DETECTIVE CHIEF INSPECTOR ALAN LIVINGSTONE.
Harris wasn’t nervous, but he was certainly alert as he took a quick look through the blinds. No one cared, or even noticed, that he’d broken into his superior’s office, that would have been far too much like police work. From there, it was over to Livingstone’s desk, a beautiful old mahogany thing that had been mistreated. It was covered in nail clippings and errant hairs, to think a grand old tree died and Livingstone was using it to discard the waste of his preening and grooming. It was a crime against nature.
Surely Livingstone had locked his drawers? No. Silly fool. He must have thought the lock on his door would be enough to keep his secrets secure. That was his first mistake. It wouldn’t be his last. Harris sat down in Livingstone’s chair and began to rummage through the drawers. He went through pad after pad of notes, ledgers, journals; he couldn’t find what it was that he was looking for. Something incriminating, something someone could use to blackmail the Detective Chief Inspector. So engrossed was he, that he failed to hear the doors of Major Crimes creak open. If only he’d taken a second to look up. He would have seen that weasel, DCI Alan Livingstone, approaching.
“I could swear I left this locked last night.” Harris cringed as he heard the rasping voice of Livingstone in the doorway. He’d been caught with his hands in his boss’s drawers. That would cause further strain on what was already a broken relationship. Livingstone leaned on the doorframe and looked on disapprovingly. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Harris shamelessly rummaged through the drawer he’d been caught in, “There it is.” The cheeky, fast-thinking Harris pulled his hand out of the drawer holding a bottle of fine single malt Scotch, “I thought we could do breakfast.”
Livingstone knew that Harris had not been rifling through his possessions for whisky. Harris, in turn, knew that Livingstone knew this. The uneasy standoff in which they found themselves was emblematic of their relationship. Both were digging for each other’s deepest and darkest secrets in the hope of getting one over the other man. So far no one had won that race. When one man did, it was likely the other would find himself in ruin and despair.
“Fair enough… Now if you don’t mind?” Livingstone gestured to his chair which led to a strange symmetrical procession; the pair awkwardly moved around opposite sides of the desk. Livingstone’s eyes remained firmly fixed on Harris, Harris’ eyes drifted just about anywhere other than on Livingstone. Livingstone peered into his desk drawer, nudged it shut with his knee, and sat down in his chair. Harris made himself comfortable across from the desk while pouring two whiskies.
Livingstone was in his forties. It was hard to pinpoint an exact age given the amount of his wife’s black hair dye that had found its way onto his head. His moustache was groomed neatly into a thin strip over his thin upper lip. He looked much like a ferret which, on its deathbed had taken up Buddhism and had been reincarnated as a policeman. You’d assume the rodent had behaved particularly atrociously in life to deserve that fate in death. He stank of brylcreem and far too much musky cologne. His hair was slicked back; his eyes were dark, beady and sunk into his skull. Those eyes weren’t human. They were shark-like. Unlike Harris, he looked like he’d been born wearing an expensive suit. He looked more akin to a banker, a lawyer, or a politician than a policeman.
It wasn’t just the appearance of a banker that Livingstone had adopted. He had the personality and the behaviour to match. Nothing in the world mattered to the man quite like money and influence. He was a truly despicable character. He placed no value on anything other than the contents of one’s wallet and the people at one’s disposal.
“You look quite unwell, James.” Livingstone was weighing Harris up, he’d noticed the bags under his eyes, the sweat on his brow, and the hard time he was having making eye contact. You didn’t need to be an expert to know DC Harris was losing a long battle with opiates. “Trouble sleeping?”
“The lift’s out. And that’s a lot of stairs.” Harris stretched as if to emphasise the physical effort. He regretted finding himself in this situation, he was doing as much damage control as he could before the opportunity arose to leave.
Livingstone peered at his subordinate in clear contempt, “When you step foot into, and subsequently out of, this office you represent the law, the people of New South Wales and most importantly, you represent me.”
“Yes, Alan.”
