State of Fear

by Tim Ayliffe

  Noora was staring at Dexter, trying to listen in. Dexter moved further up the hall so that there was no danger of them hearing her side of the conversation.

  She stopped talking, waiting for Bailey to continue. He’d called her in the middle of the night. He must have something.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Are you alone?’ He sounded cagey. ‘I mean, can anyone hear you? I want to play you a video down the line. You need to see it. I’ll need to switch the call to video.’

  ‘Hang on.’

  Dexter grabbed a headset from her pocket, plugging it into the phone, while accepting the video request.

  Bailey’s dishevelled head appeared on the screen.

  ‘That kid, Jake, handed me a memory card back in Redfern before my car got blown up. I only just remembered. Must have been that bump on the head, everything that happened. I don’t know.’ Short-term memory loss wasn’t easy to explain. ‘Anyway . . . I remember now. The video’s from the house in Roselands. It’s Tariq and –’

  ‘Just play it, Bailey.’

  ‘Okay.’

  He swung the phone around and Dexter could see Ronnie standing beside the television at her place. He hit play.

  When the video finished, Bailey’s head filled the screen again. ‘Does the name Ayesha mean anything to you?’

  No. It didn’t. But she was going to ask Noora the same question.

  ‘Who’s at the hospital? Is Omar there?’

  ‘He went home to get some fresh clothes.’ She was already walking back down the hall. ‘It’s just Noora and that Hassan Saleh guy.’

  ‘How long ago did Omar leave?’

  ‘Fifteen minutes, give or take.’

  Dexter knew what Bailey was thinking and it made her nervous. ‘It’s not a good idea, Bailey.’

  ‘What isn’t?’

  ‘Going to the Haneefs’ house.’

  ‘How’d you guess?’

  ‘I’m a cop, Bailey. And you’re not. Remember that, okay?’

  ‘I know what I’m doing.’ Bailey swung his camera phone to Ronnie. ‘Anyway, I’ve got this bloke with me.’

  Ronnie gave her a thumbs up in the background.

  ‘That doesn’t fill me with confidence. I’ve got to go.’

  Dexter ended the call and walked back down the hall towards Noora and the guy with the prayer beads.

  ‘Noora.’ Dexter sat down beside her. ‘I need to ask you a question and it’s very important.’

  Hassan Saleh was standing in front of Noora, out of Dexter’s eyeline.

  ‘Don’t look at him, look at me.’ Dexter waited until Noora’s eyes were trained on her. ‘Who’s Ayesha?’

  ‘What?’ Noora said. ‘What does Ayesha have to do with this?’

  ‘Then you know her.’

  ‘She’s my –’

  ‘Noora,’ Hassan Saleh said, ‘are we sure the police have our best interests here?’

  Dexter stood up. Hassan Saleh was not a tall man and she was eye to eye with him.

  ‘What do you know?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Sharon Dexter had been a police officer for three decades. She was good at reading people. Hassan Saleh’s eyes were lying to her. His eyes said that he knew ‘everything’.

  ‘Hassan.’ Dexter stepped closer, one hand hovering next to the gun strapped to her side. ‘Give me your phone.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’m going to ask you one more time.’ She unclipped the button on the holster. ‘Give me your phone.’

  Hassan Saleh wasn’t used to being told what to do, especially by a woman. Dexter could feel it. She also knew that this was a pissing contest that she’d win. Hassan Saleh knew it too. He withdrew his phone from his jacket pocket.

  ‘Unlock it and place it on the ground.’

  ‘This is ridiculous.’

  ‘Do it. Now.’

  She took a step back so that she had time to act if he did anything stupid.

  He eyeballed her for a few seconds before he eventually did as he was told.

  ‘Now, walk over there and sit in that chair.’ Dexter was pointing at an armchair across the hall.

  He hesitated for a moment, then walked across the room, shaking his head, and sat down.

  Dexter followed him, unclipping the handcuffs from her belt, locking his hands together so that he was fixed to the arm of the chair.

  ‘What is this?’ he said. ‘I have done nothing wrong. Noora, tell her!’

  ‘Shut up.’

  Noora was watching on, mouth open.

