by Peter Watt
‘Are you sure this task is not beyond you?’ Karl asked cautiously.
‘He is my flesh and blood,’ Karolina said, turning her sad smile from David’s sleeping form to Karl. ‘He is a wonderful little man, and I wished that in his life I had been a little less hostile to his father.’
‘War took Alexander’s life. Now pestilence has taken Giselle. We can only pray God protects us from any other plagues.’ Karl sighed. ‘We will have to contact Mr Duffy in Sydney to inform him of Giselle’s passing, and see if we can receive financial assistance from the Macintosh estate.’
‘That evil man, George Macintosh, he will never approve support. But I do not care. I have means to raise David in the manner he was born to,’ Karolina said. ‘I still have my plantation in New Guinea and my late husband’s financial estate. David will not be a beggar at the Macintosh table. He will be independent – until he comes of age and returns to take his rightful place at the head of the family.’
They fell into a silence and sat sharing the serenity of the night far from the comforts of civilisation.
It took a week for the glorious news to reach George Macintosh. His sister-in-law was dead. Sadly, her brat had not died with her, but at least it spared him the headache of plotting a double murder. The boy was very vulnerable now, and George had a perfect excuse to travel to Glen View – he must see to the boy’s future now his mother was dead. And see to it he most certainly would. George was at home, seeing to some business matters that required utmost privacy. A few friends had accepted an invitation for tennis and afternoon tea and they were due to arrive soon. He yawned at the prospect; he would have much preferred to be in the bed of the girl he had procured to take Maude’s place. Mavis was a year younger than Maude and came from an impoverished family; the mother had lost her husband to the war and had seven children to feed. The girl was the oldest and George had discovered her through his agency that rented out his houses in the inner city. It did not take long for the handsome and charming George to discuss with the widow her options of being put out on the street because she could not pay the increased rent or sending her eldest daughter to live in a flat he owned in order that she look after his domestic needs when he was away from his family home overlooking the harbour.
Mavis was pretty and George soon demonstrated what he meant by his domestic needs away from home. Her mother was paid a generous allowance that she did not dare jeopardise by asking questions.
George was thinking about Mavis when Louise entered the living room where he was working.
‘I have some news from up north,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid your sister-in-law has died as a result of the flu. They buried her on Glen View about a week ago.’
Louise paled and almost collapsed. She staggered to a divan and slumped down on it.
‘Do you need me to fetch the housemaid with a brandy?’ he asked matter-of-factly.
Louise shook her head and waved away his offer. ‘When did you learn?’
‘I received a letter from the station manager, a Mr Hector MacManus. It was in the mail delivered to me today,’ George said, fighting hard to conceal his delight. ‘It seems the good news is that young David is well and being looked after by his grandmother. I feel that I should travel north as soon as I have the opportunity in order to see to David’s welfare.’
Louise looked sharply at her husband. ‘I am surprised that you would do that, knowing your bitter hatred for both your brother’s wife and his son.’
‘I do not hate young David,’ George said, getting out of his chair and walking over to his wife in order to display concern for her distressed state. ‘He is, after all, a mere boy and has never done me any harm. I am surprised that you should think I hate him.’
‘He is the only person between you and your unholy lust for sole ownership of the family companies,’ Louise said, looking up with suspicion at her husband standing over her.
‘You forget that our son Donald is also a part of the family ownership,’ George said, looking out to the driveway where he could see a car pulling in. ‘Ah, I see the first of our tennis guests have arrived. And look at you, the perfect wife in the bloom of motherhood. What a perfect couple we make.’ He smiled savagely at her and left the room.
Louise was not in the mood to be cordial to her husband’s guests but knew she must put on an act for the sake of keeping the peace between them. This was the only way she was able to keep her son and that meant more to her than her own happiness. Louise struggled to her feet. She put on a brave front, and waited until she was safe in her lonely bedroom to grieve for her friend.