“It’s Detective Chief Inspector Livingstone to the likes of you. Now straighten your tie.” If it hadn’t been Harris’ appearance, it would have been something else. Livingstone liked to put people in their place. Their place, he liked to remind them, was beneath him.
“Alright, alright, alright. Don’t get your labia in a twist.” Harris quite clearly didn’t care for the lecture, so he half-heartedly fixed his collar and tie. If anything, by the time he was done, he looked scruffier than he had to begin with.
The pair had a history of clashing, dating back to when Harris had been placed into Major Crimes against Livingstone’s wishes. Livingstone considered the situation for a moment, before standing up and walking over to a filing cabinet. He walked back to his desk with a personnel file labelled…
JAMES HARRIS, DETECTIVE CONSTABLE
“You’ve been with major crimes for eighteen months now?” Livingstone asked a question he clearly didn’t need answering. He was looking at Harris’ file.
“How time flies.” Harris could feel a trap being set; one he wasn’t going to fall into. He sipped at his whisky and waited for Livingstone to make his position clear.
“You’ve made no arrests in that time.” Livingstone kept his eyes on the file, but he was using it as little more than a prop, this conversation was planned. “You’ve gathered no evidence to be used in on-going investigations.”
“If you’re trying to hurt my feelings? It’s working.” The words had gone straight over Harris’ head. “I don’t know, maybe I’m not much of a policeman.” These words were quite ridiculous. Harris was no kind of a policeman at all. That was common knowledge.
The pair had come to a stalemate, neither was willing to give anything to the other, neither were willing to talk candidly. So, Livingstone decided to try a different, more direct tactic. “People have been talking.”
“Since the dawn of time, people have been talking. Ever since that first monkey dropped out of that tree and onto the ground.” Harris made little attempt to hide his disinterest in the matter.
“They’re saying you’re not a team player.” Livingstone studied the man opposite him, waiting and hoping for him to be goaded into reacting. Nothing, Harris just inspected his fingernails and sipped at his drink. Livingstone was losing his patience; it was like talking to a brick wall. “You’re going to make me come out and say it?”
“I think that’s how a shakedown generally works.” Harris smiled. He was winning.
“Ok James. People are saying you’re operating a whorehouse on Brewery Lane.” Livingstone decided it was time to get to the point.
“A brothel?” Harris allowed himself a wry half smile, Livingstone’s information was wrong. He knew this conversation would be a good chance to toy with his greedy boss. “They think I’m a Madam?”
“Living off the proceeds of prostitution… That’s jail time.” Livingstone threatened impotently.
“It’s fucking nonsense.” Harris smiled smugly at Livingstone, the more senior of the pair, who found the act of open condescension sickening.
“Don’t curse in my presence you heathen.” Livingstone couldn’t prove a damn thing because it wasn’t true. He’d taken a stab in the dark, he’d missed. “I realise our men do some work on the side from time to time… And that’s fine. Bills need to be paid.” He paused. “And I know we can’t stop organised crime in the city, the criminals and their gangs are in control. But we can influence it.” Harris was an underworld figure, this was true. He had ties to criminal organisations throughout the city. This was common knowledge. “So,
if you’re in a position of privilege, which we both know you are…”
“As a brothel keeper?” Harris wasn’t always a big talker, but when he did speak, he had a smart mouth at the end of a quick set of wits.
“I need you to help me out here, Pommy.” Harris winced as Livingstone reached for the worn-out epithet, the Englishman despised the term. It was rarely uttered in anger, but it was a constant reminder that he didn’t belong. Livingstone, the politician, was getting dangerously close to saying what he’d actually been thinking all along. “Knowledge is power in our fight against criminality.” Harris took a sip and watched as Livingstone continued to circumnavigate the point. “So is money.”
Harris shook his head, he didn’t know whether to despair of Livingstone’s greed or actually respect his transparency. Major Crimes was filled with men driven by excessive male pride, it was believed to be commonplace for detectives to stuff socks down the front of their suit trousers to maintain the illusion of hyper masculinity. Livingstone didn’t concern himself with that. The only thing he stuffed was his wallet, to give the illusion of wealth.
