‘And then you get a week at sea sitting on your arse in the sunshine!’ Ian Spencer roared back. ‘It’s not fucking fair!’
Schumacher laughed. ‘Nothing in this world’s fair, mate.’ He pointed to the dead bodies in the boat well. ‘Ask them!’
Spencer grinned and stuck out his hand. ‘Fair enough. I’ll see you in old Sydney Town, Derek. Good luck, mate.’
The two men shook hands and separated. Derek Schumacher leapt aboard the fishing boat and started the engine, as Ian Spencer walked along the old jetty and disappeared into the sheets of driving rain.
Sydney. 1975
Assistant Commissioner Harold Everard of the New South Wales Police Force stood on the rear balcony of his home in Neutral Bay, an affluent harbourside suburb of Sydney, so named because it served as a neutral anchorage for ships of warring nations in the colonial days. Occasionally he turned the chops and sausages which grilled on a barbecue before him. Every couple of minutes he would scan the harbour with binoculars, before returning to look yet again at the beautiful sails of the new Sydney Opera House, directly opposite his home.
Behind him on the luxurious sundeck sat his live-in lover Helen Gorman, a beautiful woman of indeterminate age. Only minutes before, she’d completed the task of counting money into piles of one thousand dollars and placing them into envelopes. She had worked for half an hour and six envelopes now sat before her on the table. Each contained ten thousand dollars in cash.
Everard turned and looked at her. ‘Well?’ he murmured.
‘All done,’ she said, pointing at the envelopes. ‘Ten thousand each.’
‘Good,’ he muttered and held out his hands. Helen picked up one of the envelopes and threw it to him. He caught it and put it into his pocket. ‘How much is left over?’
‘About eighteen hundred bucks.’
‘Stick it in your purse,’ he smiled at her, ‘for being a good girl. Buy yourself something pretty.’ His expression changed as his eyes roved over her body. ‘Come here, Helen.’
Helen Gorman knew that look. ‘They’ll be here any minute. It’s one o’clock.’
‘Never mind them. Come here.’
She got up and moved to his side and placed an arm around his neck. ‘We won’t have time,’ she whispered as he grabbed her and bent her over the balcony rail. She lifted the back of her towelling robe and pulled aside the edge of her bikini bottoms.
‘Forget the fucking time,’ said Everard and removed a black vibrator from his pocket. He turned it on and adjusted the speed, then he stood behind her and inserted it between her legs. He moved his hips in sexual fashion and ground his flaccid penis into her buttocks.
Fortunately for Helen, she had an insatiable sexual appetite and she enjoyed the vibratory coupling. She enjoyed it as much as she enjoyed shopping in Double Bay with all the money Harold gave her. Her orgasm approached fast and she grunted involuntarily.
‘Say it!’ he hissed through clenched teeth. ‘Say it, you fucking bitch!’ He heard the doorbell from the front of the house, but didn’t stop his movements. ‘Say it!’
Helen Gorman was now gasping with delight as her orgasm rushed on her. ‘You’re the best! The best! You’re making me come! I’m coming for you! Only you! I’m coming! Oh, Mama!’ As her orgasm peaked she collapsed to the wooden deck on her knees.
Harold moved away from her. ‘Tidy yourself up darling and watch over the barbie will you?’ he called to her as he entered the house, ‘I’ll go and greet our guests.’
Helen got up and hastily straightened her clothing. She checked her appearance in the double glass windows that opened onto the balcony. What a weirdo, she thought to herself as she turned down the barbecue gas settings. Still, a girl had to get on in the world and looks don’t last forever. She’d been living with Harold Everard for the past two years and never once in that time had he ever penetrated her. He was impotent, but he was good to her and she was fast becoming rich, picking up the change from the fortnightly barbecues.
Helen had learned early in life which side her bread was buttered on. She’d been had by men since she was sixteen, when she’d left Canberra to come to Sydney to be a model. First it was a pop singer, then his manager, and then she’d been handed around the music industry like a piece of dirt for a couple of years. But she’d survived. She’d beaten the drugs, done the men and got over the heartaches. She’d become a successful model and, for a while, even a television hostess. And now she was set. Harold Everard’s mistress wanted for nothing. She had everyone in Sydney at her beck and call and she used the power for all it was worth.
