A Necessary Evil

by Bruce Venables

  ‘Would you let me help him?’ Jane stirred sugar into her cup, then looked up at him. ‘I have a place he could go. You could go with him.’

  John shrugged helplessly. ‘I can’t get any time off. I’ve already tried.’

  ‘Have you spoken to his father?’

  John nearly spat the coffee from his mouth. ‘His father’s a total arsehole, excuse my French.’ He put his coffee down. ‘He couldn’t give a shit about Shayne. I’d be wasting my breath. I spoke to my Inspector about it, but he told me it was all a storm in a teacup. He reckons Shayne will be all right in a couple of days. I can’t even get anyone to listen, let alone get any time off.’

  ‘You let me worry about that, John,’ said Jane, laying a hand on his arm. ‘I have friends in the police force. His father won’t even need to know.’

  John’s eyes widened. ‘They must be very powerful friends. Shayne’s old man is the police force.’

  Fire flashed for a second in her eyes. ‘Even if his father found out he would say nothing. If I arrange it, will you go with him?’

  ‘Sure.’ John paused for a moment. ‘You’re doing all this simply because you knew Shayne’s grandad?’

  ‘I owe my life to George Everard,’ Jane said simply. ‘My whole existence, in fact. If I can do anything to pay back even part of that debt, I’ll do it. Without question.’

  Buck raised one eyebrow. ‘You must have known him very well.’

  ‘I did.’

  They sipped their drinks in silence for a while until at last John spoke. ‘Where is this place?’

  ‘Hardy’s Bay, on the Central coast. Many years ago, George arranged for me to go there. I fell in love with the place. I own a beach house there now. It’s quiet and very beautiful.’

  ‘Sounds perfect.’ John finished his coffee. ‘If you can arrange what you say you can, I’ll get him there.’

  Jane smiled. ‘Consider yourself on extra paid leave as of now.’ She handed him a business card. ‘This is my private secretary’s number. She’ll give you directions to the beach house. The keys are hidden on the property.’

  ‘You’re on.’ John placed the card in his top pocket.

  Jane stood up to leave, then looked at him. ‘By the way, Mr Buck, there may be another person who will be visiting the beach house.’

  ‘Oh yeah? Who would that be?’

  ‘Someone who shares a close relationship with Shayne.’ An edge of hardness crept into her voice. ‘And I would expect that you would not interfere in any way with that relationship.’

  John shrugged. ‘As long as it doesn’t put any stress on Shayne.’

  Jane Smart produced her most beautiful smile. ‘Believe me, their relationship is anything but stressful.’ Then she laughed and walked out into the afternoon light.

  At four o’clock that same afternoon, Percival Wentworth, a government secretary employed at the State House of Parliament, was found dead on the kitchen floor of a small flat in Manly. The cause of death was electric shock caused by a faulty electric jug cord. According to his cleaning lady, it was a straight-out ‘death by misadventure’. She quoted, verbatim, the uniformed police officers who’d attended the scene. And a really nice Detective Sergeant called Schumacher had assured her that these sorts of things happened all the time. It was just another of life’s terrible tragedies.

  The matter received a small amount of press coverage and was forgotten within a couple of days.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The small fishing dinghy rocked in the gentle swell fifty yards off Putty Beach on the Killcare Peninsula. The peninsula marks the start of the Central Coast and forms the northern head of Broken Bay, which in turn forms the entrance to the Hawkesbury River and Brisbane Waters.

  John Buck sat aft, leaning on the outboard motor, a rod in his hand, watching the activities of people holidaying on the beach. Occasionally he glanced at his friend fishing from the bow. They’d been in Hardy’s Bay for a week. True to her word, Jane Smart had arranged it all.

  John had been called before Superintendent Ames of Thirty-Three Division, who told him to consider himself temporarily transferred to Ames’ command for one month. Then Ames had given him the month off on paid leave, which, he said, would not interfere with John’s normal leave, and told him to take a holiday on the New South Wales Central Coast. Just like that. Not a word was said about Shayne. John had attempted to speak, but Ames simply told him to shut up and get out of his office.

  ‘But, sir …’ Buck had stuttered.

