Get Even

by Peter Corris

  Get Even

  Peter Corris

  Copyright © 1994, Peter Corris

  For

  Geoff and Phil

  Peter Corris was born in the Wimmera in 1942, educated in Melbourne and Canberra, and worked his way slowly north to New South Wales where he has lived since 1976. In Sydney he has been on the dole, worked as a sports journalist, and was literary editor of the National Times.

  Peter has been a full-time professional writer since 1982. He is married to the writer Jean Bedford and they have three daughters. He divides his time between Glebe and Coledale on the Illawarra coast. His recreations are reading, writing, movies and sport, including learning to play golf.

  This is fiction. No persons or events depicted are factual.

  Thanks to Jean Bedford and Linda Funnell for absolutely essential editorial help, and to Jon Lane for providing the title.

  CONTENTS

  PART I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  PART II

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  PART I

  1

  Burton, the man from the Witness Protection Unit, was already seated at the table when the other two men entered through different doors. He said, 'David Scanlon, this is Luke Dunlop. He'll be looking after you.'

  'Dunlop my arse,' Scanlon said. 'You're Frank Carter. You were a patrol man in Five Dock when I was a D there.'

  'Gidday, Dave,' Dunlop said. 'A few things have changed since then, haven't they? You going to shake?'

  Scanlon, a burly six-footer who towered over the stocky Dunlop, cracked a grin. He was fair, balding and weatherbeaten from hundreds of hours on the harbour at the helm of his yacht. His face and hands were sprinkled with scabby skin cancers. 'Of course I'll shake. You never fucked me over, not that I remember.'

  The two men, both ex-police officers, shook hands and sat at the table. At fifty, Scanlon was the older by twelve years. He had attained the rank of Detective Inspector before a series of allegations, internal police investigations and, finally, criminal charges, had caused his resignation from the force. Acquitted of murdering two witnesses in a major Federal police drug prosecution, he had twice been wounded when shots had been fired at his house and his car. His beach house at Bundeena had been destroyed in a blaze that had almost claimed the lives of his wife and teenage daughter. Following that, Scanlon had secretly volunteered to give evidence to the State Counter Corruption Authority's inquiry into links between stock market manipulation and financial journalism.

  The meeting was taking place around a table in one of the Redfern offices occupied by the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation, of which the Witness Protection Unit was a part. Dunlop, formerly Carter, had assumed a new identity when he joined the WPU, as many of its officers were required to do. He had been intrigued by the Scanlon job when it was offered to him. After several years of guarding whistle-blowers, criminals granted immunity in return for testimony, disgruntled conspirators and frightened drug couriers, Scanlon represented a challenge and an opportunity. Not only was he a former policeman, almost a colleague, but he had a wife and daughter to be first protected and then guided through the complex processes of identity-assignment and relocation.

  Dunlop, childless and divorced, had no particular interest in family matters, but the nature of the case meant that a female WPU officer would be assigned to it. He had taken steps to see that this person would be Madeline Hardy, with whom he had trained and had a brief affair. Dunlop, tiring of the routine in his work and grown sceptical about its value, now believed firmly in mixing business with pleasure.

  'Right,' Burton said, observing the guarded, measured contact between the two men. 'I'll leave you to get on with it. David has three or four SCCA appearances to make as you know, Luke. Round the clock stuff until that's done, then we talk about relocation and the rest of it.'

  'Somewhere I can sail my ketch,' Scanlon said. He lit a cigarette, although there was a No Smoking notice on the back of the door.

  Burton frowned. 'It's usual to get a new set of habits to go with the new identity.'

  'Fuck that,' Scanlon said.

  Burton shrugged and waved away a cloud of smoke that had drifted near him. He put a sheaf of papers in his briefcase, buttoned his jacket and left the room.

  'Prick,' Scanlon said. 'Pen-pushing prick. How d'you stand working for a dickhead like that, Frank?'

  Dunlop pushed his chair back and came around the table until he was standing next to Scanlon. 'The name's Luke. You'd better remember that, Dave. Got a smoke?'

