Harold got up and went back into the kitchen. He used the mop and was cleaning up his mess when he saw the note from Vera lying on the table: Clean up your mess. I’ve taken the children to Mass. She would nag him to death for the next month. Well, not today she wouldn’t. He’d be out of the house before she got back. He’d leave a note apologising for his behaviour and telling her he’d been recalled to work. It was the oldest trick in the book. All cops did it when they wanted to go out on the grog or spend a night with another woman.
He dutifully cleaned up his mess, then showered and changed into a new suit. It was Saturday. Race day at Randwick, the beginning of the Winter Carnival and Harold wasn’t going to miss it for anything. A couple of beers and a few bets and he’d be on top of the world again.
As he left the house, he couldn’t help grinning at the notion of his old man screwing Vera. It was ridiculous. Why Jane Smart had fed him such a line he didn’t know, but he’d find out. What in hell could she be up to? Probably just dirty on his old man and trying to stir up trouble.
Saturday for Tom Bromley was a red circle on his kitchen calendar. It was the day Josie was to leave for Austria. She would be accompanied by a professional nurse, carefully chosen for her by Doctor Miller.
Tom, clad in only trousers and a singlet, swung the axe into a log of wood. He worked solidly in the backyard, unaware of the winter chill in the air. He needed the mindless activity to shut out his fears. It could possibly be the last day he would see his wife alive.
He’d lied to Josie for the first time in his life. He’d told her he’d put a second mortgage on the house to pay for her trip. She’d listened in silence then simply kissed him and said thank you.
Stan Ames had been as good as his word. Any amount of money was forthcoming—Tom only had to ask. And each time he did, it got easier. He couldn’t care less any more. Josie was the only thing that mattered to him.
From the upstairs bedroom window, Josie watched him cut and stack the firewood. Every so often, he would stop and gaze at nothing in particular. She knew what he was going through. She knew he was terrified of the future and what it would yield.
He’d been so good to her since her illness began. Nothing was a chore to him. He’d cooked the meals and done the washing and gone off to work without complaint. He’d prepared her medicines for her and sat with her during the nights she’d been at her worst. He’d slept in her hospital room whenever she’d been confined and tried desperately to make her laugh and relax.
Last night she’d insisted he sleep with her. He’d done so reluctantly and when she’d suggested they make love, he’d been unable to respond. Nothing she did could arouse him. Finally he’d held her in his arms and told her he loved her, over and over, until she’d drifted into sleep.
She’d awoken at three am to find herself alone. She’d gone to the top of the stairs and had heard him, downstairs in the lounge room, weeping. She’d sat on the stairs and began to cry with him. Two terrified lovers, not twenty feet apart, crying alone on a winter night. Weeping for each other.
Josie heard the back door. She went to the top of the stairs and watched him in the hallway. He became aware of her presence. He moved to the bottom of the stairway and stood looking up at her.
‘Josie, would you think it wrong of me not to come to the airport?’ he said, averting his eyes from her gaze.
‘Of course not,’ she replied softly.
‘I’ve arranged for Knocker to pick you up.’
‘I understand, Tom.’
He looked back up at her. ‘Thank you.’
At three o’clock that afternoon, Tom Bromley stood on the footpath in front of his house, and looked at Josie’s face through the rear window of Knocker Reid’s police car. They simply stared at each other. Words weren’t necessary.
Knocker came out of the house and put the last of Josie’s luggage in the trunk of the vehicle. ‘Better be off or we’ll miss the flight,’ he said, and got behind the wheel.
‘I’ll come back, Tom,’ she said as the engine started. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll come back home to you. I promise.’
Bromley could only nod. He stood and watched until the car turned a corner and disappeared.
CHAPTER NINE
Randwick Racecourse was a sight to behold. Crowds thronged through the gates, to be greeted by lush green lawns, huge oak trees, and the pungent aromas of horse stables and frying food. Brightly coloured umbrellas sprouted like mushrooms, as people settled on their blankets, anticipating lunch and the horse races to follow. The bookmakers’ ring was already a hive of activity as men rushed around placing bets while clerks shouted the odds. In the main grandstand ladies in their race-day fashions dotted the view as the men set about the serious business of gambling.
