by Nick Place
And there was Laver, who had seen it all coming, who Dolfin hadn’t believed, retching on the carpet.
But alive.
Flipper dug into his pocket and found a handkerchief, crouched and handed it to Laver.
‘Just gimme a minute,’ Laver said hoarsely. The blood was coming from a cut above his left eye, among other places.
Dolfin said, gently, ‘Rocket, you fucking idiot. That was suicide.’
‘You wouldn’t listen.’ Laver more moaning than speaking. Semi-conscious. ‘Nobody would listen.’
‘Where are the hippie and the nerd?’
‘Safe.’
Dolfin knelt beside Laver, still on his hands and knees, bleeding, panting, possibly about to be sick again. Probably concussed. The closest thing to a brother that Dolfin had. Alive.
‘Mate, next time, I promise I’ll listen.’
Laver gasped, ‘Next time.’ And almost attempted what might have been a laugh.
Dolfin could hear sirens. Knew there would also be unmarked cars, with Broadbent, the media liaison, probably that politician cop arsehole Strickland from the ombudsman.
He stood back up and looked again at the bodies. The man against the wall was no longer gurgling. The Soggies were standing silent, just another day at the office, guns relaxed, waiting for the sirens to arrive.
Dolfin looked at the fired gun next to Laver’s hand.
‘One thing’s for sure, Rocket,’ he said. ‘If your career wasn’t fucked before, it is now.’
Laver didn’t get out of hospital until after midnight. Cecy was there when he got wheeled in on a bed after getting stitches for the cut above his eye, along with other patch-ups. She hugged him, really hugged him, and he could feel her trembling. Felt tears against his neck and felt his own eyes getting moist. Cecy was looking older than her twenty-something years, and Laver felt a pang that she was so much younger than he was, and another pang that the job was already ageing her. She’d been fast-tracked on the realities of police life in a big way since they’d heard Barry Paxton being shot. God, lunchtime that day.
The good news was that most of the initial grilling from Strickland and co, as well as Broadbent, had been able to happen while he waited for treatment and had his concussion assessed. There would be more meetings in a day or so, but for now he could rest up. Plus, as a bonus, he could argue later that the comments directed at Strickland were the result of a scrambled brain developing a concussion.
He crashed at Dolfin’s house, half-expecting Coleman’s ghost to be joined by Brunetti, with Stig, Wilde and Wilson maybe along for the ride – enough spectres for a card game – but surprisingly his brain relented and he actually slept. He started the drive to Jan Juc after ten the next morning, driving carefully, his head throbbing like a bastard, hoping his reflexes would not be tested on the way. The day had broken clear and warm, and Laver wondered briefly if he could stay for a surf before turning back towards Melbourne and everything that wasn’t waiting for him there.
It was just after 11.45 am when he arrived at Sunset Strip. The house was quiet, curtains drawn. He knocked on the back door, which was never locked, and walked in when there was no reply. Smelled the fog of dope the moment he entered the house.
And burst in on a naked Bushy and a topless Lou, blinking with sleep, desperately fumbling for clothes on a fold-out couch in the lounge room.
‘Oh shit, Laver. What time is it?’
‘So you two have gotten to know each other then?’
Bushy sniggered, stoned. ‘Looks like it. It was an entertaining evening.’
Lou struggled into a singlet, spectacular breasts disappearing before Laver’s eyes. Also now giggling, pupils dilated. ‘I’m feeling very protected.’
‘And where exactly is protected person number two?’
Bushy looked slightly alarmed. ‘I guess he’s still in bed. He took my room. We were sort of fooling around on the couch after a couple of joints and he didn’t look too happy.’
‘Poor Jake. He’s going to think I’m a bitch now.’ Saying to Laver, ‘I never said I liked him. I never gave him hope. I didn’t.’
Bushy, trying to get it together, squinted at Laver. ‘Shit, Rocket. What happened to your face?’
But Laver was already gone, walking to the bedroom where the bed was still made, unslept in.
‘Shit, Bushy,’ he yelled. ‘He’s not here. I wish you’d paid equal attention to both parties.’
Lou giggling and saying, ‘That would have been difficult.’
