by SJ Brown
“Thanks, DC Kendall. For this, and noticing me and that.”
“You think I’d miss that hair.”
* * *
Mahoney was back at his desk. So one domino had fallen. But it was not going to spark a chain reaction. Knapp was recalcitrant. Not due to any unwritten code of conduct. More likely because he held fears for his brother’s ongoing safety in prison. If he ratted on anybody then not only he, but also his sibling, would endure the consequences. Troy may be incarcerated but if somebody wanted to, they could easily organize for him to come to harm. Serious harm. The sort that put you in critical care.
As a cadet, Mahoney was told about a rock spider that had been taught a gruesome lesson whilst in Risdon Prison. The man had been put away for anally raping two young boys. It would have been very hard for the perpetrator to commit a crime that ticked more boxes of contempt for fellow prisoners than that. Short of doing the same thing to his own children perhaps.
Rock spiders were considered lower than India’s untouchables and the greater punishment was not the withdrawal from society but the anticipated reception they faced behind bars. Ben Clarke was to find life in Risdon truly horrendous. After five months of catcalling and blatant threats, one day he was in the shower block at the designated time for ablutions. Thus far, this had been a relatively safe procedure during the early part of his twelve year sentence. But not this particular day. The attention of many prisoners and staff was fixed on the cricket match being held on Risdon’s postage stamp ground within the forbidding walls.
Every so often, outside sports teams agreed to come into the confines of the prison for a game of cricket or football to do their bit for the community. And so it was on the afternoon that Back Door Benny was brutally shown an alternative use for one’s anus. Somehow or other, collusion maybe, there was no staff member anywhere near the shower rooms at the time ‘Door’ shuffled in.
He stripped and tiptoed across the cold white tiles to the taps. Before he could even turn them on, he was grabbed by the arms from behind. Thrown down face first. His nose bashed on the hard floor and a few teeth broke loose. Two smashing rabbit blows to the ribs knocked all the stuffing out of him. A harsh voice in his ear. “Just keep your trap shut or a knife goes in. Right?” Benny grunted. Had little choice. Gaffer tape was smacked over his mouth and his hands manacled behind his back. He could barely breathe.
Suddenly that was the least of his worries. A lubricated tube was shoved up his backside. “Feel good, brother?” Different voice. Two of them. He had no hope. Spread-eagled face first. A cold chuckle. “This ain’t a dildo, brother. It’s a hollow tube of plastic. We’ll take it out again but there might be a bit of discomfort as the good doctor says.” The same sick chuckle.
How could it be worse, thought Benny. Cut my nuts off. He very soon found out. The tube was whipped out and instantaneously his rectum contracted on what felt like jagged glass. The immediate agony was unbearable. “Just so’s ya wondering, there’s a half a foot of barbed wire up your jacksy. We’re off. Enjoy your next shit, faggot.” Benny was left sprawled on the floor writhing in agony and contemplating a fate worse than ‘a fate worse than death’.
Little wonder Matty Knapp felt genuine concern for his brother’s safety. Mahoney decided a few eggs would have to be broken. External pressures aside, he wanted to crack this case. Sure it was his job to do so but, moreover, he was determined his squad would pursue this further because it was the right-minded thing to do. Let something like this linger and another breech in the wall of civility eased open just that bit further.
He made a call from his office. A brief conversation ensued. All set. He collared Munro and went downstairs to the divisional car park. Instructed his driver to take them to Queens Domain. The morning traffic on the Brooker Highway was building as they headed north.
Just past the Federal Street turn-off, they saw two uniformed traffic officers sharing a joke. The younger of the pair was shaking his head and smiling ruefully at the sergeant who watched his subordinate operate the laser gun on the oncoming traffic. It was a perfect spot to nab unwary drivers who thought the double lane arterial road allowed them to ignore the 80km speed limit.
“Those two are happy in their work. Wonder what the joke is?” enquired Munro.
“Just Digger boosting his coffers.”
“Eh! Bit of grafting?”
