Just after four a man came in. Shaun tried to overhear Wally’s welcome, listening for a name, but the raised chatter and TV noise in the vicinity drowned it out. When the man stepped inside he glanced in Shaun’s direction, and almost immediately the question was answered when an old coot called out:‘Hey, Leon!’ He was sitting with a group of similar-aged punters a couple of tables from Shaun’s. He’d noticed they were sharing bets on the races. Leon grinned and raised an arm before going over to the group and passing some time with them. There was laughter, backslapping and general conviviality all round, so much so that this Leon did not seem at all like the bastard with a dirty past Shaun wanted to bust. He felt a little shiver of anticipation.
There was no doubt in his mind that this was Leon Turner. The ageing process had inevitably changed him, but the features were essentially the same.
After chatting to the group at the table Leon went to the bar, where he joined two other men. Shaun watched them without appearing to. They were all on schooners and shooting the breeze. Shaun stopped pretending to be interested in the horses and got up, crossing a space in front of the bar where the three men stood and heading to the gaming machines. He selected one from which he could observe Leon, and fed in a ten-dollar note. He didn’t really understand these machines, but it seemed to be simply a matter of pressing buttons. He was playing one that featured black panthers whose eyes lit up when you won something. Shaun didn’t care if he won or lost: he was merely using the machine as a cover while he kept an eye out for Leon. Obviously he couldn’t approach him while he was with his friends, but it seemed he was too popular or important a person to ever be alone here—he was every inch the club committeeman.
In any case this was not the right environment for a confrontation. Turner had power here, it was his turf, and accordingly he would have no problem in turning Shaun away, even calling security if he had to. It was better to brace him someplace where he wasn’t surrounded by allies, where Shaun could look him in the eye, watch his reactions. The best option seemed to be to wait for him to leave, and follow him to his home. But he had to be on the alert in case the subject slipped away.
Body language. One thing a stint in prison taught was how to read and use it. Glancing occasionally at Turner, Shaun couldn’t help but notice how he dominated the group with his commanding stance—legs apart, arms folded across his chest when he wasn’t holding his schooner, rocking slightly on the balls of his feet. The vibe said: I am the big fish here. The other two were clearly pissing in his pocket, laughing on cue and in general falling all over him, unable to stand still in the presence of the big city cop come to grace their town and club. And, just as clearly, Turner was lapping it up. All his life this guy was in charge of others, even into his retirement. He was probably the local scoutmaster and chief Rotarian as well. This was a man who had to have the respect of others in any environment.
Suddenly his machine made a fuss. Shaun hadn’t been paying much attention, just pressing the same button every few seconds, but now he noticed there were five dice displayed, one in each frame. The machine went into singsong mode, indicating a major payout, and the credit metre was in overdrive. He heard the man next to him say, ‘Christ, I’ve been playing that bastard for an hour. All it did was eat my money.’
‘Luck of the draw,’ Shaun said.
The other man simply shook his head despairingly and resumed playing his own machine. Heads turned here and there. People stopped behind him, watching the total go up.
When the noise and credit metre stopped, Shaun pressed the ‘Collect’ button, expecting the tray to fill with coins, but instead the machine spat out a slip of paper showing how much he’d won: $175. Didn’t seem like a lot.
He took it to the cashier’s window and collected. Turner’s crew had just bought another round, so there wasn’t much danger of the subject going anywhere soon.
He played another machine after that, never straying far from the trio at the bar. He had a feeling Turner wouldn’t be much longer—a round of three schooners was probably about it for this time of day.
Sure enough Turner put his empty glass on its side on the bar towel. There followed another burst of backslapping, after which the former superintendent marched purposefully out through the glass doors, waving to a few hearty well-wishers en route.
Shaun abandoned his machine, leaving twenty dollars in it for some lucky punter, and wandered out behind him.