Laver was back out the door, grabbing Bushy’s bike, a surf cruiser covered in rust but good for riding to the beach. A bike that Laver used to find difficult to ride, its single gear a pretty heavy one. Now, his legs stronger from his job, he was able to ride it easily to the cliff tops overlooking Jan Juc back beach.
He saw Jake down below, sitting on the sand, knees tucked under his arms, watching surfers battling chopped out, messy waves. The dogs, Carl and Benji, sniffing and running along the water’s edge in front of him.
Laver came down the long steps from the cliff top and sat down beside him. The dogs ran up for pats.
‘Sounds like you had a rough night, Jake.’
Jake swallowed hard, staring determinedly out to sea. ‘It was always going to happen. I was a dickhead for holding out hopes.’
‘I’m sorry, mate. It’s a shitty truth: you can’t make a woman like you.’
‘I know. I just fooled myself, you know, and then she took one look at your friend and I knew in my gut what was going to happen, even before it did. And then I had to watch it unfold.’
‘Oh man, that is brutal.’ Laver lay back on the sand, feeling the sun on his face. ‘It’s too early for the pub to be open.’
‘I don’t drink.’
‘Of course you don’t.’
Jake suddenly looked at the cop lying next to him, saw the massive bandage and the bruises. ‘Geez, what happened to you? What happened in Melbourne?’
Laver squinted open an eye against the sun and looked at the silhouette of this kid, this almost-man. ‘They’re dead, Jake. All of them.’
‘Who? Lou’s boyfriend?’
‘And his mate. And the two guys in the white Ford. And Barry.’
Jake couldn’t speak.
Laver told him loosely what had happened, about the Groc-o-Mart being a front for a drug baron, and about Jake being wrongly thought to be a spy.
They walked the dogs back to the house where, mercifully, Lou was now fully dressed. Laver noticed she was laughing a little too loudly, not looking Jake in the eye. Eventually, Jake went and sat in the back seat of Laver’s car, waiting to go.
Laver sat down in the lounge room and broke the news about Stig and the Wild Man to Lou. Told the whole thing. Lou seemed horrified and truly shocked that Stig was so bad, so into the criminal world. Turned pale and shook when Laver described the shoot-out. Bushy asking lots of cop questions, like: ‘And the boss guy in the rental car?’
‘Like smoke into a cloud,’ Laver sighed. ‘Never seen again.’
‘Ah, that hurts.’
Laver nodding. ‘I suspect he was a significant fish. Not often you get a look at one like him. And he got away.’
Bushy also gave Laver sympathetic looks when it got around to what the whole scene meant for his career prospects.
‘Mate, I could ask my mate who runs the surf school if you could add a bike arm to it. Life’s pretty sweet down here.’
‘Thanks Bushy, but I’m a city guy. I might have more free time to visit though.’
‘Always welcome,’ Bushy said. ‘As are you, Lou.’
‘Thanks,’ she said, kissing him softly on the lips. She promised she’d be in touch, but her eyes showed she was already somewhere else, closing down as Stig’s death sunk in.
They stood up to go but Laver had to try at least once. ‘Lou,’ he said. ‘Your mum worries about you and Jake really likes you. It’s up to you how you treat the people who care about you, but maybe do
me a favour and be a little more gentle with Jake out there, huh? You owe him a lot – quite possibly your life.’
‘Men and guns,’ she said with venom. ‘Cops and robbers.’ And stalked to the car, leaving Bushie and Laver to stare at each other. They walked to the back door, stopping in the doorway.
‘You two are going to be very happy together, Bushy. She’ll be a treat at the Soggie reunions.’
‘Get fucked. And sorry I got distracted. I’m getting unprofessional in my old age.’
‘Yeah, you are, you prick.’
Bushy looked towards the car and started to smile as he said, ‘I’m not that sorry.’
‘Selfish bastard.’
The pair hugged, and Bushy said, ‘I’m glad you’re alive, Rocket.’
‘Thanks, mate. Me too, I think.’
The journey back to Melbourne was silent as the grave: Laver, feeling his concussion, head still pounding, exhausted and as lacking in conversation as the two passengers. Not even able to face music, which showed he wasn’t well.
At Lou’s house, she opened the door and got straight out.