“No, far from it. The big fella is Sergeant Duigan. Been on traffic for ages. He’s so attuned to that job he can guess the motorists’ speeds almost exactly. The young constables rotate through the assignment. They operate the laser and every so often Digger throws off a guess as to the car’s speed. Young bloke assumes it’s a fluke so gets lulled into a bet that his boss won’t get ten in a row accurate to a couple of k’s or so either side. Digger reels ’em off without breaking sweat and pockets a lazy $20. Swears the constable to secrecy or he’ll tell the station how gullible he is. Watertight.”
“Cunning bugger. Know him well?”
“Oh, yeah. He’s solid. In all ways. Puts his takings into the charity jar. Old school but one of the most reliable cops I’ve ever met. Take the Domain Highway turn-off.”
They were on the Tasman Bridge scenic route. Munro turned right again as instructed and the car wound its way up the hill through Crown land. Just after the start of the Soldiers Memorial Walk, he was told to turn again and, after a series of hairpin turns, approached an open air car park that overlooked the northern suburbs.
“Drop me here and come back in half an hour.”
“Sure?”
“Yes, this is strictly one-on-one. Don’t hang about here. Grab a coffee or something at the Botanical Gardens café. You don’t know where I am, right?”
“Yes, Sir. Crystal.”
Mahoney got out and Munro drove off. He walked over to the rock wall edge of the gravel car park. The aspect of the estuary splitting the valley in two was quite amazing. On one side there were a few houses in the lee of Mount Direction but mostly it was bush, while to the nearside of the water sprawled the working suburbs of Hobart. The industrial belt covered a substantial area. The smaller cottages and bungalows sat in and around the metal roofs of the factories. A light wind from the north meandered through the native trees on the hill where he stood. Behind him, a motorbike idled to a stop. Seconds later a gruff voice turned him around.
“John, how are you?” A huge bear of a man walked towards him. Silver-studded black boots, black jeans and a red-checked flanny, over a Southern Cross Union blue singlet. At the top of the six and half foot frame between axe-handle shoulders was the head of a wild Scottish Highland chief. Unruly red hair and a beard that would have provided enough stuffing for at least a pillow or two.
“Alright, Heinz. You?”
“Fair to middling, no complaints but. Better than being down there.” The man gestured towards the Cornelian Bay Cemetery.
“Yeah. Right enough.”
The biker took out the makings of a rollie. As he licked the papers and massaged the Drum tobacco into a dart, they contemplated the view. Mahoney had played club soccer with Heinz what seemed like many, many years ago. The Catholic schoolboy alongside the rough as guts teenager at the heart of defense. Heinz sorted out the main striker and Mahoney swept up. An unlikely but effective pairing that became an odd but enduring mateship. There was nothing Teutonic about Heinz. It was simply easier to call that out on the field than his preferred nickname Big Red. Now no one called him by the former name apart from the old teammates.
“What can I do for you, Detective? That I can do, that is.” As Sergeant-at-Arms for the Bezerkers’ Bike Club, it was pushing things just to be seen together. Mahoney had to tread carefully.
“You’ve heard about the football bashing?”
“Yep. Not us, in case you’re worried. Sounds like it was a bit of a stuff-up.”
“From what we can gather, yes. As
far as I can tell, it wasn’t any of the gangs involved. But it certainly wasn’t the guy we’ve got acting solo. Matty Knapp, Troy’s brother. Trouble is he’s clammed up. Tight as.”
The giant blew smoke out the corner of his mouth as he scratched his shaggy head. “And you’re wondering if there are any new pricks about causing mischief?”
Mahoney nodded. Heinz squinted into the late morning sun laying shadows over Geilston Bay and turned back to the Detective. “None of this came from me. Nothing comes back to us.” A wave at his bike.
“No, definitely. We weren’t here.”
“OK. Couple of weeks ago a new fella finds his way into the clubhouse. None of the regulars had clocked him before, round here or on the big island. Just fell out of the sky. Weaselly looking fucker. Greasy hair, Zappa moey and the ears practically metallic. Drank shorts for hours and tried to hustle some eight-ball. Good player as it turns out.
