Ash Island

by Barry Maitland

  Fernando, the dominant male of the small herd, gives out a furious trumpeting as his turn comes. Meri laughs, describing the scene, and Felecia gets to her feet, tail thumping.

  Jenny feels the heat of the sun on her face, a slight breeze from the hills above them. It would be easy to feel happy here if it weren’t for the thought of Harry out there in the harsher world beyond this bubble. He has been too careful in what he tells her. She knows something happened on Saturday night, she heard it in his voice when he called her the next morning. But he laughed it off.

  Was it to do with the Nordlunds? Or perhaps the tattooed man, McGilvray. She has been following McGilvray’s social media messages. Prolific until Saturday, strangely nothing since. She has a list of his Facebook friends and has been following them too. Several of them have queried his silence. Has something happened to him?

  40

  At some point during the night Harry is wakened by the noise of an engine in the street outside the pub. He sits up, swings his feet to the floor and steps to the window. There’s someone on a bike down there at the crossroads, just across the street from his own parked car. The engine rumbles, idling for a moment, then breaks into a roar and speeds away. It is 1:30 a.m.

  When morning comes he walks around the corner to a café for breakfast. There is no sign of damage to his car as he passes it, but later he kicks the rear wheel and drops to his knees to check the underside for a bomb before he gets in and drives away.

  He has no role here. The police don’t want him and all he can do is wait. He drives over to Beaumont Street and gets some cash and a bottle of Scotch, and calls in to MacLean’s bookshop, where he picks out a couple of volumes—histories, not novels. He feels his real life is fictitious enough.

  He returns to his room above the pub, and sits by the window, reading and watching the passers-by in the streets below.

  Towards lunchtime he gets a call on his mobile. Deb Velasco.

  ‘Harry, I hear you’re back in Newcastle.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘On your own?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where’s Jenny?’

  ‘Somewhere safe.’

  ‘I hope so. How would you like to come out with me?’ For a horrible moment Harry thinks she means a date, but then she adds, ‘A prison visit, to see Frank Capp.’

  ‘Oh yeah? Long Bay?’

  ‘Yep. I’ve arranged to go down tomorrow.’

  ‘Think there’s any point?’

  ‘Won’t know until we try. Interested?’

  ‘Yes, if you think I can help.’

  ‘Where are you staying?’

  He tells her and she whistles. ‘Why don’t you just put a notice in the paper? Want me to tell the local boys to keep an eye on you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning at eight.’

  He goes downstairs to the pub and orders lunch, and while he’s there he gets a second call. A private number, blocked.

  ‘Is that Sergeant Belltree?’ It’s a woman’s voice, one he recognises.

  ‘Yes, Amber. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I was planning to come down to Newcastle this afternoon. Would it be possible to meet you?’

  ‘Okay. Where?’

  ‘Do you know the Nobbys Beach Surf Pavilion? I’ll be there at three.’

  He arrives early, finds a free bench and sits down to watch the heads of swimmers bobbing under the dazzling sun. Further along the sweep of beach the surfers glide in on the swell that curves around the outcrop of Nobbys Head. Gulls swoop and dive. High overhead hang-gliders circle and a biplane putters across the blue.

  He checks his watch, after three, and wonders if she’s changed her mind. Then one of the swimmers pads up towards him across the sand. Fluorescent pink bathers, brown limbs, long blonde hair, a white towel across her shoulders.

  ‘Hi.’ She sits down beside him.

  ‘Water good?’

  ‘Beautiful. You should try it.’ She rubs her hair with the towel. ‘You’re a smug bastard, you know that? Going around throwing accusations at people about things you have no idea about.’

  ‘Enlighten me.’

  ‘I wonder if you even really knew your own parents. You suggested your father was a danger to my family. Well, I only knew him five minutes, but my impression was that he wouldn’t be a threat to anybody. He seemed to bend over backwards to understand both sides of every issue—a compromiser, a reconciler, someone who didn’t really enjoy conflict. That’s probably why they made him the first Aboriginal judge of the Supreme Court—a safe pair of hands.’

