A Necessary Evil

by Bruce Venables

  Pat Morgan replaced the handpiece and stared at the wall. He shook his head slowly. Cocaine was an insidious drug. Birmingham was a fool and his display of blatant and unnecessary panic proved he was out of control and a danger to the organisation. He’d have to warn Harold about it. If Birmingham was removed from the scene, it would serve him bloody right.

  Pat Morgan retrieved his cuff links from the floor. He was totally pissed off. He was going to be late for the opera.

  Harold Everard walked into the bar of the Sebel Town House in Kings Cross and ordered a martini. He’d deliberately arrived twenty minutes early for his meeting, because he loved sitting in the little bar looking around at the autographed pictures of world famous musicians and actors which adorned the walls.

  He sipped his drink and a particular photo caught his eye. It was of a young actress currently starring in an Australian soap opera on television which had captured the attention of the whole nation. ‘The Box’, as the show was called, was about the day-today running of a television channel and the woman in the picture played a bisexual publicist who’d screwed practically all of the other characters, both male and female, in the show.

  Harold tucked into a handful of nuts he’d scooped from a glass bowl on the bar. He couldn’t remember the actress’s name. He’d met her briefly one night a year or two before after a performance of David Williamson’s play Don’s Party. She was in the cast and they’d been introduced by Jane Smart, of all people. He wondered idly whether her real-life libido matched that of her current television character’s. Probably not, he mused.

  ‘Mr Everard?’

  Harold turned and looked into the extremely ugly face of Joey Bastini, Gus Penzone’s lieutenant.

  ‘Hello, Joey. How goes the male modelling course?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing. Where’s your boss?’

  ‘Mr Penzone says to tell you he is dining and would you care to join him?’ Joey lifted his arm in invitation.

  They left the bar and walked through the foyer to the restaurant. Gus Penzone was seated alone at a booth in the far corner. Harold made his way over and sat down. Joey Bastini disappeared.

  ‘Try the minestrone. It’s fan-fucking-tastic.’ Gus burped.

  ‘Champagne will do me; I’m not very hungry,’ Harold replied and signalled the waiter. ‘A bottle of Dom Perignon and put it on Mr Penzone’s bill.’

  ‘Certainly, sir.’ The waiter scurried off.

  ‘What’s your problem, Mr Everard?’

  Harold shrugged. ‘I don’t have one if you don’t. Just thought I’d check in.’

  ‘Everything is as you asked it to be.’ Gus dunked bread into his soup and spilled it down the front of his shirt as he gulped down the bread.

  ‘Good.’ Harold nodded gravely. ‘It must be done properly. No mistakes, Gus. Your silent friends have asked me to tell you this.’

  Gus looked up slyly. ‘I need a favour from my silent friends also.’

  ‘All you have to do is ask.’ Harold watched the waiter open and pour the champagne. When he’d gone, Harold continued. ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘Lou Brascia has applied for a licence to import Italian wine into Australia. It would not be in my family’s best interests if the licence application was approved.’

  Harold held up his hand. ‘It won’t be. Put it out of your mind.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Gus wiped his whole face with his table napkin and looked at Harold. ‘These men involved in tonight’s fireworks, they are influential men. Powerful men.’

  ‘So?’ Harold’s voice dropped. ‘Is that a problem for you, Gus? Because if it is, our silent friends would not be happy.’

  ‘No!’ Gus raised his hands defensively. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I just mean that there is bound to be repercussions.’

  Harold gestured expansively. ‘Any investigations into the matter will be handled by the police department, Gus. We’ll try our hardest, but I can assure you, the matter will not be solved.’

  Gus grunted. ‘You tell our silent friends the matter will be handled tonight. There will be no hiccups.’

  ‘Excellent!’ Harold smiled thinly. He couldn’t possibly stay any longer. Gus Penzone had the table manners of a warthog. He signalled the waiter. ‘Have this champagne delivered to the bar, will you? Gus, if you’ll excuse me, I have to meet someone.’