“Anyway, caused no hassles but wanted to offload some gear in exchange for some tools. Barney tells him we ain’t got none. What about in the strong room, he says. Barney tells him again. No guns here, mate. Silly bugger persists. Barney drops him. Gives his ribs a tickle with his boots. Throws him out and re-locks the door. Heard from the Wildmen he tried the same stunt there a week later.” He stubbed out his smoke.
“And?”
“Wouldn’t have thought anymore of it. Not a whisper of any B&E’s, like. But I saw him at the Russell Hotel when I was putting a few bets on last week. Had your Napster eating out of his hand.”
“Could be something. Could be nothing.”
“Yeah, I agree, mate. But I don’t think you got much, so anything’s better than nothing.”
Mahoney smiled. “Too true. Name?”
“Ronny Coutts. Reckon he might be staying over that way.” Heinz pointed to the old EZ company site on the bank of the river.
Mahoney followed his gaze. “Much maligned suburb, Lutana. Might pay it a visit.”
CHAPTER 26
Tuesday 16th March Noon
In the ten minutes or so until Munro returned to collect him, Mahoney got his fingers walking. Directory assistance brought up an address for a Mrs. Gaylene Coutts in Ashbolt Crescent, Lutana. Must be it. Staying with Mum. Use that as a base for some local fundraising. Not the smartest choice for a hideaway probably. But then it had to be said that criminals were no different from any other category of society; there were always going to be a reasonable number of boneheads. Stood to reason. Then a quick call to headquarters. He instructed Kate Kendall to bring Knapp up from the cells for further questioning at short notice. She was kept guessing of any developments.
Munro duly arrived spot on time. Another tick in the box. The young detective really did have potential. Not quite Kate’s level of emotional discipline but getting there.
“All good, Boss?”
Mahoney was in the car and belted up. “Yes. Just needed to clear the air to see where we’re going.”
Yeah right, thought Munro. He remained circumspect. “And where is that right now?”
“Back down the hill end over to near the Zinc Company. We’re making a house call.”
En route via Cornelian Bay, past the cemetery and onto Risdon Road, Mahoney told his colleague the current situation. Could be something good. As the sedan pulled over, the DI gave his final instructions, got out and ambled across to the pedestrian walkway that split the residential block in two. Munro continued around the loop of the crescent, parked and, as he’d been told, alighted from the car with the maximum of fuss. Even got his ID out of his jacket pocket as he crossed the bitumen to the pale weatherboard house at number 33.
He rapped loudly on the glass pane of the front door. Called out who he was. Finally, the door was opened by a woman in her middle years. The color of her hair was streaky and it was unlikely any food would get stuck between her front teeth but she was not unattractive, thought Munro. She was dressed in a black nightie and golden colored necklace. Shift worker or afternoon delight. Hard to tell. But she was smoking.
“Yeah, can I help you?”
“I hope so, Madam.” Before he could continue his phone started ringing and he bolted to the top of the laneway that ran alongside the paling fence of the property. He got there just in time to see a figure turning away from his boss and setting off towards him. Saw the burly partner and halted in his tracks, bent over, hands on his thighs, swearing to himself.
As Munro approached, the man jerked upright and swung at the policeman. Having expected this for the past five steps, Munro leaned back, watched the fist sail past, swiveled his weight and slammed his would-be assailant into the fence. He then smoothly pinned both arms behind the guy’s back and cuffed him. All according to script. “What are youse doing to him?” The woman they presumed to be Mrs. Coutts screeched over the fence. “He ain’t done nuthin’.”
“Actually, he’s attempted to assault an officer of the law so he is required to come with us to the station. We’ll take him to Hobart.”
They paraded Coutts, now sullenly silent, to the car. “Effing pricks, the lot of you,” from the front garden. It would have to pass for a farewell in the circumstances.
On the drive back in, Mahoney texted Kate with very precise instructions. She quickly replied her understanding. Coutts had said nothing on the drive into the CBD aside from confirmation of his identity.
