He used her, she was fully aware of that, but she also knew he cared for her in his own way. He’d even arranged a birthday party for her when she turned twenty-one. They’d travelled to Brisbane together on the train and stayed in a posh suite at Lennon’s Hotel He bought her a diamond necklace and they drank champagne with their dinner. For her, after that weekend, a new dimension was added to their relationship. George Everard became both lover and father in one.
Jane stood up and shivered. She wanted him right now. Angry or gentle—it didn’t matter how he was. She just wanted him near her and inside her. Hell, stop it Jane, she thought, he’s just buried his wife. And if he found out she’d been to the funeral, he’d kill her. She had to get him out of her mind. She was arousing herself merely thinking of him. She went into the kitchen.
Her heart stopped. There was the shadow of a man outside her back door on the fire escape. Jane watched, horrified, as the doorknob turned.
She screamed and ran for the front door. She flung it open and crashed into the body of another man. She screamed again and clawed at her attacker.
‘Jesus, Jane! What’s the fucking matter?’ Tom Bromley said.
‘Tom, Tom, thank God! There’s someone at my back door.’
Bromley pushed past her and entered the flat. He drew his service revolver and checked each room carefully, then he entered the kitchen. The back door was open but there was no one inside the flat. He looked out onto the fire escape and saw a man running down the rear alley and disappearing around a corner.
Bromley locked the door and returned to the living room. ‘Who was it, Jane?’ he asked. ‘Did you see his face?’
She shook her head. ‘Just his shadow on the door window.’
‘Well, he’s gone now,’ said Tommy. ‘Jane, the boss wants you to pack some clothes and come with me.’
‘Where?’
‘To his house. Then tomorrow Knocker’s going to take you out of town.’
Her eyes widened. ‘It’s because of the Brookes killing, isn’t it?’
Bromley nodded. ‘Did you see who shot him?’
‘No. A car pulled up and all I could see was a hand holding a gun coming out of the window. Then bullets were flying and I heard Brookes gasp and saw him fall down. I ran. I took off.’ She was shaking.
Bromley put his arm around her. ‘Come on, calm down now. Nobody’ll hurt you while I’m around. Can I use your phone?’
‘Yes. I’ll pack some clothes,’ she said and went into the bedroom. She was desperate to be with Everard.
The phone call from Bromley had shaken George Everard. He paced around his lounge room while Knocker drank his fourth cup of tea. ‘Who are they, Knocker?’
‘It’s got me buggered, boss.’
‘Thank Christ Bromley got to her in time or we’d have another murder on our hands. Hartford would be all over me like dirt on a pig.’
‘You should have told him about the Smart girl,’ Knocker said warily.
‘No way! She’s too valuable to Thirty-Three.’
‘Sir, she’s an eye witness to a murder!’
‘She might not have seen anything, Knocker.’ Everard growled as he paced the room. ‘And if that’s the case and we give her to Homicide, we’ll lose a valuable operative for nothing. Everyone in town will know who she is and I’ll never be able to use her again.’
‘You’re a fucking hard man, boss,’ said Knocker admiringly, as he got up from the sofa. ‘I’ll say that for you. I’m gonna make some more tea. Do you want a cup?’
‘No, fuck that. Get me a whisky from the garage.’
‘Now you’re talking!’ Knocker grinned at his senior officer and went off to the garage.
Everard walked to the mantelpiece and looked at a photo of his wife. ‘Ah, Maudie,’ he sighed. ‘Here you are not dead a week and I’m drinking inside the house.’ He picked up the photograph. ‘What’s going to become of me, lass?’ he said and turned the picture face down.
Knocker entered with the whisky bottle just as the doorbell chimed.
The two men exchanged a glance. Knocker put down the bottle and drew his firearm. He nodded at Everard, who went to the front door and flung it wide open. He stood looking at the forlorn figure of Jane Smart. Bromley was standing behind her.
‘Jesus! What’s the matter with us?’ he uttered, turning to look at Knocker. ‘We’re turning into a bunch of jittery old women.’
Jane flung herself at him and locked her arms around his neck.
‘Calm yourself, woman’ he said gruffly, looking over her head at Bromley. He tried to prise her arms loose. ‘You got any ideas, Tom?’