  Dexter picked up Saleh’s phone, swiping the screen so that she could see the most recent apps that he’d been using. One of them was an encrypted messaging service. She opened it. Saleh had sent a message fifteen minutes ago to a number without a name.

  Your father is on his way back to the house

  They know nothing

  Be brave, soldier of the Prophet

  CHAPTER 39

  A white flashing light lit up the inside of the car as the traffic cameras caught Ronnie Johnson breaking the law. It was the fourth time it had happened.

  ‘Who’s paying for these, by the way?’

  Bailey knew that it wouldn’t be the last red light they’d run. Sydney had enough cameras at traffic lights to rival a Paris fashion show.

  ‘Diplomatic immunity, bubba. I try not to abuse the privilege.’

  Bailey laughed. ‘You’ve had an interesting life, mate.’

  ‘You can talk.’

  The tyres squealed around the next corner, throwing Bailey up against the door and he winced as his burn bounced against the seat.

  ‘How’s the back?’

  ‘Don’t ask.’

  Best not asking about his hangover, either. The old John Bailey would have knocked the edge off with a two-finger pour of whisky by now. His trusted hangover cure. He needed to ride this one out. One slip-up was enough.

  His phone vibrated and Dexter’s name was flashing on the screen.

  ‘Bailey.’ Dexter spoke first. ‘Are you there yet?’

  ‘A few minutes away.’

  Dexter went silent on the other end of the phone. She knew something, Bailey could tell.

  ‘What is it, Sharon? What else have you got?’

  ‘You need to wait outside.’

  ‘That’s not going to happen,’ Bailey said.

  ‘You’re not a bloody cop, Bailey.’ There was a sharpness in her voice that Bailey had been hearing a lot these past few days. ‘You need to let us do our job.’

  ‘If you know something, tell me.’

  Bailey could hear someone sobbing in the background.

  ‘Ayesha is Tariq’s and Sara’s cousin. I’m trying to get more out of Noora, she’s bloody hysterical. She doesn’t seem to know much. Hassan Saleh, on the other hand, is knee-deep in this. He’s been communicating with Sara.’

  Hassan Saleh.

  That slimy piece of shit. Bailey knew it, from the moment he first met him. Friend of the family, my arse.

  ‘What about Omar? Do you think he’s involved?’

  ‘No idea.’

  They were two streets away from the Haneefs’ house and Ronnie slowed down and killed the lights.

  ‘We’re here, got to go.’

  ‘Bailey, my team’s on the way. I mean it about waiting outside.’

  Bailey hung up without giving her an answer.

  ‘What’d she say?’

  ‘Ayesha’s the cousin. Omar may be involved. She wants us to wait outside.’

  ‘That’s not going to happen.’

  Ronnie opened his jacket so that Bailey could see the Glock dangling beside his chest.

  ‘We’ve got this, bubba.’

  Ronnie parked the car a few doors up from the house. If Omar really was involved, they couldn’t risk him seeing them coming.

  ‘You knock on the front door,’ Ronnie said. ‘I’m going around back.’

  Bailey walked up the front steps, slightly nervous about being sepa
rated from the guy with the gun.

  Bailey wanted to keep believing that Omar was a victim in all this. Now he wasn’t so sure.

  The clock ticked past 4 am. A light breeze was rustling a pile of leaves clustered on the porch. Otherwise, not a sound.

  Knock. Knock. Knock.

  Bailey’s knuckles on the door were amplified by the stillness of night.

  A stick cracked behind him, causing Bailey to spin around. Nothing. Probably just a stray cat, or a fox, searching for food scraps.

  There was a light on inside. A shadow moving towards him. Footsteps.

  Omar opened the door.

  ‘It’s the middle of the night. What do you want?’

  It was a different Omar from the one who’d kissed his cheeks in the foyer of The Journal, begging for help, three days ago. A cloud of suspicion was already hovering over him. The resentful greeting at the door only confirmed it. Strike one.

  ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘I’m sorry but no, you can’t.’ Omar was blocking the doorway. ‘I need to get back to the hospital. They’re still operating on Tariq. I want to be there when he wakes up.’

  ‘This won’t take long. I need to talk to you about something.’

  Omar breathed out hard, shaking his head. ‘I asked you for help, instead you brought in that detective woman. Now my son has a bullet in his head.’

  ‘Steady on, Omar.’

