Bright City Deep Shadows

by Graham Storrs

  “They were filming you, when you hammered those two blokes.”

  “Good. The police will see it was self-defence. It’ll save us a lot of trouble. What made those two decide to give you a hiding and nick your phone?”

  I’d almost forgotten. “I got a nice clear picture of them. I reckon they must have seen me taking it.” The contrast between my attempts to stalk the bad guys and Ronnie’s long surveillance of me, made me feel a bit pathetic.

  “And what’s the significance of Archerfield Enterprises, Limited?”

  I told him the full story of my day’s detective work. By the time I was finished, I could face my tepid coffee but not the muffin.

  “That was good work, mate.” I looked at him sharply but he didn’t look like he was being sarcastic.

  “They’ll come for me now, won’t they?” I asked, knowing the answer.

  “You noticed the colours in the back of the car, then?”

  “What colours?” I tried to remember the interior of the Holden but couldn’t remember anything about the colour.

  “There was a leather jacket on the back seat. It had gang colours on the back.”

  I felt my stomach falling. “What, you mean like the Hell’s Angels or the Bandidos?”

  “Yeah, mate. Like that. Only it wasn’t either of those. I couldn’t read the name but the logo was a red devil. It’s not a gang I recognised. Maybe something new since I left the police. Anyway, it would make sense.”

  “Like anything makes sense any more.”

  “You know what I mean. I’ve thought for a while we were dealing with organised crime.”

  “And bikie gangs count as organised crime do they? I thought that was just godfathers in Armani suits and Donald Trump accents dropping people off the ends of piers in concrete overshoes.”

  He shook his head, despair in his eyes. “In 1920s Chicago, maybe. In twenty-first century Brisbane, it’s guys in leather jackets and cycle boots who run most of the drugs and prostitutes.”

  “And illegal gambling?”

  “Sure. And money laundering through otherwise legitimate businesses.”

  “And you think that’s where Noah Lee and Archerfield come in?”

  “Looks like it.”

  I stared at my uneaten muffin. I’d been in too deep from the very beginning but now I was beginning to realise just how far from shore I’d drifted. Not waving but drowning. The two heavies who killed Anning actually had me in their hands. They might have beaten me, tortured me, even killed me. I’d walked into Archerfield like a complete idiot. No-one had known I was there. No-one would have even missed me for a long, long time. It was only because of Ronnie that I was sitting there with a few bruises instead of lying in a gulley out in the bush somewhere.

  “Do you suppose they know who I am?” I asked. My guts were churning. I was in real, mortal danger.

  “Maybe not yet, but they’ll find out. The people at the shop reported our little scrap to the cops, remember. All the bikies have to do is ask one of their guys on the inside to look up the incident report and they’ll know everything about you.”

  “Shit. Maybe I could get into one of those witness protection programmes or something.”

  “Maybe. What have you got to offer the police that is worth the State spending all that money to save your neck?”

  I held up my phone, showing the photo of Hairy and Baldy driving out of Archerfield. “This is proof of their connection to Noah Lee, it verifies my story about Anning’s death, and it has the rego of their car so they can be traced, See?” I pointed to the license plate.

  Ronnie laughed. “The cops have got all that and more by now from all those shop assistants filming us. Besides, the bikies will have burnt their nice RS Cosworth by now – another reason for them to hate you – and it probably had false plates anyway. These blokes are not amateurs. So, what else have you got?”

  “My testimony that those two killed Anning.”

  “Which is not to be sniffed at but you didn’t actually witness the murder. A good lawyer – and they will have very good lawyers – will explain to the jury that your evidence is full of gaps, that you could have done it yourself, that your behaviour after the event was very strange and possibly evidence that you were a bit unhinged after your girlfriend’s death, making your testimony pretty unreliable.”

  “But—” I wanted to argue but couldn’t. He was right. I could almost imagine some bloke like Terry Marchant strutting up and down, sowing seeds of reasonable doubt in every mind.

  “You need something a lot more solid than you’ve got now to convince the cops your life is worth protecting.”