  'Yeah, course. I remember you were a terror for the weed. Thought you mighta gone all clean-fuckin'-lung on us since then.'

  Scanlon took a soft-pack of unfiltered Chesterfields from the pocket of his well-cut suit and flicked it in a practised manner so that a cigarette stood up. Dunlop took one cigarette and then the packet and crushed it in his hand. He ground it between his palm and fingers so that the contents were completely destroyed. Scanlon began to rise from his chair, but Dunlop bore down on his shoulder, pinching a nerve and pinning him. With his free hand he snuffed out the cigarette Scanlon had left burning in the ashtray.

  'You're quitting, Dave. Or you're changing to a pipe or cigars or one-milligram filters. Those bloody Chesterfields have been a trademark of yours for too long. You don't need to advertise your toughness any more, mate. You're going to drop out of sight.'

  Scanlon worked his wide shoulders, getting free of Dunlop's grip. His neck muscles were knotted with tension and Dunlop noted a sour smell coming from his body, the result of too much alcohol, insufficient sleep and poor personal hygiene. 'I suppose you know what you're talking about. You'd better be good at this, Frank, or I'm dead meat.'

  'I'm good at it, and the name's Luke. Get that through your thick head.'

  Scanlon's fists bunched. 'Look, you smartarse bastard . . .'

  Dunlop kicked the chair out from under Scanlon. The big man sprawled on the floor and Dunlop stood over him. Scanlon's hand moved to where his service pistol would have been kept. Then he remembered that he didn't have a pistol any longer and looked at the hand as if it had suddenly become palsied. Dunlop righted the chair.

  'Get up, Dave,' he said. 'I'm just trying to make a point. You've got to learn to control that temper of yours because you're going to run into a lot of situations that'll piss you off. Plus, you're not a copper any more, and soon you won't even be an ex-copper. You're going to find life very different.'

  Scanlon got to his feet and brushed off his clothes. He slumped back into the chair and felt for his cigarettes. Dunlop handed him the one he'd taken. 'Lucky last, mate. Enjoy it.'

  Scanlon lit the cigarette, expelled smoke and made a visible effort to control his feelings of humiliation and outrage. 'I don't remember you as a hard bastard, F . . . Luke.'

  'You don't remember me at all. We just met today. Right?'

  'If you say so. Tell you the truth you look bloody different. You're a couple of stone lighter, shaved off the moustache and cut your hair different. Is that what I'm going to have to do?'

  'If you're smart you will. I can't make you, but you'd be surprised to know how many blokes in your position who end up on a slab looked just the way they used to look. More of the ones wh
o've made the effort to change are still walking around.'

  Scanlon nodded and managed another grin. He felt the roll of flesh at his waist. 'Well, it wouldn't do me any harm to get rid of this, but shit, you can't ask me to give up the boats. That's about the only decent thing in my life, apart from my kid.'

  Dunlop sat down and poured himself some water from a carafe on the table. Have to get a grip on myself, he thought. That was all rougher than it needed to be. 'We'll get on to her. Have to do something about those skin cancers, too.'

  Scanlon scratched at his right hand. 'Yeah, Lucy's been on my back about that for years. What d'they do, burn them off or something?'

  Dunlop shrugged. 'I don't know exactly. Have you ever had a beard, Dave?'

  'Fuck, no. Anyway, it's all white now. A beard'd make me look like an old man.'

  It was Dunlop's turn to smile. 'That's what you want to be, don't you?'

  Dunlop had coffee sent in, and over the next three hours the two men talked. Dunlop's purpose was to get from Scanlon the name of every enemy he had ever had, every person, policeman or civilian, who might have a grudge against him. In particular, the people who would be threatened by the evidence he was to give to the SCCA investigation.

  'Shit,' Scanlon said at the beginning of the session. 'You want me to recall the name of every crim I've put away, every bastard I've laid a hand on, every whore I've had a freebie off?'