  ‘I’m not talking to you anymore.’

  Bailey had one foot inside the house in case Omar tried to slam the door. ‘Five minutes, that’s all I’m asking.’

  Omar held his position blocking the door for a few more seconds, then stepped aside, reluctantly, allowing Bailey to walk past him and inside.

  ‘Let’s go in here.’

  They went into the living room where two bags, stuffed with clothes, were sitting on the floor.

  They sat down on opposite sofas, separated only by the bags and a Persian rug.

  ‘What do you want to talk about? Have the police heard any news about Sara?’

  ‘Not yet, Omar. I want to ask about your niece.’ Bailey studied his face, looking for a reaction. ‘I want to talk about Ayesha.’

  ‘She can’t be involved in this,’ he said, defensively. ‘She’s not even here.’

  ‘When did you last see her?’

  Omar was rubbing the tops of his knees with his hands. ‘Ayesha? Not for months. We talk often. She lived with us for many years.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘I don’t have time for this now.’ Omar stood up, taking a step towards his bags. ‘Why are we even talking about Ayesha?’

  Bailey stayed put on the sofa. He didn’t want to give too much away. It was the best chance he had of determining whether or not Omar was innocent.

  ‘When did she live here, and why?’

  Omar sighed, sitting back down. ‘She was my brother’s only child. Her mother died giving birth to her and . . . my brother . . . he got caught up with some bad people in Iraq. He was killed. I don’t know where, or when, or even why. But Ayesha came to us as a child. We raised her like a daughter.’

  ‘Why didn’t I know about this?’

  Omar sat back, folding his arms. ‘We haven’t seen each other in years. Why would you?’

  Bailey stood up and walked over to the photographs on the sideboard. He picked up a frame with a picture of two girls in it, arm in arm. They looked like sisters.

  ‘This her?’

  ‘They were inseparable.’ Omar was standing beside him. ‘She’s a clever girl, studying medicine, like my Sara.’

  ‘Where’s Ayesha now?’

  ‘London. She won a scholarship to study there for –’

  They were interrupted by a noise in the kitchen.

  ‘Is someone else here, Omar?’

  ‘A cat,’ Omar said, dismissively. ‘Must have been a cat.’

  ‘Didn’t know you had a cat, mate.’

  ‘Not ours, the neighbour’s. It comes and goes as it pleases, stupid thing.’

  The peculiar smile gave him away. Strike two.

  Bailey replaced the photograph on the sideboard and headed for the kitchen.

  ‘I really have to get back to the hospital.’ Omar followed him, trying to get his attention.

  The back door was open, its hinge squeaking in the wind. Someone was out there. Bailey heard a squeal and then a man’s voice.

  Ronnie Johnson appeared through the door with one of his big arms wrapped around Sara Haneef. ‘Look who I found, bubba.’

  ‘Sara?’

  Bailey had never expected to find Sara Haneef here.

  Omar raced around the kitchen table towards Ronnie.

  ‘Let go of my daughter!’

  Ronnie reached into his jacket, withdrawing his Glock. Omar came to an abrupt halt, almost falling over, the gun barrel inches from his head.

  ‘I think you need to sit down.’

  Ronnie used his weapon to direct Omar to a chair on the other side of the kitchen table.

  ‘Okay. Okay.’ Bailey had his arms up, signalling for everyone to calm down even though his own mind was racing. ‘How about we all sit down at the table?’

  ‘Good idea, bubba.’

  Ronnie closed the back door, locking it. He walked Sara to the other side of the table and made her sit down beside her father.

  Bailey and Ronnie sat opposite.

  Clunk.

  Ronnie put his gun on the table, inches from his hand. He nodded at Bailey, happy for him to lead the conversation.

  Bailey looked at his watch: 4.14 am.

  ‘The police will be here soon,’ Bailey said, catching Omar’s eye. ‘They will arrest you both. If you want my help, you need to talk now.’

  Omar bashed his fist on the table. ‘We haven’t done anything wrong!’

  ‘If you have nothing to hide,’ Bailey said, ‘then tell us what’s going on. Now’s your chance.’

  ‘I’m not hiding from anything.’ Sara’s voice was eerily calm. ‘It’s you who’s hiding. Hiding behind the –’

  ‘Sara. Sara, no!’ Omar grabbed her hand. ‘Don’t talk.’

