Scobie Brereton entered Pat’s bedroom without knocking. ‘There you are, Pat my lad. Your guests are anxious for you to join them. They can’t wait to meet Parliament’s new member for the West. Especially the women. You’re one of the most eligible bachelors in Sydney. Did you know that?’ Scobie laughed as he joined Pat on the balcony. ‘Look at them mate, Sydney’s elite! Shitkickers every one of them, ripping into the free booze.’
‘I’d hardly call the Chief Justice of the New South Wales Supreme Court a shitkicker, Scobie.’
‘Wouldn’t you?’ Scobie laughed mirthlessly. ‘I would!’
‘He’s been a Labor man all his life, just like you and me.’
‘Bullshit!’ Scobie snarled. ‘He’s been a lawyer, a judge and a politician and now he’s a judge again. The only difference is that now he gets to wear a bigger wig.’
‘He was a good leader for the party,’ Pat muttered. ‘I’ve got my doubts about Arthur Calwell.’
‘At least Calwell can keep his mouth shut. Bloody Evatt can’t,’ Scobie growled. ‘What with the Petrov affair and the in-fighting with the Victorian Right. Fancy defending communism when half the bloody country think there’s reds under the bed! It’s fucking dumb. That’s why they got rid of him.’
Pat gestured helplessly. ‘He’s been the voice of the working man, Scobie!’
Scobie snorted. ‘It’s easy to say you’re the voice of the working man when you live in a big flash house and eat with three knives and three forks off bone china plates,’ he said as they moved back into the room, ‘but let me tell you something, Mister State Politician! The only place you’ll ever hear the voice of the working man, is two miles down under the earth at the rockface! And don’t you ever forget it!’
‘Okay, Scobie,’ soothed Pat, taking his arm, ‘Take it easy.’ Morgan walked to the other side of the bedroom and adjusted his tie in the standing mirror. Brereton always made him slightly nervous. In fact, the more he saw of Brereton lately, the more nervous he got. Scobie was showing all the symptoms of megalomania.
‘Take it easy, be buggered! You just make sure you never forget where you came from, Pat.’ Scobie glared. ‘I’ve been watching you these last couple of months and I don’t like what I’ve been seeing.’
Pat Morgan turned towards Brereton, his face losing all colour. ‘What do you mean?’
Scobie stared at Morgan for several seconds. ‘Don’t get too big for your boots, Pat. This party today and this house you’re living in are just for show. By rights, as a Labor man you should be living modestly in the suburbs, but I need people who matter in this city to think you’ve got money and influence.’ Scobie thrust his finger under Morgan’s nose. ‘It’s the only thing those shitkickers respect.’ Then he sighed, his face softening into a grin as he placed his hands on Pat’s shoulders. ‘Sorry, Pat. I’m a bit edgy. A tired man sounding off. I’ve had some trouble recently. The police got into one of my gaming houses.’
‘Shit!’
‘Don’t worry, it’s been taken care of. For the time being anyway.’
‘You’re talking about the Criterion Club, aren’t you?’
Scobie nodded.
Pat knew all about the raid on the Criterion Club. George Everard and his untouchable Thirty-Three Division had turned it upside down. He’d heard all sorts of rumours abut crooked policemen and lawyers being involved. Of course nothing had been substantiated, but the raid had certainly caused more than a ripple of excitement in parliamentary circles. ‘Can you be connected in any way to the ownership of that premises?’
‘Don’t be stupid!’
Pat Morgan sat on the bed, his face ashen. ‘Jesus, Scobie! Thirty-Three Division pulled that raid. Watch your step, mate.’
‘Pull yourself together, Pat! It’s all been taken care of.’ Scobie smiled and ruffled Morgan’s hair. ‘Thirty-Three Division will fall like a pack of cards, you mark my words,’ then he moved back onto the balcony and lit a cigarette.
Morgan stared at the carpet then got up and joined him. The two looked at the view in silence for several minutes, then Brereton finally spoke.
‘Pat, I want you to take a good long look at your guests,’ he said as he gestured at the people below on the lawns. ‘You may think that they’re wonderful and successful and rich, but most of them aren’t.’ Scobie dragged on his cigarette and blew the smoke skyward. ‘They’re shitkickers! Except for one or two. And do you know why they’re here?’