  Harry goes to speak, but she ploughs on.

  ‘Your mother, now—different matter entirely. Passionate, committed, decisive. She could be a threat if she put her mind to it.’

  ‘What was she being passionate about?’

  ‘I’ll show you—if you can be bothered learning what was really going on instead of jumping to wild conclusions.’

  He nods. ‘Fine, okay.’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘Can’t do tomorrow.’

  She thinks. ‘All right, the next day, Thursday. The heliport in the Steel River industrial estate. Know it?’

  ‘I’ll find it.’

  ‘Thursday morning, ten o’clock. Don’t be late.’

  She gets to her feet and walks off towards the pavilion. He watches her go, slightly astonished, wondering if she’s right. He remembers discussions at the family dinner table, his mother throwing down a challenge and his father, his voice calm, reasonable, making the counterarguments. He remembers times when his father would disappear for days into his study, and his mother would tell Harry not to bother him. ‘He’s wrestling with his conscience.’ He can hear her inflection now; it was not the tone of someone with the same problem. And he thinks of the picture in his father’s study of the Freedom Ride. His mother wearing a bandana, her fist in the air; his father at her side, looking cautiously excited. Has he made a fundamental error, assuming it was the judge they wanted to kill? Or was it perhaps the two of them together? The drive and passion of one, the balance and influence of the other.

  He goes for a walk along the breakwater, past Nobbys to the very end, the mouth of the harbour, and phones Jenny.

  ‘Harry, I’m going crazy down here. The house is full of wool—sorry, fleece—and that’s exactly how I feel, wrapped up in thick, soundproof fleece, out of touch with the world. Isn’t there something I can do to help you? Some research I can do?’

  He hesitates. ‘Thing is, love, I don’t want you doing anything that’ll let them figure out where you are. Maybe you should give the computer a rest for a while.’

  ‘That’s rubbish, they won’t be able to track me. I’m not connected to any location finder. The computer’s well protected.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Positive.’

  ‘Well…Deb Velasco has asked me to go see Frank Capp in jail tomorrow. We have all the stuff on his criminal history of course, but I was wondering about his private life. You reckon you could dig into that?’

  ‘I can certainly try.’

  He gives her what he’s got—previous addresses, known associates, date of birth. Then he says, ‘I’ve also got a list of the people who made bookings at Sammy Lee’s restaurant the night McGilvray phoned someone there, remember? If you could find out who they are that would be good. It may be no help—it was probably Sammy himself that McGilvray was calling. But you never know.’

  ‘Fine. Do you know what’s happened to McGilvray? I’ve been following him on Facebook, and there hasn’t been a chirp since Saturday.’

  ‘I saw him on Saturday night, Jenny.’

  ‘What? You didn’t tell me!’

  ‘I didn’t want to worry you, love. It didn’t work out the way I planned.’

  He tells her what happened.

  ‘Harry, you mustn’t keep this stuff from me. He and his mates tried to kill me too. I want to help you get the bastard
s.’

  ‘Okay. The only things he told me were that Sammy Lee was involved in dealing in drugs brought in from the port, and the names Dark Riders and Tyler Dayspring.’

  ‘I’ll look into it. What else?’

  He tells her about meeting Amber Nordlund again. Repeats what she said about his mother.

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised, Harry. Your mum was a formidable woman. I always thought your dad’s landmark rulings had her fingerprints all over them.’

  ‘Really? I just never thought of it like that. You can’t remember her saying something on that last trip that might have a bearing on this? A native title dispute, maybe? I found a cutting on Dad’s desk about the Aboriginal history of the area.’

  ‘I can’t remember anything like that. And now Amber Nordlund is going to take you off in her helicopter?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Is she pretty?’

  ‘Hideous.’

  ‘Liar. What was she wearing today?’

  ‘A bikini, fluoro pink.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘We met at the beach. It was a perfect disguise.’

  ‘You be careful, Harry. I mean it. We don’t know anything about her. Where does she plan to take you, anyway?’