Out in the hot car park he put on his sunglasses and sat in the Falcon. It was not a large parking area and he could easily see Turner climbing into his car, a recent model Volvo. When the subject eased out into the road Shaun followed, letting another car slip in between them. Turner drove at a snail’s pace, making it hard to stay back as far as Shaun wanted to, so he let two more cars pass him. In a few minutes Turner stopped outside a mini-mart and went inside. Shaun parked and waited. When Turner re-emerged he was carrying a plastic shopping bag, which clearly contained a carton of milk and some other items. Taking great care he nosed out into the thin traffic and drove on, the inevitable parking lights on, crawling along so slowly the Volvo could not have made it out of second gear. So he was the town’s champion Volvo driver too.
They climbed a rise at the back of the town, entering a small street that was lined with neat bungalow-style homes with profuse front gardens. Turner swung right into the driveway of a cream weatherboard cottage that had a dense purple creeper overflowing the side fence and lush tropical flowers and shrubs filling the front. When he pulled up directly outside the house, Shaun could see many large pot-plants and hanging baskets on the front veranda. Turner had parked halfway along the drive, and had some trouble getting out of the car because of the creeper, which he had to beat out of the way. By the time he had extricated himself Shaun was standing at the front gate. Turner, the shopping bag in his hand, came around the back of his car towards some stone steps leading to the veranda. Then he noticed he had a visitor.
‘Mr Turner?’ Shaun said, hands in his back pockets.
Turner stopped. ‘Yes?’ he said warily, eyes already narrowing.
It was a big moment, but to his surprise Shaun felt no nerves at all.‘Mr Turner, my name is Shaun McCreadie. I was wondering—’
‘I know who you are,’ Turner shot back. ‘I saw you at the club. What do you mean by following me here?’
That gave Shaun a start. He suddenly thought: the panther machine. He noticed me scoring the jackpot.
Round one to Leon Turner.
‘I wanted to speak to you. In private.’
‘Is that so,’ Turner said.
‘Yes, sir.’ Strangely, Shaun still felt it necessary to address Turner formally, even though they were no longer in the system. The man simply had an aura that demanded it: he wore gravitas as easily as his old-fashioned clothes.
‘Well, I have no intention of speaking to you,’ Turner said, but he stayed where he was.
‘Only a few minutes,’ Shaun said. ‘I would greatly appreciate it.’ He was going to add ‘sir’, but held it back at the last second.
Turner drilled him with his grey eyes.‘I heard you got out,’ he said. ‘To my mind that was a travesty of justice.’
‘The Appeals Court judges didn’t agree.’
Turner nodded slowly. ‘Sometimes the system fails us.’
‘Not in this case.’
Turner still hadn’t budged or shifted his intimidating gaze from the object of his displeasure—this felon who had dared to trespass into his personal realm.
‘I have nothing to say to you, McCreadie. Except this: fuck off. Fuck off and crawl back into your shithole down south, where you belong.’
The outburst was unexpected, but then Shaun remembered that Turner, who was normally a model of propriety, also had a reputation for using rough language when stirred up. That was fine. It meant the gloves were off, reducing the obligation on Shaun to continue being polite. In a sense it gave him an advantage.
‘I realise I’
m not exactly a poster boy for the police department,’ he said. ‘But I—’
‘Poster boy?’ Turner spat. ‘Don’t try and crack witty with me, son. It won’t wash. You’re nothing but a piece of shit. You’re a smear on the whole human race.’ He was warming up nicely. ‘You are a living, breathing case for the return of capital punishment.’
‘Strong words,’ Shaun said.
‘They’re true words,’ Turner said, and glanced over his shoulder at the house, as if his wife might appear, causing him to cut out the profanities. He was the classic dinosaur who could swear a blue streak in the company of men, but not tolerate it for a second if a woman were present.
‘All the same,’ Shaun said,‘I have some questions that have been on my mind for years. I was hoping you could shed a little light. I don’t wish to intrude on you, Mr Turner. Ten minutes of your time, then I’m gone.’
‘But you are intruding on me.’
‘Ten minutes.’
