‘Four of us drew straws to see who’d do it. The one who drew the short straw had to kill him.’
‘Who drew the short straw?’ Shayne asked and closed his eyes.
Tommy looked at the boy. ‘Your father. Harold Everard. Stan Ames went with him to make sure he went through with it.’ Shayne looked at him, barely comprehending. ‘Your grandfather was too good for them,’ Tommy continued. He could feel a huge weight lifting from his shoulders. He was glad the truth was coming out. Josie would have liked it that way. ‘He got the drop on them both. Then Harold stepped into the light and I reckon it must have broken George’s heart. Ames got him first. Four in the chest. Then, as he lay dying in the street, your father shot him in the head.’
The three men sat in silence until they heard the police cars pull up outside. Car doors slammed and the sound of running feet approached.
‘Will you two go outside and keep those blokes off my back for a few minutes?’ Tommy asked. ‘I’m tired.’ The young sergeants did as he asked and went to the front door. Then Tommy called Shayne back to the lounge room door. ‘I’m sorry, Shayne,’ he whispered. Shayne stared at him for several seconds, then nodded and went outside. Tommy looked at the photograph of Josie and smiled. Then he put the pistol in his mouth and pulled the trigger.
Shayne stood in the garden of his father’s house staring at the open front door. Lights blazed all through the house. Harold suddenly rushed out into the driveway carrying a suitcase. He opened the luggage compartment of his Mercedes Benz and put it inside. Then he looked about nervously and hurried back inside.
Shayne walked to the front door. In the lounge room, Helen Gorman lay sobbing on the floor, blood running freely from an open gash above her eye.
‘You bastard!’ Helen sobbed. ‘You bastard.’ She rose to her feet and leaned against the wall. ‘They’ll be here before you can run, you bastard! I hope they kill you!’
Shayne stood at the top of the short stairway leading down into the lounge room. His father was rustling through a desk drawer, pulling out papers and a cheque book. A large pile of money lay next to an open briefcase.
‘Why don’t you shut up, you fucking slut!’ Harold roared.
‘Hello, Harold,’ Shayne said quietly.
Harold’s lips froze on his next sentence. He looked up and saw his son holding a revolver loosely in his hand.
‘Shayne!’ Harold struggled to control his emotions. ‘What on earth brings you here?’
‘Cut the bullshit,’ Shayne snarled. ‘You know fucking well why I’m here, you evil bastard.’
‘Shayne, my boy,’ Harold’s voice was stern, parental. ‘There’s been a dreadful misunderstanding.’
‘Shut up!’ Shayne roared as he watched his father’s hand move closer to his desk drawer. ‘You fucking hypocrite! Go on, get out your gun! Take it out of the drawer and point it at me! I’d love you to, because I intend to blow you to pieces anyway!’
‘Now, Shayne.’ Harold’s eyes darted frantically around the room.
‘Four in the chest first! How’s that?’ Shayne bellowed. ‘Then one in the head to finish you off! Just like grandad!’
‘What are you talking about?’ Fear began to worm its way around Harold’s stomach.
‘You shot Grandpa George!’ Shayne screamed. ‘You and Stan Ames shot him like a dog!’ He raised his gun. ‘Well, now you’re going to die! Like the dirty treacherous corrupt, mongrel dog that you are!’
The fear rose in Harold’s throat like bile. Shayne was George come back to get him. He fell to his knees and began to cry. ‘Please don’t hurt me,’ he wailed. ‘Please,’ Harold begged as he crawled across the floor towards a horrified Helen Gorman, ‘Helen, help me?’
‘Get away from me!’ she spat and ran behind the desk. ‘You disgust me, you bastard!’
Shayne walked towards the man cringing on the floor and pointed the gun at Harold’s forehead.
‘You don’t understand,’ Harold whined. ‘George was the evil one. George was the worst of all!’
‘Why don’t you stand up and die like a man,’ Shayne snarled. ‘For once in your miserable life show some guts!’
‘It was your mother’s fault!’ Harold screamed. ‘It was all Vera’s fault!’
‘What?’ Shayne was totally nonplussed at the mention of his mother’s name. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Your mother caused it all!’ Harold spat. ‘She was the one! Your precious, God loving, self-righteous mother!’
Shayne lowered his firearm, confused. He was caught completely off-guard. His mother? How did his mother come into this? Harold grabbed the gun from Shayne’s loose grip and fell back to sit against the wall.