Tom Duffy had finally made it. Weeks of travelling, first by coastal steamer north and then by a horse he had been able to purchase in the Queensland town of Mackay, had brought him to the cattle station of Glen View. He could see the house with its corrugated tin roof and verandahs and he kicked his mount into a trot up to the front steps.
When he dismounted he was met by a tough-looking man wearing the garb of a stockman.
‘Can I do something for you, lad?’ the man asked with a distinctive Scottish accent.
‘I’m looking for work,’ Tom said, taking off his broad-brimmed hat and wiping his forehead with the cuff of his long-sleeved shirt. ‘Bloody hot one.’
‘You worked cattle before?’ Hector MacManus asked, eyeing him closely.
‘I worked up in the Gulf country on a few properties before the war,’ Tom replied. ‘The name’s Tom Duffy, and I have just got out of the army after service overseas.’
‘Tom Duffy, eh?’ Hector said and looked at him curiously. ‘Hector MacManus, Mr Duffy.’ Neither man offered their hand as in the country personal space was rarely invaded. ‘I’m the boss cocky around here.’
‘Mr MacManus,’ Tom said. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘You’re in luck, Mr Duffy. I lost a couple of my men to that damned flu and could do with an extra man for the mustering this week,’ Hector said. ‘Where were you during the war?’
‘I served in France,’ Tom answered and gave his battalion designation.
‘I read about your battalion,’ Hector said ‘Saw a bit of action then?’
‘Yeah, we saw a bit,’ Tom replied and noticed that the hard look had softened a little. Hector took some steps forward and came within a pace of Tom. He held out his hand and Tom accepted the gesture. Both men had iron grips.
‘You have the job,’ Hector said. ‘I’ll take you over to the shed and introduce you to the boys.’
‘Thank you, Mr MacManus,’ Tom answered. ‘I won’t let you down.’
‘Got a feeling that you won’t, lad,’ Hector said.
They strode across the dusty yard past and Tom suddenly stopped and stared at the old bumbil tree.
‘What is it, Mr Duffy?’ Hector asked. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
Tom shook his head and looked at Hector with a touch of embarrassment. ‘I’m fine, Mr MacManus, it’s just that I had a strange feeling when we came to this tree.’
Hector’s face broke into a smile. ‘Not surprised, lad,’ he chuckled. ‘Old Wallarie spends a lot of time under that tree.’
‘Wallarie!’ Tom gasped. ‘Then I am in the right place. I have been here before . . . I remember. Before the war. I met Wallarie and he told me strange things. Something about the stars in the sky.’
Hector’s smile faded. He, too, was experiencing a strange sensation of deja vu. This was no ordinary stockman. Even his name was familiar – Tom Duffy had been a legendary bushranger around these parts many years ago. The old Scot felt a cold shiver down his spine.
26
The soldiers were returning from five years of war and dispersing to families who soon found out their husband, son, brother or lover was no longer the man they remembered. How could they be after they had been through hell? They could not tell their families about the horrors they had endured, so it was to old comrades they turned.
Tonight’s dinner had been organised by Sean Duffy’s fo
rmer commanding officer and was open to all officers who had served. Sean had been pleased to be remembered when the invitation had arrived at his office. As most members had enlisted in Sydney, the former CO had organised for the dinner to be held in an upmarket city hotel. Candles flickered along tables set with crisp white linen and shiny silver, and gilt-edged table tickets had been printed with the guest’s rank and decorations.
Sean wore a dinner suit and his medals in miniature as he limped towards the place allocated to him at a table already filling with faces he remembered from his time in the front lines. He noted that he had been seated next to a former captain of the battalion who had been a lieutenant when Sean had been invalided out.
‘Sean, old chap, good to see you again – and in good health,’ the former captain said. Sean accepted the man’s handshake. He was in his late twenties with thinning hair and haunted eyes. He had a tic at the side of one eye.