Turner was chewing it over, maybe wondering if he could snow this guy for a while and get rid of him, otherwise he might hang around and make a pest of himself—bother his wife, turn up again at the club, or whatever.
‘If you’ve made a special trip up here to see me, you’ve wasted your time,’ Turner said.‘There’s nothing I can tell you that you don’t already know.’
‘I did make a special trip,’ Shaun said.‘But it’s a nice place for a visit anyhow, I guess. Maybe I’ll stick around for a while.’ He tried a smile, which brought no visible reaction from Turner’s flint-hard features.
‘Go on,’he said finally.‘Hurry up. The clock’s ticking down.’
‘Morris Salisbury, the drug dealer,’ Shaun said.
‘Salisbury? What about him?’
‘You knew him pretty well, didn’t you?’
‘I knew a lot of people on the wrong side of the fence. I was in CI. I even knew you. So what?’
‘There were people who believed you were a bit too close for comfort.’
‘I heard those stories—all made by people who didn’t have the balls to come out in public.’
‘Someone was raiding the evidence storage facility and supplying Salisbury with confiscated drugs.’
‘Supposedly.’
‘Then the records conveniently disappeared from the facility filing system. An investigation came to nothing. No-one was charged, despite all the accusations that were flying around. Didn’t that seem a bit . . . strange to you?’
‘People always make accusations. They have their reasons. Finding evidence to support them is another matter, however. Plenty of records are lost or thrown out in error. It doesn’t have to mean there’s a conspiracy. And there wasn’t in that instance.’
‘All the same, you can appreciate how suspicious it appears—all this shit going off from the facility at the same time you were cosying up to the biggest dealer in town.’
‘I wasn’t cosying up to anybody. Watch your mouth, McCreadie. I might be retired, but I can still bring you to account. You of all people should know you can’t rub shoulders with the shit of the world every day and expect to come out smelling like a fucking flower shop.’
‘So, according to you, there was no cover-up.’
‘There was definitely no cover-up. Is that it now? Can I go?’
He didn’t move. Shaun wondered why he felt the need to be so adamantly opposed to the idea of a cover-up, but let it pass. Turner was showing signs of irritation and it wouldn’t be helpful to push him too far. At the same time, although he obviously resented the intrusion, he didn’t mind getting into a scrap, no doubt to assert his superiority. Turner was a warhorse who got off on power, and he didn’t get too many chances to flex his muscles in Nambucca Heads.
‘What about Vincent O’Connell?’ Shaun said, advancing a little closer. ‘Got any ideas about what happened to him?’
Turner paused a second, as if he were going to shoot an answer back, then thought better of it. ‘No,’ he said.
‘He was trying to bust Salisbury. Someone tipped him off.’
‘It’s a dangerous job,’ Turner said.
‘It is. Especially when you’re ratted out by your own people. Do you remember attending a meeting in a pub with Salisbury, at which Vincent was present?’
‘No,’ came the quick answer.
‘Vincent was a good mate of mine. He told me all about it—about you. Staring at him, warning him off Salisbury. Why, Mr Turner?’
‘It’s bullshit. This interview is over. You’d better turn tail and fuck off while you can, son.’
‘Did you threaten Vincent? Arrange to have his dog killed, and his parents’ car shot at?’
‘Don’t be so fucking stupid. I was trying to bust Salisbury too. Why would I tip him off and do all these other terrible things you accuse me of doing?’
‘But you didn’t bust him. Salisbury has never done time. Why?’
‘It wasn’t for want of trying. You can’t catch them all, McCreadie. Inevitably some big fish slip through the net.’
Shaun came a step closer, so that he was level with the fenceline. ‘But he was a protected species, wasn’t he? He was allowed to slip through the net.’
‘Complete and utter bullshit. You know, your condition is not uncommon among long-term convicts, McCreadie. They see threats and conspiracies everywhere. It’s called paranoia. And don’t come any closer, or I’ll fucking well have you arrested for trespass and thrown back in the can.’
