THE DEVIL IN THE RED DIRT: DIVIDED IN LIFE. UNIFIED IN MURDER

by Michael Smith

  Harris looked at the stacks of money upon the desk in front of the accountant in quiet disbelief. “What does the boss need me for when he makes that kind of money in this place?”

  “I don’t know, James. I have posed that very question to him many a time.” Ned was far too big for his distinctly average-sized, and anally polished boots.

  “What’s happening in Queensland?” Harris smiled. He liked Ned. He had no idea why, but he liked him. He wasn’t a threat.

  “There’s a lot of talk, nothing concrete. People making moves. Anyway… I trust you didn’t draw any attention to yourself at the Kelly?” Ned might as well have licked his lips as he reached a bony hand out to take delivery of the envelope.

  “By “yourself” you mean Mr Prince?” Harris corrected him as he passed the envelope.

  “Yeah.” Ned flicked his long, thin fingers through the envelope. They were a pianist’s fingers. Only his piano was a calculator.

  “And by Mr Prince… You mean yourself?” Harris corrected him once more.

  “Yeah.” Ned spoke distractedly. Once he realised what he said, he felt a little embarrassed by his mindless admission.

  “Then be a man and say what you mean. Mr Prince pays me a lot of money to do what I do. He trusts me to do it. So, get back to what it is that you do. Your sums.” Sydney was a game of bluff. It was the Wild West. Everyone worked for Prince, but beyond that it became murky. People regularly tried their luck at moving up the chain of command by simply pushing their authority on those around them, Harris was used to it. The difference between Harris and people like Ned was that Harris had no ambition of climbing. The only place he could go was into Prince’s seat. Having seen the exhaustion on his mentor’s face for the past decade, he didn’t need it. “Be a good lad and put that in the safe for Mr Prince.”

  “On your way out… Escort that noise out, will you? I can’t concentrate with those hens clucking out there.” There Ned went again, barking orders like he was the boss himself.

  “Are they up or down?” Harris asked.

  “Up…” Ned nodded at Harris knowingly. “Just a few quid. Not enough for the casino to worry about.”

  Once Harris had left, Ned reached deep into his desk drawer. From within, he pulled out a handgun. It was atrocious. All gold and mother of pearl. It looked like a gun you would buy an eleven-year-old girl for her birthday. If indeed you were to buy a pre-teen a gun for their birthday. Not advisable outside of Texas. He pointed the gun in the mirror and pointed it. “Where are those big old walnuts of yours now, Pom…” Ned fantasised in the empty room.

  It wasn’t empty long, as Harris walked back into the office not a second later. Ned yelped. Harris hadn’t heard Ned playing make-believe, but Ned didn’t know that. He dropped the gun onto the desk. Harris didn’t quite know what he’d walked in on, it didn’t matter. He’d come back with a purpose. He reached down and grabbed the envelope he’d just handed over not a moment before. “On second thoughts, I’ll hold onto this myself.” Harris looked at the shock on Ned’s face and then at the gun on the desk, “That’s a sweet little thing… Is it a present for your wife?”

  “Erm.” Ned did not feel good about this situation, but he squeezed a smile out. “Yes.”

  “It’s nice. If you want something a little less feminine, you know, for yourself; let me know.” Harris reached into the back of his trousers and pulled out his Colt Detective Special. A snub-nosed revolver that was an uncompromising shade of black. It was carbon steel and dark wood. It looked deadly, not like Ned’s unsightly toy. Ned had never been so emasculated. Harris smiled condescendingly. “You can hold it if you like. I trust you.”

  At the same time, Fred Lescott found himself walking through a harbour side shipyard. Sparks flew through the air, smoke plumed from chimneys, the clanging of heavy machinery reverberated all around him. The shipyard workers sweated as they performed backbreaking work under the summer sun. It was the kind of heavy work that the nation had been built upon. Lescott walked through the steel jungle, a maze of half-finished ships, boats, rigs and other machinery. It was awe inspiring and a polar opposite of his work in Missing Persons. This was necessary, nose-to-the-grindstone type of work that was all part of the plan. He’d never felt quite so insignificant.

