‘Money is the master, is it, Bernie? Money writes the play?’
‘Something like that.’
‘What if I tell you that I have no idea where the photograph and Joseph are?’
‘I won’t believe you, and neither will anyone else. You’ll have to do better than that, Harry. Please don’t play games with them. They’re not nice people. I’ll leave you to think about it for a little while.’
He turns and walks away.
89
Deb returns to strike force base and is immediately hit by a storm of questions, demands for meetings, signatures, decisions. It’s some while before she can make time to send the rather odd request to the technical branch to track down the photograph in the Post and assess it against the CCTV image from Slater Park. They come back a couple of hours later.
The tech’s name is Paul—‘Which is pretty significant actually,’ he says, sounding quite pleased with himself.
‘How come?’
‘Well, the reason I’m called Paul was because my mum was mad keen on Paul Newman.’
Deb shakes her head. ‘I don’t…’
‘I’d better explain. The Post gave us the original digital image they used for that picture in the paper, and it was pretty sharp. The watch was, as you said, a Rolex. A Cosmograph Daytona, in fact, with the three small chronograph dials inside the big dial—very distinctive. They come in three series, the first four-digit series produced from 1961 to 1987 being the earliest and rarest, and the rarest of all have what’s called the Paul Newman dial, because he was an enthusiast and had one.’
‘Ah. And the one in the picture is…?’
‘Yep, it’s one of them, a Paul Newman Daytona, rare and expensive. Your guy’s got money.’
‘Yes. What about the other picture?’
‘Not nearly so clear, but the three chronograph dials are there, and although we can’t make out all the markings, it’s very similar to the series one watches.’
‘Very similar?’
‘I’d stand up in court and say ninety per cent. And then there’s the gold ring. We estimate that the thickness and width of the rings in the two pictures are identical.’
Deb thanks him, asks for a report and hangs up. She checks records and finds that Ryan Nordlund was arrested in 2011 for assault and breaching the peace while celebrating after driving in a V8 Supercar event at Eastern Creek Raceway. Which means that they have his fingerprints on record. She asks for a match with the thumb print on the bloody banknote found in Grimshaw’s block of flats, and waits, biting her lip. When someone tells her she’s due at a briefing for the new shift she shakes her head and tells them to get Col to do it.
It’s a match. Grimshaw’s insurance. Deb takes a deep breath, traces Ryan’s registered mobile phone number and asks for a location. The answer, when it comes back from Potts Hill, hits her like a slap in the face: Ryan Nordlund is currently at Doggylands Boarding Kennels.
Later, when she has made the connection to Kylie McVea and her dead brother Frank Capp, and is planning the next move, she wonders about contacting Bob Marshall. But no—office politics. Instead she speaks to Dick Blake, who is shocked.
‘Are you absolutely sure, Deb? You’re saying that Konrad Nordlund’s son was involved in the Slater Park murders?’
‘Well, if he wasn’t, I’d like him to explain how we have his thumb print in Christie Florian’s blood.’
‘Don’t rush into this, Deb. Check and double-check. His movements, phone records, social media.’
‘Boss, we know where he is now. But if he gets wind of this…’
‘How can he?’
‘We don’t know that Fogarty and Grimshaw were the only cops on their payroll.’
Blake makes a face like he’s got acid heartburn. ‘Just take it steady, Deb. Nice and steady.’
Back at her desk she does what she’s told, organising the checks, itching with impatience. This isn’t how Bob would have done it, she thinks. Bob would have been out there with his TOU mates armed to the teeth for the big arrest.
90
‘The others have gone on ahead, have they, Bob?’
Kelly is riding in the passenger seat of Bob’s Ford, heading north and west on the Pacific Highway through the suburbs. He doesn’t seem dressed for the part, somehow—jeans, a light jacket, no uniform, no radio, no bulletproof vest. More like an old bloke going out to the pub.
‘What others?’
‘The SWAT team, the TOU, the nasties, the black ninjas.’
He shakes his head. ‘Nothing like that, Kelly. We’re just going to take a little gander, that’s all. A recce. Sniff around. You and me.’