  Jane Smart walked across the Sydney Opera House forecourt towards the main steps that led to the Opera Theatre. She loved the Opera House, loved Sydney in its entirety, especially on a warm summer night. And her favourite spot of all was Circular Quay and Bennelong Point on which the Opera House was built. The close proximity of the city skyline and the Harbour Bridge with its framed lights never ceased to delight her.

  Her happy disposition faded as she noticed Stan Ames standing at the foot of the stairs watching her approach.

  ‘Good evening, Jane.’ He smiled grimly at her.

  ‘Stan, I’d love to stop and talk,’ she said in a no-nonsense manner, ‘but I’ll be late for the opera. I hope you don’t mind?’

  ‘You’re not going to the opera, Jane.’

  ‘I beg your pardon!’ Jane’s voice was arch.

  Ames’ tone softened. ‘I’m sorry, honey. I’ve got to talk to you.’

  ‘Can’t it wait?’

  ‘No,’ Ames replied flatly.

  Jane looked him up and down. ‘It’s serious, isn’t it?’

  ‘Mmm.’ Ames nodded and took her by the arm. ‘I’ve got a car waiting,’ he said as they walked. ‘You and I have to go somewhere very public and play alibis.’ He stopped next to the car and looked at her. ‘Were you going to the opera alone?’

  ‘I always go to the opera alone. I prefer it that way.’ It was true. Jane never went to the opera in company. Opera made her cry. It was the only place in the world where she could be seen to cry and Jane always preferred to cry alone.

  Ames helped her into the back of his car, gave an order to the driver and the car glided off into the warm summer night.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Franco Rossi still could not believe his luck. Ten days holiday in Australia—right out of the blue! Life was a series of ups and downs, of that there was no doubt.

  Franco had arrived in Sydney nine days ago at the invitation of his uncle. He’d visited his cousins and his baby nephew in Leichhardt. He’d been to Taronga Park Zoo and even visited the Hunter Valley winery where his childhood friend Enrico now worked. He loved Australia very much and one day soon, his uncle had promised that he would be able to migrate with his wife Pia and their two children. And life in Australia would be good, of that he was certain.

  Franco busied himself at his work. He was an expert at what he did. There was not a better mechanic in the world. Of this he was also certain. One day in Australia, he dreamed as he worked, he would own his own business and work on beautiful cars, like the E-type Jaguar he was now lying under.

  To the base of the steering column he fitted the smaller of the two plastic explosive charges he’d painstakingly manufactured the night before, and set its small radio receiver unit to ON. As the ARMED WARNING light began to flash cheerily, he chuckled to himself. The little lights always made him laugh. Still, he was glad it was installed—it was the more dangerous of the two charges to handle because it also contained an incendiary compound.

  Franco then moved to the rear of the car and placed the larger charge just in front of the petrol tank. Once again he activated the radio receiver accompanying it and stood up. He looked around the car park. All was quiet—as it should be. He packed his bag of tools and walked away.

  He stopped under a streetlamp several hundred yards up the street and looked at his watch. The car which would take him to the airport for his flight to Roma would be arriving any second. The only thing left to do was give the radio detonation transmitter to the men who would pick him up.

  He looked around at the city one last time, trying to remember every detail, so he could tell Pia a
nd his children about it when he got home. Yes, he smiled as the car pulled up beside him, Australia would be a wonderful place for them to live. A safe place, with plenty of opportunities for an honest man to make money and raise his kids.

  In the upstairs office of a bookbinding firm in the South Sydney suburb of Alexandria, Kenneth Foiling, an accountant and owner of the firm, sat at a desk reading an audit sheet under the glare of a small table lamp. He sighed as his eyes roved over the figures before him. He had no need to work these long hours. He could be home with his wife and kids.

  Kenneth Foiling was a wealthy man. A very wealthy man. The only reason he maintained the bookbinding firm was because it had been his grandfather’s and then his father’s business and Kenneth had inherited it. The firm didn’t even make much money, but Kenneth Foiling continued to run it. It was the original family business and a matter of personal pride to him. Besides, it made his mother happy.