  Weaving amongst the scaffolding and under the girders jutting out hazardously, he saw what he was looking for. A shabby looking portacabin. Inside, he found a group of men playing cards. Jared Hills got to his feet as soon as he saw Lescott. Hills was in his early thirties and dressed smartly, he clearly wasn’t hard at work on the waterfront. “DC Lescott… To what do we owe the pleasure?”

  Lescott simply nodded at Jared and looked around the room. “Jumpy.”

  “I don’t go by jumpy anymore. It’s just Jared now.” Hills stepped away from the group playing cards and over towards the door, he was clearly nervous.

  “Well just Jared… It’s DS Lescott now and I need some information.” Hills was an old criminal informant whom Lescott had tapped up during his days in Internal Affairs. While the likes of Prince, Harris and Watson were something like thermostats in the criminal underworld, Hills was more like a thermometer. He wasn’t involved, but he always knew how hot or cold things were.

  “I don’t go in for that sort of thing anymore. I’ve got an honest job… I’m a union rep.” Hills looked smug as he gestured to his smart looking suit.

  “What union would have you?” Lescott asked sceptically.

  “The Federated Ship Painters and Dockers Union.” Lescott raised his eyebrows and decided he’d have to remember that name. He assumed they were crooked and mob-operated. They were.

  “I suppose your pals are union reps, too are they?” This question put Hills in an uncomfortable position. The group of men were quite clearly hardened criminals. They stared menacingly over at the detective. He recognised that particular brand of contempt, he’d seen it before. It developed towards policemen when an individual felt they had wasted, what otherwise would have been, the best years of their life in jail.

  “That would be none of your business, Detective Sergeant.” Hills ushered Lescott back out the door.

  “Give me some information and I’ll make it my business to not make your business into my business.”

  Hills hesitated, “Sorry, what?”

  Lescott looked back inside, “I wonder what they’d think if I told them you’d spent years grassing on their mates?”

  Hill’s face dropped; he was being strong-armed.

  Lescott smiled and nodded in the direction of the scariest looking member of the group. “That’s Mad Frank Wilkins isn’t it?”

  “You know why he’s fucking called Mad Frank don’t you?” Hills was frightened “He killed eight men with his bare hands…”

  “… And then buried them beneath his mum’s basement?” Lescott filled in the blank. He’d heard the story. All of Sydney had.

  “What do you want?” Hills ushered Lescott over to the doorway.

  “I just want a bit of background on a guy, he’s fair game. He’s a copper. No one needs to know we spoke.”

  “What are you going to do for me?” Hills pushed his luck and ran his mouth once more.

  “What I won’t do is kick seven shades of shit out of you in front of your new friends and then tell Mad Frankie over there that you’re a rat.”

  Hills looked frustrated but resigned to the fact that he’d have to talk, “That sounds like a deal I’m comfortable with.” Hills took a moment to think, “Give me a second.”

  Hills went back into the cabin, “Frank… give me your shooter.”

  The women on the casino floor continued to bicker as Harris walked over to them. The croupier had disappeared. He’d seen sense and given up. Casinos and, more importantly, large sums of money, muddy the waters of friendship. Where once there stood two friends, there now stood a pair of snarling, drooling, rabid dogs.

  “She stole my chips.” One of the women was quick to turn to Harris as s
he saw him approach.

  “I’m here to escort you both off the premises. You’ll have to sort this elsewhere. You’re making a scene.” The women ignored Harris, they were too busy screaming and clawing at each other’s pile of chips. He raised his voice. “If you can’t sort it yourself, I will sort it for you.”

  “Ok… Ok.” The women heard that. “We’ll leave.”

  “And our money?”