Having parked out front, the two policemen walked him through the foyer to the charge desk. As the trio stood in front of the sergeant on duty, Mahoney tapped his mobile. In a matter of seconds, Kate Kendall just happened to guide Matty Knapp around the corner of the corridor. It was exactly like the proverbial rocket up the arse. Coutts went nuts. He jerked at his handcuffs and lunged forward. “You fucking weak arsehole. You’ve done it now. I’ll fucking do you. You fucking prick.”
Knapp reared back. He thought he was being brought down to meet a duty solicitor. Kate Kendall shielded him while admiring the new chap’s consistency. It reminded her of Hamburger Hill with the addition of extra spittle. The man was apocalyptic with rage. Obviously, Mahoney had generated something of a reaction with the ‘chance’ encounter. Munro held Coutts in place. The volcano subsided. “You two seem to know each other,” Mahoney dryly observed.
Immediately following the fracas in the foyer, Matt Knapp was taken back to the interview room. Mahoney allowed him to stew for a short while before going in with Munro. He opted for his briefed offsider to take up the running. Munro sat.
“So Matt, it looks like you’ve met Coutts before. Care to let us know how you’re so pally?” He was particularly careful not to smile. Knapp sat staring at the patch of cement floor between his feet. “Help us out here. Things may not be as bad as you think.”
“Yeah? Just how bad do they have to get?” He sat upright. “That prick’s trouble with a big T. And not just for me.”
Mahoney moved from the corner of the room to the side of the table and spoke softly to Knapp. “I agree he’s trouble. But for himself mainly. He’s nowhere near the threat to you, and yours, that he probably told you.”
A lift of the head. “How so?”
“Well, for a start, he’s not the big wheel he’s made himself out to be. Nowhere near as influential as he told you at the Russell Hotel.” That brought on a spate of eye-blinking. Mahoney knew they were onto something. The measured tone remained. “All that stuff about getting to your brother or your family was wishful thinking on his part. He’s about as well connected as a burnt out fuse box. He’s a blow-in. None of the players round here want anything to do with him. We checked. He’s got no influence on the inside or out here. He’s flying solo. A chancer. There’s never going to be a Carl Williams scenario for your brother. He’s safe. You’re safe.”
He let that sink in for a few moments. “You’re in a decent spot of bother but nothing like Coutts has got you imagining. Now this is a good ti
me to revisit the goings-on at the Bowls Club, don’t you think?”
Knapp took a full minute to think it over. The lifebuoy had been thrown. Seemed no good reason not to grab it. “It was a cock-up. Pure and simple. Yeah, he set me up. Got hold of my number through a mutual mate, he said. Arranged a meeting and laid out a deal. Be his right hand man or Troy would be in all sorts of strife. Had me by the short and curlies, didn’t he?” He leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms. “So I went along with it. Just meant to be a job of putting the frighteners on some bloke. Some bloke. Sweet Jesus. Didn’t tell me the target was a tank.” He blew air through his fringe.
“Anyways, we’re meant to surprise this fella down at the Bowls Club behind the Mayfair Pub. Somebody tips Coutts off the guy would be there. Good place to give a bloke a warning, he reckons. Well, next thing this well put together snoozer comes sauntering through in front of the clubhouse and over the lawn. I step out and tell him to hold it right there. Next thing the bugger dabs me one. Great jab. Right on the hooter. I’m a bit dazed and the claret starts. He’s about to sling another one when out steps Coutts and smacks him round the head with a spade. Big clout. Boxer boy falls sideways and cracks his skull open on the concrete curb. Does not move. Must have died instantly. No pulse. Nothing. Just this eerie quiet. We both just stood there.
“I knew then we were in deep shit. I was too stunned to move. Not Coutts. He swings straight into action. Plan B, he reckons. Plan A had been to overpower him, truss him up and leave him in a ditch for the night. Scare him good and proper. Now we had a body to get rid of. Can’t leave him, reckons the criminal genius, so we lug him into the van and drive to Kingston. Plonk him in the ditch. In the rush I’d forgotten me blood was probably on the concrete. Had no choice but to play along and keep me trap shut. Well, until now that is.”
Munro almost smiled.