Slaughter Park

by Barry Maitland

  Roshed grins at the look on Kelly’s face. ‘You’re trying to write the headline, aren’t you? Something like How to Screw the NSW Government?’

  ‘Dear God.’

  ‘So, Kelly, where did the flash drive come from?’

  ‘I don’t reveal my sources. But I believe the images may have been taken by Nordlund’s other son, Hayden.’

  ‘He’s got a hidden camera in the guest bedroom?’

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘Well, we should talk about strategy.’

  78

  They get off the motorway into the northern Sydney suburbs, heading towards Frenchs Forest. Harry slows down as they turn into the end of Jenny’s mother’s street.

  ‘Stop,’ Jenny says suddenly. ‘Oh, fuck.’

  He pulls into the kerb. Up ahead they see Bronwyn, Nicole at her side, pointing to the open garage door, the empty space inside. Bronwyn is gesticulating, agitated, and talking into her mobile.

  ‘Okay,’ Jenny says, ‘turn round.’

  She gets him to drive to Chatswood rail station. ‘It’s best if you’re not involved, Harry,’ she says, ‘Mum being how she is. I’ll go back and explain that I just needed to use the car. They’ll understand. I can depend on them. Actually it’ll be a huge relief to be able to tell them I’m okay. You catch a train back into the city and I’ll ring you.’

  She leans across and kisses him, thinking that every time she does this she wonders if it will be the last time. ‘See you this evening.’

  He waves as he disappears into the station and she turns the car and retraces the route back to Frenchs Forest. Her mother and sister are still outside in the drive, someone else with them. They turn as she pulls in at the kerb, and her mother cries out as she recognises Jenny getting out of the car. It’s only then that Jenny realises the third person is a uniformed policeman. As she meets his gaze she hears the whoop of a police siren, and a patrol car sweeps in behind her.

  79

  The house phone is blinking when Harry gets back to Surry Hills. He listens to the message. The voice is hesitant, as if telephones are a modern mystery the speaker hasn’t quite come to terms with.

  ‘Harry, my dear chap, Bernard here…Um, look, I’m sorry, I think I was rather abrupt last time we met. I was a bit preoccupied…A paper I’m writing…Um, anyway, look, something you mentioned…a letter—Joseph? It occurred to me afterwards, it did ring a bell. I think I need to talk to you about it. It may be significant. Can you call me? Thanks…um, bye.’

  Harry dials the number and Bernard answers immediately. He sounds relieved.

  ‘Thanks for ringing back, Harry. I think we need to meet. Would it be too much trouble for you to come to my flat again tonight? About eight? I’m so glad. I think this is important for both of us. And could you bring the letter? Excellent, excellent, goodbye.’

  Harry waits but Jenny doesn’t call. He imagines the three of them, mother and two daughters, reunited with one another and with Abigail, and feels regret. He is surplus.

  Eventually he goes out into the darkening city, the streetlights coming on, laughter and music from the busy pubs and restaurants, as he walks briskly to Kings Cross. There he pauses to buy a burrito and Coke, standing in the shadow of a doorway while he eats, watching the passing crowd for any sign that he’s being followed. When he’s done he wipes his fingers and mouth with the paper napkin and sets off again for Potts Point. The front door of the apartment block clicks open as he presses Bernard’s buzzer.

  Music comes from the open door of Bernard’s flat as Harry steps out of the lift—Duke Ellington, ‘It Don’t Mean a Thing (If It Ain’t Got That Swing)’. Bernard seizes his hand, guides him into the flat, eager with relief. He seems very anxious or excited—it’s hard to tell which—his cheeks glowing pink, eyes unnaturally wide, talking fast without pause. ‘Come in, Harry, come in. I’m so glad you could come. Sit, sit. I’ve made us gin rickeys—Fitzgerald and Zelda’s favourite cocktail. Have you tried it? You must. You must. Here, here. Cheers.’

  Harry takes the fizzing cocktail glass, tastes the tart lime, the strength of the gin. ‘Cheers. You seem in high spirits tonight, Bernard.’

  ‘Oh, I suppose I’m in hope of revelation, Harry! From you!’ He lowers the volume of the music, ‘Sophisticated Lady’ now, and turns back to Harry. ‘The letter—did you bring it?’