  Downstairs on the darkened workshop floor a figure moved stealthily among the silent machinery, then cautiously up the steel staircase towards the dim glow emanating from the office.

  Kenneth Foiling paused at his reading and glanced at the closed door to his office. The handle was turning. He pinched the bridge of his nose, thinking his eyes were playing tricks on him. As he did so, the door burst open and a man dressed in black moved towards him with incredible speed. Before he could react, the man glided around the desk and took him in a headlock. In that split second, fear registered in Folling’s mind. He knew this man! Harold Everard had sent him. But why? It was his last thought. He heard his neck snap and a sweet darkness enveloped him.

  Detective Sergeant Derek Schumacher stood over Folling’s inert body and checked for a pulse in the throat. There was none. He ran back down the stairs to a cardboard box he’d placed on a workshop table minutes earlier. He removed from it a small tin container, a bag of chlorine pellets and a bottle of brake fluid mixed with soap flakes.

  Schumacher worked at speed. He tipped the chlorine pellets into the tin container and sat it next to an electrical outlet, then poured the brake fluid onto the pellets. Immediately, smoke began to rise from the tin container as the chemicals reacted.

  He knew he had ninety seconds maximum to get out of the factory. He ran to the huge steel roller-door and exited through the small traitor’s gate set into its edge. He turned and locked the gate behind him, moved across the road and stood watching the building, his body tingling with anticipation.

  Inside, a flame appeared inside the tin container. This was followed by a small explosion, which sent the burning soap flakes flying in all directions like angry fireflies. Within minutes the ground floor of the factory was a raging inferno, which would soon engulf the upstairs office and the body of the dead accountant lying there.

  Satisfied with his work, Schumacher walked casually up the street to his car and slowly drove out of the area.

  Grainger Bertram was a self-made man. Powerful, virile and greedy, he’d risen from the slums of Melbourne to become one of Australia’s richest men.

  Newspapers had beckoned him since he was a small boy. He’d started his working life as a tea-boy with the Melbourne Age and graduated to journalism through sheer persistence and hard work. By the time he’d turned thirty, he owned shares in most of the major newspapers across Australia.

  Life had been good to Grainger Bertram. At fifty-eight, he had a beautiful wife twenty years his junior, from one of Melbourne society’s best and oldest families, four children and a fortune in assets, amassed over a lifetime of powerbroking.

  ‘Good evening, Mr Grainger.’ The chauffeur tipped his hat and opened the door of the Rolls Royce.

  ‘Good evening, Carl.’ Grainger settled into the car and reached for the chilled champagne set in an ice bucket on the interior wall.

  ‘Where to, sir?’ the chauffeur asked as he pulled away from the front doors of the Sheraton Hotel.

  ‘Condoblin House.’ Condoblin House was a private club situated on the water’s edge of Sydney Harbour in the north shore suburb of Mosman.

  ‘Very good, sir,’ the chauffeur replied and headed for an approach to the Sydney Harbour Bridge.

  Detective Sergeant Ian Spencer let himself out of John Birmingham’s flat in Balmain. He locked the door behind him and swore under his breath as he headed for his car.

  Birmingham was gone. His clothes and toiletries were missing from the flat, and the mess there indicated to Spencer that he’d fled in a hurry.

  ‘Fuck it!’ Spencer repeated as he got into his vehicle. He took the case containing a syringe of insulin from his pocket and put it in the glove compartment. Birmingham’s accidental death would have to wait.

  Jane Smart sat at an upstairs corner table of the Cavalier Nightclub. She ignored her companion and stared down at the traffic moving like well-disciplined beetles through the intersection of Taylor Square.

  ‘Excuse me, Superintendent Ames?’

  ‘Yes?’ Stan Ames replied to the waiter who had approached their table.

  ‘There’s a telephone call for you.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll be there in a minute.’ Ames looked across the table at the beautiful profile of Jane Smart. ‘Don’t go anywhere, Jane. I won’t be long.’

  Jane had barely registered that Ames had left the table. Her mind was travelling at one hundred miles an hour. What Ames had just told her had shocked her to the core. Things were out of control. Harold was out of control. She could see the logic in closing Tip-Toe Investments, but the way Harold was going about it was insane.