“Money is definitely power.”
“I don’t run a brothel.” Harris smirked, “If I did, I’d likely be partnered with some very nasty people who’d go to hell and back to protect their profits. The kind of people who are already paying this department and yourself, very handsomely, for the privilege of operating in Darlinghurst. There’s no more money for you. Alan.” Harris had stopped smiling.
Livingstone was livid. “I need to know who you’re working for. Me? Or them?” Livingstone pulled a comb out the breast pocket of his suit and slicked back his dyed black hair.“Now… Did someone mention money?”
“You did… That was you. Not a minute ago.” Harris shook his head and decided to get the charade over with. “I’ve done your collections… If that’s what you’re asking.”
“So, this is what co-operation looks like, is it?” It was Livingstone’s turn to look smug having won the smallest and least significant of battles. Harris left the office and went back to his own desk. The dayshift detectives were filtering into the office. The place was beginning to fill with cigarette smoke, and the farts of sedentary, piggish men living with chronic gut problems. It wasn’t pleasant. As Harris walked amongst the rows of desks, several detectives watched him suspiciously. He wasn’t popular amongst the force. Chatter between the men ceased in his presence.
At his desk, Harris reached into his drawers and pulled out a ledger, along with several well stuffed envelopes. You see, Harris really was no kind of policeman at all. His job in Major Crimes was that of a bagman. His links to the criminal landscape meant he ensured nefarious money was paid and received from all the right people, to all the right people. In return he pulled a reasonable salary for doing very little work. He took a quick look through his ledger, wrote down some figures, and chucked it back into the drawer before walking back into Livingstone’s office. He didn’t bother sitting, he threw the envelopes onto the desk. Livingstone cast an eye out onto the bullpen to check no one was peering in on them before he began flicking through the envelopes.
“Would you not like to fit in here?” Livingstone spoke over the top of a cash-filled brown paper envelope.
“This place is full of crooked wankers who spend their lives pretending to be policemen.” Harris made no bones of the fact that he had little time for those around him. “So, no.”
“And how exactly are they different from you, James?”
“Taking a police salary doesn’t mean I’m pretending to be a policeman. You should learn the difference.”
Livingstone placed the envelopes down in his in-tray. He wasn’t listening to Harris. “I’m considering having you reassigned. I don’t think it’s working out for you here.” A knock at the door. Neither Harris nor Livingstone was disappointed at this interruption. Livingstone looked over to the secretary who stood there. “Yes?”
The poor secretary standing there was meek. Livingstone was known to be a cruel man. “You’re needed downstairs, Alan.”
“Alan?” Harris raised his eyebrows, perhaps her meekness was caused by something more illicit than just shyness.
Livingstone turned back to Harris. “Go back to your desk and stay there while I figure out what to do with you.” Harris had to use every ounce of self-restraint in his body to stop himself from telling Livingstone to go fuck himself.
“Go fuck yourself.” Like most addicts, Harris wasn’t known for his self-restraint. He had no intention of taking orders from Livingstone. He never had in the past, so he saw no reason to start then.
Livingstone and the secretary made their way out of the office. They stopped at her desk and spoke briefly. The Detective Chief Inspector pointed back at Harris as though he was telling her to keep an eye on him.
Harris lit a cigarette while he finished his whisky, still sitting at Livingstone’s desk. Even for a drinker, one shot of whisky has its effects, and today Harris was on his third double helping, all before eight o’clock. He stubbed the cigarette out on the antique desk, reached over and reclaimed an envelope from the pile he had tossed at Livingstone, shoving it into his coat. There is no honour amongst corrupt policemen.
“Harris for Prince.” Harris spoke into his phone, while he looked around the smoky office from the discomfort of his desk. Nearby, detectives were playing cards, smoking cigarettes and generally doing as little as they could to pass for a day’s police work. Perhaps you’re beginning to understand why we called it the Golden Age of Crime.