‘Good to see that you came back in one piece . . . er . . .’ Sean stumbled.
‘Horace Davis,’ the former captain said. ‘Don’t blame you. We lost so many good chaps in France and Belgium, but I have always remembered how much you taught me and have always been grateful.’
‘I doubt I was much of a teacher,’ Sean said modestly.
‘You were very supportive of all us new officers who joined the battalion,’ Horace said as they sat down after the CO had taken his seat at the head of the long table.
The dinner followed the format of an officer’s dining-in night, and after the former battalion padre said grace, the first course of vegetable soup was brought out by white-jacketed waiters. Chatter rose in a crescendo and so did the laughter as old comrades shared stories of misfortunes behind the lines and of characters colourful and otherwise among the ranks they had commanded. Occasionally a silence fell between men when names were spoken of those who had not returned to share this evening of goodwill and memories.
‘So, old chap,’ Horace said. ‘How is your law practice fairing?’ he asked and Sean told him that he had his fair share of criminal cases to keep life interesting.
‘Where are you now?’ Sean countered politely.
‘Won back my old job in parliament working in the Premier’s Department,’ Horace said. ‘Rather dull after what we’ve been through but at least I am not trying to dig holes in the carpet.’
‘So you would be privy to all sensitive files sent to parliament,’ Sean said.
‘I suppose I am,’ Horace replied, waiting for the CO to commence the second course before he started eating.
‘There was a file transferred from police HQ to the Premier’s Department some months ago concerning a matter of an enemy alien investigation back in ’17,’ Sean said cautiously and went on to explain about the investigating officer’s possible misconduct. ‘I would be eternally grateful if that file could somehow find its way back to the inspector general for further investigation.’
‘Are you sure that doing so would not compromise the Premier’s Department?’ Horace said.
‘Not at all,’ Sean reassured, knowing that he was asking a lot of his former comrade. ‘This Detective Inspector Firth has a few powerful friends – but not strong enough to back him if the file is investigated properly.’
Sean took a sip of red wine from the crystal glass while Horace considered his proposal. He waited in silence, almost holding his breath.
‘I will see what I can do,’ he answered. ‘Leave it with me.’
Sean exhaled in relief. ‘Thanks, Horace, I owe you one.’
After dessert came port wine decanters and toasts to the King, the battalion and those who remained behind buried under the soil of foreign lands. Eventually the dinner was over and the men retired to continue drinking, talking and smoking in an adjoining room.
Sean mixed with old friends and for the first time in his civilian career felt a warm communion with kindred spirits. The night wore on and finally he bade goodnight to the president of the mess committee, and then the CO, who shook his hand warmly.
‘You were a bloody good officer, Major Duffy,’ the former CO said. ‘You did the battalion proud.’
Sean returned to his flat in the city much the worse for the wear, but before he laid his head down on his pillow he thought about the file. Everything depended on whether Horace would put battalion loyalty before civilian political concerns. Sean could only wait. It had been a chance meeting, but life on the front lines had taught him that chance was everything – after all, it decided whether you lived or died out there on the battlefield.
A week after the officers’ dinner Detective Inspector Jack Firth reported to work at police headquarters after a weekend off duty. As he walked into the office he shared with his small crew of men he noticed a sombre feeling in the air as if someone had died.
‘Well,’ he growled. ‘What’s up?’
‘You’re wanted upstairs,’ one of his men volunteered quietly.
Jack frowned. Upstairs meant the inspector general’s office and that was never a good thing. He made his way to the waiting room outside the top policeman’s office and was met by a male assistant.
‘The boss wants to see me,’ Jack said and the assistant looked decidedly nervous.
‘Just take a seat, Detective Inspector Firth,’ he said, motioning to a lone chair at the corner of the reception room. ‘The inspector general won’t be long.’
