‘Lagavulin,’ Raydon said, raising a hand to the liveried steward. ‘From the isle of Islay. The secret is age, McEncroe. It takes out the fire but leaves in the warmth.’
‘In life, as in Scotch. You’re such an unmitigated snob, Steer. But I must say it’s an accurate description.’
The steward promptly delivered a fresh round on a silver tray.
‘All right,’ Oliver said, after sipping. ‘What is it? Suddenly there is the distinct whiff of . . . naughtiness in the air.’
‘I was in Sydney,’ Raydon began. ‘Visiting my friend Rumney. You know him.’
‘Rumney, yes.’
‘We had entertainment in his apartment—a pair of lusty young harlots he’d arranged.’
‘I was right,’ Oliver said with undisguised glee. ‘Go on, go on.’
‘Well, it turns out that one of them was . . . underage.’
‘No,’ Oliver said with a mock gasp. ‘By what margin, if I may inquire?’
‘She’s fourteen,’ Raydon said. ‘Or so she alleges.’
‘Alleges? Come now, it isn’t difficult to establish someone’s age. That’s why we have birth certificates, Steer.’
‘All right, she’s fourteen.’ An edge of irritation had crept into his tone, which instinctively he corrected.
‘Shameful.’
‘As you say, McEncroe. Anyway this girl has since discovered my identity, and attempted to extort money—blackmail me—under threat of going to the police.’
‘How has she done this?’
‘Telephone call.’
‘To your home?’
‘God no—to chambers.’
‘Good Christ, Steer. Who’s helping her?’
‘I don’t know. Someone, presumably.’
‘Not Rumney?’
‘Rumney? Don’t be insane, McEncroe. Rumney’s keeping schtum, I imagine. After all, he too is vulnerable.’
‘Quite. God, you’re such a pants man, Steer. It was destined to be your undoing one day—if you’ll excuse a rather feeble pun. So—what was your response?’
Raydon said, ‘I did what any intelligent man would do— denied the whole episode and told her to fuck off.’
‘Very good. So what’s the problem?’
‘The problem, McEncroe, is that last night I received a visit from the police. Apparently this little slut has made a complaint against me. All sorts of lies . . .’
‘What does she allege, precisely?’
‘She alleges I gave her drugs.’
‘Did you?’
‘Definitely not. There was cocaine on the premises. I don’t know if she had some or not.’
‘I see. What else?’
‘Apparently I induced her to take drugs, then I forced myself upon her while she was in a semiconscious state.’
‘Hmm. Forgive my prurience, Steer, but are there unusual sexual practices involved here?’
‘What do you mean?’ Raydon said, seemingly outraged at the suggestion.
‘Well, you know . . . fellatio, or buggery, for example.’
‘Don’t be so disgusting, McEncroe.’
‘I only inquire because I am aware of your penchant for such tasty peccadilloes. Was there?’
‘There might have been. I don’t remember. A deal of fizz was being consumed.’
‘You don’t remember whether or not you fucked this young tart up the arse? Come now.’
‘All right, all right—maybe once. And the other thing. But with her consent.’
‘It’s not looking good, Steer. Drugging and sodomising underage girls is not exactly flavour of the month in the courts, you know. Witness the steady stream of scout masters, priests and schoolteachers shunted off to prison for the very same offence. And cricket umpires.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, McEncroe. That’s totally different. That’s . . . child abuse, serial molestation, betrayal of a position of trust for the purpose of sexual gratification. Those people are fucking paedophiles, for Christ’s sake. Degenerates. This was just . . . sex.’
‘I doubt if a jury will draw that distinction, Steer. In the broader context you too abused your position of trust—as an adult.’ He leaned forward. ‘You’re supposed to protect and guide children, not fuck them.’
‘I didn’t know she was a child. I thought she was older. She said she was nineteen.’
‘Did she now? Why did she say that?’
‘Because I . . . I asked how old she was.’
‘So you were dubious. Clearly you had reservations. Yet you went ahead, knowing she’d lied about her age. I’m sorry, but I don’t see a jury accepting that an experienced man of the world such as your good self could mistake fourteen for nineteen, Steer. Come off it.’