  “Jesus. I should leave town, or something, go live in a little motel in Woop-Woop until it all blows over.”

  He looked at me with sad eyes. “Mate, do you know how easy it would be for someone to drop into your motel room in the small hours, slit your throat while you’re sleeping, and disappear back into the night?”

  I had a chilling suspicion that Ronnie had actually done things just like that, that he knew exactly how easy it would be.

  “So what do I do? Where do I go?”

  He took a long time to answer. He fixed me with his grey eyes as if he was looking into my soul. “You should come and stay with me,” he said at last. “They don’t know who I am and there’s nothing much to connect us, just Reid and Bertolissio and a couple of other cops on the case. Unless the bikies are very lucky and their bent cops talk to exactly the right people, I don’t suppose they’ll connect us in a hurry.”

  “That’s too dangerous,” I said. I didn’t want to bring all this trouble down on Ronnie too.

  “No, it isn’t. They’ll connect us eventually, so it makes little difference. But we need to be able to work together until then because the only way we’ll ever be clear of this, now, is to bring them down – totally and comprehensively.”

  The idea of running away and hiding held a lot more appeal than staying and fighting. I pushed my muffin away, thinking I might never eat again. Or sleep.

  “You make it sound so simple.”

  “Yeah? Well don’t be fooled. As of now, we—”

  My phone rang and I jumped so much the table shook. It was Reid.

  “So, you found our two persons of interest and, instead of coming to us, you decided to have a punch-up with them in a car park,” he said, waiving the usual formalities, like saying hello. I put the phone on speaker so Ronnie could hear.

  Wearily, I asked, “Can I help you, Detective Inspector?”

  “Yes, you can get down here and report an assault with a deadly weapon. And you can tell bloody Jackie Chan to get down here with you.” Ronnie grinned.

  “Have you found their car?”

  “That’s none of your business but, for your information, we did find a burned out wreck that matches the description.”

  “And the rego?”

  “Fake, of course. Listen, if you’ve got any idea of continuing your pursuit of these jokers, you should drop it right now. The Devil’s Playthings are one of the most dangerous gangs in Brisbane and, trust me, they’re very motivated right now to find you – and your geriatric ninja friend.”

  “Can you put me in witness protection?” I had to ask. Ronnie rolled his eyes.

  Reid’s voice became muffled and I assumed he’d put his hand over the phone so he could talk to someone else because I heard him say, “Now the stupid dick wants witness protection.” A woman spoke in the background and Reid said, removing his hand from the phone, “We’ll talk about that when you come in. When can we expect you?”

  It was obvious that Ronnie had been right. I’d get no protection from the police until I had something to offer in exchange. “I’m sorry. The disturbance in the car park was a misunderstanding – a dispute over a parking space. I won’t be pressing charges.”

  “Mister Kelly,” he said, with an obvious effort to control himself. “We have the whole thing on film. It was a serious assault, probably attempted
murder. We don’t need you to press charges. It’s a bloody slam dunk. All we need from you is a statement of the facts.”

  Ronnie leaned into the phone. “Trev? Hi, mate. Jackie Chan here. Look, mate, you know as well as I do that all the bikie gangs have got bent cops coming out their clackers and every one of them will be on high alert watching for us to turn up at the station. Now, I don’t want to end up dead but, more importantly, I don’t want to make more work for you by adding to the week’s homicide figures.”

  “Just get in here you fuckwit.”

  Ronnie sighed loudly. “Oh dear, I hope this call isn’t being recorded for quality purposes because, frankly, I foresee a refresher course in customer relations in your near future.”

  Reid fell silent. When he spoke again, his voice was low and angry. “Walker, you’re obstructing my investigation. I’m asking you for the last time to come in here and make a statement.”

  Ronnie looked up at me and grinned, clearly enjoying himself. “Of course, Trevor. Just get in touch with my lawyer and arrange it. It’s Terry Marchant, hey? The same one who’s representing Luke. Nice talking to you.”

  He hung up before Reid could reply.