  “I’ll walk you to the cash desk so you can settle up. You can figure out what to do once you’re off the premises.” Harris held out his hands and took the chips from the reluctant women. His hands were massive. Each stack of chips, which required both hands of both women, fit comfortably in his big paws. As the women followed, they continued their argument. At the cash desk, they continued their argument. Harris slid the chips over to the cashier. “Two envelopes, half in each.”

  Harris’ logic, that both women would be happy walking out with more than they walked in with, was flawed. Neither woman was happy with a 50% share. Across the casino floor, down the split staircase, and out the front door, they continued their argument. The sound was more than Harris could bear. When it became apparent that this was a problem not even time could heal, Harris decided to repair their relationship for them. He took both of the envelopes and placed them inside his jacket, before gesturing for the women to leave. “Goodbye ladies.”

  The women both looked at Harris ferociously, their quarrel forgotten in the face of a common enemy. “We’ll report you to the police.”

  Harris pulled out his warrant card. “If you’d like to make a complaint… I’m happy to take a statement.”

  The women’s jaws dropped. He pointed down the street and they left, cursing under their breath. If they learnt anything from the experience, then they’d learnt that an unexpected windfall, in this time and place, should be greeted without a fucking sound.

  Harris followed them out. Across the street a man was sitting at the wheel of a parked car. In his hands, there was a camera. Whether it was pointed at Harris or the casino’s facade, Harris could not tell. There was something eerie going on in Sydney that day. There were too many strange happenings all at once not to think that they were all leading somewhere and something bigger was building.

  As Jared Hills was showered in sparks by a team of welders at work, he took no notice. He strode purposefully towards the waterfront where Lescott awaited him. He could see Lescott leaning against the railing just ahead. The unsuspecting Detective was looking over the side of the bay, while waves crashed against the concrete of the harbour wall below.

  Hills’ grasp of the gun in his hand relaxed. Lescott had his back to Hills. Who was to say that Lescott, who everyone knew struggled with his drinking, didn’t just lose his balance and fall over the railing? Perhaps he banged his head on the way down. Knocked unconscious, he was consumed by the polluted waters of the bay. It would draw a lot less attention than a gunshot in the middle of the day.

  Hills was getting closer; his hands were sweating, and his pulse was racing. He was caught between two outcomes. Before he knew what was happening, Lescott had turned, seen the gun in his hand and landed a jab on the bridge of Hills’ nose. Hills was flattened. The handgun fell to the floor and rattled its way across the concrete; it only came to a stop when it was firmly beyond Hill’s reach.

  “You pig bastard.” Hills dragged himself onto his arse and assessed the damage with gingerly prodding fingers. His nose was severely broken. “Now I’m going to look like a fucking arsehole with a bent nose.”

  “You look great. You look just like a young Joe Merrick.”

  “Merrick? Is he the one from Surrey Hills?” Hills asked for clarification.

  “What do you know about DC James Harris?”

  Jared racked his brains. He’d heard the name before. “He’s from your neck of the woods. The Cross… Darlinghurst, around there somewhere. He’s Murder Squad or Major Crimes. One of those departments that do more harm than good.” Hills got to his feet.

  “Is he corrupt?”

  “Corrupt? Not really, I think you need to be a copper to be corrupt. He’s just a criminal as far as I know.” Hills had clearly hit a rich seam of memories, or at least, recalled the gossip he’d heard over the years.

  “I don’t follow.”

  “He’s not like the others. He’s Ronnie Prince’s bagman man on the inside. Never even walked the beat. Went straight into plain clothes.”

  “No links to Internal Affairs?” Lescott asked the question that had been troubling him.

  Hills laughed at the suggestion. “He’s just a criminal.”

  “So are they.” Lescott was pushing like a dog hunting for a bone. “Tell me more.”

  “Prince is the face. And the brain. And the mouth. James Harris is his clenched fist. He doesn’t speak all that much, he doesn’t make friends. They call him the Ten Pound Pom, because if he comes to your place of business, that’s the least it’ll cost to get rid of him.”