‘No need to say thanks for saving your life,’ Laver called after her. ‘Really.’
She gave him a look: a dead grey-eyed stare from under a green-and-purple fringe. And then was gone. Jake got the briefest of glances as she walked through the front gate.
‘You want to sit up front?’ asked Laver.
‘No, I just want to go home.’
‘Fair enough. Jake, do you know the old boxing saying, “You’ve got to punch your weight?”’
‘Not really.’
‘Well, you’re way better than her division. Aim higher.’
Jake said nothing for a few long seconds. ‘Yeah, you know what? You’re totally right,’ he finally said, not believing it for a second.
Laver didn’t either.
‘So some details about highly unethical behaviour such as money laundering and organised-crime activities that may well include somewhat damning evidence against a then–Assistant Commissioner of the Western Australian police force start to trickle in from Perth,’ Flipper said, putting sugar in his cappuccino.
Laver wondered if his mate was the only guy who still hadn’t made the switch to a caffe latte or a flat white.
Flipper continued, ‘Our finest local dogs start following Mr Strickland, who of course would have no way of knowing this fact because the tail is highly classified and the Victorian police force is spotless when it comes to integrity.’
‘Goes without saying,’ Laver nodded, lining up the six ball, cursing inwardly that the Red Triangle pool hall, three storeys up off Brunswick Street, remained an alcohol-free zone.
‘The difference,’ Flipper said, ‘is that this time the dogs are joined by Internal Affairs detectives, carrying a warrant for Mr Strickland’s arrest, on quite the list of charges. The party is swollen by the novelty value of arresting a senior member of the ombudsman’s staff. Doesn’t happen every day.’
Laver narrowly missed the ambitious double on the six, wandered over and picked up his coffee. Raising the cup, he said, ‘To justice.’
‘To justice,’ Flipper agreed, pulling out a hip flask to add whisky to his coffee.
‘Oh, bless you!’ Laver held out his cup, checking the teenager at the counter wasn’t watching. ‘So let me guess. They lost him and he’s now holed up at the Unknown Pension, somewhere in Buenos Aires?’
‘Better. He gets a phone call – from who, it remains unknown, but the smart money is on Lonigan—’
‘The media and comms guy?’
‘Yeah, they’re tight.’ Flipper lined up and nailed the twelve ball down the length of the table. ‘Then again, only five or six people officially knew about the surveillance, which means everybody. Anyway, his mobile goes off, he doesn’t break stride but decamps briskly to Parliament Station.’
‘Briskly.’
‘Very briskly. Never quite breaking into a run. Our boys are decamping in an equally brisk manner and are not far behind him on the escalator travelling down to Platform Four. Sandringham line. Strickland has never been one for public transport, being more your chauffeured-limo kind of guy, so the dogs are on full alert.’
Laver sipped his coffee, feeling suddenly tired. The stitches above his left eye aching.
‘You know what Strickland does?’ Flipper frowned at the fourteen ball, then planted both hands on the cushion and looked directly at Laver. ‘He walks straight up to the vending machines, on the crowded peak-hour platform, and pulls his gun. Empties the entire clip into CC’s corn chips and also fatally wounds several Mars Bars. Then carefully puts the gun on the ground and lies down on his stomach with both arms spread out. When our boys descend, he looks back over his shoulder, looks them straight in the eye and says: “I don’t seem to be my usual self. I think I might need to see the police counselling service.”’
Flipper, shaking his head, bent to look again down his cue at the fourteen. Missed the shot.
‘Time off for mental health recuperation,’ Laver said after a while.
‘For starters. Full disability pay, open ended.’
Laver sunk the two but missed a difficult long shot on the four ball. ‘Only thing missing is a Governor’s Medal for working heroically while under duress.’
‘No chance of charges being laid until extensive and full psychological tests have been conducted. Could take months. And they might not ever be able to fully explain whether said party was mentally on his game when certain, umm, events transpired.’
Laver fell into one of the old theatre chairs that lined the walls and closed his eyes.
‘Makes you proud to be a police officer, doesn’t it?’ said Flipper.
‘Mate,’ Laver replied. ‘I don’t think that’s a problem I’m going to have to wrestle much longer.’