  ‘Is there a history of hereditary stupidity in your family?’ Ames said archly.

  ‘No, sir!’

  ‘Then go and have a holiday!’

  ‘Yes, sir!’

  ‘And when you’ve finished, return to your normal duties. Now get out of my fucking office! I’m busy!’ Ames had roared.

  John reeled in his line and checked the bait. He grinned at the thought of Mr Macho, Stan Ames, being told what to do by a woman. Ames was a legend in the police force. He’d been in the ‘Dirty Tree’ as the original flying squads had been known, back in the old days. All the young cops had heard the stories of George Everard’s original Thirty-Three boys, and Stan Ames had been one of them. Everybody in the Force was in awe of Ames’ exploits, and here he was being pushed around by a beautiful redheaded hooker. Mind you, John mused, I wouldn’t mind being pushed around by her either. John Buck thought Jane Smart was drop dead gorgeous. He cast his line back into the water and daydreamed of being shipwrecked on a desert island with her. His daydreaming was shattered as Shayne reeled in a fish.

  ‘Hey, mate!’ John yelled. ‘Dinner!’

  Shayne looked up at him and a slight smile appeared on his face. To John Buck it was a good omen.

  They had hardly spoken a word all week, but John hadn’t worried. He’d given Shayne all the space he needed and waited for a reaction. Several times he’d heard him crying in the night, but he hadn’t interfered. Shayne, he knew, would talk eventually. But, after a week had passed with no sign of a breakthrough, John decided to push things a little.

  He’d hired the fishing boat and motor from a fisherman in Ettalong, a small township not far away, and here they were, together on the ocean catching fish. For the first time in a week, John detected a glimmer of interest …

  ‘Flathead!’ John clapped his hands. ‘My favourite fish! There’s nothing better than flathead fillets and white wine for dinner.’

  ‘There’s only one,’ Shayne murmured.

  John turned his head at the sound of Shayne’s voice. ‘Sorry mate, did you say something?’ But Shayne had turned back and was gazing out towards the horizon. It was several seconds before he spoke again.

  ‘I said there’s only one fish. But you can have it.’

  John looked at his friend and smiled sadly. ‘That’s all right, Shayne. We’ll catch enough between us to fill this boat, or my name’s not John Buck! Then we’ll go back home and eat the fucking lot!’

  Shayne smiled briefly, but didn’t speak again that afternoon. They caught fifteen good-sized fish by the time the sun began to set behind the hills. John could tell that Shayne had enjoyed himself. He’d stopped staring at the ocean and began to concentrate on the simple art of fishing. It was hardly the deep behavioural shift Shayne’s psychiatrist had told John to look for, but it was a start.

  It was after the meal of fresh flathead and salad washed down with a white burgundy, that Shayne began to talk. Haltingly at first, but more intensely as the evening progressed.

  John let him ramble on, looking for snippets of conversation which he knew would lead to what had to be discussed. Finally after a long silence gazing out over the bay, Shayne opened up.

  ‘I don’t think I can handle the job any more, John.’

  ‘Rubbish.’

  ‘Naaah,’ Shayne shook his head. ‘I mean it.’

  ‘You just went through a fairly simple police nightmare,’ John said gently. ‘It’s happened to a lot of coppers over the years.’r />
  ‘You reckon, do you?’

  ‘Sure,’ John nodded. ‘You did what had to be done. No more no less. The same as they all did.’

  ‘Have you seen the autopsy reports on those blokes?’

  John hesitated. He knew what was coming next. ‘Yeah, I’ve seen them. Why?’

  ‘I hit them, didn’t I? Both of them. I got the driver in the neck and jaw and the other bloke in the chest?’

  ‘Yes,’ John said simply. ‘You did. Is that’s what’s bugging you?’

  ‘That’s part of it.’ Shayne shook his head. ‘It was like a film in slow motion. I got to the window and started firing. It seemed to last forever. The noise of the gun—’ Shayne shuddered and sipped at his wine. ‘I never realised how loud it would be. You know what I mean? I’ve fired .38s on the range like everybody else, but in that street … Jesus. And the bullets. I saw them go in. I killed the driver as he started … I must have … I mean, half his head was shot off … I thought they just made little holes as they went in but …’ Shayne fell silent.