Nobody fucked around with Harold Everard. Not cops, not politicians, not crooks—not even the Mafia. Not if they knew what was good for them. The former boss of Thirty-Three Division was cock of the yard. If Harold Everard didn’t like you, you disappeared. Either voluntarily, by taking off for Brazil, or involuntarily, and that was left open to the imagination.
Helen was fully aware of the origins of the money she divided up each second Saturday at Harold’s barbecues. It was kickback money from brothels and drug runners and gambling establishments, legal or otherwise. It was also protection money paid by hoteliers, restaurateurs, nightclub owners and anyone else who wanted to prosper in Sydney. It was delivered to Harold’s front door by cops from various divisions every second Saturday morning. And Helen always divided it up into five equal shares and kept the change, thank you very much.
Helen Gorman definitely knew which side her bread was buttered on. All she had to do was keep her eyes and ears open and her mouth shut, except when Harold told her to open it. She smiled to herself at the thought of their sexual relationship. If Harold Everard wanted to fuck her three times a day with a vibrator and pretend it was his dick, that was fine by her. Besides, Helen had the love of her life living in the same house. Elvira, their Filipina housemaid. What’s more, Harold knew and condoned it. Sometimes he’d even have them perform for him and then he’d join them with his vibrator.
Helen had schooled Elvira well. She would scream religious oaths at the ceiling and tell Harold he was a sexual god. Afterwards when Harold slept, Helen and Elvira would fall into each other’s embrace and make love until daybreak. ‘I’ve got the best of both worlds,’ she said aloud and laughed.
‘Have you really?’ a voice behind her asked. Helen turned and looked into the eyes of the one woman in Sydney she feared. She recovered her composure and held out her arms in greeting. ‘Jane! How lovely to see you.’
‘You too, Helen.’ The two women embraced and for a moment Helen felt as if she were wrapped in the sinuous coils of a beautiful yet very deadly snake. They broke contact at the sound of other voices approaching the balcony. Helen watched Jane Smart move to the table and take one of the envelopes full of money. She weighed it in her hand and placed it in her shoulder bag.
‘Hello, gorgeous!’ Helen turned straight into the arms of John Birmingham. She smiled stiffly and waited for the man’s penis to push against her mound. Birmingham didn’t disappoint her. His hand also found one of her buttocks. ‘John, darling,’ she said coldly, ‘how are you, my dear?’
Birmingham let her go and breathed a boozy hello into her face. ‘You’re a beautiful sheila, Helen. Harold’s a lucky man!’
Relief flooded through Helen as Birmingham looked over her shoulder at Jane. He moved past her, leering obscenely. She couldn’t understand why Harold tolerated the man. He’d retired from state politics five years before and was a drunken, drug-abused shadow of his former self. She grinned as she heard Jane’s voice behind her.
‘Don’t even think about it, John!’ Jane snapped. ‘I didn’t come here to get groped by a drunk.’
‘Jeeeezus, Janey! Don’t talk to your old mate like that!’ Birmingham whined. Then he saw the envelopes on the table and grabbed one and put it in his pocket. He thought momentarily about trying to placate Jane Smart, but instead headed for the drinks trolley, grabbed the vodka bottle, poured himself a liberal measure and gazed
out over the harbour. The cocaine he’d snorted an hour before was wearing off. He hoped the drink would pick him up, otherwise he’d have to disappear into the bathroom and have some more coke.
Harold stepped out onto the balcony arm-in-arm with Pat Morgan, Labor member for the West in the State Opposition and Thomas MacIntyre, the Commissioner of Police. ‘Helen, how about a couple of beers for our guests?’
‘Certainly, darling,’ she smiled, turned the barbecue gas controls off and kissed Harold on the cheek as she went inside to the refrigerator.
As Helen got the beers she watched through the glass doors as both Morgan and MacIntyre picked up two of the remaining envelopes and casually put them into their respective pockets. No matter how many times she watched the ritual, Helen never ceased to be amazed at the indifference with which these people took the dirty money. Never a word was said. They were so nonchalant about it. It was as if they were picking up a packet of cigarettes, or something they may have carelessly dropped. Every second Saturday, for the last two years, that she knew of at least, they’d done the same thing. Ah well, she thought as she delivered the beers, keep your mouth shut, girl, and take the leftovers.