‘Like I said on the phone, boss,’ Bromley eased past them into the room, ‘a bloke running down the alleyway behind her flat. Just a silhouette. That’s it.’ He shrugged.
Everard led Jane to the sofa. ‘Come on, Jane. We’ve no time for hysterics.’ He turned to Knocker. ‘Inspector Reid, give this young woman a whisky.’
Before long all four were seated and sipping Irish whisky. Jane had calmed down and wiped her face with Bromley’s handkerchief.
When she was settled, Everard started questioning her. ‘Did you see who shot Brookes?’
‘No, just the gun. Then I ran.’
‘What sort of car was it?’
‘I don’t know, she shrugged’. ‘Maybe a Holden? I don’t know cars.’
‘How many were in it?’
‘I don’t know. I’m sorry. I couldn’t see.’
‘What colour was it?’
‘I don’t know. There were bullets …’
‘All right, all right! There were bullets! We know that!’
‘I’m sorry. I can’t remember … I’m sorry.’
‘How long were you with him?’
‘I picked him up in the bar of the Lord Roberts, like you said to. We were talking for about an hour, then he asked me to go home with him.’ She looked at Everard then lowered her eyes. ‘I said yes. We were leaving the hotel when he got shot.’
‘Was he drunk?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did he say anything at all? About his work? Anything out of the ordinary?’
Jane struggled with her memory of the afternoon. ‘No, nothing that I remember.’ She looked at him again. ‘He was disgusting. He kept telling dirty jokes and feeling me up.’
‘What else? Come on Jane, think!’, he urged. ‘What else?’
‘He asked me …’ her voice trailed off to a whisper.
‘He asked you what?’
‘If I …’ she fought back tears and sniffed. She raised her head defiantly and looked at all three men in turn. ‘He asked me if I’d take it up the arse.’
The three men continued to stare. Finally Everard spoke. ‘What else?’
‘Isn’t that enough?’
‘Get on with it.’
‘He said his wife wouldn’t let him do it to her and if I’d let him, he’d give me ten quid.’ The tears began to roll down her cheeks. ‘He’s a bloody pervert.’ She looked into Everard’s eyes again, ‘And you know the worst thing? I was going to let him do it. For you. I was going to take him to my flat and let him,’ she sniffed, ‘just in case he said something you could use.’ She looked away as Bromley and Reid shifted uncomfortably in their seats.
Everard stood up. ‘Jane, listen to me. I don’t care if he wanted to push himself up your nostril! Try to think clearly and stop pussyfooting around!’
Jane flew to her feet. ‘All right! All right! You bastard!’ Then she stopped suddenly. ‘That’s it! That’s it!’
‘What’s it?’
‘I remember.’
‘What?’
‘Pussyfooting’. She frowned, trying to think. ‘No, not pussyfooting, tip-toeing. Yes, tip-toeing.’
‘Tip-toeing?’ Everard looked confused.
‘Brookes kept saying that word. Tip-toe. He used it all the time, like it was some kind of secret thing. He “tip-toed” here and he “tip-toed” there. It was like he wanted to br
ag about something, but never quite had the guts to come right out and say it.’
Everard looked at his men. ‘Mean anything to you pair?’
Bromley shook his head.
‘Doesn’t ring a bell with me, boss,’ said Reid.
Jane sat down exhausted and wiped her eyes. ‘I’m sorry, George, that’s all I remember him saying. We left the pub and somebody shot him.’
Everard leant on the mantelpiece. ‘All right, Jane. That’ll do for now. Knocker’s going to take you away tomorrow for a bit of a holiday.’
‘Where to?’
‘It’s better you don’t know until you get there.’ Everard looked at Bromley. ‘Tom, get home to your wife.’
‘Righto, boss. I’ll see you at the office Monday morning.’ Bromley got up and went to the front door. ‘See you, Knocker. Goodnight, Jane.’
‘Oh, and Tom?’ Everard called to him.
‘Yes sir?’
‘Not a word about this to anyone.’
‘Mum’s the word,’ said Bromley and left.
Knocker Reid finished his whisky, put the glass on the coffee table and got up. ‘If it’s okay with you, sir,’ he said, looking at his watch, ‘I might go home and get some sleep. I’ll be back first thing in the morning to get the girl.’