‘It’s all trumped up, McEncroe. You know it is.’
‘Hmm—perhaps. What did the police say?’
‘They said that Sydney police will be applying for my extradition to New South Wales to face committal.’
Oliver said nothing as he swirled his Scotch, staring into it as if searching for answers.
‘Well?’ Raydon said. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think you’re in the shit, old friend. If she proceeds, you’re facing . . . what, three to five?’
‘In prison?’
‘That’s where they send sex offenders, Steer. It won’t be the Sheraton Hotel. The big house, the caboose, the slammer.’
‘Don’t be mad, McEncroe. I’m not going to prison!’
‘I beg to differ,’ Oliver said.
‘Prison? For that? No. Good God, man, the slut was a damned hooker.’
‘Yes, a fourteen-year-old hooker. And she has your balls in a vice, Steer. How much did she want?’
‘Fifty thousand.’
‘Maybe you should give it to her.’
‘Pay up? But that’s extortion.’
‘You can afford it, can’t you?’
‘Of course, but that’s hardly the issue.’
‘I would have thought,’ Oliver said, ‘that the issue was staying out of prison.’
‘I’m definitely not going to prison. You can forget about that. If it comes to trial, it’s her word against mine—who do you think the jury will believe? A Kings Cross harlot or a QC?’
‘You don’t want it to go to trial, Steer.’
‘No, but damned if I’m going to pay the bitch. What’s to stop her coming back for more, anyway, once she’s pissed all that away?’
‘That is a possibility. In which case you’d have to . . . rid yourself of the problem somehow. Tell me, does your wife know about this?’
‘Jo? Well . . . she knows part of it.’
‘Which part might that be?’
Raydon swallowed some Scotch.‘She found out about the Sydney dalliance.’
‘How?’
‘She received an anonymous letter outlining what happened. She confronted me with it, and we had a row.’
‘An anonymous letter,’ Oliver said.‘How clandestine. This sounds like an Agatha Christie novel, Steer.’
‘It’s no laughing matter,’ Raydon said.
‘Do you know who it was?’
‘No—it was printed on a computer.’
‘A colleague, perhaps, with a grudge?’
‘Perhaps,’ Raydon said. ‘I am a strong candidate for the bench in the next round of appointments, as you know.’
‘Sounds as if you’re being set up. By a rival, perhaps.’
‘Well of course I’m being set up.’
Oliver said, ‘So your wife doesn’t know about the visit from the police—last night, did you say?’
‘Last night, yes. No, she doesn’t. She’s . . . well, she’s bolted.’
‘Your wife’s bolted, Steer?’
‘That’s right.’ Raydon’s face coloured slightly.
‘But how could you allow that to happen? One’s wife doesn’t bolt.’
‘She’s a strong-willed, even wilful person. I couldn’t stop her,’ Raydon said.
‘So we can
assume she won’t be giving wifely support as you travel to and from the court.’
‘I keep telling you, McEncroe, I’m not going to court. Can’t you get that through your head?’
‘Well, you said you weren’t going to prison, if memory serves.’
‘Don’t be such a pedantic arsehole.’
‘I’m not being pedantic, but you, my old sausage, are not facing facts. The Law Institute takes a grave view of such sleazy matters. And the police will take great pleasure in prosecuting to the fullest. Rozzers are not enamoured of lawyers, as you are aware—they’d love to see your odious hide twist in the wind. Then there’s the tabloid press. Imagine what they would do. You know how, in Sydney particularly, they love salacious sex scandals involving prominent lawyers.’
Raydon knew the case to which Oliver referred—it had dragged on and on forever. He was starting to feel a little sick.
‘Your word against hers?’ Oliver said. ‘Scales of justice? Forget it, Steer. The press will go to town. Somehow I don’t see INNOCENT BARRISTER DUPED BY GRASPING WRETCH. No, no—I see TOP QC IN CHILD SEX ROMP. And of course, your photograph plastered all over the papers. You will be defrocked, decommissioned, cashiered, black-balled from your club, run out of town on a rail. Your life will be over, Steer. Am I getting through to you?’