‘Thank you, my dear,’ said MacIntyre and sipped the beer she handed him.
Helen continued to watch Thomas MacIntyre as he smiled and nodded his way through a conversation with John Birmingham. He’s not even here, she thought. He’s away somewhere in his mind, or what’s left of it. No wonder Harold controls him so easily. MacIntyre was an ineffectual officer. The press had dubbed him MacRetire. He was an ex-London Superintendent appointed to the position of Commissioner by a previous government to appease those at the time who were calling for a Royal Commission into underworld activity. His years in the top position had allowed such activity to multiply tenfold.
‘Helen, you’re looking particularly attractive today.’ Pat Morgan leaned on the balcony rail.
‘It’s all the sex, Pat,’ she said as she joined him. ‘Harold had me from behind, not five minutes ago, right where you’re standing.’
Pat Morgan leapt away from the rail as if he’d been burnt, but quickly recovered his composure and laughed. ‘Always joking! That’s what I like about you, Helen.’
‘It’s no joke. Living with Harold is like living with a stud ram,’ she continued. Harold insisted she talk about his sexual prowess to his cronies and she dutifully obliged—in fact, she enjoyed it. ‘I can’t even bend over in the laundry when he’s in the house. He’s a very masterful lover,’ she giggled girlishly, ‘but that’s enough naughty talk. How’s my favourite member of parliament today?’
‘I’m very well,’ Morgan replied, leaning back on the rail. ‘I love this view. I’ll bet you never get sick of it.’
‘The Opera House makes it ten times better, don’t you think?’
Morgan rolled his eyes. ‘It’s not wise for a politician of any persuasion to comment on that building. It’s caused more trouble in parliamentary circles than both the Great Wars put together.’
‘Well, I think Utzon was a genius,’ she said firmly. ‘That magnificent edifice will become a symbol synonymous with Sydney and all Australia.’
‘I hope you’re right,’ sighed Morgan. ‘It’s caused more division, in both parties, than Billy Hughes, conscription and Vietnam rolled into one.’
‘Speaking for the Labor Party,’ John Birmingham interrupted, ‘I’d say Billy Hughes was a lightweight compared to Rex Connor and his wog mate Khemlani! What do you reckon, Pat?’
‘Not now, John,’ said Morgan wearily. ‘Let’s just enjoy the afternoon, okay?’
‘That’s right, Pat. Stick your head in the sand and pretend it’s not happening,’ snarled Birmingham, ‘You’re typical of what’s going on in the Party. The fucking loans affair, as the journos are calling it, will bring down the Federal government!’
‘Hey! What’s all this? Raised voices at one of my barbecues? Not likely. Calm down, John.’ Harold Everard joined the group and patted Birmingham on the shoulder.
‘Calm down, be fucked! You mark my words, Pat! And you too Harold.’ He was red in the face. ‘We’re so involved with our own little world, we’ve failed to keep an eye on the big picture. We have unemployment at five percent and inflation at over fifteen. The economy’s in the shit and people won’t stand for it. And that idiot Connor tried to borrow four thousand million dollars off a bloody Pakistani moneylender!’
‘Yeah,’ Harold murmured. ‘It was a stupid move, all right.’
‘Stupid? Stupid’s not the word for it!’ roared Birmingham. ‘Four thousand million dollars! And he didn’t tell anybody! Christ alive, the only thing Gough Whitlam had left was the trust of the people and now he’s lost that! And Connor was the straw that broke the camel’s back! I’ll tell you right here and now, there’s one thing I know and that’s politics. If bloody Malcolm Fraser can get even the smell of an early election into the air, the people of this country will roar their approval and hack the Labor Party to pieces at the polls.’ Birmingham snorted. ‘We’re doing all right though, aren’t we, boys?’ He patted the envelope full of money in his pocket. ‘Never mind the fucking country! Christ! Whatever happened to the true believers?’
‘All right, John,’ said Harold placatingly, ‘we’ll take your word for it. Now calm down.’
‘I have to go to the bathroom,’ said Birmingham and walked off muttering under his breath.