‘I’ve already sniffed around. I told you. It’s not a nice place. Can’t imagine anyone would kennel their pet pooch there. I think they have some kind of…I don’t know, gatherings out there.’ She realises it’s Saturday today, and remembers the leaflet in the Schaefers’ mail, about a Saturday event at 8:00 pm last December at Doggylands.
‘What you got in that backpack of yours?’ Bob asks.
‘Oh, just survival stuff—sandwiches, water.’
‘Good thinking.’
Actually she also has a still camera and a movie camera, both borrowed from the staff photographers at the office, as well as a sound recording machine with a long-range microphone. But she doesn’t think Bob needs to know that she’s hoping for a scoop.
‘You did at least bring a gun, didn’t you, Bob? Those guys are tough, and they have guns.’
‘Yes, I’ve brought a gun, Kelly, but you don’t need to worry. There’s not going to be any shooting.’
91
Still hanging from the roof truss, aching all over, Harry sees the dark shape of another man appear in the doorway and come towards him. He recognises Nathaniel Horn, who stares at his battered face with detached interest.
‘Mr Belltree.’
‘Mr Horn.’ Harry finds it hard to form the words through his damaged mouth. Something seems to be wrong with his teeth.
Horn gets a small metal case from his pocket. ‘Do you smoke?’ ‘No.’
Horn takes out a cigarette and lights it.
Harry says, ‘Was that an offer for the condemned man?’
Horn blows smoke off to the side. ‘Not quite yet. But you haven’t got long. You were no help tracing Amber. I suggest you make up for it now. So listen very carefully. Four years ago I received a package from your brother-in-law, containing an envelope he had taken from your father’s study. In the envelope was a letter from a man called Joseph, together with a photograph. I passed these on to Konrad Nordlund, who put them in his safe. Sometime earlier this year they disappeared. Now we discover that envelope and the letter in your pocket. Where is the photograph?’
‘I don’t know. I haven’t got it.’
‘But you described exactly what it showed. Does your wife have it?’
‘No. Amber gave them to me. She said she was keeping the photograph hidden somewhere, as insurance.’
‘Where?’
‘She didn’t say.’
‘What about Joseph? You told Bernard you’d met him. Where is he?’
‘No, I didn’t. I said it was a secret. I have no idea where he is.’
Horn shakes his head. ‘I’ve met far better liars than you, Belltree. You’ll have to do much better than that, and quickly.’
There is a sudden interruption from the doorway, someone calling out, ‘Nat? Nathaniel? You in here?’
Horn frowns, annoyed. ‘Yes, Ryan, I’m here. What is it?’
Harry recognises Konrad Nordlund’s son pacing towards them, waving a newspaper.
‘Look at this, for God’s sake!’
He thrusts the Post at Horn, who scans the front page, frown darkening, turns to the follow-up story inside. ‘Maturiki…how the hell did they get hold of this?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve no fucking idea.’ Ryan looks round at Harry as if noticing him for the first time. ‘How are you going with him? Could he have
something to do with this?’
Horn considers this. ‘The intruders on Maturiki that the Schaefers reported…Get Karen in here.’
Harry’s head is throbbing, trying to read the situation, to find the right answers he’ll have to give. He’s struck by Horn’s manner, by the way Ryan Nordlund defers to him, as if the roles of client and consultant are reversed, Horn giving the instructions.
Ryan returns with Karen Schaefer, who looks startled when she catches sight of Harry’s face. Then she peers at him and says, ‘Yes. It’s him. He’s the one we saw running away from the villa.’
Ryan pushes close to Harry, menacing. ‘How did you get those pictures?’
‘She’s wrong,’ Harry says. ‘I could never have taken pictures like that.’
Doubt shows on Ryan’s face. ‘Yeah, he’s right. How could he?’
Karen says, ‘Unless…’
‘What?’
‘Well, your brother…you know, that spy camera he’s got.’
‘I’ll kill him!’ Ryan pulls out his phone and walks away, begins shouting into it. ‘Well, you get over here!’
Now Bernard arrives, carrying a copy of the paper. ‘My God, Nathaniel, this’ll finish us.’