‘I want you to represent me,’ Raydon said sullenly.
‘Represent you—to do what?’
‘I don’t care. Whatever you see fit. Make it all . . . go away.’
‘I don’t come cheaply,’ Oliver said, a sliver of mischief in his beady eye.
‘Good Christ, man, I know that. Do you think I’d want you otherwise?’
‘All right. I suggest we make contact, pay her off. If it’s not too late,’ Oliver said.
‘It’s never too late to give people money, McEncroe.’
‘Quite. More Scotch, please. I still can’t believe you allowed your wife to bolt, Steer. It’s very careless. You really don’t want her outside the tent pissing in. That would be . . . unhelpful.’
‘I can’t say what she’ll do.’
A fresh round of Lagavulin arrived. Oliver consulted his fob watch.
‘Nearly dinnertime, Steer. Does your club do an acceptable meal?’
‘Oh—soup, roast beef. Pecan pie. Rather unimaginative, but satisfying. Wholesome.’
‘Wholesome—how fitting. Shall we go in after this?’
Raydon nodded. He had no appetite. He’d intended to carry on with the Lagavulin and get himself shit-faced. But he could have a dozen oysters, and perhaps . . . some grilled boned quail to follow.
7
She came back up the staircase carrying two bottles,two glasses and a Waiter’s Friend. ‘Chateauneuf-du-Pape, no less,’ she said.‘There’s a pallet of the stuff down there, packed in straw in wooden crates with“Vin Produit en France”stamped on them.’
‘Clearly your Indonesian banker is a man of taste and quality,’ Shaun said. He was sitting on the bed examining the list of stored numbers in Bernie Walsh’s phone. When she approached he switched it off and tossed it aside.
‘I’d say it’s got “hijacked” written all over it,’ Jo said. She deftly removed both corks, and set one of them back in the bottle. The other she held to her nose, sniffing, then shrugged.
‘Seems okay,’ she said, splashing carelessly into a glass.‘See what you think. I haven’t much of a nose for wine.’
‘Can’t say I have either,’ Shaun said, making a show of peering through the glass, sniffing and swirling. There was a fine sprinkling of cork dust on the surface.
‘Sorry. I really should have decanted,’ Jo said. ‘Raydon would be horrified.’
‘Don’t worry about it, ’he said, and took a decent pull on it.
‘Well?’ she said. ‘Is it . . . off ?’
‘Off ? God no. It’s terrific. Best stuff to slide down my throat in a long, long time. Sure beats the hell out of prison hooch.’
‘It’s a 1992 vintage,’ she said, reading from the label.
‘Very appropriate. That’s the year I went inside. And all that time this bottle has been waiting and maturing.’
‘Like me,’ Jo said. She filled her own glass and, sitting alongside Shaun on the bed, sipped.
‘Hmm. Nice—very nice. I suppose we’ll probably want that second one,’ she said.
‘I’d say so.’
‘Well,’ she said, sprawling feline-like.‘Over to you, mystery man. Give.’
Shaun had been wondering where to start. There seemed to be no single moment when these events were set in motion—unless he went right back to his decision to join the Victoria police force. But in the end, because the image was so insistent, he settled on a drizzling, wintry night when sleep was snuffed out by a ringing in the hall of his bachelor’s flat.
‘In July 1987,’ he said,‘I received a phone call from a mate of mine, Vincent O’Connell. We were at school and then the academy together, before we went our separate ways— although we caught up every now and again. But then he dropped out of sight, and I didn’t hear from him for a while— until that call. It was late, after two in the morning. That wasn’t unusual for a cop—young guys, we were always on graveyard shifts, and you got used to weird hours. I was on call at the time anyway. Sometimes you had no idea what time of day or night it was. I’d wake up, look at my watch and see it was seven o’clock, and wonder if it was day or night. A few months earlier I’d made it to the armed robbery squad—the robbers. It was a big deal—I was twenty-five, apparently the youngest detective ever to be appointed to the squad. I was over the moon. Just by the way—how did you know about the crossed pistols? Was it from Raydon?’
