by Tim Ayliffe
CHAPTER 22
Driving south along Anzac Parade, Bailey was staring out the window at the hulking canopy of trees towering over Centennial Park. There used to be a lot more of them. Centuries-old figs torn down to make way for rail lines, footpaths and tram stops. Sydney’s population was growing, tearing away at mother nature’s flowing green dress. The city closing in on itself.
Bailey took a left into Darley Road alongside Randwick Gates, skirting the park east up the hill towards Coogee. Sunlight was flickering through the branches, forcing Bailey to squint at the windscreen, trying not to lose sight of the car in front. Ronnie’s Prius.
The big Oklahoman took a right turn at the next roundabout before slowing down, his head halfway out the window, searching for house numbers. He jammed on his brakes, pointing his finger at a house on the opposite side of the street, pulling over, leaving Bailey enough room to park behind him.
The two men walked across the road in silence. Both more interested in the Californian bungalow they were about to visit, rather than idle chitchat. A black Monaro with all the trimmings was parked in the driveway and whoever owned the house clearly spent a bomb on keeping it neat. Shiny brickwork. Freshly painted split-gable roof. Timber-framed windows. The hedge lining the driveway carefully manicured, so was the square patch of lawn.
‘Not a bad joint for a guy who works on the docks,’ Bailey whispered as they arrived inside the sleep-out by the front door.
‘Exactly what I was thinking,’ Ronnie said, pressing his index finger on the doorbell. ‘And, bubba?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Leave the talking to me.’
‘All right, big guy. Your show.’
Ronnie frowned at Bailey, knowing that he was taking the piss. He didn’t bother responding, instead leaning on the buzzer for a second time. Waiting.
‘Might need to go round back,’ Ronnie said.
They stepped out of the shadows of the verandah and into the sun which was burning so strongly that Bailey could feel it nibbling at his skin. They paused at the window by the side of the house, noticing the distinct sound of a television and a blue flickering light, before continuing through the side gate that led into the backyard.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Ronnie put his knuckles to work on the back door. No answer. He tried turning the handle. Locked.
‘Might need to do this the old-fashioned way.’ Ronnie dropped down onto one knee, poking the keyhole with the little metal device he produced from his pocket. ‘C’mon, you sonofabitch.’
‘Getting rusty, Ronnie?’ Bailey whispered.
Click.
The door clicked open and Ronnie stood up, winking at Bailey and pressing his finger to his lips.
‘Stay close.’
The smell hit them before they even had a chance to step inside. The pungent, nostril-stinging stench of decaying flesh.
Pressing the back of his hand against his nose, Bailey followed Ronnie through the kitchen and into the living area, where a man was sitting upright in an armchair, staring at the television with a blank expression on his face. Had he been alive he would have been watching a repeat of Midsomer Murders and probably wondering how so many people could get knocked off in the same small British county. But this guy wasn’t watching television. He wasn’t watching anything. He was dead.
‘Don’t,’ Ronnie barked at Bailey as he went to pick up the remote control to kill the television. ‘Best not touching anything, bubba.’
Ronnie grabbed a handkerchief from his pocket, covering his fingertip so that he could hit the light by the doorframe.
‘Fuck me.’
Bailey gagged when he caught sight of the foam dribbling from the dead man’s lips. His skin an off shade of purple and green. He had a neat bullet hole in his forehead. The chair behind him wasn’t so tidy, pieces of his brain and skull splattered against the fabric, spraying the wall at least two metres away.
‘Looks professional,’ Ronnie said, seemingly unbothered by the smell and the sight of the decomposing body. He’d seen a few.
‘How long ago, you reckon?’
‘By the colour of his skin… the smell. Two days. Three, tops.’
‘What was his name?’ Bailey suddenly realised that it was a question he had never asked. Now that the guy was dead, he wanted to know.
‘Liam Callaghan.’
‘I want to have a poke around,’ Bailey said.
‘Good idea. But remember –’
‘Don’t touch anything.’
‘You’re learning.’
‘I don’t know how I survived all those years when you weren’t around.’
