I lowered my head. I knew he was right.
‘I found him in a private room in a nursing home at the back of Coolangatta,’ Junior went on. ‘He had become what you already knew as a young man — a man who barely existed.’
‘He’s not that old, is he?’ I asked.
‘Emphysema,’ he said.
‘The Craven As,’ I said, nodding at the floor.
‘He was sitting in a chair by the bed,’ Junior went on. ‘He was rigged up to breathing apparatus. There was a book on the floor beside him.’
‘Volume four of the guide.’
‘Greaves’ own son had brought it in the day before. We took surveillance pictures. Why? Maybe to let a dying old man reminisce, to lose himself in better days. I sat opposite him in that room and waited for him to wake up. I studied that face and foul open mouth for maybe twenty minutes. This useless waste of space had taken my daddy from me. I could have killed him with my bare hands.’
Junior looked away. Again he was on the brink of tears.
‘But you didn’t,’ I said.
‘He opened his eyes and looked at me, puzzled. The tough man; the killer. Here he was, reliant on a machine for air, not strong enough to lift a handkerchief to his nose or wipe his own backside. Time levels all.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I stood up and went over to him and put my face a few inches from his and said the words I had waited to say all my life — “You are under arrest for the murder of Hubert Dunkle Senior.’”
Junior had a cold, hard look on his face that I had not seen before. It was intimidating. Frightening. He had lead in his pencil, like his old man.
‘He started breathing erratically, ’Junior said. ‘I took the guide and left. He was dead that night. Stroke.’
‘The end.’
‘Not quite,’ said Junior. He drained the Scotch, and shivered at its impact.
The next morning I was back on the Gold Coast in my banana lounge overlooking the canal. Peg had last seen me on the banana lounge, and I hoped she’d assume I’d been there all along. But how to account for the three fluffy bandages encasing my pitiful mug?
She came through the sliding door and dropped the local newspaper on my large belly, then went back inside.
The front page, and six pages inside, were dedicated to the exposure of a nearly century-old corruption scandal involving hundreds of policemen, some as senior as deputy commissioner.
There was a picture of my old mentor Obe, and my one-time drop-kick partner Greaves, and poor young Susan Haag, and face after face of blockheaded police officers stemming back to the twenties.
There were politicians calling for a royal commission. There were photographs of records being seized. And a spoof cartoon of The Good Murder Guide, with star ratings for crimes and misdemeanours.
Junior had, as always, done his job with enviable thoroughness.
Peg brought me out a coffee.
‘You look like a koala,’ she said.
I grabbed her wrist, and smiled, and wanted to never let her go.
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The Toe Tag Quintet Page 30