  Harry takes it from his pocket and hands it over, watches Bernard eagerly snatch it out of the envelope and then listens to him read it aloud.

  ‘…will make a sworn statement. Yours faithfully, Joseph Doyle. What do you make of it, Harry? And where’s the photograph? Do you have it?’

  ‘Not with me.’ The gin certainly has a kick.

  ‘But you’ve seen it?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve seen it.’

  ‘And what does it show?’

  ‘A small plane, a Cessna, number VH-MDX.’

  ‘My brother Martin’s plane! The one he died in, yes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And where was the picture taken? Was Martin with the plane?’

  ‘I guess he was in the cockpit, but you couldn’t see him. The plane had crashed, you see, the wings sheared off. It was half-buried beneath debris on the forest floor.’

  ‘But…’ Bernard’s mouth drops open. ‘You mean the crash? The one that took my brother’s life? How is that possible? The wreckage has never been found.’

  ‘Apparently it has. I guess that’s what Jacob…’ Harry pauses, frowning.

  ‘Joseph?’

  ‘Yes, Joseph. I guess that’s what Joseph wanted to make his sworn statement about.’

  ‘To the judge—your father?’

  ‘My father, yes.’

  ‘Do you know where Joseph is?’

  ‘That’s a secret.’

  ‘What do you think this means, Harry?’

  ‘I think it means that something about your brother’s crash stinks, don’t you?’ Harry stares into his glass. ‘Hell, Bernie, you and Zelda certainly know how to mix a cocktail.’

  ‘Here, let me top you up. So where is the photograph? I’d like to see it.’

  ‘Wrong question, Bernie. God, I feel tired.’ Harry rubs his eyes with his free hand, clumsy, trying to focus. The music, the cocktail…Hell, he tells himself, he’s even beginning to sound like Philip Marlowe. ‘The right question is, who killed Martin? Wasn’t you, was it, Bernie?’

  There is a glow about Bernard’s pink face, a halo of golden light, and Harry stares at it, fascinated. He tries to order his thoughts and has to close his eyes to concentrate. When he opens them again something very strange has happened to Bernard. He now has hair—black, slicked back—and his features have grown lean and menacing. Very like Nathaniel Horn’s in fact. Harry remembers that he has to ask Horn a question, but he can’t for the life of him remember what it was.

  Someone is searching his pockets. He tries to frame an objection, push them away, but his limbs feel incredibly heavy and he finds he can barely move them.

  ‘It’s not here,’ someone says, far, far away. ‘Call the boys. Get him out of here.’

  80

  Kelly watches Husam Roshed get to his feet to cries of ‘Sit down!’ and ‘Get him out!’

  ‘My question is directed to the minister for infrastructure and planning. I would like the minister to tell the house what her relationship is with the Nordlund family.’

  There are groans and cries of ‘Shame!’ as Susan Aguilar stands up with a smile. ‘Mr Speaker, I can assure the house and the member for Campsie that my relationship with the Nordlund family is purely professional and does not conflict in any way with the fulfilment of my ministerial responsibilities.’

  Roshed hesitates, seems as if he might sit down, then says, ‘Has the minister ever been a guest on board Mr Konrad Nordlund’s luxury super yacht Princess Estelle?’

  ‘Yes, I have attended a function on board Mr Nordlund’s boat, in Sydney Harbour, accompanied by other members of the government and opposition.’


  ‘And has the minister ever been a guest on Mr Nordlund’s private Pacific island, Maturiki?’

  Aguilar seems startled, then says firmly, ‘No, Mr Speaker, I have not.’

  Roshed attempts another question, but is drowned out by an eruption of angry cries. ‘Enough!’ ‘Get him out!’

  The speaker bangs his gavel, shouts, ‘Order, order!’ The noise subsides and he goes on, ‘Will the member for Campsie now resume his seat.’

  Roshed says, ‘Mr Speaker, in view of the rumours that have begun to circulate around Sydney, I feel obliged to give the minister the opportunity to respond to one final question.’ The word rumours seems to quieten the chamber, which goes still as Roshed asks, ‘Has the minister had a sexual relationship with Mr Nordlund’s son Ryan Nordlund?’