  'No, just those who couldn't take it. The ones who threatened you or talked tough about you. You know the ones I mean.'

  Scanlon, drinking cup after cup of strong coffee and suffering the pangs of nicotine withdrawal, racked his brains for names and details. Dunlop took notes, thinking that the names, violent stories and unsavoury rumours Scanlon came up with were the warp and weft of a policeman's life. A few years back, his own professional past could have been painted in similar colours. He was glad to be out of it and suspected that Scanlon felt the same. The ex-detective, however, maintained a tough facade, emphasising that he wasn't afraid of the 'cockroaches', 'animals' and 'scumbags' who had littered his life.

  The psychology lectures Dunlop had attended in his training period hadn't made a deep impression on him. He was impatient with notions of the 'insecurity of bullies' and the 'impotence implied by excessive physical and verbal violence'. In many ways, he still operated like a policeman, and he felt it necessary to break down Scanlon's bravado.

  'Wouldn't like to go inside with 'em though, eh, Dave? How'd you like a couple of days in the yard at Long Bay with Les Watson?'

  'I wouldn't last that long,' Scanlon said. 'Look, that's about all I can give you from the old days. I might've missed a few, but for all I know some of them are inside or fuckin' dead by now.'

  'All right. Let's move on to the songs you're going to sing now. Get this straight, I'm not interested in the details of what you're going to say. Understand? I just want the useful names. If you're going to put in the boss of the Stock Exchange, I don't want to hear what you've got on him, just who he'd use to shut you up.'

  Scanlon swallowed a mouthful of lukewarm coffee and looked haunted. 'Jesus, that puts you in the driver's seat, doesn't it? What if you're bent and fancy a few shares in this and that? You could sell me for a fuckin' fortune.'

  'You're getting the idea, Dave. Trust nobody. But look at it this way—if you don't cooperate, I'll advise the SCCA people that you have no fears for your safety and that routine police protection will suffice.'

  Scanlon stared at Dunlop. His ruddy skin had lost colour and lines of tension were deeply etched around his eyes and mouth. 'Jesus Christ, you can do that?'

  Dunlop nodded. 'You've been promised immunity, Dave. That's important. I imagine your legal costs are being met and there are negotiations about a relocation compensation package and allowance. Right?'

  'Yeah. Right.'

  'It's not worth a rat's arse if you're dead or if someone gets to your wife and daughter.'

  Scanlon picked at the scabs on his hands. Flakes of skin fell on the polished surface of the table. 'You still married?'

  Dunlop shook his head.

  'I shouldn't be. God knows why she stuck with me. I gave her a hundred and one fuckin' reasons to leave over the years. You have any kids?'

  The bravado had evaporated and Dunlop sensed that he was getting close to the root of Scanlon's character and motivation now. He was disposed to be patient, if not sympathetic. 'No.'

  'Mirabelle's sixteen, going on. Terrific kid. Bit wild, the way they are at that age. You've seen 'em. They'll try anything. Take risks. Shit. I just don't think I could bear to see her going down the tubes the way so many kids like her do. That's one of the reasons I'm doing this. They've promised me Fremantle.'

  'Sure,' Dunlop said, 'why not?'

  'That'd be the place for us. Out of all this shit. Quiet. A bit of land. A four-wheel drive. Horses and boats.'

  Not much of that sounded like Dave Scanlon to Dunlop. As a senior detective he had been known for his interest in gambling, women and money. The yachting was the only exception to a set of pursuits that were best carried on indoors and at night. Dunlop made a mental note to find out the details of Scanlon's yachting career. Since it looked like something the client was unwilling to abandon, consideration would have to be given to modifying it in some way.

  'Okay,' Dunlop said, staring into the grounds of his last cup of coffee. 'Tell me who's likely to be serious.'

  'Loomis, for one.'

  Dunlop whistled. Scanlon had named an assistant police commissioner with a reputation for passionate devotion to the police culture. 'You mean on general principles, hating blokes who rat on their mates? Or what?'

