CHAPTER THREE
There was something very special about the Watson’s Bay Hotel. In the morning, the sun rises over the hill from Tasman Sea catching the Harbour Bridge in the distance; in the afternoon, if you stay that long, which you will, the sun will arc behind the Bridge casting a silhouette of giant structure against the blue waters. It’s also an early opener. The doors swing open at 7am and close at 10pm. It was 7.04am.
“G’day, George,” said Joe, his first joyful comment of the day.
“How ya goin, mate?” asked the barman.
“Been better. Bacon and egg toasted, and a midi, mate.”
“Bit early, sir,” said Jimmy.
“Jimmy… I know you’re paid to look after me, but you don’t understand me. I need it.”
“Shandy please, mate.”
“Midi or schooie, Jimmy?”
“Midi.”
Joe and George looked at each other, shaking their heads. “The young, eh?” said George.
The inside of the Watson’s Bay Hotel was a classic celebration of the Fifties. It had evocative posters from the period, with images of Phar Lap, the famous the race horse, Milo, the bedtime drink, and a front page of an early Woman’s Weekly. It was all there to remind the marathon drinker that a loving family awaited their return.
Joe took a healthy gulp of lager. He winced a little, but didn’t want to show it. It was cold.
“Christ,” he said. “I do love you, Jimmy, but -”
“Sir, we’ve just started an investigation into a very important murder.”
“Really?” said George, appearing from the glass washer below. “Wondered what those sirens were. Woke me up.”
“Bad one,” said Joe. “Remember Terry Forbes? He could play cricket that bloke. Could take it on the body, everything. No helmets then. Just pummelled into the sweater.”
“Murdered?” asked George, slightly astonished.
“Keep your voice down,” urged Jimmy.
“Bloody hell,” said George.
All three quickly glanced around the bar. There were two other men in the bar, in the far corner, under the television, deeply engaged in conversation. They were out of earshot.
“What happened?” asked George, polishing the inside of a schooner glass.
“We can’t tell you, Charlie, you know that. But he’s played his final innings.”
Joe took a long draught.
“Ah, the taste of Resches in the morning.”
“Refill?”
“Quick one. Low alcohol.”
He filled his glass again, and the two policemen took a seat at the end of the bar together. They clocked the television, which was showing rolling news.
“What do you reckon happened then?” asked Jimmy, casually.
“God knows. Suspects everywhere. That Ramesh, that phone call from the daughter. Early days mate. Early days. Set up an incident room in the living room, and back at the station.”
“Is it big enough at the house?”
“Bigger than mine.”
They both looked at the television. It was a story on the Hockeyroos.
“Your favourites, sir.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Joe was drawn into the sports highlights from the previous night.
“God, look at that, the way she flicked that ball, must be like, 40 yards.”
“Metres, boss.”
“That’s the problem with the younger generation. No respect for what has gone before. I grew up with imperial and that’s what I’m sticking with. Bollocks to the rest of it.”
“Yes, sir.”
Some of the television suddenly changed colour to a deep red, with a flashing banner rolling across the bottom of the screen. There was one word on it: “MURDER”. It’s the only time a television can shout.
“That’s taken ’em a while,” said Joe, finishing off his midi and taking up his bacon and egg sandwich. An untypical flicker of pleasure drifted across Joe’s face. “Marvellous. You know, let’s play, ‘How-many-things-did-the-reporter-get-wrong story?’ We’ll call it, ‘How to Murder a Story’.”
He turned to the bar. “Turn it up, George!” The detective inspector was now in charge – of an empty pub, save a couple of desperadoes in the corner, a barman and a television. He was a man in his element.
A young reporter, whom the detectives recognised from earlier, took up his place in front of the camera. He seemed slightly ill at ease while desperately excited at the same time.
“This is Damian Ross at the scene of a brutal and tragic murder in the rich and glamorous suburb of Vaucluse.”
“Well, he’s got that big right. But it’s always tragic mate. What death isn’t?”