  And then Ronnie took charge. He sent me to pay the bill while he wrapped my muffin in a napkin and put it in his pocket. We went into a little shopping mall nearby and he made me buy six cheap pre-paid phones – “burners” he called them – and a charger. He also made me buy a cheap laptop. “The one you have at home is gone,” he said, ominously. “I know you’re probably thinking your brilliant love poetry is worth risking your life for but you can’t go back there.”

  Outside the shop, he took my old phone, took out the SIM card and handed the phone back to me. He did the same with his own phone. He broke both cards in half and dropped them in a bin. I didn’t comment. I’d seen enough spy movies to know our phones could be traced.

  We went grocery shopping in a nearby Woollies, buying enough to last for weeks, and clothes shopping in a couple of other shops, because Ronnie wouldn’t even let me go home and pack a bag. Then we visited a branch of my bank where I withdrew four thousand dollars – my daily withdrawal limit. He grumbled about it being so little but, as I explained, I hadn’t expected to be on the run from gangsters when I got up that morning. He wanted to break up my credit cards too and I had to promise on my life not to use any of them for any reason whatsoever before he stopped insisting.

  Finally, we drove to Ronnie’s house in Jindalee. It was a surprisingly large, well-kept place, detached, two-storey, with neat lawns and flower beds. Again, my expectations were completely confounded. I suppose I’d imagined him living in a dingy little unit, or, at best, one of those tiny two-room fibro houses with a yard knee-deep in weeds, tyres and old washing machines.

  There was a bit of to-and-froing, getting his old Volvo out of the garage and putting mine in but, a few minutes later, we were inside, me and my car hidden from view and no electronic traces of where I was. I should have felt safe but, as I looked around his large, neat kitchen with all the shopping bags piled on the counter, I felt a vague unease. I was in hiding. My life literally depended on a man I’d known for just a few days and didn’t like all that much. It all felt precarious. The bubble I was in could burst at any moment. Everything was strange and unknown. Even the clothes I had with me were new. I swallowed against the rising anxiety and looked out the kitchen window. Beyond the glass was hostile territory. That was where the enemy would come from when they finally found me.

  “Lounge room’s through there,” Ronnie said, pointing. “Go sit down. I’ll put this lot away and bring you a coffee.”

  I offered to help but he brushed it off with, “I’ve got a system. You’d only fuck it up.” So I wandered off in the direction indicated. It really was a very nice home. Like many Aussie houses it was basically open plan, with rooms leading to other rooms through arches rather than doors. It looked like the downstairs rooms all connected through a wide hallway from which polished wood stairs led to the bedrooms upstairs. As well as the big kitchen/diner, there was a huge lounge room with doors that opened onto a patio and the garden beyond. There was also another room that must have been Ronnie’s office. I drifted into it, taking in the photos all around the walls of dogs and people. There was only one picture of Ronnie in uniform, standing with a group of rugged-looking men, on a grassy, barren hillside, all grinning at the camera. Ronnie looked at least thirty years younger, maybe more. I wouldn’t have guessed it was him if it hadn’t been for the context. He looked fit and bursting with energy. They all did. He had black hair. Another surprise.

  Right next to it was a picture of Ronnie, in a Hawaiian shirt, with his arm around a big brown dog with short, curly hair. Ronnie was holding up a rosette that had the words “Best in Show” on it. The dog looked pleased with itself and had a kind of goofy grin. Ronnie looked pretty pleased too. I scanned the walls but there was not a single picture of Ronnie with a wife or girlfriend. There were no pictures of him as a police officer, either, although there were a few framed newspaper clippings in a group. They each had headlines celebrating the capture of one killer or another. Although a quick look through them didn’t reveal any mention of Ronnie, I was pretty sure these must have been cases he was particularly proud of cracking. I didn’t recognise any of them and the dates made most of them ten to twenty years old – long before I started paying any attention to such things.