Jack waited for a good half-hour and with each passing minute he grew more and more anxious about why he had been summoned upstairs. Perhaps it was because he had not got a result on his case about the dead prostitute that Jack had tried to lay on Harry Griffiths. Well, that could be explained away by lack of resources and still gathering evidence against Lenny.
Jack almost jumped when the door opened. ‘Come in, Detective Inspector Firth,’ the inspector general said in a cold that Jack immediately recognised as containing bad news for him.
Inside the office he was surprised to see that the inspector general was not alone. A man in his late twenties and wearing an expensive civilian suit sat in one of the chairs. Jack vaguely recognised him as a public servant from the Premier’s Department, and Jack’s blood ran cold when he noticed a well-thumbed file sitting on the inspector general’s desk. The bloody Schumann file, he thought. It never seemed to go away.
‘This is Mr Davis from the Premier’s Department,’ the inspector general said. ‘Last week he returned the Schumann file to my office, and since then I have had a good chance to read its contents. You assured me that nothing improper occurred, but I am afraid I disagree with you, Inspector Firth, and so does the premier. Your dereliction of duty in the matter is in contravention of police regulations.’
‘Sir,’ Jack said desperately, ‘that all happened during the war and a long time ago. I may have made one or two mistakes but that’s to be expected.’
The inspector general sat down at his desk and stared hard at Jack, who was now sweating. The public servant remained silent but watched Jack intently.
‘You were attached to military intelligence when you were given the Schumann case,’ Davis finally said. ‘You are also in breach of military regulations.’
Jack turned to the public servant and had the urge to cross the room and punch the man in his smug face. ‘What would you know of my work with intelligence?’ he said, trying to intimidate the public servant.
‘I was soldiering in the trenches and we expected the best from those vested with protecting the home front, Inspector,’ Davis said, rising from his chair. ‘The premier concurs with the inspector general that you should answer to serious charges of obstructing military regulations.’
Jack turned to his boss. ‘What if I resign?’ he blurted. ‘Would that prevent any embarrassment to the department?’
Jack knew he was cornered. How in hell had the file made its way out of the archives?
‘That may be in all our interests,’ the public servant said, turning to the inspector general. ‘The premier does not want an
y scandals at a time when we need to rely on the public’s faith in law and order. I think, given Detective Inspector Firth’s otherwise fine record, that he be allowed the opportunity to hand in his resignation.’
The inspector general nodded. The resignation would save face all round. Jack Firth was getting off easy. ‘Inspector Firth, you will have your resignation on my desk by the end of your shift today, and I will then place you on annual leave with your discharge becoming effective as from the end of your leave. I doubt that you have any questions.’
‘No, sir,’ Jack said in a beaten voice. ‘I will write out my resignation request as soon as I return to my office.’
‘Well, if there is nothing else, you are dismissed, Inspector,’ the top policeman said, and Jack turned and walked away in a daze. It had been so brief and yet many years of serving his community had just been obliterated to the whims of a political system that understood nothing about law and order.
When he returned to the office he could see from the expressions on the faces of his men that they already knew of his fate.
Jack’s offsider, Dick Mawdsley, approached. ‘Bad news, boss?’ he asked nervously.
Jack shot him a withering look and stormed from the office. He would make his way to see George Macintosh, who he held responsible for his sacking. As Jack Firth strode along the street the thought dogged him that behind the re-emergence of the incriminating file was the bloody solicitor, Sean Duffy. Jack did not have proof but that had not stopped him in the past from convicting known criminals on fabricated confessions. As Jack approached the company offices of Macintosh Enterprises his rage was building and George would feel the full brunt of it.
Jack brushed past the protesting male secretary in the anteroom to George’s office and flung open the door.
‘What in hell are you doing in my office?’ George demanded, rising from his chair.
‘This morning I reported to work and now I am facing an early retirement because you did not ensure a certain file was buried for good – as you firmly assured me it would,’ Jack exploded. ‘A bloody civil servant by the name of Davis had it dug up and sent back to the inspector general’s office.’