“- positive identification yet, News First believes the victim of this awful crime is none other than cricketing legend from the Seventies, Terry Forbes.”
The programme immediately cut back to the studio to an eager, smart-suited autocutie with a flash of cleavage and blonde hair. She knew this was a big story, too, and wanted part of it.
“Gosh, Jimmy,” said Joe. “I think the news is getting glamorous as well.”
“Boss… steady.”
A ticker across the bottom of the screen was already yelling continuously, “Cricket legend Terry Forbes is Dead”.
“He’s good this guy. He hasn’t screwed up yet. Matter of time.”
“– to this address in Dover Heights Close just after six this morning –”
“Don’t we know it,” said Joe.
“– where they found the body of a man who we believe to be the great Aussie opening bat Terry Forbes.”
Back to the studio.
“Do we know anything about the circumstances of his death, Damian? This is a great sporting tragedy for the country.”
“This is where, ah, it gets a little tricky –”
“Here we go,” said Joe.
“I have spoken to a neighbour, one George Fraser, who was last seen going into the house to speak with detectives. He told me exclusively that Forbes was bashed with a cricket bat.”
“Bashed with a cricket bat?! A cricket legend!” interjected the studio presenter.
“I can’t confirm that,” said Damian, “but that’s just what he told me before he was taken away, well not taken away like he was a suspect, but led away, not that either really, but he was going to help them with their enquiries.”
“Oooh yeah,” said Joe. “He’s really gone for the detail. He’ll be declaring who is the murderer at this rate.”
The reporter continued.
“But the real dynamite came much later when –”
The reporter appeared to direct this next statement with much more purpose and confidence towards the camera, like he had a particular target in mind.
“– another man, of Asian descent, got involved in an extraordinary exchange with the detectives in charge of the case. Take a look at this.”
The television rolled the video tape. Joe and Jimmy sat in an awkward silence as the detective inspector’s handiwork was broadcast to a nation over breakfast. Just as Joe recalled it. He seized Ramesh by the arm, in his green and gold leisure wear, and pushed his body against the police paddy wagon.
“Shit,” said Jimmy, partly under his breath.
“Spit it out,” said Joe.
“Well, you dealt with him, sir.”
“And I think I’ve just been dealt with by this prick of a reporter. Jesus.”
Seconds later, Joe’s mobile rang. He felt in both breast pockets of his tan jacket, before finding it in his trouser pocket. It was a phone no one under his age would now dare own, with a chirpy Nokia ring tone redolent of another era.
“Oh shit!” said Joe, looking at the call recognition.
He continued, “Yes, sir.”
“You must be watching what I am.”
“I am, sir.”
“Joe, I’m the Super at this station. Why is it that I spend 75 per cent of my time dealing with the shit that comes from your patch?
This was one of the greatest sporting heroes of our age, any age, and you decide to pick up one of the suspects and knock him against a paddy wagon. You bloody idiot. Did he do it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What?! He did?”
“Sorry, I don’t know sir.”
“Right.”
“Nothing is really clear.”
There was a pause in the exchange.
“You’re in the bloody Watson’s Bay, aren’t you?”
“I need to have my breakfast.”
“Stop making shit for me!! I mean it.”
“I’ll get him, sir.”
“Really? Who is this bloke?”
“Ramesh, sir. Business partner, we think.”
“Well, he could be the key. You don’t duff him up.”
“That’s not the full story.”
“I’ve seen enough of it already especially if he didn’t do it.”
“But sir –”
The Super rang off.
“Doesn’t have a bloody clue as ever.”
“They’re just playing that tape over, and over again.”
“Great television. Copper pushing some thug against the wagon.”
“He wasn’t a thug, sir.”
“He behaved like one.”
Directly underneath the television, the two other drinkers were becoming more animated.
“You bloody bastard!” shouted one.
“Fuck you!”
Suddenly one swung a punch at the other, connecting with the side of his head, in an exchange reminiscent of two people who don’t regularly indulge in fist-fighting. One combatant then lashed out at the other, grabbing a clump of hair.