‘Nonsense,’ Horn snaps. ‘We’ll say the pictures are fakes, intended to discredit the Nordlund family. We’ll sue the paper. The government will back us—they’ll have to.’
‘Yes…’ Bernard says doubtfully. ‘I suppose you’re right. Has Konrad seen it?’
‘I’ll get onto him right away.’
Again that deference to Horn, Harry thinks. They’re all in thrall to him.
Horn, Ryan Nordlund and Karen Schaefer all hurry away, leaving Bernard chewing his lip, staring at the newspaper.
‘It’s all falling apart, Bernard,’ Harry says.
‘Be quiet,’ Bernard mumbles, still hypnotised by the front-page image. ‘You’re in enough trouble.’
‘I’m the only hope you’ve got.’
‘Don’t talk nonsense.’
‘I’m not just talking about corruption, Bernard. I’m talking about murder, multiple murders—your brother Martin, my mother and father, Terry Palfreyman, Amber…’
‘No, no. Not Amber, that was the Slater Park murderer.’
‘Your family is mixed up in the Slater Park murders, along with the policemen Fogarty and Grimshaw. They kidnapped Amber, chopped her up and smuggled her body into Slater Park in a police car. My colleagues in homicide know that now, I’ve spoken to them. That’s their major line of inquiry.’
‘I knew nothing of this.’
‘They won’t believe you. You’ll go down with the others. Your only hope is to get me out of here and in return I’ll convince them you’re innocent.’
‘It all happened so quickly, Harry, I couldn’t control it. When Martin came up with his bizarre proposal, Nathaniel stepped in. It was he and Konrad arranged for the plane crash, not me. And your parents—I was shocked when I heard what they’d done to them, you must believe me. I would never have agreed to it.’
‘What was Martin’s proposal? Why did my parents have to die?’
‘Bernard!’ Horn’s voice echoes in the metal shed. ‘Come!’
‘He talks to you like a dog, Bernard,’ Harry whispers. ‘Help me and I’ll help you.’
‘I must go.’ He hurries away.
Harry hears them talking, then silence, broken only by the endless barking of the dogs.
92
There’s a major accident on the M2 and they sit in the motionless car, Bob drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. They’ve been stuck here for almost two hours now and all around them motorists have got out of their vehicles. Kelly watches them on their phones, calling family and friends, drinking from water bottles as the hot afternoon drags on.
‘Tailgating probably,’ Bob grumbles. ‘Or speeding. Too many cowboys on the road.’
‘Shouldn’t we get a few of the local cops to meet us there?’ Kelly asks. ‘Help us search for Harry?’
‘We’ve absolutely no evidence that he’s there, Kelly. All we know is that he’s been talking to someone called Bernard, who happened to be at Doggylands when we checked his phone.’
‘Maybe we should check it again. He could have moved.’
Bob sighs. ‘Just relax, Kelly. Okay, looks like we’re on our way.’
People are getting back into their cars, starting up their engines. They begin to move, slowly at first, then more steadily, past the scene of a large truck that’s lost its load on a bend. They reach the junction with the M7 and head north, the bush becoming denser, the buildings more widely spaced. The sat nav tells them to turn off before they reach Dural and they take a winding country road between fields and market gardens. They reach a filling station and make a turn onto a narrow dirt road through thick scrub.
‘Yes, I remember this,’ Kelly says. ‘It’s just up ahead.’
They come to the bullet-holed sign for the kennels. A man is standing at the entrance to the property, a machete in his hand. Bob pulls up alongside him. He’s heavily built, shaved head, a walkietalkie radio clipped to his belt. He peers into the car.
‘Help ya?’
‘G’day. Just passing,’ Bob says. ‘Thought I recognised this place. Does Bernard work here?’
‘Bernard? Na.’
‘Oh. Doing a bit of pruning, are you?’ Bob nods at the machete.
‘Yeah, pruning.’
Bob drives on. ‘One of the Haddad boys presumably. Not much of a PR.’
‘He was put at the front gate for a reason, Bob. There was no one there when I came. Something’s going on.’