  ‘I’m not afraid, Dad. I knew what I was doing.’

  ‘Just shut up, shut up. Stop talking. Please.’ Omar’s face was red and beads of sweat were building on his brow. ‘I just want you to stop talking. Listen to your father!’

  ‘We know about Hassan Saleh,’ Bailey said, turning to Sara. ‘He put you in touch with Sammy Raymond, right? And Tariq found out what you were involved in, that’s why he ran.’

  Bailey had been piecing things together in his head.

  ‘What’s he talking about, Sara?’ Omar said, shifting in his chair so that he could see his daughter’s face.

  Sara had a look of absolute calm.

  ‘Sara?’ Bailey said. ‘Your brother is fighting for his life in hospital.’

  ‘Tariq’s not involved in this,’ she said.

  Finally, a straight answer.

  ‘He’s just a kid. So are you. This is your chance to make things right,’ Bailey said. ‘Let’s make sure no one else gets hurt.’

  A car stopped out the front of the house, its lights beaming through the window of the lounge room and into the kitchen. The police.

  ‘People are getting hurt every day,’ Sara said, coldly. ‘Every hour. Every minute.’

  ‘Sara. Please, no. No, Sara.’ Omar reached for his daughter’s hand but she ignored him. ‘This can’t be true.’

  ‘Sara, look at me,’ Bailey said. They were running out of time. ‘I need you to tell us about Ayesha.’

  She just sat there, silently.

  ‘Sara?’

  ‘There’s nothing you can do.’ Sara was speaking with dead-eyed calm. ‘It’s too late.’

  There was a loud banging on the front door. ‘Police! Open up!’

  ‘Wait,’ Ronnie said to Omar. ‘Stay there.’

  ‘Too late for what?’ Bailey said. ‘Where is Ayesha?’

  More knocking on
the door. Louder.

  ‘Too late for what, Sara?’

  ‘Police! Open up! Now!’

  ‘Answer the man, Sara,’ Ronnie said, picking up his gun.

  ‘Your gun doesn’t scare me.’

  There was a louder banging on the door, like someone was trying to kick it in.

  Crack!

  The sound of splintering wood prompted Ronnie to slip the Glock inside his jacket.

  ‘Sara.’ Bailey leaned across the table. ‘Too late for what?’

  ‘To join Ayesha in paradise.’

  Two policemen walked through the door behind Omar. One of them was the short and stocky guy Bailey had seen outside the Salmas’ house in Roselands. He looked like he’d just got out of bed.

  ‘Detective Don Benson.’

  The short guy introduced himself from across the kitchen.

  Bailey pushed back his chair, standing up. ‘John Bailey.’

  ‘I know who you are,’ Benson said. ‘What I don’t know is what the hell you think you’re doing here.’

  Bailey didn’t like the tone. The implied accusation that he was making things worse.

  ‘And who’s this?’

  Benson was looking at the big Oklahoman, probably wondering about the bulge in his jacket.

  ‘Ronnie Johnson.’

  Benson’s eyes fluttered as his brain told him something. Probably that he’d heard the name before and been warned not to fuck with him.

  ‘What are you guys doing here?’ Benson composed himself and went again. ‘Answer the question.’

  ‘We’re trying to find out who tried to kill me,’ Bailey said, ‘and who’s responsible for the knife attack on Gerald Summers and one of your colleagues yesterday morning.’

  ‘We know the answer to those questions.’

  ‘No.’ Bailey tapped the table with his fingers. ‘Not Sammy Raymond. Not Hassan Saleh. There’s another person running this. Isn’t there, Sara?’

  Sara looked up and smiled.

  Mustafa al-Baghdadi.

  ‘Say it!’ Bailey thumped the table. ‘Say his name, Sara!’

  ‘Why?’ Sara said. ‘Why, if you already know?’

  ‘Bubba, time to go.’ Ronnie was looking at his phone.

  ‘No. No. You’re both staying right here.’

  Ronnie stepped towards Benson.

  ‘I know you know who I am.’ Ronnie was a foot taller than Benson and he was talking to the top of his grey, bushy eyebrows. ‘So you know that we’re walking out that door.’