“This is entertaining,” said Joe.
“Shall I?” asked Jimmy.
“Not yet. Give them a moment. It’s better than the news.”
Suddenly it got serious. The one with the nose ring decided to smash the other’s face – that’s the one with the tat – on to the table. He then reached for a glass, which he struck on the side of the table.
“Jimmy!” yelled Joe.
In a flash, the DC was on his feet again, but so was the assailant, who promptly dropped the glass and darted for the side door. Jimmy gave chase. Joe spluttered with his bacon and egg sandwich and made for the side door, too.
The detective inspector was much more leisurely. He made it beyond the pub door just in time to see his constable leap for the runner as he made it to the beginning of Watson’s Bay peer. And just in time to see the next ferry from Circular Quay, which was gently nudging alongside.
Jimmy was an athletic type, schooled in the many arts of rugby through his 13 years in various educational institutions. He’d not been particularly bright, but the constable had found favour with teachers for his ability to kick a “lump of leather”, both the round and oval ball. Secondly he showed talent at throwing his body through the air, like some ancient circus act shot from a canon, to cut another’s legs away in full flight. Which was exactly what he did here.
As Joe wiped his face clean of bacon and egg sandwich and prepared for action, Jimmy crashed on to the wharf but without his man. The assailant was merely ankle-tapped. The man scrambled to his feet, and, just as Jimmy did, the Japanese tourists began to snake their way off the ferry in single file. As a group of sightseers, there is none so chipper and chirpy as this lot. They had come all this way to see Doyle's, the fish restaurant with arguable the best view in the world: straight back across the Harbour towards the famous “Coat Hanger”.
The runner, now with Jimmy just behind him, leapt across the metre of so gap between the ferry and the wharf side and on to the boat. Bugger, thought Joe. We’re doing this out of the good of our heart. The constable continued his pursuit, while the tourists looked on excitedly, many looking surprised that such a convincing entertainment had been staged for their purpose.
When Joe finally made it to the wharf he decided not to add to the sideshow, flashed his ID cursorily, and pushed aside the enthralled tourists on the gangplank. A ferry hand, tying up the regular service further along the quay, was a study in indifference.
“G’day, mate. How ya goin?”
Joe announced his arrival.
“Police! Police!! Move over!”
Inside the ferry, Jimmy had sprinted to the very top deck where his quarry now stood directly opposite him against the railing. Behind him, the deep harbour and the bridge.
“It’s over. This is the police mate. Plain clothes.”
He flashed his ID.
“No way, not you bastard pigs.”
“Pleasant.”
“I haven’t done anything.”
“Just come along quietly then.”
Along the wharf, dozens of Japanese, ever primed for an action, had drawn a battery of cameras from their shoulder bags to train on the hubbub, with little red lights beaming out. Marvellous, they were muttering. Some gritty street action.
“Look mate, it would make it easier for you to come now.”
“Crap. I know you guys.”
The runner looked over the edge of the railing on both sides. The last thing Jimmy wanted was for him to jump, or he would be following him. He began to slowly move towards him.
“Now, look mate. Just a bit of a fight in a pub. We just want to talk. Nothing serious.”
“That’s what you always say.”
“My name is Detective Constable Jimmy Cook –”
But before his personal introduction had finished, the man ran directly at the policeman, took a quick side step, only to find his legs locked together by a regulation rugby tackle as he passed by. He crashed to the deck with a terrific thud just as the ferry’s funnel, only metres away, sounded its arrival port side. The man’s wallet spilled on to the deck.
“Well done, detective constable!”
Jimmy looked up as he grappled with the handcuffs.
“You turned up then,” said Jimmy
Joe had the man’s wallet in his hand and was standing by the doorway leading to the deck.
“You’re never going to believe who this bloke is!?”
“Well, thanks for your bloody help.”
“Pleasure,” said Joe. “As for this fellow, one Mr Forbes, I have some news for you.”
TO BE CONTINUED….
Stumped! A Bondi Detective story Page 3