  A moment of stunned silence, then another eruption, louder and angrier than the last. But some on the opposition benches have noted the strange expression on Susan Aguilar’s face, something like panic. Through the roars of ‘Withdraw!’ and ‘Shame!’, a lone opposition voice calls out, ‘Answer, answer!’ Then others, cautiously at first, begin to take up the cry.

  When the speaker finally restores order he says, ‘I’ll give the minister the chance to respond to that last question and then we shall move on to the next matter.’

  Aguilar, very pale, says nothing. She reaches for a glass of water, raises it part way, then returns it to the table, perhaps because her hand is shaking. Finally she lifts her head and speaks into the silence. ‘That is absolutely untrue.’

  Kelly rushes back to the Times, dictating her story in the taxi on the way. When she’s satisfied with it she takes it up to Catherine Meiklejohn’s office and waits while she reads it.

  ‘Looks like a fun evening in parliament, Kelly, but is any of it true, these so-called rumours? I must say I hadn’t heard anything. Can we trust Roshed?’

  ‘I believe we can, and I think they are true. Look.’

  She hands Catherine a hard copy of the picture of the three people by the pool. ‘We have a couple of old images on file of Nordlund’s villa at Maturiki that show a similar background. That’s Konrad Nordlund, his Chinese business partner Deng Huojin, and Susan Aguilar.’

  ‘Hmm. So she may have told a fib. Anything else?’

  Kelly shows her a second photo, Aguilar in bed with Ryan Nordlund.

  Catherine whistles. ‘You going to tell me where you got these?’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Why would Aguilar be stupid enough to let someone else see her in bed with him?’

  ‘The suggestion is that Nordlund’s other son, Hayden, spied on the guest bedroom.’

  ‘Well, if it’s genuine it’ll break Susan, possibly the government too. But digital images are so easily manipulated…We’ll need to get them checked out, see if anyone’s tampered with them. Do we have an exclusive on these?’

  Kelly thinks of the copies on Roshed’s phone. ‘For the moment, yes. But if we don’t publish them, they’ll go elsewhere.’

  ‘How long have we got?’

  ‘Twenty-four hours.’

  ‘So we’ve got the Saturday editions…if we decide to use them. And you know the other problem, of course.’

  ‘Konrad Nordlund owns thirteen per cent of the Times.’

  ‘Exactly. Leave it with me, Kelly. I’ll have to talk to people. But well done. This is good work.’

  81

  Jenny is in a holding cell, 1.5 metres square, a clear plastic door in a heavy steel frame so that her every gesture can be observed. She feels calm, resigned. She gave it her best shot, but in the end something like this was bound to happen. Ironic that it happened because she stole her own mum’s car. Her poor mother, almost hysterical at recovering her lost daughter one minute and having her snatched away again the next. Her cry as Nicole tried to console her, ‘Why has all this happened to us?’ She’ll blame Harry, of course, another travesty to add to all the rest.

  A police officer comes in, looking tired and bored. She’s leading an old man who shuffles along, head down. She tells him to take his shoes and socks off, then bends to pick up the socks in one gloved hand, holding her nose with the other, and dumps them in a sink. Sighing, she fills it with water, then turns off the tap and leads him into the holding cell next to Jenny.

  She unlocks Jenny’s door. ‘Mrs Belltree, this way.’

  Jenny follows her out to the prisoner reception area. There are several uniformed men out there, big bulky blokes with big guns and big boots, sharing a laugh. With a jolt she realises that one of them is Bob Marshall. She’s not sure whether she should show she knows him, and he ignores her. It’s only when her guard leads her to the man behind the counter and Bob hands him some paperwork that she realises he’s here for her. She doesn’t take in everything that the counter man reels off, something about conditional police bail and home detention, but she signs the document he gives her. She takes the bag with her possessions and Bob says, ‘Follow me.’ He waves goodbye to the others and they walk out together. After the relentless electric glare inside the station she’s disoriented to find that it’s night outside, the air fresh and cool.

  She gets into the car beside Bob, who throws his police cap into the back and grins at her. ‘Well, Jenny. You’re not looking too bad, considering.’

  ‘What’s happening, Bob?’

  ‘You’re in the clear, pretty much. They can’t say it openly as yet, but they will. In the meantime, say as little as possible and stay out of trouble.’

  ‘But…what about Palfreyman?’

  ‘Fogarty confessed to murdering Palfreyman with Grimshaw.’