Ronnie ignored Bailey’s sarcasm and walked over to the window, peering out. ‘We can’t stay long. Someone could have seen us walk inside. You take the front of the house, I’ll do the back. Intel says this guy lived alone. No partner. No kids.’
Bailey dropped his hand from his nose as he had started to grow accustomed to the stench. He wasn’t much interested in the two bedrooms at the front of the house but he poked his head inside anyway, checking for evidence to confirm that Callaghan was the only person who lived here. The lack of photographs of any children or pictures that might suggest that Callaghan was in a relationship led Bailey to think that Ronnie’s information was correct. It also explained why nobody had reported his death.
There was a small study off to the side of the master bedroom. Bailey walked inside and around the desk by the window, where a pile of unopened mail was stacked, neatly, beside a space where a laptop computer used to be. He could see that the computer had been there until only recently because of the rectangular dust pattern on the desk and the power cord positioned nearby. Maybe Callaghan’s killer had stolen his computer too?
A metal single-drawer filing cabinet sat beneath the desk and Bailey used the sleeve of his jacket to cover his fingers so that he could try to pull it open. It was locked. The front of the cabinet was dented and scratched, leaving Bailey to conclude that someone else had tried to pick the lock with what must have been a screwdriver, considering the damage it had caused.
‘Ronnie! In here!’
Ronnie appeared at the door. ‘Found something?’
‘Not sure. Reckon you can get this thing open?’ Bailey was pointing at the filing cabinet. ‘Looks like somebody’s already had a go. They also pinched Callaghan’s computer.’
Ronnie walked over to where Bailey was kneeling on the ground, gesturing for him to get out of the way so that he could have a crack at the lock. It took him longer than it did to get the back door of the house open, but he got it done.
‘Tell me what you find.’ Ronnie stood up, handing Bailey a pair of pink rubber gloves he must have found in the kitchen. ‘Put these on.’
Bailey did as he was told before pulling open the drawer. Callaghan’s files were neatly arranged inside with cardboard folders labelling the things he kept private. Files for household bills. Insurance. Tax receipts. Personal documents, including his passport and a curriculum vitae. Bailey withdrew Callaghan’s CV, intrigued about what he had done with his life before it had been brutally cut short. Turns out he was a union man who’d had a lengthy career on the docks, making his way up the chain until he landed a supervisor position with customs. Before he overplayed his hand.
Replacing Callaghan’s CV, Bailey withdrew the next folder to catch his eye. Bank statements. The printouts were of his quarterly activities and, apart from the fact that Bailey thought his fortnightly pay cheque was a little high for a guy who ticked off containers down at Port Botany, there didn’t seem to be any irregular payments. One other recurring transaction caught Bailey’s eye. Callaghan was paying rent to a landlord under the name of Sunshine Inc. Twelve hundred dollars a month, clearly labelled as ‘rent’. Bailey wasn’t skilled at maths but even he knew that three hundred dollars a week was ridiculously cheap for a house that must have been worth somewhere north of two or three million dollars.
Opening the browser on his ph
one, Bailey typed the words ‘Sunshine Inc’ and waited for the cracked screen to load its findings. All that came up was a business offering mental health services in western Sydney and some kind of community action group. He took photos of Callaghan’s bank statements with his phone. He’d dig into Sunshine Inc later.
There wasn’t much else interesting in Callaghan’s files other than the fact that the guy was meticulous at record keeping.
‘Anything in those files?’ Ronnie appeared in the open doorway.
‘Not really. He doesn’t own the house but his rent’s dirt cheap. If he was getting paid cash to wave through dodgy cargo containers then he was pretty good at hiding it. How about you?’
‘Nothing. And it’s time to go.’
Bailey clambered off his knees and followed Ronnie through the house and out the back door. His phone started vibrating in his pocket and, not even bothering to check the number, he sent it through to voicemail. By the time he and Ronnie were standing beside Bailey’s wagon on the other side of the street, his phone was vibrating again. It was Jonny Abdo.
‘Jonny,’ Bailey answered, ‘how are you, mate?’
‘Have you seen the news?’
Abdo sounded agitated. Angry.
‘No. What is it?’