Harold laughed insanely. ‘Do you want to know the real truth now, boy?’ he screamed. ‘Eh? You stupid oaf!’ He had the gun pointed squarely at his son’s chest. ‘Let me tell you about your mother—’
Harold’s voice stopped abruptly his last words drowned by gunshots. His body jerked with each round that hit him as Helen Gorman walked slowly towards him, firing Harold’s revolver with each step. One shot for her pain. One shot for her humiliation. One shot for Elvira. One shot for her rape. One shot for revenge. One shot for Shayne. One shot … the gun clicked empty. She let it fall to her side and stood staring at Harold’s body as it jerked out the last moments of its evil life.
Finally, she looked at Shayne. He was staring at his father’s lifeless body, his lips poised to ask the question that now could never be answered. Helen placed her hand on Shayne’s shoulder and his eyes looked into hers. The query remained there.
‘He was lying,’ Helen said softly. ‘He was trying to unsettle you, so he could grab your gun. I knew your mother,’ she lied.
‘Did you?’ Shayne whispered.
‘Yes,’ she nodded. The lie came easily to her. ‘She was a good woman. A decent woman. And don’t you ever forget it.’
Lucky Norris was as good as his word. The next morning his newspaper started a bushfire. The public was outraged and howled for blood. Politicians strutted and issued press releases on the hour. Current affairs programmes rated through the roof as the lives of the principal villains were microscopically analysed. The fact that ninety-nine percent of them were dead didn’t matter at all.
Eventually a Royal Commission was opened, presided over by somebody whom everybody decided was honest. Attempts were made to extradite Stan Ames from a villa in Majorca, but they failed miserably. Accusations were made and they were followed by counter-accusations. Writs filled the air like a swarm of locusts. Outrage followed outrage. Condemnation followed condemnation. Innocent people were sucked up into the tidal wave, their reputations destroyed. Important things were seen to be done. Several laws were changed to create a better society for all. Jane Smart’s taste in lipstick was revealed by her former housemaid and a certain cosmetics manufacturer’s sales went through the roof. Then, when the public’s interest began to wane, journalists from rival television stations discovered ‘new and startling evidence’, and the merry-go-round went around. All over again. Until, finally, a movie, several books and a television miniseries were all produced and the public witnessed ‘the truth’ with their own eyes.
They were satisfied at last, and life went on.
EPILOGUE
Chamonix, France. 1982
Shayne Everard stood on his hotel room balcony and gazed in awe at the sheer majesty of Mont Blanc rising into the clouds far above him. He watched the cable cars, crawling like ants up the slopes to deposit their human cargo on the ski runs, way up in the mists. To his left and right, the Rhone Alps stretched away like the back of an enormous dragon and below him, the exclusive ski village of Chamonix nestled peacefully in the warm autumn sunlight.
It was time to go home. A year of restless roaming around Europe was enough. He had a law practice to return to and the Australian summer was calling to him. Calling him home.
Shayne dressed and left the hotel, intent on finding the nearest travel
agency. He could fly out of Geneva and be in Sydney by Sunday. The very thought of Bondi Beach made him smile in anticipation.
He walked past the old church where a number of the local people were laying a wreath to the memory of the mountain guides of Chamonix—men who had given their lives over the years attempting to rescue climbers and skiers from the unforgiving mountains. In front of the church, a brass band struck up a tune and marched off through the streets and Shayne followed them, urged along by the crowd.
Winter was fast approaching and the ski season was already under way. People of every nationality packed the restaurants and bars, or searched the clothing shops for the latest in brightly coloured ski wear.
Shayne extricated himself from the growing throng following the band and sat on the edge of a monument in the town square. His attention was drawn to a number of photographers pushing and shoving each other to snap shots of a statue. It was a beautiful statue of two climbers. One, legs astride, his face turned skyward, pointed with an outstretched arm to the summit of Mont Blanc way above the town.
When in Rome he thought, and took out his camera. He moved around the statue and looked through his view-finder. What he saw stopped him dead in his tracks.
Zoe Collingwood was smiling as she flicked her blonde hair and posed for the photographers. She was dressed in a powder blue ski suit and black ski boots. She adopted the same pose as the statue and the photographers roared their approval.
Shayne could only lower his camera and stare. Zoe continued to smile as the flashbulbs popped. She turned her head and caught Shayne’s gaze and the smile froze on her beautiful face. She dropped her pose and turned to a woman standing next to her.