An air of excitement hovers over a race track like nowhere else. It is infectious. Even the most pessimistic of people smile on a race day. Rain had been forecast for later in the afternoon, but for the while people smiled, ate, drank and laughed in the bright winter sunshine.
By the fifth race on the card, Harold Everard was feeling no pain. In fact, he was euphoric. He was half-pissed and ninety quid in front of the bookmakers. He’d also had a long talk with his boss, Stan Ames, about Jane Smart and his chance meeting with her the night before. Stan had told him to forget it. She was just a moll trying to cause trouble.
Harold had then been introduced to Scobie, a little balding bloke from Broken Hill. Scobie had given him three winners, two in Melbourne and one in Sydney. The Sydney winner, a horse called Tip-Toe Boy had come in at fifteen to one.
‘I told you!’ Scobie grinned as Harold returned to the bar. ‘I told you Tip-Toe Boy was a good thing.’
‘I took fifteens just before they jumped.’ Harold sat down with Scobie and Stan Ames. He was on top of the world.
Ames stood up. ‘It’s my shout—do you want another beer?’
‘Fuck the beer,’ said Harold and joined Ames at the bar. ‘Let’s have some champagne.’ He signalled to the barman. ‘A bottle of your best champagne, mate. And three glasses.’
Ames smiled at him. ‘You’re a winner, mate, no two ways about it.’
‘Too right I am. How about we celebrate tonight, Stan?’
‘What have you got in mind?’
‘The best meal in town and a couple of nightclubs.’ The champagne arrived and Harold dumped a handful of money on the bar. ‘We’ll take your mate Scobie out on the town. It’s the least I can do, seeing as how he tipped all the right ponies.’
Ames threw a glance at Scobie Brereton. ‘Scobie doesn’t go out at night, Harold. He’s a bit of a loner.’
‘How do you know him, Stan?’
‘He’s an old mate from Broken Hill.’
‘I say it’s about time he saw Sydney. What do you reckon?’
‘Forget it!’ Ames placed his hand on Harold’s shoulder. ‘I’ll be your date for the night. Wine me and dine me and if you play your cards right, I might let you kiss me goodnight.’ Both men laughed uproariously and returned to the table with the champagne.
Scobie looked at them. ‘What’s so funny?’ he said.
‘Harold’s taking me out on a date,’ Ames replied, and that set the two cops off again.
‘What a great day!’ Harold poured the champagne then raised his glass. ‘Here’s to the Tip-Toe Boy!’
‘I’ll drink to that,’ said Ames and winked at Scobie.
Not far from Randwick Racecourse, in the offices of Thirty-Three Division, George Everard stood behind his desk staring out over the parade square. His fists, clasped behind his back, were clenched bloodless. Rage tore through him. He remained motionless, seeing nothing for several minutes, until he trusted himself to speak. ‘What’s the name of this crowd again?’
‘Tip-Toe Investments,’ said Joseph Hartford as he tapped out a pipe on the office fireplace, ‘and that’s all it is. A name. I’ve checked it against all the company registers. Apparently it doesn’t exist in fact. It’s merely a nam
e, or a password if you like, but it’s used by some very influential people.’
Everard turned from the window. ‘And there can be no doubting your source of information?’
‘One hundred percent reliable. Straight from Parliament House. In ten years, my phizgig’s never been wrong,’ Hartford replied, using the police jargon for an informer.
Everard slumped into his chair and sighed. ‘Stan Ames on the take! I can’t believe it.’
Hartford tamped tobacco into the well of his pipe. ‘It’s Broken Hill money. It stands to reason that Ames is the one to point the finger at. He’s Broken Hill born and bred.’
Everard picked up the sheet of paper in front of him and read it again. ‘This is one hell of a list of names. Pat Morgan …’
‘He’s the member for the Broken Hill electorate,’ said Hartford as he struck a match and puffed on his pipe.
‘… and John Birmingham, for Christ’s sake! He’s the numbers man for the whole fucking party! Who’s this?’ snapped Everard, punching the sheet with his finger, ‘Scobie Brereton?’