Harris listened intently as a man on the other end of the phone spoke. As he listened, he jotted down notes on a pad. Names, addresses, figures. That kind of thing. He was a meticulous kind of fellow, he wrote everything down, and he always had a notepad to hand. People used to laugh at him behind his back, they said he was like their teen daughters, writing in his diary. I never found it funny. I’d turned up to his house; he’d jot it down in a book. I sold him a wrap of skag, he’d write it down in his book. I didn’t like it. I asked him on more than one occasion not to do it. He never listened. If those notes fell into the wrong hands, say that of a Royal Commission. Well. Fuck.
Hanging up the phone, he threw his jacket over his broad shoulders. Livingstone’s secretary noticed immediately. She intercepted him as he walked towards the exit. This amused him. She was a tiny, delicate thing. She was just the way Livingstone liked his secretaries, young, pretty, and impressionable. But, to her credit, she must have had bigger bollocks than half the men in that room, as she placed herself between Harris and the door. “Alan…” She started, but soon corrected herself. “DCI Livingstone asked me to remind you to stay at your desk.”
Harris smiled and straightened up. With his posture corrected, he loomed an entire foot above the young secretary. He didn’t want to scare the girl, he just wanted her out of his way.
“I’m just trying to do my job,” she protested.
“Does his wife know you’re so eager to please your boss?” Harris, in no position to judge the girl, did little to hide his judgement.
“It’s a broken marriage; she doesn’t love him. Not like how I do.” That was likely true, Mrs Livingstone would later stand up to speak at her husband’s funeral and spit on his coffin. As his wife, she saw the worst of him.
“For good reason, she knows him. He’s an ‘orrid cunt. What about his children? Do they love him?” Harris went to move around the girl, she sidestepped in front of him as he moved to pass her.
“He told me to ask you to stay at your desk.” She was weakening, her voice cracked with frustration.
“Well, I’m not going to do that.” Harris sensed it.
“What am I supposed to tell him? He won’t be pleased.” She was just about done.
“Might make a nice change from him leaving you dissatisfied. Eh?” She had no answer to Harris’ underhanded jibe. Still, she simply refused to move out of his way. He’d had enough, and so he grabbed her firmly by t
he arms, lifting her from the floor and physically moved her from between himself and the doorway. “Have a nice day.”
Chapter 2
Relief washed over Harris the moment his oversized feet stepped out of the station. He usually avoided conversations with his colleagues at all costs and that exchange with Livingstone had only served to reinforce his resolve to do so in the future. Unlike the other Major Crimes detectives, Harris spent the majority of his days in and around Kings Cross, or just ‘the Cross’ as locals called it. He was never far from the community’s beating criminal heart. He made it his business to know what was going on in Darlinghurst, as soon as it was going on, if not slightly before. It had made him invaluable to some very important people. Looking back, the local criminals should have been thanking their lucky stars he had no interest in police work. Had he done so, he would have been a force of nature. An act of God. If Detective Constable Harris had had any inclination to clean up the streets, the dynamic of the area would have worked very differently.
Fortunately for us, he was more preoccupied with his considerably better-paying, but only marginally less criminal enterprise as a well-known member of Sydney’s underworld. Harris was a trusted lieutenant for a nefarious sort of chap named Ronnie Prince. He acted as a standover man, which was basically a debt collector; exactly the debts he collected weren’t exactly legal. They weren’t strictly debts either. It was extortion, racketeering, blackmail. Basically, in return for cash, he agreed not to drive local businesses to ruin. It was ugly. It was profiteering off others’ hard work, but that’s just what we did back then. Harris had an incredible talent for it. The guy was an artist, really. He was generally sent in as the last line of offence against those who just did not want to part with their hard-earned cash. Once Harris had gone in, they paid. If necessary, he’d use force but after news had been spread around about what happened to Doug McPhee and Shotgun Eddie, two infamous local criminals, violence was rarely required. The threat was usually enough.
THE DEVIL IN THE RED DIRT: DIVIDED IN LIFE. UNIFIED IN MURDER Page 3