Everard coughed. ‘Yes, okay, Inspector.’ He looked at Jane on the sofa. ‘She’ll be all right here with me until then.’
Knocker brushed himself down. ‘I could do with a wash and a change of clothes.’ He looked at the girl ‘Well, goodnight, sir. Goodnight, Jane. I’ll see you in the morning.’ Neither answered as he let himself out the front door.
Everard sat down with a sigh and sipped his whisky. Silence reigned between the two for several minutes.
It was Jane who finally spoke. ‘Am I going to get killed?’
‘Nobody kills anything that belongs to me. Except me.’
‘I’m frightened, Daddy.’
‘Don’t call me that!’ he snapped.
Jane began to cry quietly and crawled across the carpet to sit by his leg. She put her head on his knees. ‘I’m sorry.’
Everard looked at the beautiful dark red hair spread across his lap. He put his hand on her head and stroked her brow. A moan escaped her lips and her hand moved to his thigh. ‘No, Jane. Not tonight,’ he said. ‘I’m tired and I’ve got a lot of thinking to do.’
‘Let me be with you,’ she whispered. ‘Let me be with you. Not to do anything, just be with you. Please. I’m scared.’
Everard lifted her chin with his hand and looked into her tear-stained face. ‘Not tonight. And don’t be scared, everything will be all right. Nobody fucks around with Thirty-Three Division. Not if they know what’s good for them.’ He wiped away her tears with his thumb. ‘Go upstairs and find yourself a bed. A single bed. And get some sleep. You’ll find the bathroom at the end of the hall. Go on now.’
Jane rose and picked up her small suitcase by the front door. She stood for a moment at the bottom of the stairs. ‘I love you, George Everard,’ she said.
‘Then you’re a fool, because I’m too old for you.’ His voice softened. ‘Now find a bed and get some sleep.’
George looked at the glass of golden liquid in his hand. It was a four ounce glass that once contained Vegemite. He smiled. The house was full of them. Christ alone knew why. His eyes strayed to the china cabinet in the corner of the room. It was full of real glasses. There was even a set of cut Yugoslavian crystal, a wedding present over thirty years ago, but they were kept for ‘best’, like everything else in the cabinet. So his wife had scraped the labels off the Vegemite glasses and over the years they’d become the most popular glasses in the house. He wondered idly how long it had been since he’d eaten Vegemite.
It was nearly four o’clock in the morning when Jane crept into his bed. He had feigned sleep and she’d cuddled up to him and eventually drifted off herself. He felt her breasts pressed against his back and her soft breath on his neck. A faint prickle of desire ran through him, but he willed it to pass and made his mind return to the images of his faceless adversary. Who are you, you bastard, he thought, who are you? Well, never mind, because I’ll find out soon enough and then the fun will start. Everard smiled in the darkness. Yes, I’ll find out eventually and then the fun will well and truly start.
Sleep finally arrested his mind and he dreamed of chasing faceless men down nameless streets. He ran through a dark city, never quite catching his demons.
When he awoke it was daylight and his body was full of beautiful sensations. As the denizens of his subconscious cleared, he became aware of Jane’s mouth on his erect penis.
‘God Almighty, girl, can’t you leave me alone for one night?’ He dragged her up from the bed and looked into her eyes. They were on fire, aglow with sexual desire and they burned into his.
‘Take me, George, she begged. ‘Anything. Tear me to pieces. Anything, please.’ She was panting.
He looked into her eyes again, then laughed and grabbed her deep, dark red hair in his fist and forced her onto her back.
‘Jesus, yes,’ she gasped, ‘Jesus yes, take me. Fill me up. Do it. Do it now!’
The fire began to rage within him. He flung himself on her and into her and she groaned in abandon. He thrust powerfully and she came back at him, wanting more. For one moment she looked into his face and then her lids fluttered and her eyes rolled back in her head. He looked down at her and the rage within him grew. He took control of her body and mind and his thrusts became more deliberate. She gasped each time he entered her and whimpered each time he withdrew.
‘Oh, oh, oh,’ Jane heard her own voice from far away, ‘oh, oh, oh.’ It corresponded with George’s thrusts. It was like a mantra. She was so deeply in the grip of sexual delirium, she had no control over her cries. The feel of George moving so deep within her was driving her into madness.