  ‘I went through all that shit in the war, Shayne,’ John said as he looked at him. ‘What can I say?’ He shrugged. ‘You never get used to it. Nobody does. But you can’t let it get to you. You mustn’t let it stop you from going on with your life.’

  Shayne slumped back in his chair, then looked at John without emotion. ‘When I saw you get shot, I didn’t know what to do. Sergeant Rickards wasn’t there.’

  John grinned. ‘The useless cunt locked himself in the fucking laundry.’

  They both laughed, then Shayne fell silent and stared out at the twinkling lights of Ettalong. ‘It was the smell that was the worst—’ he began to say, then he vomited all over his lap.

  It was so sudden, John was caught unawares. ‘Oh, shit!’ he yelled as the vomit splashed on his shoes.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry,’ Shayne gasped, then vomited again.

  John Buck then did something he couldn’t even explain to himself. While Shayne wasn’t looking, he put his fingers down his throat and made himself sick.

  Shayne looked up and stared at him.

  ‘Did you have to mention that fucking smell?’ John moaned.

  ‘Does it get to you too? The memory of the smell, I mean?’

  John coughed weakly. ‘Of course it does! I can’t get it out of my head. Every time I think of that fucking burnt bloke I spew!’

  ‘So do I,’ admitted Shayne.

  ‘It’s okay, mate,’ John said, rising to his feet. ‘It’s okay. I’ll get a bucket and we’ll clean it up.’

  Shayne sat staring at the night until John returned.

  ‘Here we go,’ he said lightly. ‘There’s no doubt about it! Flathead and white wine will do it every time. Especially if you’re thinking about burnt people!’

  They both laughed, and that moment something deep inside Shayne’s subconscious stirred and the healing process began.

  ‘I thought it was just me,’ Shayne said softly.

  ‘No, mate,’ assured John. ‘It’s a fucking awful thing to smell. I smelled it once before, during the war and it took me a long time to forget it. Then, the other night it came back to me like a nightmare.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve been dreaming about it.’

  ‘You will for a while yet. It’s normal, Shayne. Don’t worry.’ John patted his friend on the shoulder. ‘Everything you did the other night was right. It’s a pity you had to be the one, but you were. Nothing can change that. But those bastards killed a man and in doing so they brought about their own deaths. You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of. You just have to learn to live with it.’

  Shayne sighed. ‘I suppose you’re right, but it’s hard, you know?’

  ‘I know.’ John grasped his shoulder. ‘But it’s the game we play. We’re cops. Now, get your clothes off and hop into the shower, mate.’ John began mopping the balcony. ‘We’ll have an early night, eh?’

  ‘Yeah, right.’

  ‘And Shayne?’ he added as his friend got up.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t ever remind me of that smell again.’

  Two days later they were drinking with the locals at the Hardy’s Bay Store when a yellow sports car came down the hill and pulled up near the jetty opposite them. The woman driving it was a knockout and when she got out of the car, they all watched open-mouthed as six feet of total femininity stretched itself out of the cramps of a long drive.

  Several of the locals made lewd remarks under their breath as she approached them. But they fell into awed silence when she walked up to Shayne and kissed him full on the lips. Then she leaned back in Shayne’s arms and spoke directly to his eyes.

  ‘It’s been a long time, Shaynie boy.’

  ‘Too long, Zoe girl.’

  The following morning after Shayne and Zoe Collingwood had gone to buy the newspapers, John Buck packed his bags and made a phone call.

  ‘May I speak with Jane Smart, please?’

  ‘Speaking,’ the voice purred back down the line.

  He hardened his tone to one of vicious coldness. ‘You’ve caused me a lot of trouble, Jane.’

  ‘Who is this, please?’ The voice changed dramatically to one of authority.

  ‘It’s John Buck,’ he said smiling.

  ‘Detective Buck! How’s Shayne?’

  ‘Shayne? Oh he’s fine! Never been better! The poor bastard.’

  ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

  ‘Your niece, or foster child, or whatever she is, has arrived!’

  Jane laughed. ‘Well, I did warn you that someone may arrive. And I told you not to interfere, if I remember correctly?’