Dolfin pausing, coffee halfway to his mouth. ‘Should I warn the town’s remaining vending machines?’
‘Nah, I’ll leave them for the Stricklands of the world. But I think it’s time for something else.’
‘Rocket, you’re a career cop. Anyway, who’s going to shoot people down at the rate you have been? Political scapegoats aren’t that easy to come by.’
‘I’m sure they’ll find somebody. They always do.’
Dolfin got up. Jawed but failed to sink the eleven ball. Cursed enthusiastically, then returned to his coffee. ‘What else would you do? If you weren’t a cop?’
‘Dunno, but I must be good for something. Bike courier maybe?’
Laver stood, walked the table and squinted at the six ball: now out of position, no realistic shot available. And then shrugged. He calculated cavalier angles and then struck the cue ball hard and watched the six ball double, then triple the length of the table – before falling sweetly into the top pocket, nothing but net.
Flipper put down his coffee to break into spontaneous applause.
‘Rocket, old boy! That was the perfect shot.’
This book was a long, long time in the making.
Many people have been there for the entire ride, giving me friendship, love, support, laughter, tears, sharing life’s rollercoaster and often supporting a writer’s insecurities or providing timely advice. A big shout out to Belinda Byrne and Phil Hudson, for example, who both read early drafts or excerpts of this book and had the courage to tell the truth: that it was not yet up to scratch.
I hope it is now, BB and Huddo.
Shaun Kinna, Anna Heywood, Michael Roberts, Richard Hinds, Jen Storey, Katey Slater, Richard Glasson, Ros Willett, Richard Stubbs, Pip Mushin, Simon Coronel, Brett Wiencke, Phil ‘Cat’ Campbell … so many muses, friends and creative companions on the road to this novel. I can’t name them all but you know who you are. And my parents, Ron and Judy, and my sister, Amanda – even if my mum did want me to publish under a nom de plume because she thought the book was ‘funny, but disgusting’. Thank you to Chloé Brugalé, mon amour.
My aim was always to try and bring authentic
police humour and sensibilities to this book. With that in mind, things became truly surreal the day that I found myself sitting across a coffee table from a real-life version of Tony Laver. I was several years into writing the manuscript when I happened, through my day job, to meet a former Victorian cop who had shot a man and been sent to cop purgatory while politicians got involved. I quoted the scene where Laver’s new boss tells him to keep his head down, log in and log out, but don’t cause trouble, and this ex-cop laughed and said I was almost word-for-word correct.
‘You’ve been in my head for a decade,’ I said and he grinned, frowned and then said: ‘So if I told you some of the real stories, could you use them instead of stuff you’ve made up?’ And so we had a beer, with another ex-policeman, which led to a lot of the details within this fiction being absolutely real, even when unlikely. Laver asleep seconds before shooting Coleman, for example? Pretty much as it happened. A man behind a door being shot repeatedly by a high-powered SOG gun, but not physically appearing to have been hit, until he toppled? Real. Sadly, I promised these men that I would not mention their names but I do want to say thank you, for the wild stories, for a lot of laughter and most of all for trusting me with such intimate details of real-life police work in my city. Given they were talking to a former (if brief) police roundsman, who had covered the official version of some of the anecdotes, now telling me what really happened and how things unfolded – this trust was no small thing.
And the book is a lot better for the insights. Thanks again.
While I’m on mysterious acknowledgements, cheers to a leading police reporter and friend for ‘the Italian job’ story. And, for that matter, to all the fellow hacks of my time at the Herald and Sunday Age newspapers.
A final thankyou to the staff of Media Giants for covering for me when I needed it so I could complete drafts of this novel. Especially to Alex McNab for reading the final first draft and giving me some great insights. And to everybody at Hardie Grant for taking a chance on an attempt at an entertaining crime novel without the words ‘Under’ or ‘Belly’ somewhere in the title. A huge thankyou to Fiona Hardie and Sandy Grant for agreeing to read the manuscript, to publisher Fran Berry, editor Rose Michael and copy editor Allison Hiew – especially for agreeing to stomach my attack on auxiliary verbs. (And to HG’s Jane Grant, and my legal advisors Greg Sitch and Luca Costanzo.)