‘No—I read it in the paper. There was something about the armed robbery squad a while ago.’
Shaun nodded. He’d seen the same article in the prison library, about the life and times of a longstanding member. It brought back a lot of memories for him . . . good and bad.
‘Having that tattoo done was a highlight of my life,’ he said. ‘It meant I was part of the elite, the chosen few. Callow greenhorn, and here I was mixing it with living legends, the toughest and best cops in the whole damn country. They took me down the pub for an initiation, got me totally smashed, told me a few home truths . . . The words “loyalty” and “brotherhood” were mentioned a lot, I seem to recall.’
He gave a soundless, ironic little laugh and drank some wine, allowing the memories to dissolve.
Jo said, ‘So, what happened to Vincent O’Connell?’
‘Sorry. Yeah—the late night phone call. Turned out Vincent was working undercover at the time, trying to bust a major drug baron. I didn’t know he was doing undercover work—last I heard he was driving a divvy van in Ferntree Gully or Waverley Gardens, some such place. So that explained why he dropped out of sight. Anyhow, he was a bit shaken up. Said he believed he was going to be put off.’
‘Put off? You mean dismissed from the force?’
‘No, no, I mean murdered. Dismissed from the planet.’
‘Oh. By the drug baron?’
‘Vincent was ambivalent. Either the drug baron, or one of his own.’
‘A bad cop?’ She arched an eyebrow.
‘Yeah, a bad cop—a very bad cop. The thing about Vincent was, to look at him you’d think he was a street thug—a big, brawny, shaven-haired character. He could pick up two tree trunks, one under each arm, and carry them from here to Sydney without a pit stop. Good kickboxer, too. So it came as a surprise to see him scared—and he was scared shitless.
‘We met in an all-night bar, and he told me that the drug baron,a guy named Morris Salisbury,had been in his ear boasting about how he had a very senior detective on the payroll.Vincent was posing as a middle-level supplier and had apparently got to know this Salisbury character pretty well. He wouldn’t name the cop, but Vincent put two and two together. This detective was providing Salisbury with drugs that had been confiscated in police raids, and kept as evidence for upco
ming court cases. He was removing this stuff from the storage facility, giving it to Salisbury and copping a share of the profits—nice little scam. It had to be a senior cop for him to have access to this particular building, so it was a short list of suspects.
‘Not long after that Vincent met Salisbury at their regular pub to do some business, and while they’re talking in walks the detective in question. He sits down at their table and gives Vincent the evil eye—doesn’t say a lot, but looks at him in a very unnerving way. Vincent doesn’t know if the detective knows he’s a cop working undercover or not—they’ve never met before. And why was he there? He barely contributed to the conversation. Then he left. Straightaway Vincent starts getting paranoid.
‘For pretty good reason, as it turns out. One day his dog has its throat slashed, and in the underworld a dog is an informer—the lowest form of life. Then someone breaks into his flat and leaves a live bullet sitting on his pillow. The message: we can get you anytime, just like we got your dog. Then he receives all these hang-up calls, all hours of the night. It went on and on. Shots were fired at his parents’ car in a drive-by one night. They were telling him: we know where your family lives. By now Vincent’s nerves are on edge—he sees people following him, his car is vandalised, pre-paid funeral brochures are sent to his home, and he believes he’s been blown, that Salisbury is onto him. He fears both criminals and cops. Then he gets a call—someone with a heavily disguised voice telling him he was about to go off. That’s when he phoned me.’
He paused to sip—then again, a bigger sip. Christ it was a top drop.
Jo said, ‘Why didn’t he contact his supervisor, whatever you call it . . . His controller?’
‘He didn’t have one. It’s not like in the movies. Making official contact is too dangerous. The top crims have very sophisticated surveillance and communications gear nowadays. There might have been a tracking device in his car, a bug somewhere in his flat. He was out there on his lonesome for the duration. This was a long-term operation, he’d been at it for six months and had to see it through, simple as that. It’s a solitary, high-risk job.’
‘What did he say to you?’
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