‘He’s a union official. Another direct export from Broken Hill. My guess is he’s the power behind this whole Tip-Toe Investment business.’ Hartford coughed and waved a cloud of smoke from his face. ‘Word is, he’s got more power than God in Broken Hill.’
Everard slammed the paper onto his desk. ‘No wonder we never found out who they were! We were chasing the bloody Mafia and the bloody Greeks and all the local no-hopers. And all the while it was a marriage of politicians and bloody miners from bloody Broken Hill!’
‘Well, that marriage of politicians and miners has got Sydney by the throat. The question is, what are we going to do about it?’
Everard’s eyes glittered with rage. ‘My first question is who shot whatsisname, that bloke from the Consorting Squad?’
‘Brookes. Geoff Brookes,’ Hartford prompted.
Everard smoothed his bald head with his hands. ‘Four shots in the chest, over a distance of thirty yards, from the window of a moving vehicle.’ He looked long and hard at Joe Hartford. ‘Who’s the best pistol shot you’ve ever seen, Joe?’
Hartford’s jaw dropped. ‘Jesus!’
‘Exactly! I must have asked myself that question a hundred times after Brookes was shot and I could never come up with a name or a face until now, because I never dreamed it could be a copper!’
Hartford shook his head slowly. ‘Stan Ames.’
Everard thumped the desk again. ‘I’m going to kill him, Joe. I’m going to kill him like I’d kill a bloody cockroach!’
‘Now, hold on a minute, George,’ said Hartford calmly.
‘Then I’m going to find anyone else in Thirty-Three Division that he’s contaminated and they’ll get a dose of the same!’
‘George you can’t just—’
‘Don’t try to stop me, Joe! You’ll be wasting your time!’ Everard stood up and turned to the window. ‘And then I’m going to sort out Mister Scobie fucking Brereton and all his crooked, smartarsed, Tip-Toe Investment cronies. So help me Jesus! I’ll crush them like a bunch of grapes!’
‘George!’ Hartford yelled as he stood up and spun Everard around to face him. ‘Listen to me, George. I know how you feel. I’m feeling exactly the same, but rushing out of here firing guns and screaming your head off won’t solve anything.’
‘Won’t it bejesus!’ Everard yelled.
‘No, it fucking well won’t!’ Hartford snapped back. He took a deep breath. ‘Now, sit down and let’s work this out properly.’ He pushed Everard into his chair and returned to his own. ‘We’ll both think about it over this weekend. Tomorrow’s Sunday. On Monday morning we’ll form up a joint unit of young men from different divisions and investigate it fully. We’ll do it together, I promise.’ Hartford got up and leaned over George’s desk. ‘We’ll get them, George. We’ll bag the bloody lot of them. We’ll bring their whole world crashing down around their ears. But we’ll do it by the book.’ He stared at Everard, letting his words sink in. ‘What do you say?’
Everard sighed and nodded. ‘You’re right, as usual.’
Hartford nodded and moved to the door. ‘We’ll have our revenge, George. In the meantime, not a word to anyone. Your division is compromised. Christ knows who else is involved. So keep your mouth shut and see me first thing Monday morning in my office.’
Hartford left and George Everard sat and stared into the fireplace, his rage for the moment in check.
It was just before the last race of the day when Knocker Reid found Stan Ames at the bar. ‘G’day, mate,’ he said and slapped Ames on the back.
‘G’day, Knocker. Where have you been? The last race is nearly up.’
‘I took Tommy’s wife to the airport.’
‘Oh shit. It’s today isn’t it? I forgot.’ Ames put money on the bar. ‘Do you want a beer?’
‘Yeah, thanks.’
‘How is she?’ Ames turned to the barman and ordered the beer.
‘She’s right as rain. Tommy’s the one having trouble. He’s a fucking mess.’
Ames handed him a beer. ‘He’ll be right. We’ll watch out for him.’
Knocker sipped his drink and placed it on the bar. ‘That’s not what I wanted to talk to you about, Stan. You’ve got a problem.’
‘Me? What sort of problem?’
Knocker looked about then lowered his voice. ‘A little bird told me that one of your men is being a naughty boy.’
Ames’ eyes widened. ‘Who? Tell me and I’ll break his fucking neck.’
