He closed the sliding balcony door behind him and lit a cigarette as he gazed out over the moonlit ocean. The penny had well and truly dropped. Now all he had to do was make a decision. What in God’s name was he going to do about it?’
He breathed in the night air and his mind wandered briefly to Penny Everard, no doubt wrapped snugly in bed in her little flat in Melbourne. He was in love with her, of that he had no doubt.
They’d become close friends very quickly last year, when Shayne, desperate to crack onto Zoe, ‘The Six-Foot Dream’, as she was known throughout the Central Detectives Squad, had left them alone to dine.
It had been the start of a very strong relationship. Penny was pretty and intelligent, but above all she was honest and true. Old-fashioned virtues, John supposed, but ones that meant more than anything to him. They’d kept in contact for several months after their first date, mostly because of Shayne and his condition after the Sellers Street Shootout. John smiled at the nickname. Cops always gave ‘incidents’ nicknames—it helped make sure they were never forgotten, that they became part of police folklore.
Eventually John had travelled to Melbourne to see her. She’d suggested it and it seemed like a good idea to him. He needed a break. Penny had met him at Spencer Street Railway Station and taken him straight home.
They’d discussed Shayne and he’d allayed her fears, then they’d gone to a local hotel for dinner. John had suggested he book into the hotel, but Penny had looked him straight in the eye and assured him it wouldn’t be necessary.
John was sure they both fell in love at the same moment. They drank brandy and talked books and music until two in the morning, then Penny yawned. He was apologetic. He’d kept her up—she had to attend university the next day. He was sorry, he said, he’d been having such a good time, he hadn’t realised it was so late.
Penny smiled at his discomfort, reminded him it was the weekend and that she wasn’t due at university until Monday and, when he looked at the couch and asked for a blanket, she smiled a deep, wise, womanly smile and walked into her bedroom. He followed her, and from the moment they first touched each other, they fell in love.
The roar of the waves crashing on Bondi Beach brought him back to the present. The jigsaw puzzle he’d struggled with so often in his mind had finally fallen into place and he was positive that Jane Smart was the key to it.
His relationship with Jane was highly volatile—charged with a sexual energy he’d never experienced, not even with Penny. It had nothing to do with love, it was simply a case of two people drawn to each other like magnets.
Six months before he’d been assigned to protective detail for a Mayoral reception at the Town Hall. It was a pretty low-profile affair. Who, for fuck’s sake, would want to shoot the Lord Mayor? But it was overtime duty and he needed the money as always.
Then he’d spotted Jane Smart and the minute their eyes had met, the air was filled with electricity. Ten minutes later he’d positioned himself in front of a private doorway and stared at her, willing her eyes to once again meet his. They did. Seconds later she was staring back. He opened the door and waited in the darkened security room. She came to him not long after.
They’d torn at each other like alley cats and he’d had her against the wall. Christ alive, he thought as he ground into her. We’re in the bloody Town Hall and I’m on duty! It was over in a minute.
‘That’s not enough,’ she gasped when they’d finished and rearranged their clothes.
‘I know,’ he replied.
‘Wait for me outside my place. Do you know where it is?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll be there as soon as I can.’
John had waited and they’d made love all night. In the morning he’d left without speaking to her and that had been that.
John had been with Jane on two occasions since. Both times Jane had instigated the meetings. She said he was her pressure release valve, and he thought he could handle it. He’d been wrong. He was committed to Penny and told Jane so. She laughed and called him a baby, adding that she only wanted him on rare occasions when she was lonely.
But now he had a problem of far greater magnitude. He had pieced together what a whole police task force had been unable to link up. With some investigative help from Shayne, he’d connected the murders of the three tycoons with three other deaths that had occurred on the same night. The other deaths had been accidents—or had they? It was too much of a coincidence. All six who had perished that night knew each other and—this was the big problem for John Buck—they all knew Jane Smart.
At the beginning of the investigation a year before, John had been intrigued when he learned that Grainger Bertram was one of the murder victims. He remembered answering the telephone in Jane’s apartment in Surfers Paradise when Bertram had rung. The fact that he’d spoken to the man whose murder he was investigating made the process seem macabre. He couldn’t put it out of his mind. Every time he heard or read the name Grainger Bertram, the feeling came back to him.