  “You’re going to have to do better than nicknames, Jared.” Lescott had pulled his notebook out of his pocket and began writing.

  “Well… This didn’t come from me, but I’ve heard things. Doug McPhee…” Hills raised his eyebrows, for dramatic effect, as he said the name.

  “Shot to bits and left strung up on a lamppost?” Everyone had heard about McPhee.

  “A bullet in each of his ankles, knees, elbows and wrists… Then strung up to bleed to death. That was Harris, so they say. Shotgun Eddie too.” Hills looked disgusted at even the mention of that name.

  “Not familiar.” Lescott shrugged. His eyes demanded an explanation.

  “He swallowed his own shotgun. They found the body. No head. The biggest bit they found were a few loose teeth and half an ear.” Hills bared his teeth in disgust at the guy’s bloody end. “He was a rotter anyway.

  Lescott was a little impressed. The man who’d sat with him at the station had seemed so stressed, so out of his comfort zone. It seemed he had hidden depths.

  “He’s a one-man plague, a scourge of the criminal underworld. Gangsters in Newcastle tell their kids stories about him to get them to go to bed. He’s a fucking nightmare. That’s who you’re dealing with.” Hills poked at the broken nose once more, in response it gushed blood.

  “I think that’s more than enough dreary exposition for one day,” Lescott turned to leave.

  “Now we’re friends again…” Hills called out hopefully. “You couldn’t slip us a couple of quid, could you?”

  Chapter 8

  By the time the afternoon was drawing to a close, and the summer sun had beaten down on the street all day, the tarmac was becoming spongy underfoot. Standing outside the Police Station at Darlinghurst Road, Harris was yet to make up his mind.

  The Rolls Royce had been moved. The cordon was gone. The crowd had disappeared. But the street was by no means back to normal. The crime scene had been replaced by a shiver of great whites circling in bloodied waters. The press had moved in. Beady eyes darted all over the place. The reporters all seemed to have visited the same hatter. Despite the summer heat, despite the sweat pouring down their faces and into their stinging eyes, they all kept those heavy fedoras snug on their foreheads. They looked ridiculous, like they were trying to play a part and couldn’t break the illusion. They harried anyone who came in or out of the building, their note pads were ready to scribble away as they devoured any juicy morsel thrown their way. Camera bulbs flashed brightly in the eyes of those they were harassing. They had no interest in the secretaries or uniformed police who came or went, just the detectives.

  A few of the station’s wannabe celebrity detectives came down and did their best Clarke Gable impressions, but ultimately the press tired of their poorly-contrived sound bites. They wanted what they were calling the Death Car, not the next Hollywood-style detective show to hit the television.

  Harris stood at the back of the crowd taking in the carnage. He looked out of place. None of the journalists gav
e him the time of day. His flat cap and overcoat made him look more like a factory worker than a detective. He moved alongside a reporter and tried to peer inside his notebook.

  “What’s going on?” Harris asked.

  “What rock have you been living under?” The reporter chided only to be met with a stern glare. “The bodies of two kids were found on the street earlier… In a Rolls Royce. Between you and I… I’ve heard they’ve already got the bloke banged up. What about this for a headline on tomorrow’s early run? The Death Car that drove Darlinghurst to despair?”

  “Catchy.” Harris wasn’t enamoured by the way these people could reduce a horrendous crime into a superficial headline with echoes of Edgar Allan Poe.

  “The clap’s catchy… This is gold. We wait all year for a story like this…” The man might as well have rubbed his hands together and licked his lips.

  “Well at least those kids didn’t die for nothing eh?” Harris hated journalists. The media at the time was full of self-serving rodents, each one out to make as big a splash as he or she could, regardless of the truth or who the crime had hurt. What’s the truth, when you have your own agendas to worry about? In the 1960’s, it behoved journalists to be faster, and more imaginative, than their rivals, not more truthful. Consequently, journalists were about as well respected as toilet attendants. I guess some things never change, no matter how the world does.

  “You seem well informed.” Harris suggested.