Knocker shook his head. ‘It’s not as simple as that.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s young Harold.’
Ames’ face showed deep concern. ‘Oh, shit!’
Knocker nodded. ‘Oh shit’s right. If George ever found out he’d hit the fucking roof.’ He took another sip of beer and glanced about again. ‘I won’t tell him anything, but you’d better fix it, Stan. Harold’s in your squad.’
‘Thanks for the warning, Knocker. I’ll take care of it.’
‘That’s okay, mate. We look after our own, right?’ The big man finished his beer and looked about again. ‘Well, I’m off. I’m going down to Chinatown.’ He grinned at Ames. ‘It’s Saturday night.’
Ames laughed. ‘I should never have shown you that Choy Siu table. You’re addicted to it.’
‘There’s nothing better in this world than sipping on a cold beer while a beautiful girl blows your flute.’
‘Well, you have a good time mate,’ said Ames, slapping Reid on the back, ‘just don’t let those Chows get you up to the third floor.’
Knocker’s eyes bored into Ames’. ‘What do you mean by that?’
‘It’s none of my business what you do down in Chinatown, but you just gave me a warning, so let me give you one.’
‘Go on.’
He suddenly looked dead serious. ‘Don’t let them draw you into their world, Knocker. Because once you’re in, there’s no getting back out.’
‘I can look after myself, Stan.’
Ames grinned. ‘I know. I’m sorry I spoke. It’s just that I wouldn’t like to see you get in too deep with the Chinks.’
‘You worry about your own affairs,’ Knocker growled, ‘namely Harold, and let me worry about mine.’
Ames put his hands up in mock surrender. ‘Like I said, mate, it’s none of my business. But thanks for the word on Harold. I’ll pull him into line and George’ll be none the wiser.’
Knocker Reid walked off through the betting ring and was soon lost among the crowds of punters feverishly trying to lay bets on the last race.
Long after Knocker had disappeared Stan Ames continued to stare after him. A worried expression creased his brow.
‘Was that Knocker?’ asked Harold as he joined Stan Ames at the bar.
‘Yeah.’
‘What’s going on?’
‘Nothing. He’s just a bit down. He took Tommy’s wife to the airport this afternoon.’
�
��The poor bitch. Leukemia’s a shocking thing.’ Harold signalled the barman. ‘Do you want another drink?’
‘No. Let’s call it a day. I want a quick word with Scobie. I’ll see you back at the squad car and we’ll make a night of it.’
Ames found Scobie Brereton in the stables area, overseeing the boxing of his horse, Tip-Toe Boy, into a large horse trailer.
‘I thought you were going out on the town, Stan?’
Ames walked into an empty stall and motioned for Scobie to join him. ‘We’ve got a problem, Scobe. A fucking serious problem.’
‘What is it?’
The two men stood huddled in earnest conversation for several minutes. Eventually, Ames walked out of the stall and lit a cigarette. He stood exhaling the smoke and shaking his head.
‘Are you positive he hasn’t told George Everard?’ Scobie said as he walked up behind Ames.
‘No!’ he said in frustration. ‘I’m not positive. Knocker’s a cunning bastard. He might be onto the lot of us.’
Scobie shook his head. ‘If he knew the whole story, he would have told George.’
Ames laughed. ‘You don’t understand coppers, Scobie. Who’s to say he hasn’t already told Everard everything? Who’s to say they haven’t discussed a plan to snare the lot of us. Who’s to say that Knocker’s approaching me today isn’t the first step in that plan!’ Ames threw his cigarette into a drain.
Again Scobie disagreed. ‘They wouldn’t play games with Everard’s son involved.’
‘Ha!’ Ames scoffed. ‘Don’t kid yourself! Everard doesn’t give a fuck about anyone where the job’s concerned. And that includes his son. The job comes first. Do you understand? And they’re two of the smartest coppers I’ve ever known, Scobie. They’re bloody dangerous men.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘If there’s the remotest chance they’re onto us, we’ve got, to act first.’ Ames breathed in the chill evening air. ‘We can’t assume that they don’t know. It’s too risky.’
A Necessary Evil Page 17