  I heard water running in the kitchen and hurried out of Ronnie’s office and into the lounge room, not wanting to be caught snooping. I stood in front of the patio doors and studied the garden. Should I be worried about standing, exposed, like that? Should I be checking lines of sight or something. There were neighbours’ houses where a sniper could shoot from an upstairs window straight into this room. There were bushes and trees where a gunman could hide. Was that just me watching too much American TV, or was I really in that kind of danger? Ronnie would know, but I would be embarrassed to ask him.

  As a precaution, I took a few steps back.

  “NATO standard,” Ronnie said, entering and putting a cup down on the coffee table. “White with two sugars.”

  I thanked him and took a seat on a cane sofa. He settled into a big, overstuffed, leather recliner. It swallowed him up and made him look smaller.

  “How safe are we here?” I asked, trying to sound sensible and professional, rather than like a frightened child.

  “Don’t worry about it. If they have the balls for a full-on assault, they’ll turn up mob handed and there’s not much we can do about it. But you know bikies, their MO is more the drive-by shooting sort of thing. My advice is to relax and focus on the investigation. They’ll do whatever they do and we have no control over it.”

  I was a bit disappointed. I’d imagined he’d be running about laying boobytraps and hiding guns so we could make a strategic retreat towards our last stand. But Ronnie Walker was not Rambo and I was not the willowy ingenue who shoots the bad guy in the final scene with trembling hands and tears rolling down her cheeks. In fact, I’d just noticed he’d changed into a pair of tartan slippers. No-one fights a heroic gun battle in tartan slippers.

  “House rules,” he said, briskly. “Don’t make a mess. If you do make a mess, clean it up. Whatever kind of crap, modern music you like, I don’t want to hear it. Simple enough?” I nodded, thinking, Yes, Dad. “Good. The guest room’s got an en suite. Leave it as you find it. I’ll get you fresh sheets and towels in a while. First, we plan our next move.”

  I picked up my coffee and took a mouthful. It was cheap instant and I winced before I could stop myself. He gave me a baleful stare, daring me to complain.

  “This is very kind of you,” I said. “I mean it. I wish I could have dropped by the unit to pick up the whiteboard.” And my cappuccino machine.

  “We’ll muddle through, somehow.” He sounded like he knew what I was really thinking. “OK, the way I see it is this. Chelsea was doing business with Anning. She spotted someth
ing dodgy about his software and asked for a meeting to discuss it. What she didn’t know was that Anning was in with some crooks and already knew all about it. When he told his gangster friends, they said she was his problem and he should deal with it. Permanently. My guess is he was into them for a lot of money, or they had something on him that could ruin him. Anyway, he comes to the conclusion it’s his life or hers – which was probably true – so he puts her off with some excuse while he grows his disguise beard and makes his plans. Then he takes her to dinner and kills her. Like the sweet innocent she no doubt was, she kept the whole thing quiet, thinking she’s protecting her old friend, who she probably thought was a victim in someone else’s crime.”

  I nursed my coffee miserably. Why didn’t she tell me about Anning? If she had, would I have advised caution? Would I have gone with her to the meeting? Probably not. I’d most likely have been as oblivious to the danger as she had been. Why would she even bother to talk about it with a man who was so completely useless he’d have had nothing sensible to say, nothing worthwhile to contribute? No, she’d have just dealt with it on her own: the way she dealt with all her problems.

  “So, Anning gets on with his life, thinking his troubles are over. His plan worked brilliantly, or so it seemed to him. But someone else wasn’t so confident. They knew Anning was a loose end and that the police might eventually get to him. They did a calculation and decided that, with Anning dead, there was virtually no chance anyone would connect him to their operation but, with Anning alive, he presented a long-term threat. So, they waited a decent interval, supposing the second murder would never be connected to the first, and then bumped him off. But they hadn’t reckoned on you and me already being on their tails. Even then, if you hadn’t made the connection to Archerfield, the trail would have died with Anning.”

  It was a compliment, I knew, but I also knew what a long shot I’d played. Lots of clutching at straws and very little deduction involved. “The police would have got there in the end,” I said. “That Bertolissio woman. Don’t you suppose she’d have worked it out?”