  ‘I don’t know. Don’t worry, I’ll be very careful.’

  41

  Kelly returns to work with a new sense of purpose. At the morning meeting Catherine Meiklejohn notices the change and speaks to her as they break up.

  ‘Yeah, I’m feeling good, Catherine. Ready to get stuck into something challenging. You’ve been very patient with me.’

  ‘You’ve got something in mind?’

  ‘I do. I’ll tell you when I’ve put some thoughts together.’

  ‘Okay. But no more running off on your own and getting into trouble like last time. We’ve got a new intern who looks like he can take care of himself. Matthew. He can work with you and Hannah.’

  The three sit down together and Kelly lays a photograph on the table between them. ‘Matthew, there’s some background to this that Hannah’s familiar with, but I’ll run over it for your benefit. This is a picture of four men drinking together in the bar of the Le Meridien Hotel in Jakarta, taken in April of this year. They are: Alexander Kristich, here, a shonky financier and conman; Joost Potgeiter, a local councillor for the area of Crucifixion Creek in south-west Sydney; Derryn Oldfield, state police minister; and this one’s a property developer called Maram Mansur. Kristich, Potgeiter and Oldfield are all dead now, implicated with the Crows outlaw motorcycle gang in the trafficking of children and drugs. As far as we know Mansur is still alive, whereabouts unknown, and he’s never been accused of complicity in the ring, although he was certainly friendly with the other three. His company, Ozdevco Properties, is now carrying out the major redevelopment of the Crucifixion Creek site.

  ‘Okay, that’s past history. Several of the surviving Crows gang members are in jail. The story is dead.’

  Kelly is aware of Hannah watching her closely, and she goes on more firmly. ‘However, there is at least one loose end. A woman by the name of Donna Fenning was living in the Creek and looking after the trafficked children in transit. She was never traced, but it seems she’s now living and working in a country property up north under the name of Karen Schaefer. That property is owned by the Nordlund family, who of course have business interests all over the place, including here in Sydney. I want to know if there are any connections between the Nordlunds and the other players I’ve mentioned.’

  Hannah is frowning. ‘I don’t quite get it, Kelly. Just because this woman ran away and got a job on their property, why does that make them involved? Why don’t we just tell the police where she is and let them sort it out?’

  ‘I think there’s more to it. It seems she worked there before she came down to Sydney.’ She realises how thin this sounds without the connection to Harry’s parents. ‘The police have been informed, but Karen Schaefer isn’t my primary focus. It’s the possibility that the Nordlunds may have been connected to the Crucifixion Creek mess that interests me.’

  She sees how sceptical Hannah is, imagines the thought going through her head: Is this some private obsession of Kelly’s?

  Matthew has been making careful notes. ‘Shall I make a start on the business profiles of Mansur and the Nordlunds? See if there’s any cross-ownership or anything?’

  ‘That’s good, Matthew, yes. Hannah? What about this redevelopment of the Creek—Phoenix Square? Want to get us some background on that? I’m going to follow up the research we did last July. We got lots of letters from the public about their dealings with Ozdevco.’

  42

  Deb Velasco gets Harry to drive the police car down to Sydney. She sits in the passenger seat and smokes; works on papers from her briefcase. Harry thinks about what Jenny told him when she called him this morning with her latest research. Finally Deb stuffs the papers away and they talk. He tries to pump her about developments on the Ash Island killings, but she can’t or won’t tell him anything new.

  ‘So what do we hope to get from Capp?’ he says.

  ‘I want to find out what he knows about Ash Island.’

  ‘He knows everything about Ash Island. At least two of those bodies—Marco Ganis and Tony Gemmell—are Crows victims for sure.’

  ‘Maybe. We’ve got no hard evidence, although Capp doesn’t know that. The truth is, Harry, that the case against Capp is starting to look shaky. DPP’s getting cold feet.’