‘But I wasn’t a long-term convict then. I was a serving officer, like you.’
‘Excuse me, but you were not like me. You were a fucking disgrace. You still are.’
Voices had become raised. Up on the veranda Shaun could make out the blurred shape of a woman hovering behind the fly-wire screen door. Curious as she must have been, however, she remained indoors.
He dropped his voice almost to a whisper. ‘Who killed Vincent O’Connell, Mr Turner?’
‘I have no idea.’ Turner, too, softened his tone, no doubt conscious of his wife’s presence at the front door. He might well have added: And I don’t give a shit.
‘A CI inspector, and you have no idea. That would suggest you have no interest in finding out, either.’
‘People disappear all the time.’
‘He was a cop. He was one of us. You sold him out, didn’t you? Instead of protecting him, you arranged for his execution.’
There was a slight swallow visible at Turner’s sinewy and corded throat. ‘You’re pissing in the wind,’ he said quietly. ‘Go away.’
‘Mr Turner, I know you weren’t acting alone, and that you don’t want to betray the others. Bill Simmonds, for example. You were both members of The Three, weren’t you?’
‘Go away now,’ Turner said flatly.
‘Do you know Simmonds is trying to kill me? He’s out of control, Turner.’
‘I have no idea what you’re on about, McCreadie. You are bad news.’
‘You know what happened to Vincent, don’t you? You fixed it. You and Simmonds.’
‘Shut up.’
‘You’re holding a lot of secrets, Turner—too many for one man. Sooner or later they’ll find a way out.’
Turner didn’t say a word. He had barely moved throughout the dialogue, but now he turned to go up the steps to the house. His wife was still peering through the fly-wire.
‘Mr Turner,’ Shaun said in a slightly conciliatory way. ‘If you do happen to remember any details, anything at all, I’m staying at the Blue Dolphin.’ He turned to his car, then called back: ‘I’m sure if something happened to a good friend of yours, you’d want to clear it up on his behalf. It’s the least we can do when the system fails us. And I’m not going to stop until I do just that.’
The temperature had risen in more than one way during the afternoon. Shaun bought himself a pair of Speedos on his way back to the motel, grabbed a towel from the bathroom and headed for the beach. It was only a ten-minute stroll, but the sun beat down so hard he could feel
it burning the scalp through his hair. By the time he arrived sweat was streaming down his face and body. Should’ve got a hat too—and some sunscreen.
There were plenty of swimmers and surfers, mainly bodysurfers but some on big boards further out. He stretched the towel out on the pristine sand, removed his sunglasses, flung off his sweat-drenched top and ran into the sea. It had been many years since he’d been able to do that, and it was a delicious sensation. He waded through the shallows, then plunged in and struck through the waves that were crashing down over him and roaring in his ears. He was not a particularly strong swimmer, but he had an overpowering need to throw himself into it anyhow and work off some of the tension and aggravation he was feeling. In a few minutes he was past the breakers and slicing through an undulating swell of green water. When he was out of breath he stopped and turned, treading water as he gazed around him. Alongside, two surfers, boys about fifteen, were on their way in, kneeling on their boards and paddling towards the white tops of the waves. Water dripped from the shining bleach-blond hair that was plastered over them. By the time they reached the breakers they were standing up, perfectly balanced, brown bodies leaning forward to meet the imminent challenge.
Shaun shook his head to clear the water from his eyes. The sun had a real sting in it out here. He ducked down and came up again. Soon his head and shoulders were on fire. He looked at the beach and the compact little town, rising slightly up the hill towards the highway not far behind it. It seemed a long way off, but he could see it all clearly. He could even see the Blue Dolphin up on the hill. With the surfers gone he was out here on his own, bobbing easily in the sea, taking in a little water every now and then and blowing it out. Then came a cold stab of fear: Christ—what about fucking sharks? He swivelled his head around, searching the depths for ominous dark shapes. Wouldn’t see it anyway. They always come from nowhere.
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