‘No, Scobe. I don’t suppose I do.’
‘Well, I’ll tell you! Because they were told to be.’ Brereton placed his hand on Morgan’s chest and stopped his attempted response. ‘Don’t interrupt. There are only a handful of men in this country with enough clout to pull that crowd down there and I’m one of them.’ He looked into Pat Morgan’s eyes and lowered his voice, ‘I have the money and therefore the power to do whatever I like. That includes the making or breaking of coppers, judges and even politicians. Do you understand what I’m saying?’
Morgan could only nod and look away out across the harbour.
‘Good. Now I’m only going to say this once, so listen carefully.’ Brereton reached up, grabbed Morgan’s jaw and turned his face towards him. ‘You’re a weak man, Pat. That’s a fact. You can’t change human nature. You wanted to get out of the mines because they terrified you. Am I right?’
Once again Morgan could only nod. Brereton still held his face in a vice-like grip.
‘I got you out of those mines and gave you a life other miners can only dream of. Well, now it’s time to pay the piper. Get inside and sit down!’ Brereton let go of Pat Morgan’s face and pushed him through the balcony doorway.
Morgan sat down on the bed and rubbed his jaw.
‘You’re my man, Pat,’ said Scobie as he followed Pat into the room. ‘Whenever I call, you better come running, or you’ll find yourself back in those mines. Or worse still, dead!’
Pat looked at himself in the standing mirror. Fear was plainly written all over his face.
Brereton laughed. ‘Enough of this angry talk! We’re friends and more importantly, friends from The Hill.’ He lit another cigarette and caught Morgan’s eyes in the standing mirror. ‘In a few minutes you’re going to go down to the party and mingle. And while you’re doing that, you’ll seek out John Birmingham, your senior parliamentary colleague.’
‘What for?’ Morgan wiped the sweat from his forehead.
‘You will say to him that you were talking with a friend of his earlier this morning. He’ll ask you who that might be and you’ll reply the managing director of Tip-Toe Investments.’
‘Oh, Christ no!’
‘Oh Christ yes!’
‘John Birmingham!’ Morgan was amazed. ‘Is there anyone you haven’t got in your pocket?’
‘Yes, the Pope—but I don’t need him for the moment. Now shut up and listen! I want you to give him this message …’
John Birmingham was bored. He wandered around the lawns sipping champagne and trying to avoid the repetitious conversations taking place around him. He hated garden parties even more than he hated cocktail parties.
Birmingham was born in Balmain, the son of a butcher, and had started his working life as an apprentice mechanic on the railroads. He was working class and proud of it. He’d risen through the unionist ranks and from local government he’d graduated to State Parliament on the Labor ticket. It hadn’t been long before he was promoted to the front bench and now, after twenty years, he was the numbers man for the ALP in New South Wales. He was the iron fist behind the throne, the kingmaker.
Birmingham was at the garden party because he had no choice. He was there because he’d been told to attend, by someone you did not say no to. His presence at this party, along with that of Dr Evatt, put the stamp of approval on the new member for the West, Pat Morgan. The fact that he didn’t particularly like Pat Morgan was irrelevant. Scobie Brereton had asked him to attend and not even a kingmaker said no to Scobie Brereton.
‘Mr Bir
mingham?’
He had his politician’s smile in place before he even turned to acknowledge his name. The smile slipped a little as he stared into the face of Pat Morgan, but he quickly turned it into a wide grin. ‘John. I’ve told you before, call me John. How are you, Pat?’ he said and put out his hand. ‘Welcome to state politics.’
‘Thanks very much, John. It’s an honour to be serving in the same parliament with you.’ Pat Morgan shook the proffered hand.
Birmingham hated weak handshakes and Morgan’s was pathetic. He tried to dispel the thought that he was holding a wet fish in his hand. ‘I caught the last half of your maiden address to the House. Well done. Sounds like you’re ready to fight the good fight, eh? Ready to tilt at windmills and all that stuff, eh? Good man, good man!’
‘I don’t know about windmills,’ said Morgan, ‘but I’m ready to fight.’