  ‘I have no intention of interfering, but I have two and a half weeks of paid leave left and nowhere to go!’

  ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ Jane Smart laughed down the line. ‘I should have let you know she was on her way up there, I suppose.’

  ‘Yeah, well, that doesn’t solve the problem,’ he said coolly.

  ‘Of what you’re going to do for the next two weeks?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Well,’ she said teasingly, ‘I own a lovely apartment on the Gold Coast at Surfers Paradise. You can have that. You’ve certainly earned it.’

  ‘Right.’ John took a deep breath. ‘May I ask you a provocative question?’

  ‘I don’t see why not.’

  He closed his eyes and said it. ‘What are you doing for the next two weeks?’

  A pregnant pause was followed by a throaty laugh. ‘Are you propositioning me, Detective Buck?’

  ‘I most certainly am.’

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Twenty-five. Just the right age for you.’

  Suddenly she was all businesslike. ‘I’ll put you through to my secretary, Detective Buck. She’ll make all the necessary arrangements for the use of the apartment. And thank you for looking after Shayne for me.’

  ‘I didn’t do it for you.’

  ‘Yes. Well, thank you just the same. Goodbye.’

  ‘Hey! You didn’t answer my question.’

  ‘Goodbye, Detective Buck.’

  Zoe Collingwood was nobody’s fool. She was an intelligent young woman with a strong sense of female intuition and she knew from the outset that Shayne Everard was a psychological minefield. From the time they’d first met, they’d been unable to leave each other alone. But since the shooting, Shayne had refused to see her and it had hurt her deeply. Zoe had to struggle desperately with the urge to take him in her arms and hold him.

  The first night she’d retired early, leaving the two young men alone on the balcony to talk. Instinct told her it was the best thing to do. She’d slept alone in Jane’s bedroom and woke briefly at two am when she heard them go off to their beds.

  On the second night, alone with Shayne, she’d allowed silence to prevail. She could see him struggling to communicate with her, but once again she allowed her instinct to govern her and didn’t try to force anything.

  At around o
ne in the morning, several hours after he’d bade her goodnight, Shayne had come to her bed. He’d kissed her passionately, but when it came to the crucial moment, he’d been unable to perform. Zoe had assured him that it didn’t matter to her and held him in her arms until he fell asleep.

  Jane Smart had warned Zoe that Shayne was in a pretty bad way. The night before Zoe left, they’d sat up late at Jane’s apartment and discussed the matter.

  ‘He was involved in something that no young man should ever have to go through,’ Jane had said as she poured Remy Martin Cognac into Zoe’s brandy balloon. ‘From what I can gather, they had to literally shock him out of his condition.’

  ‘Where is he, Jane?’ Zoe asked.

  ‘I’ve got him hidden away at the beach house.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘No. Another detective, his friend John Buck, is with him.’

  ‘John Buck.’ Zoe sipped her cognac. ‘Yes, I’ve met him.’

  ‘I want you to go to him, Zoe. Drop whatever you’re doing and go to him.’

  Zoe looked Jane in the eye. ‘If I see any more of him, I’ll be of no use to you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’ll fall in love with him and betray you.’

  Jane got up and walked to the balcony door. She looked out over the glittering harbour, then turned to Zoe. ‘What happened to the tough girl supermodel who wanted to own the world?’

  Zoe shrugged. ‘She met a boy and fell flat on her behind. It’s as simple as that.’

  Jane sat on the large lounge next to Zoe. ‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’

  ‘Deadly serious. You’ve been good to me Jane. Like a mother, in fact, and I don’t want anything to come between us, but if you send me to him, I won’t come back.’

  ‘That bad, eh?’

  ‘It’s worse.’ Zoe swirled the brandy in her glass. ‘I can’t think of anyone else. And now you tell me he’s hurt and every instinct in me tells me to go to him. But I won’t.’ She stared at the brandy. ‘I have two modelling assignments in the Philippines. I’ll do them and take a holiday in Europe. I’ll force him from my mind. I’ll do that for you. But I won’t play your spy any more. Not with Shayne.’ She leaned forward, put her head in her hands and closed her eyes.