Several times he’d been on the verge of asking Jane about Grainger Bertram, but had never done so. However, on the night of the Mayoral reception, when he’d gone to her house, she’d casually mentioned the two other victims, Henry Lovell and Gustav Jergens, revealing to him that she’d known all three.
Shayne was ambivalent about John’s theories. He was deeply involved with Zoe. And Zoe was Jane’s ward. Shayne agreed that their findings certainly seemed to incriminate Jane Smart, but he was ill at ease with the matter. He was reluctant to go on with it, fearful that it might affect his relationship with Zoe.
Zoe Collingwood spent a good deal of time overseas on modelling assignments, and Shayne struggled with their frequent separations. He tended to bury his head in the sand when John would mention Jane’s growing list of dead former associates. He’d say it was all circumstantial and that John should look for proof or drop the subject.
The proof had arrived by accident. John was on the verge of forgetting the whole thing until one night, about a month before, when he’d been drinking with Shayne and another cop in the Clock Hotel in Surry Hills, one of their regular drinking holes.
The public bar had been virtually empty. Shayne and the other cop were playing darts, so John had chatted to Paddy Freeman, the barman. Paddy loved a chat, especially with the ‘boys in blue’.
‘It’s quiet, Paddy.’
‘Sure is, Mr Buck,’ Paddy replied as he wiped a tray of glasses. ‘Not like the old days, eh?’
‘It certainly isn’t.’ John had grown up in Surry Hills when it was a rough, tough suburb, full of hardened criminals.
‘Mind you,’ Paddy had waved a gleaming glass at him. ‘It still has its odd moments.’
‘How do you mean?’
Paddy leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘Do you remember the night last year when those toffs got shot in that flash house in Mosman?’
‘Yeah.’ John’s ears pricked up. ‘I remember it well.’
‘Let me tell you something then.’ Paddy leaned even further over the bar. ‘At about the time those blokes got it, Molly Stergen came running in here, scared shitless.’
‘So?’
‘Molly ain’t the kind of girl that scares easily. She’s been around, that one.’
‘But what’s it got to do with the Mosman Murders?’
‘Probably nothing,’ Paddy said and shrugged, ‘but her boyfriend was found dead the next morning, not three streets from here in Moore Park. How’s that?’
John Buck shook his head. Paddy Freeman was an ex-pug and could lose the plot as quickly as he discovered it, but John persevered. ‘Mosman’s a bloody long way from Moore Park, Paddy.’
‘Just so,’ replied Paddy enigmatically, then he winked and went into the bottle sales department to serve a customer.
It was five minutes before he returned.
‘Who was the dead bloke?’ John asked.
‘What dead bloke?’ Paddy frowned.
‘The
one in Moore Park!’
‘Oh right! Him!’ Paddy picked up a glass to clean, then winked at John as he whispered. ‘John fucking Birmingham, none the less. How’s that then!’
‘The ex-Labor bloke?’
‘One and the same.’ Paddy leaned in conspiratorially. ‘And, he’d ’ave known all those rich blokes that got machine-gunned.’
‘Jesus!’ John was genuinely shocked. ‘Did you ever tell the police about it?’
‘I don’t ever tell the boys in blue nothin’ less they come in here and ’ave a drink like you’re doin’. And, I gotta like them. I don’t like some of ’em at all. No siree! Some of ’em are complete bastards!’
John frowned, thinking hard. ‘What was the sheila’s name again?’
‘What sheila?’ Paddy was genuinely perplexed.
‘Christ!’ John muttered. ‘The sheila with the dead boyfriend who was found in the park!’
‘Oh her! Right. Molly Stergen—but don’t say I told you.’ Paddy tapped his nose with his forefinger. ‘No names, no pack drill, you know what I mean?’
‘What’s she do, Paddy?’
‘She’s a retired lady of the night. A bloody good one too in her day. Top class, beautiful looking. Still is, sort of. She used to work for Jane Smart and you can’t get any better than that now, can you?’