When they’re well clear of the place Bob pulls off the road onto a fire trail leading to a small clearing, where he stops. ‘All right, let’s look around.’
They get out of the car, Kelly hoisting her backpack, and begin to make their way through thick bush towards the distant sound of barking dogs. They pick their way over fallen branches, feet crunching on bark and leaf litter, and eventually come to a two-metre-high chain-link fence. They follow it for a while until they find a place where it crosses a shallow gully, dry now, and there they squeeze beneath it with some grunts and puffs. ‘Just like the old days,’ Bob mutters.
They’re getting closer now to the sound of the dogs, whose barking is interrupted by a sudden burst of gunfire, followed by a raucous cheer. Bob mutters, ‘Jeez.’
‘What is it?’
‘Sounds like an M4 carbine.’
‘I told you, Bob. We need backup.’
‘No panic. Could be a practice range. Let’s check it out.’
They move more warily, treading carefully over and around obstacles. The sun is low now in the western sky, sending long shadows across their path.
Finally they reach the edge of the dense bush, open space visible through the trees. They creep forward and Kelly recognises the back of Kylie McVea’s house, with a rotary clothes line, a barbecue, and the rear veranda facing across a rough paddock in which lies the empty swimming pool she noticed on her earlier visit. And again that discordant element, the floodlights on tall poles, as if for a spectacular swimming gala that will never be held. Beyond the paddock she sees the further clearing, where more than a dozen vehicles are now parked, utes and four-wheel-drives, many with racks of hunting spotlights and antennae. The large pile of fallen timber has had extra fuel added to it, and groups of men—all men—are clustered around it, talking, drinking from bottles and cans. Kelly takes the camera out of her backpack and snaps off a few pictures.
‘Hey!’ A voice close at hand.
‘Whassa matter, Charlie?’
‘Thought I saw someone in the bushes over there.’
Bob drops flat to the ground. ‘Bugger.’
Kelly whispers, ‘Come on, Bob, let’s go.’ She sets off at a crouch through the tangled undergrowth, clutching camera and backpack, adrenaline sending her heart racing. She hears more shouts and struggles faster, ripping her shirt, then throws herse
lf behind the trunk of a huge twisted angophora, gasping for breath. The shouts have died down, the bush suddenly very quiet and rapidly darkening.
‘Bob?’ she says in a loud whisper. ‘Bob, where are you?’
But no one answers.
93
Nathaniel Horn is accompanied by Ryan Nordlund, the two Haddad boys following.
Harry sees that Horn is smoking again, must be worried. Horn says, ‘Time for answers, Belltree. Three things now. We want the photograph, we want Joseph, and we want the flash drive you stole from Maturiki.’
Harry tries to speak but the words don’t come.
Ryan pushes into Harry’s face, bellows, ‘Tell the man, arsehole!’
Harry manages to get his throat to work. ‘Piss off.’
Ryan’s eyes glitter. ‘Do you know who I am?’
Harry mumbles, ‘Yeah. A prick.’
Ryan steps back, looks at Horn, then takes the cigarette from his hand and turns back to Harry, grinds the burning tip into Harry’s throat, watches his body jump.
He smiles, says, ‘Say again? Who am I, arsehole?’
Harry stares at him through watering eyes and whispers, ‘A total prick.’
‘Enough!’ Horn steps in. ‘This isn’t the way. Bring him outside.’
They release his arms and catch him as he sags to the ground, grip him under the armpits and drag him out into the open. The evening light is fading fast, but dazzling floodlights illuminate the paddock. In front of him he sees the pit of a disused swimming pool, tiles grimy and stained. Beyond he makes out groups of silent figures, staring at him.
They stop at the edge of the pool. Horn says, ‘This is where you’re going to die. Tonight there will be a party here—a special party. Invited guests have come to see a spectacle, down there. Dogs fighting, to the death. It’s a regular event, and the guests are people with a highly developed taste for that sort of thing. They pay well to come, and even more to bet on the results. Tonight they will witness something special. A man being torn apart by the dogs. The betting is already quite frantic. How long will you last?’
Slaughter Park Page 25