  ‘My God.’

  ‘Then he committed suicide, in a police cell. Much embarrassment all round.’

  ‘That…that’s wonderful. I mean, about being in the clear. I must tell Harry.’

  ‘Do you know where he is?’

  Jenny nods. ‘He’ll be at Surry Hills, our house.’

  ‘Okay, let’s go and tell him.’

  He starts the car and they set off at a steady pace, mindful of the five rules of road safety, until Bob mutters, ‘Oh bugger it,’ switches on the siren and lights and puts his foot down.

  The house is in darkness at the end of the lane, no lights in any of the windows. Jenny fumbles with the key in the door and finally pushes it open, switches on the light, and gasps. The hall cupboard doors hang open, its contents thrown across the floor. The raincoat that hangs on the peg is on the floor too, with the phone. She steps through the mess to the living room and stops, seeing the greater chaos inside.

  Bob is at her side. ‘You’ve been done over properly.’

  ‘Harry,’ Jenny says. ‘Where’s Harry?’ She starts calling his name, running from room to room—the kitchen, the bedrooms, the bathroom, all trashed and no sign of Harry. Bob catches up with her in the attic study, where all the judge’s notebooks and files are scattered.

  ‘They’ve done a very thorough job,’ he says. ‘I’ll call it in.’

  They return downstairs. In the kitchen the fridge and freezer doors stand open, the contents all over the floor. The same with the pantry, the crockery and cutlery drawers, everything. Then a terrible thought strikes Jenny. She goes to the phone on the hall floor, finds it’s still working and calls her sister.

  ‘Jenny! I’m so glad you’ve called. I was going to try to visit you. Where are you?’

  She explains, then asks, ‘Nicole, is your house all right? You haven’t had any intruders?’

  ‘No, no, everything’s fine.’

  ‘Abigail’s all right?’

  ‘Yes, we’re sitting here—Mum, Abigail and me—thinking of you.’

  ‘Has Harry been in touch with you?’

  ‘No, we’ve heard nothing. Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, I’m coming home to you, but someone’s broken into our house in Surry Hills, so I’ll have to deal with the police first.’

  Bob, who has been on his own phone to report the break-in, is looking
at the damage. ‘They went to a heap of trouble to find something. Did you have anything valuable here, Jenny?’

  She joins him, pulls a chair upright and sinks into it, suddenly exhausted. ‘I think I know what they were after. It’s in that bag they gave me at the police station.’

  She nods at the plastic bag she dropped in the hall. Bob picks it up and brings it to her, and she unzips it and rummages around her possessions for the tin box. She hands it to him, watches him open it carefully and take out the photograph.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s Terry Palfreyman’s secret, the thing that Fogarty and Grimshaw killed him for.’

  Bob frowns at the image. ‘But what is it?’

  ‘It’s the remains of the plane that Martin Nordlund and his lawyer died in, back in 2002, up in the mountains north of Gloucester. It’s supposed to have never been found, but someone did, and took this photo.’

  ‘I see. But is this worth killing for?’

  ‘There was a letter with it, addressed to Harry’s father, arranging to meet him on the afternoon he died in the crash. It’s possible this is to do with how Martin Nordlund died, or maybe why Harry’s parents were killed, or maybe both…I don’t know, Bob. I don’t really understand it, but I think that’s what they were looking for.’

  ‘So where’s the letter?’

  ‘Harry had it in his pocket.’

  ‘And where is Harry? Has he got a phone?’

  ‘No. Inspector Velasco is after him and he didn’t want her to trace him.’

  ‘That’s a shame.’

  Police arrive, Bob briefs them, then turns to Jenny. ‘We can’t do anything here. Let’s get you to your sister’s place.’

  ‘Yes, Harry will know to find me there. Was he here, do you think, when this happened?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. There’s no breakages, no bloodstains, no signs of a fight. Just a very thorough and systematic search. I’ll come back here later and see if the crime scene people find anything.’

  They drive through the city centre, the towers glowing in the night sky, across the Harbour Bridge and through North Sydney towards Nicole’s suburb on the lower North Shore. Jenny feels exhausted and disoriented—her arrest, the jail, the ruined house. Bob won’t be able to find Harry unless Harry wants to be found, but she tells herself that he can look after himself and will contact her when he can.