‘No you can’t,’ John replied casually, as his stomach did a back flip at the mention of Jane’s name. ‘Where does she live?’
Paddy looked at him. ‘Jane Smart? I got no idea.’
‘Not her!’ John snapped in exasperation. ‘Molly Stergen!’
Paddy busied himself polishing a glass. ‘I got no idea,’ he said, staring at the floor.
‘Paddy!’ John pointed a finger at him. ‘Don’t fuck me around. This is important.’
‘Round the corner in Rainford Street. I don’t know the number, but it’s the little house on the corner of the lane.’ Paddy looked around the empty bar. ‘Mum’s the word, Mr Buck. Like I said before: no names, no pack drill.’
‘Shayne! You blokes want another beer?’ John called out. ‘It’s my shout.’ He turned back to Paddy and placed a twenty dollar bill on the counter. ‘Three beers if you don’t mind, Paddy, and keep the change, mate.’
‘You’re a gentleman, Mr Buck.’ Paddy grinned as he poured the beers. ‘One of nature’s finest.’
It took John Buck a week, with the help of a reluctant but intrigued Shayne, to find Molly Stergen. She’d moved from Surry Hills, leaving a difficult trail of ten addresses in a year. When John finally did find her, she was dead drunk.
It was a stinking hot February night when John pulled his car into the parking lot of the Leura Hotel in the Blue Mountains west of Sydney. He’d already done an 8am–4pm day shift in the City Crime Car and then driven into the mountains on his own time. Shayne had refused to go with him, because Zoe had just arrived back in town for a couple of days.
John was uneasy about doing the investigation on his own time, but some sixth sense was telling him to keep it to himself. He had, in fact, told no one of his findings or suspicions—apart from Shayne. It seemed to him that he was running down a dark tunnel at full tilt and he sensed a very real danger awaiting him when he broke into the light.
Molly Stergen was sitting in a chair in the ladies’ parlour, legs splayed and head wobbling on her shoulders. The barman had pointed her out through the sliding window at the end of the bar.
‘That’s her, in the parlour,’ the barman had indicated, ‘but she’s a bit the worse for wear. Are you a friend of hers?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘John. John Smith,’ Buck replied.
‘Would you be the John she’s always muttering about?’
‘Could be. I’m an old friend of the family.’
‘Well then, you can get her upstairs to her room,’ the barman grunted. ‘I’m sick of carrying her up there every night.’ He held up a hand. ‘Don’t get me wrong, she’s a good barmaid, but she gets pissed every night when she finishes work. Makes a real mess of herself and I’ve had a gutful, if the truth be known. Room 12 at the top of the stairs on the right.’
‘I’ll look after her,’ John promised and moved off.
‘She talks rubbish when she’s drunk like that,’ the barman called after him. ‘Mostly about you, if you’re the Johnny from Balmain. She never shuts up about you.’
John Buck walked into the ladies parlour. Molly Stergen was alone. She looked at him unsurely through glazed eyes.
‘Johnny?’ Her voice was slurred.
‘Yeah. It’s me, Johnny.’ He felt like a bastard, but he had to know the truth.
‘You came back. My little Johnny from Balmain.’ Then she began to cry.
‘Come on,’ he whispered, ‘let’s get you upstairs.’
John helped her to her feet and took her up to her room. He helped her unlock her door with the key which was hanging on a leather thong around her neck and closed it as soon as they were inside.
‘I have to lay down, Johnny,’ Molly sobbed. ‘I wasn’t expecting you, otherwise I’d have kept myself nice.’
‘That’s okay, Molly.’ Buck spoke gently as he laid her on the bed and sat next to her.
‘I told you everything would be okay,’ she whispered and rolled onto her side. ‘I went to get cigarettes, that’s all. Honest. And when I came back you were gone.’
‘I’m here now though, aren’t I?’ he said tenderly.
‘Yes. I told you they wouldn’t hurt you.’
‘You sure did.’
‘You were right about the others though, Johnny,’ she said vaguely.
‘Who, Molly?’
‘Eh?’ Molly muttered. She was close to unconsciousness.
