priest, Father Mahoney, was saying. People nearer the grave were beginning to shuffle nervously.
‘Lord take Your child, Maude Everard, into Your glorious Kingdom and give her rest. She has struggled through life under the yoke of a godless husband. Many times she confided in me that her husband had turned from You and would not see the error of his ways …’
Bromley looked at his boss. The priest was thirty seconds from having his neck broken, if Bromley knew George Everard, but George was simply staring into the distance oblivious to the liturgy.
‘… her daughters are known to You as brides …’
That’s right, thought Bromley and looked at the two young nuns standing beside George. His daughters had both taken their vows.
‘… know then Lord, how this poor woman struggled against evil and gave to You her greatest possessions …’
Bromley felt sad for his boss, standing there making his last farewell to a wife of many years.
‘… and so Lord, we give up to You the soul of our late departed sister, Maude Everard. Take her to Your bosom, Lord and give her the peace she has struggled for.’ Father Mahoney threw a handful of dirt into the grave. ‘Ashes to ashes, dust to dust …’
The service concluded and Bromley watched the faithful take sides. George’s children gathered around the priest, some weeping, while George remained standing alone staring off into the distance. Then the other faithful, the coppers, moved towards their brother officer and offered their condolences. The phrase came back to Bromley yet again. ‘We look after our own.’ He, too, went to George and shook his hand.
‘Tom, thanks for coming. Maude would have liked it.’
‘She was a good woman, sir.’
‘Yes, she was.’
Policemen stood around George Everard in close protection, instinctively looking out for the enemy. Never once considering the enemy may lie within their own ranks.
One of the nuns approached the group and they parted ranks politely. ‘Dad, we’re going back to the house for tea and cakes. Mum would have liked that. It’s proper.’
Bromley glimpsed a glimmer of love in the look George gave to his elder daughter. ‘Of course it is, Mary. You go on about the business of it all. I’ll be along later.’
‘Oh, Dad.’
‘Oh, Mary.’ He touched his daughter under the chin. ‘Oh, Mary, this London ’tis a wonderful sight, where the pe
ople are working by day and by night.’ He smiled at her. ‘Do you remember how we used to sing that when you were little?’
She touched his face. ‘The rest of the family’s already crying. Don’t start me off.’
‘Go on now, get them all back to the house. I’ll be along soon enough.’
Sister Mary Everard turned and went back to her brothers and sisters and Bromley watched them huddle together for comfort. Why, he wondered, didn’t the sons gather around their father? Only one person looked towards George. It was Vera, Harold’s wife. She stared at her father-in-law’s back as he trooped down the lawn surrounded by the faithful.
‘Come on, boys, I’ve got beer and a dozen bottles of the finest Irish whisky in the land in my garage. I never drink in the house, you know. Maudie didn’t like it, God bless her.’
The group of men reached the edge of the roadway as a hearse passed them. It carried the body of Geoffrey Brookes and was being escorted by two police motorcycles. Brookes was being afforded a burial with full police honours. Several officers around Everard saluted as it moved by, but the men of Thirty-Three Division, to a man, kept their hands by their sides.
The omission did not go unnoticed by Joe Hartford. ‘Do you know something I don’t, George?’ said Hartford as his eyes scanned the group.
‘Not any more, Joe,’ replied Everard as he watched the dead policeman’s family pass by. His wife and children were huddled together in the back of a car. ‘It’s all so much history now. Tell me, are his wife and kiddies being looked after?’
Hartford looked at his old friend. ‘We look after our own, George.’
‘That we do, Joe. That we do.’ He lifted his hat in a gesture of respect for the woman passing by. ‘Have you got any leads concerning the murder?’
‘Homicide has come up with nothing. Brookes walked out of the Lord Roberts Hotel in Stanley Street, a car pulled up and four shots were fired. All the bullets hit him in the chest.’
‘Was he on his own?’ Everard exchanged a glance with Tom Bromley and Stan Ames.
A Necessary Evil Page 9