‘That will be all for now, Hilda,’ she said.
‘Oui, Madame.’ Hilda turned to the photographers. ‘That will be all, gentlemen. Zoe will be available again this afternoon at 4 pm.’
As the publicity woman dispersed the crowd, Zoe crossed to him. ‘Hello, Shayne,’ she said.
‘Hello Zoe.’ The cold mountain air caught in Shayne’s throat.
‘You took your time getting here,’ she whispered. ‘Come on, I’ll buy you a drink.’
The door of the hotel drawing room burst open and a small boy flew across the room. ‘Bonjour, Maman,’ he shouted, his arms outstretched, and flew into Zoe’s lap.
‘Bonjour, Paul,’ Zoe cuddled the boy. ‘I have a surprise for you.’ She brushed the blond hair from his eyes. ‘Do you know who this is?’ She nodded towards Shayne.
The boy’s eyes were wide and wise as he stared up at Shayne. ‘Oui, Maman,’ he whispered. ‘Le gendarme d’ Australie. Mon Pere.’
Shayne placed his coffee cup on the table and looked into the boy’s eyes. ‘What did he say?’
‘He said you are the Australian policeman, his father,’ Zoe answered softly. ‘He has your photograph beside his bed.’
‘But I thought …’ Shayne stumbled. ‘I thought you were married.’ He stared at her in utter confusion. ‘You know? The French guy? I saw a picture of you.’
‘Yves Lacroix?’ Zoe shook her head. ‘He is my dearest friend in the world and I love him. But I’m afraid I’m not his type.’ Shayne continued to stare wordlessly, his mind in a state of shock. ‘I’m the wrong sex to start with,’ she added gently, ‘but Yves has been very kind to me. I owe him my life in a way. I owe him all of this.’ She looked about at the opulent surroundings. ‘All of this and more,’ she looked briefly at her son then turned to look at Shayne. ‘Much more.’
They sat in silence searching each other’s eyes, until finally, the small boy spoke. ‘Are you going to be my father now?’ he asked warily.
Shayne picked the boy up. ‘Of course I am, Paul,’ he said, struggling with his emotions. ‘I’m only sorry I couldn’t be your father sooner.’ Shayne smiled at his son. ‘Is that okay with you?’
The boy thought deeply for a moment. ‘It is okay with me. Yes.’
Shayne looked at Zoe. ‘How about you?’
‘I’ve never wanted anything else.’ She stood up, took her son’s hand and together they walked to the open door where she paused briefly and looked back. ‘Well? Do you want a family or not?’ she asked.
‘Bloody oath I do!’ Shayne replied.
‘Then you can start by buying us lunch.’ She disappeared through the door.
Her smile was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. In an instant, Shayne was on his feet, running after them.
The author would like to thank
Dr Robert Muller and Dr Gus Oettle
and every cop he ever met, good or bad,
for invaluable assistance in the
researching of this book.
Born in Hobart, Bruce Venables was an Inspector in the Royal Hong Kong Police Force during the 1970s. He served as a Launch Commander in the Marine Division and was a Platoon Commander in the Police Tactical Unit.
In 1984, Bruce moved to Sydney and began his career as a writer of film and television scripts. He is also well known to Australian and international audiences as an actor. His television credits include Blue Heelers, Wildside, Water Rats, Minder, Always Greener and Paperback Hero with Hugh Jackman and Claudia Karvan, Evil Angels with Meryl Streep, and On Our Selection with Geoffrey Rush and Leo McKern.
Bruce is also the author of a collection of poetry, The Spirit of the Bush, and the novel The Time of the Dragons, which was a bestseller in 2004.
He resides at Bondi Beach with his wife, actress and international best-selling author Judy Nunn.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including printing, photocopying (except under the statutory exceptions provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of Random House Australia. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Version 1.0
A Necessary Evil
9781742749761
Copyright © Bruce Venables, 1995
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
An Arrow book
Published by Random House Australia Pty Ltd
Level 3, 100 Pacific Highway, North Sydney NSW 2060
www.randomhouse.com.au
Addresses for companies within the Random House Group can be found at http://www.randomhouse.com.au/about/contacts.aspx
First published in 1995
This Arrow edition first published 2005
National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication entry
Venables, Bruce.
A necessary evil.
ISBN 1 74166 040 8
1. Title.
A823.3
Cover photograph by Getty
Cover design by Darian Causby/Highway 51 Design Works
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