Harold caught sight of Jane Smart. She was staring at him. With an infinitesimal move of her head, she indicated for him to join her. ‘Helen, be a darling and get Pat another drink, will you.’ Harold smiled and she left him alone with Morgan.
‘He’s right you know, Pat.’ Harold spoke softly to Morgan but kept his eyes on Jane Smart.
‘Maybe,’ nodded Morgan, ‘but I’m worried about him, personally. Never mind his opinions—they’re probably right—but he’s losing his grip, Harold. He talks too much, if you know what I mean.’ Morgan lowered his voice. ‘He’s given to these fits of roaring out his opinions to anyone who’ll listen. I mean, God knows who he talks to these days. I’m worried.’
‘Me too, Pat, and not only about Birmingham.’ Harold looked into his eyes until Morgan was forced to look away. ‘Will you excuse me?’ Morgan nodded, but continued to look out over the harbour as Everard joined Jane Smart.
‘Look who just turned up,’ Jane Smart whispered. She turned and looked at the harbour.
Everard grabbed his binoculars and trained them on a large motor launch moving up the harbour towards them from Sydney Heads. ‘Bingo! Right on time.’
They stood and watched the vessel MV Araluen as she approached the Opera House. The boat made a slow turn to starboard and entered the small bay below Harold’s house, pulling alongside a public wharf. They continued to watch as a lone figure stepped onto the wharf and got into a police car.
‘Cocky bastard, isn’t he?’ said Everard.
‘Take it easy, Harold,’ cautioned Jane. ‘You’re the brains behind it all.’
‘Too right I am, Jane, and don’t you forget it.’
‘Don’t threaten me, Harold,’ she hissed. ‘One snap of my fingers and the lot of you are finished! And don’t you forget it!’
Harold stared at her as memories came flooding back of that Sunday night fourteen years before.
George Everard stood in the laneway in the drizzling rain, peering through the darkness at the unmarked car across the street. He was fifty yards away from the entrance to Jane Smart’s flat and he knew immediately that he’d been set up. He’d suspected that Jane Smart had been lying when he’d spoken to her on the phone an hour before. Now he was sure. He was just as sure that Stan Ames was sitting in the car he was observing.
So little Janey’s in on it, he thought to himself. Well, well, all cats are grey in the dark. He’d kill her when he’d finished with Ames. He was itching to get hold of the black-hearted bastard, but he knew only too well that Ames wouldn’t take him on alone. No, not Ames—he
was too cunning for that. He’d have a back-up man somewhere. But where?
George searched the small street again but could see no one. He remained stock still for several minutes and his patience finally paid off. An almost imperceptible movement caught his eye and he realised that another man was hiding behind a set of rubbish tins near the steps to Jane’s apartment. ‘Ten o’clock, Georgie boy,’ he whispered to himself, ‘time to go, laddie.’
George moved stealthily towards the unmarked car. He slid up alongside the driver’s door and pointed his service revolver in the window. He placed the muzzle in Ames’ ear. ‘Just one flick of your eyebrow, Stanley, and you’ll be off to God.’
The fear that ran through Stan Ames at the sound of that soft lilting Irish voice caused the air to rush from his arse.
‘I know what you’re up to, Stan,’ the voice whispered, ‘you and Janey and your friend behind the rubbish tins.’
For the first time since he was a little boy, Stan Ames felt like crying. He wanted to apologise and declare that he’d be good. He wanted to beg for his life. The giant of his childhood dreams had caught him and was going to kill him. He felt warm urine flood his pants. He couldn’t speak. He knew his death was imminent.
‘Get out of the car, you bastard. Slowly, Stan,’ the voice hissed, ‘ever so slowly, and we’ll take a little walk, shall we?’
Ames inched out of the car and felt Everard’s arm go around his neck. His airflow was restricted. He could hardly breathe. And the gun muzzle remained firmly entrenched in his ear making it hard to hear what the giant was whispering.
‘I’m going to kill your friend first, you evil piece of shit!’ the giant whispered. ‘I’m going to gun him to death in front of you, so you’ll know what to expect yourself. A sort of dress rehearsal for your own farewell. How’s about that, Stanley boy?’
Ames tried to breathe in, but fear had paralysed him. The giant had him. His mind began to scream.
A Necessary Evil Page 19