  John Birmingham and Pat Morgan had brought it on themselves. She could handle that. Birmingham’s drug and alcohol abuse made him a danger to them all and Morgan’s stupidity made him a liability Tip-Toe Investments could not afford. But the others were a different kettle of fish. Grainger Bertram, Henry Lovell and Gustav Jergens were three of the most influential people in the country and their deaths would cause an uproar.

  As much as Jane had hardened over the years, she could not come to grips with wholesale slaughter. And that’s exactly what this was. She knew Grainger Bertram and the others well enough to know that if Tip-Toe Investments had to be closed, they’d all see the logic in it and go along with any reasonable suggestions. They’d made millions through Tip-Toe and it would be in their own best interests to close it quietly and be grateful for the good fortune they’d all shared over the years. So why was Harold taking this reckless path?

  ‘Sorry about that.’ Ames returned to the table and sat down. ‘A bit of a hiccup. Birmingham’s done a runner.’

  ‘Good.’

  Ames looked amazed. ‘It won’t be if he opens his mouth! We’ll all go down the gurgler and that includes you, Jane.’

  She looked at him for a moment and sighed wearily. ‘He’ll go to Molly before he does anything else.’ When Jane Smart’s neck was on the chopping block, she never hesitated. It was a rule of hers that had seen her through a lot of years.

  ‘Who’s Molly?’ Ames asked.

  ‘She worked for me on and off. She gave the game away a few years back. John Birmingham was one of her regular customers and when she retired they continued in a relationship of sorts. Lately he’s come to rely on her more and more. She gets his cocaine for him.’

  ‘Address?’

  She looked at the table. ‘Oh Christ!’

  ‘Address!’ Ames snapped.

  ‘On one condition.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Molly doesn’t get hurt.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘Rainford Street, in Surry Hills. Number 54.’

  Ames left the table immediately and Jane once more stared morosely down at the crowds of people in Taylor Square. They were going about their ordinary lives. Sharing their ordinary joys and sorrows. She wished for a moment that she could be one of them. A faceless person in the sea of humanity. But it was too late for that.

  Harold was mad, of that she had no doubt, but she knew him too well to call him cr
azy. Harold must have a hidden agenda. He must have! Jane racked her brain for an answer, but nothing came to mind.

  ‘Fixed,’ Ames said smugly as he returned.

  ‘Just like that, eh?’ Jane replied sarcastically. ‘A man’s life is forfeit and all you can say is “fixed”?’

  ‘Don’t put shit on me, Jane,’ Ames snarled. ‘You’re the one who just gave him up, remember?’

  They sipped their cocktails in silence for some time, then Jane looked at him.

  ‘What’s Harold really up to, Stan?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’ Ames looked at her blankly.

  ‘No.’ Jane smiled sadly. ‘You probably don’t.’ She put her drink on the table and leaned towards him. ‘Harold’s nobody’s fool, Stan.’

  ‘I’ll go along with that.’ Ames stared at her cleavage as she leaned over the table.

  ‘I can understand his logic in closing Tip-Toe, but why go to these extremes? What’s he up to?’

  ‘Search me.’ Ames grinned. ‘I gave up trying to understand Harold years ago. All I know is he always makes the right moves. He’s a clever bastard.’

  ‘He’s got to be up to something!’

  ‘He’s been closing Tip-Toe for two years.’ Ames continued to stare at Jane’s breasts. ‘How much money would you want to go to bed with me, Jane?’

  ‘Stop it!’ Jane drew back from the table.

  ‘I mean it!’ Ames groaned.

  Jane was about to admonish him again when the thought struck her. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said how much money—’

  ‘Not that!’ She sat upright and stared at him. ‘You said something else about closing Tip-Toe.’

  ‘Yeah. Harold’s been closing Tip-Toe for the last two years. He told me when we were playing golf. That is, when I was playing golf. He was cheating as usual.’

  ‘What exactly did he say?’ Jane’s mind was racing.