  'I thought you didn't want the details. Wait till I give you the other name and you'll get some idea of it. Now Walter Loomis has saved the arses of a lot of blokes in the force over the years. Quite a few who'd be willing to do him a favour.'

  'Like?'

  Not for the first time, Scanlon rubbed his ear, as if clearing an obstruction inside it. Dunlop made a mental note of the habit and poised his pen ready to write.

  'You'll love this,' Scanlon said. 'I'd nominate Keith Krabbe, Ian McCausland and Trish Tillotson. You'd be familiar with Ian, wouldn't you? Heard of the others, I suppose.'

  Dunlop had. McCausland had been the officer in charge of the Kings Cross station where Dunlop had last served as a police officer. Then Detective Sergeant Frank Carter, he had been accused, with some justification, of taking bribes from pimps and madams. He had, but most of the money had been channelled back into helping the prostitutes get abortions, receive medical treatment, enter detoxification programs. McCausland, Carter's chief accuser, was himself totally corrupt and serving the interests of the vice operators when he had Carter cashiered. Krabbe had killed more men than any other policeman in recent New South Wales history. When the press became aware of his statistics, he was quietly shifted sideways out of operational police work into a senior managerial position.

  Dunlop scrawled the names on his pad. 'Trish? I remember the rumours. You sure of your facts?'

  'You better believe it. She's the hot-shot queen. I could tell you about, oh, seven, eight ODs she's personally supervised.'

  'Is that what you're going to tell the SCCA?'

  'Nah. I don't expect so. Might have to. Depends on how it goes. Jeez, I could do with a smoke.'

  'We're nearly finished. I get the feeling you're only moderately worried about Loomis and his lot. Am I right, Dave?'

  Scanlon went through a series of movements that were almost tics—scratching his scabs, working at his ear and fiddling with his cigarette lighter. Suddenly, he became still and looked across the table at Dunlop. His face was that of a man pushed to the limit. He was summoning all the courage he had to utter words that carried more importance to him than any others he had ever spoken. 'My main evidence is about Thomas Kippax. You knew that?'

  Dunlop nodded. 'To do with stock market fiddling and the stuff that gets published in his maga
zines. Sounds a bit dry to me.'

  'That's the word they've let out. Only that shit Burton and one bloke on the SCCA committee know what I've really got to say. Christ, I hope I can trust you. I'm putting my life in your hands. That's not so much, I've had a good run, but Mirabelle shouldn't . . .'

  Dunlop was astonished at the mental agonies Scanlon appeared to be going through. He looked, not like a man who has made his decision, but like one still wrestling with the necessity to decide. In his experience, evidence-givers, whistle-blowers, informers, enjoyed a feeling of relief. They were fearful of the consequences, but drew some comfort from having made the plunge. Not so with Scanlon. Dunlop could tell when a client was about to change his or her mind and attempt to pull back from the agreement. Scanlon showed no signs of being in this state of mind either. Dunlop, expecting a routine case apart from the prospect of linking up again with Madeline Hardy, was interested.

  'You know how Kippax puts out all these magazines—Business Daily, Business Week, Business Monthly—all that shit?'

  'Yeah. I can't say I read them.'

  'Remember when he took control of them?'

  Dunlop shrugged. 'Few years back, I seem to remember. I've never really kept up with the business news, Dave.'

  Scanlon drew in a breath and let it out slowly. From across the table, Dunlop caught again the smell of alcohol, tobacco and poor digestion. 'He got them when his older brother died. I helped to set up the hit.'

  2

  Dunlop found himself forced back in his chair, like an astronaut experiencing a hundred Gs. Scanlon's statement explained everything—the mans' initial aggression and bravado, the tinge of fatalism about his own prospects and the very high level of fear.

  'With his money, Kippax could hire anyone,' Dunlop said slowly. 'Foreign talent, say.'

  'You bet he could, and he would. Like I'm telling you, he's done it before. It's not something he'd have to stew over. He's got lines open into the police—state and federal—and into some of the intelligence agencies.'