  ‘What? Frank Capp tortured Rowdy O’Brian and burned him to death. Capp was the vice-president of an outlaw motorcycle gang that imported slum children from Indonesia to sell to perverts, and their premises were stuffed to the roof with weapons and drugs. What more do they want?’

  ‘The trouble is, we haven’t been able to find any evidence to link Capp to O’Brian’s death, and we’ve been unable to get any convincing prints or DNA placing Capp in the sealed area adjoining the clubhouse where the kids’ bodies and the contraband were found. He’s claiming he was kept in the dark by Bebchuk and Haddad, who were freelancing and using the Crows as a front; they’re both dead and can’t deny it.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘And our star witness, Peter Rizzo, has become increasingly vague since he realised Frank Capp might be going to survive. He’s retracted some of his earlier statements, claiming he got mixed up.’

  ‘Capp’s been putting pressure on him.’

  ‘Well, yeah. The thing is, Capp’s brief doesn’t know yet about the DPP wavering, but he will. This may be our last chance to get him to give us something.’

  ‘I see. And why did you bring me?’

  ‘I just want you to be there. You don’t need to say a thing, just sit there. I want him to see that you’re fit and well and that the bomb—if that was his baby—achieved nothing except making things more problematic for him.’

  They reach Sydney and head out along Anzac Parade to Malabar. Capp is in maximum security, in the Metropolitan Special Programs Centre of Long Bay Correctional Centre. They are shown into an interview room. When Capp’s brought in, Harry barely recognises him, the left side of his face is caved in like a Francis Bacon portrait. He and Deb study that face, the shocking contrast between the normal right side and the grotesquely distorted left, the tight white skin, the fixed snarl, the collapsed skull. This was the work of Tony Gemmell with Harry by his side, confronting sixty-odd bikies in the car park of the Swagman Hotel. Unless the bashing scrambled Capp’s memory he knows this, but Deb does not.

  ‘G’day, Frank,’ Deb says. ‘Not had any more work done?’

  Capp has his eyes fixed on Harry. ‘I’m thinking I might leave it like this,’ he says, his voice slurring in the ruined left half of his mouth. ‘Seems to make a big impression on people.’ He turns to face Deb. ‘What ya want?’

  ‘I want to offer you a last chance to give me something I can offer the DPP to go easy on you.’

  ‘The cunt’s all heart.’

  ‘Wh
o put the bodies in the Ash Island marshes, Frank? Give me a name.’

  ‘Newcastle? Don’t know nothing about Newcastle.’

  ‘You knew Marco Ganis and Tony Gemmell. Who killed them?’

  Capp settles back in his chair and folds his arms. Deb takes out her cigarettes and the two of them light up, Capp sucking at his with the good side of his mouth.

  Deb starts again. ‘Marco Ganis used to make regular trips up to Newcastle. Was that for Bebchuk and Haddad? Who was their partner in Newcastle?’

  It drags on. They finish their smokes and light up again. Deb tries a different tack. ‘Someone tried to blow up Sergeant Belltree here, Frank. Maybe they did it to please you. Stupid, though, to target a police officer like that. All it’s done is turn more heat onto you. Give us their names.’

  Eventually, when it’s clear Deb’s getting nowhere, Capp nods at Harry and says, ‘Doesn’t say much, does he? Tell you what, give me his head on a stick to put up in me cell and maybe I’ll give you a coupla tips.’

  Deb seems to run out of words. She switches off her recorder and begins to put her papers back in her bag. Harry says softly, ‘How’s Kylie?’

  They both stare at him, not sure who he’s talking to. He’s looking at Capp.

  ‘Your sister. Half-sister, I should say.’ He turns to Deb. ‘Frank looked after her when their mother shot through. Later they stole a car, which Frank crashed—he was so young his legs hardly reached the pedals. Smashed his sister up. She’s in a wheelchair now. Frank pays for her carer, two thousand dollars a week. Kylie is very vulnerable. Like my Jenny, blinded in a car smash. You see the parallel, Deb?’ He turns back to Capp, who is glaring intently at him. ‘Both very vulnerable.’