Bullshit, you’re as weak as piss, thought Birmingham, as he dropped the wet fish and surreptitiously wiped his hand on his trouser leg. ‘That’s the ticket,’ he said and renewed his fading grin. There was no doubt about Scobie Brereton, he could pick his men, mused Birmingham, as he studied the new member for the West through his fixed smile.
‘Oh, by the way, John,’ Morgan started nervously, ‘I was talking to a friend of yours earlier this morning.’
‘Oh yeah. Who was that?’ Birmingham said dismissively.
‘The managing director of Tip-Toe Investments.’
Birmingham’s smile disappeared. He took Morgan by the arm and looked about furtively. ‘Why don’t we move over into the shade? We can talk more privately there,’ he said and steered Morgan to an elm tree some distance away.
‘You know, Pat,’ said Birmingham, placing his arm around Morgan’s shoulder, ‘it’s not a good idea to mention that name too loudly, or too often.’
Morgan nodded rapidly. ‘Yes, I’m sorry. I didn’t think.’
‘Not that there’s anything wrong with the name. It’s just that … well … it’s known to only a few of the party faithful and we like to keep it that way.’ Birmingham looked about again briefly before continuing. ‘It’s also a password some of my closest friends use from time to time. And when they use it, they whisper.’
‘Yes, I’m sorry,’ said Morgan and rubbed his brow with his fingertips. ‘I didn’t think.’
You certainly didn’t, thought Birmingham. ‘Never mind. You’ll learn. What did the managing director of this company have to say?’
This time it was Pat Morgan who looked around before speaking. ‘He said it would be better for the community if the Gaming and Vice Squad concentrated more on Vice and less on Gaming. A lot less on Gaming.’
‘Well, as a betting man I’m inclined to agree with him,’ Birmingham laughed, ‘but I’m in no position to tell honest policemen how to conduct their investigations. I’m a simple politician.’
‘So am I, John.’
‘However, I’ll bear his suggestion in mind. Sometimes policemen can lose their way in the greater scheme of things and that’s when our more influential citizens can occasionally spot problems we politicians might miss. Tell him I understand his concern.’
‘I’m sure he’ll be happy to hear you think that way.’
‘Yes.’ Birmingham gazed out over the harbour, ‘By the way, did the managing director say anything else?’
‘He certainly did. He said to tell you that the boat shed is unlocked.’
Birmingham smiled. ‘Excellent. Excellent. Thank you, Pat,’ he muttered and walked off.
Pat Morgan watched him go, walking down along the terraced garden path towards the boat shed on the harbour foreshore at the bottom of the property.
Morgan then turned and looked up towards the magnificent house on the hill above him. He nodded at the figure standing on the upper verandah. Scobie Brereton nodded back.
Down in the boat shed, John Birmingham took out a pocket knife and slit open the envelope lying on the work bench. He counted the money inside—one thousand pounds exactly—and placed it in his wallet. Then he cut open the small plastic bag that had accompanied the money. He licked his knife, dipped it into the white powder in the bag, raised it to his nose and sniffed violently. Then he licked the blade clean and ran his tongue around his gums.
Superintendent Joseph Hartford threw his fountain pen onto the desk and then flung himself into his chair. The Graeme Thorne murder was stretching his detective resources to the limit. The press and wireless services couldn’t get enough of it.
It had started in early June, when Mr and Mrs Thorne of Bondi Beach had won a hundred thousand pounds in the Opera House Lottery. Just over a month later their eight-year-old son Graeme had disappeared. A few hours later the parents had received a ransom demand for twenty-five thousand pounds. The kidnapper or kidnappers—Hartford didn’t even know how many were involved—said the boy would be fed to the sharks if the ransom wasn’t paid by five o’clock that same day. Nothing had been heard since.
That had been over a month ago. Since then, Hartford’s most senior detectives had co-ordinated the largest search ever undertaken by the New South Wales Police. Hundreds of leads had been followed, all to no avail. He was at his wits’ end and in his heart of hearts, he knew the boy was dead. He’d been a copper too long to believe in miracles.
And now this! he thought. As if he didn’t have enough trouble. Now he’d been ordered to tell George Everard to lay off the illegal gambling houses and concentrate on Vice activity.
He sighed and picked up the phone. As he dialled Thirty-Three Division he imagined George’s reaction.