Vera Everard entered the kitchen of her father-in-law’s house. It was after eight o’clock. He would no doubt be up by now. ‘Dad?’ she called softly. ‘Hello? Mr Everard? It’s only me, Vera.’
She placed a bunch of freshly picked flowers on the table. She had gathered them herself from her own garden that very morning. They’ll make a nice touch around his house, she thought. Where is he? she wondered and called again. ‘Dad?’
She went into the lounge room and saw the whisky bottle and glasses. Drinking in the house? He must have really tied one on. He’s probably still asleep. She bent to gather the glasses when she heard it. A sound like someone crying for help. She listened again and heard the rhythmic noise more like a pigeon cooing. It was coming from upstairs.
Vera climbed the staircase, wondering what on earth she was hearing. Maybe an animal in pain. She couldn’t tell.
She moved down the upstairs hallway and realised the noises were coming from George’s bedroom. Please don’t let him be crying, she prayed, or worse still, sick!
Vera reached the bedroom door. It was slightly ajar. She looked through the gap and was transfixed by what she saw.
A beautiful red-haired girl, eyes closed, mouth open, was lying with her head tilted back over the edge of the bed. George’s bed. And the noises were coming from her. ‘Oh, oh, oh,’ she was crying, over and over. The girl was in ecstasy as, again and again, George Everard thrust himself into her.
‘Oh, oh, oh, please don’t stop, George. Don’t ever stop!’ the girl moaned. ‘Kill me, George. Kill me, just don’t ever stop! Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh!’ The orgasm hit her like a steam train. The rhythm of George’s thrusting continued unabated.
Vera was frozen to the spot. She had never witnessed anything like it. Surely the girl couldn’t be enjoying it? It wasn’t possible. But she was! Vera could tell she was. The girl was delirious with joy as she thrust herself at George and clawed his back with her nails.
Vera watched her father-in-law snorting like a bull as his powerful back and buttock muscles clenched every time he thrust at the girl. He was like a machine. Then he roared as his
orgasm shook him and the girl was shouting ‘Yes! Yes! George, yes!’
Vera turned and ran. She rushed down the steps to the front door and fumbled with the knob, frantic to open it and be gone from the house.
George Everard heard the noise on the steps. He pulled away from the screaming girl and roared at her to shut up. He rushed into the hallway as he heard the front door slam, ran quickly down the stairs and looked through the lounge room window. He saw Vera running across the front lawn. He continued to watch, even after she disappeared down the street.
CHAPTER SIX
Pat Morgan was pleased with life. He had made his maiden speech to the Legislative Assembly in the New South Wales Parliament only days before and he’d had to admit to himself it was pretty good. He wasn’t particularly eloquent, nor radical in any way, it was just a simple, concise speech outlining the current state of his electorate and the feelings of his constituents. But his Labor Party colleagues had been all nods, winks and smiles and pats on the back had been numerous. And a photograph of his chance meeting on the steps of Parliament House with Herbert ‘Doc’ Evatt, had made the front page of the Sydney Morning Herald.
Until recently Dr Evatt had been the leader of the Labor Opposition in Federal Parliament and had since been appointed Chief Justice of the New South Wales Supreme Court. He was Pat’s political idol and the news picture would hold pride of place on the study wall of his new home in Vaucluse.
One could hardly call it a home, thought Pat with pride, it’s more like a mansion. Twenty rooms! Hell! He had no use for sixteen of them, but Scobie had insisted he live there and he wasn’t about to go against the wishes of Scobie Brereton. After all, it was Scobie who’d got him into politics and out of those dreadful Broken Hill mines.
Pat stood on the upper balcony and looked out over the shining waters of Sydney Harbour. The city skyline and the magnificent Harbour Bridge were basking in glorious sunshine and as far as Pat Morgan was concerned, all was right with the world.
His garden party was in full swing. Guests had been arriving since mid-morning and were gathered on the rear garden terraces drinking champagne and taking in the wonderful view of the harbour. Socialites and politicians rubbed shoulders with businessmen and uncomfortable union representatives, as they moved about the lawns occasionally taking canapes from the trays offered by waiters.
A Necessary Evil Page 11