Buck shook her gently. ‘Who was I right about?’
‘Morgan and Folling. They got ’em both.’
‘Who got them, Molly?’ He raised his voice. ‘Molly, who got them?’
‘The Tip-Toe boys …’ Molly sighed and drifted into sleep.
Buck sat and watched her. Her features softened and her jaw went slack, then she began to snore. He got up and let himself out of her room, but not before he gave her one last look. Paddy Freeman was right. She would have been very beautiful once. Top class. He switched out the light and left her to her loneliness.
Downstairs in the car park, he lit a cigarette and felt the heat of the night caress his skin. Morgan. Pat Morgan the politician. Of course! He’d died that same night. In a car accident with some socialite sheila.
Birmingham and Morgan. Two very influential politicians had died that night, and yet the task force investigation had not even included their deaths in its enquiry. What the fuck had gone on? And who the hell was Folling?
‘Tip-Toe?’ Shayne had muttered. ‘That name rings vague bells with me.’ But he couldn’t remember from where.
Folling was the next logical move. Discovering his identity had been a piece of cake. As a first step John Buck merely assumed that Folling had died on the same night as the others. And why not? Every man and his bloody dog seemed to have died that night. He was right.
A quick trip to the newspaper archives office revealed that Kenneth Folling, a well-known Sydney accountant, had died in a factory fire in Alexandria at approximately the same time as the Mosman Murders occurred.
Kenneth Folling’s widow lived in the expensive harbourside suburb of Hunters Hill in Sydney’s inner west. The house was an old, beautifully preserved double-storey sandstone cottage. It stood on a hill overlooking the water and the Gladesville Bridge.
The door was opened by an attractive woman in her early forties. ‘May I help you?’ The woman smiled sweetly at John Buck.
‘I’d like to speak to Mrs Kenneth Folling, please. My name is John Buck.’ He took out his police warrant card and held it up. ‘I’m a police officer.’
‘Oh, dear.’ She frowned. ‘That’s me. You’d better come in. I hope there’s nothing wrong?’
John followed her into a grand foyer and was shown through the house onto a terrace overlooking the water.
‘I was just having a cup of tea,’ she said, indicating a silver teapot. ‘Would you like some?’
‘Thanks, I would.’ John sat in the chair he’d been offered and watched the woman pour the tea. She refilled her own cup and sat next to him in a wicker chair.
‘Now,’ she said, handing John his cup of tea, ‘what’s this all about, Mr Buck?’
‘It’s no big deal, Mrs Folling.’
‘Call me Jean.’ She smiled and lowered her eyelids.
Buck stirred his tea. ‘I’m investigating the theft of some rare books, Jean, and I have reason to believe that they may have been in your husband’s bookbinding factory when it burnt down.’
She sighed. ‘I’m afraid I can’t be of any assistance to you, Mr Buck. I never interfered with my husband’s work.’
‘I know that, Jean. There’s no way I’m ever going to find those books, or the person who stole them, but I’ve got to go through the motions, you understand.’ He moved uncomfortably in his seat. Mrs Folling was eyeing him up and down like a piece of fresh meat.
‘Of course. Justice must be seen to be done.’
‘I’m sorry about your husband.’ John sipped his tea. ‘Apparently he died in the fire?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’ Mrs Folling adopted a suitably contrite pose and placed her cup on the table. ‘He was a good husband and father. It was a great shock to us all.’
I’ll bet, John thought. But life goes on, Mrs Folling, and you’re raring to go, by the look of you. ‘It must have been a great shock to his colleagues too,’ he prompted. ‘Especially his Labor colleagues.’
‘Yes, it was. Kenneth was very passionate about his politics. Pat Morgan dying the same night in that terrible crash …’ She shook her head. ‘It was awful.’
John sat forward in his chair, his pulse rate starting to rise. ‘Did you know Mr Morgan?’
‘Oh, yes,’ she trilled. ‘Pat came here several times. Kenneth held the occasional fund-raiser in our garden and all the famous people of Sydney attended.’ Jean Folling lifted the teapot in her perfectly manicured hand. ‘More tea?’
A Necessary Evil Page 31