‘Get fucked!’ George roared down the line. ‘I’m onto a pack of rats the like of which this city’s never seen before, Joe.’
‘Then give me some proof of it!’
The voice grew cold. ‘I haven’t got any! But I can smell rats a mile off.’
‘Terrific, George!’ Hartford’s voice was heavy with sarcasm. ‘I’ll tell the Commissioner that.’
‘Good! And tell him this while you’re at it …’
‘Do you want a drink?’
‘What?’
‘I don’t feel like arguing with you over the phone, but I do feel like a drink. Meet me in the Travellers’ Club at six o’clock and whinge to me there!’ Hartford hung up and smiled at the thought of George Everard sputtering with rage at the other end of the line.
The Travellers’ Club was a strange no-man’s-land for the male population of Sydney. It held no religious affiliations. It catered to no particular group of men. It had no sporting ties. It didn’t even have any travellers in it. Knights of the Southern Cross drank with Freemasons. Cops drank with journalists. And politicians drank with clergymen. It was a strange place indeed.
The club’s main saloon was magnificent. Lined in dark mahogany it was dominated on one side by four snooker tables and on the other by a huge circular bar, reportedly one of the largest in the world.
In a far corner of the saloon, George Everard and Joseph Hartford sat hunched over their beers. Their overcoats and fedoras were hanging on the wall behind them. They’d been that way for several minutes. Their official discussion had ended with a direct order from Hartford to Everard.
Everard finally broke the silence. ‘All right, Joe, I’ll give up on it, but I’ll tell you something for nothing …’ He looked into Hartford’s eyes. ‘There’s a syndicate of some sort operating in this city. A very, very, powerful syndicate of faceless men. And if we don’t find out who they are and stop them, they’ll be the end of us!’
‘Come on, George,’ Hartford smiled reassuringly. ‘It can’t be that serious.’
‘I’ll bet that’s what Geoff Brookes said, just before they shot him to death.’ Everard picked up his beer and drained it. ‘Do you want another drink?’
‘Yeah.’ Hartford replied and stood up. ‘It’s my shout.’ He walked to the bar and Everard followed him.
‘Mark my words, Joe—’
‘No! You mark mine George!’ Hartfo
rd snapped and looked around the room for eavesdroppers. ‘I can hear what you’re saying. I’ve no doubt your theories are correct. But that’s all they are! Theories. There is nothing—not one piece of legitimate evidence—to connect Brookes’ murder with organised crime, or gambling syndicates, or anything else, except a loose word from a crook called Joey Bellarino. Secondly, you have been ordered to stop your crackdown on illegal gaming houses.’ He waved his hand at a barman. ‘Two beers, mate,’ he said, turned back to Everard, then said in a menacing whisper, ‘That order came via the Commissioner, directly from Parliament House …’
‘Maybe that’s where we should look next?’ Everard interjected.
‘George!’ Once again Hartford looked around him then lowered his voice. ‘George. Not one more word, understand? It’s over, finished, dead in the water. Do I make myself clear?’
‘All right!’ Everard sighed. ‘All right.’
The barman arrived with the beers and refused the money Hartford offered him. ‘Your money’s no good in here, Mr Hartford,’ he said and retired out of earshot.
Hartford turned to his friend and handed him a beer. ‘One day, Georgie. One day when the heat’s off, we’ll get ’em. I promise you.’
The two men clinked glasses.
‘To you, George,’ said Hartford. ‘You’re a good policeman. One of the best I’ve ever known.’
‘The feeling’s mutual, Joe.’
Alfie Leonard felt something was wrong the minute he saw Tom Bromley walk into the Boys’ Club. Now as he turned his attention from the two young welterweights in the boxing ring he was absolutely sure of it. Bromley was punching the speed ball in the corner of the gynmasium with a concentrated ferocity. His hands were a blur and the ball chattered insanely at the onslaught.
Alfie watched the man’s face as the sweat poured down it and soaked into his singlet. He knew Bromley was not a man to show emotion, but the pain in his face was clearly visible. And there was something else in the haunted eyes. Despair. The boy was lost. Alfie had not seen that look in Bromley’s eyes for a long, long time. Not since the day he’d walked into the Club as a kid and asked if he could learn to box.
A Necessary Evil Page 12