‘They’re endangering my community! Putting people’s lives at risk!’
Abdo was in full flight and Bailey was struggling to understand him.
‘What?’
Bailey turned away from Ronnie, pressing his finger inside his other ear so that he could focus on what Abdo was saying. ‘What do you mean, Jonny? Who are you talking about? What are you trying to say?’
‘The police, Bailey. The Australian Federal Police. They’re saying Augustus Strong may have been murdered in retaliation for the assault on Matthew Lam on Oxford Street the other night. It’s outrageous! The police say they’ve got evidence that Black men attacked Strong. Have you seen it? Have you seen the evidence? I haven’t seen it. Where’s the proof? There are CCTV cameras all over the city, but I haven’t seen it. Have you? Have you?’
‘Slow down, Jonny,’ Bailey said, stepping away from Ronnie who was trying his best to listen in. ‘Who’s saying Strong was killed in retaliation for what happened to Matthew Lam?’
That information was new to Bailey.
Aly Wong had asked Harding about a link between the two attacks at the media conference out front of the Hilton that morning and the AFP commander had played it down. Something must have changed.
Abdo sighed on the other end of the line, taking a breath to calm himself. ‘I’m going to read this directly from the article. Hang on.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘This is quoting Commander Dominic Harding from the Australian Federal Police.’ Abdo was sounding calmer as he relayed the words. ‘The AFP have now confirmed the murder of American national Augustus Strong is being investigated as a reprisal attack in relation to the violent assault on Sudanese-Australian Matthew Lam on Oxford Street three nights ago.’
Harding. What the hell was he playing at? Abdo was right, thought Bailey, drawing a direct link in public between the two attacks was a dangerous tactic and one that could serve as an incitement to further violence. Surely the AFP were attuned to how these things played out?
‘Bailey, you there?’
‘Still here.’
‘Why would they do this? There are extremists out there. Violent extremists. You’ve seen what they can do. For god’s sake, Matthew’s in a coma after being near beaten to death. If the people responsible think Strong’s murder was a response to what happened to Matthew then they could do something else. Something worse.’
A race war on the streets of Sydney? Only a few days ago, Bailey would have dismissed what Jonny Abdo was saying as ridiculous. Now he wasn’t so sure.
‘Where are you, Jonny?’
‘I’m at the hospital,’ Abdo said. ‘That’s the other reason I’m calling. The Lams want to talk to you. Matthew’s parents. Can you come?’
‘When?’
‘Now.’
‘St Vincent’s, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Give me twenty minutes.’
Bailey put his phone in his pocket and stepped back from the guy who had been invading his personal space.
‘Get all that?’
‘Most of it,’ Ronnie said. ‘And by the way, I don’t think he’s far off the mark.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘A race war. It’s what these people want.’
‘I can’t believe we’re even talking about this.’
‘You going to the hospital?’
‘Yeah. What are you going to do?’
‘I’d better let people know about the dead guy in there.’ Ronnie pointed back at the house. ‘He smells bad today. In this heat, we’ll have the whole neighbourhood complaining soon.’
‘Presuming you’ll keep me out of it?’
‘Surprised you even asked.’
‘Sorry.’ Bailey opened the door of his wagon. ‘And Ronnie?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Harriet must have been on to these guys. We need to somehow find out what she knew. The feds won’t talk to me for obvious reasons. You got anyone inside?’
‘I’ll have a think.’
Bailey thought he almost caught Ronnie smile.
‘You do that.’
A guy like Ronnie Johnson always had someone on the inside.
CHAPTER 23
Bailey hated hospitals.
That nostril-stinging antiseptic smell. White lights. Lino floors. Waiting around on hard plastic chairs. The inevitable hugs and tears for life, and loss.
The only times that Bailey ever visited hospitals were to either get patched up, or to visit some poor sod who had been on the receiving end of something unpleasant.
Today wasn’t any different.
‘You coming?’
Jonny Abdo was standing beside Bailey at the reception desk of St Vincent’s Hospital where they had just been signed in by Matthew Lam’s father.
‘Bailey?’
Bailey hadn’t been inside a hospital since he’d had the stitches in his shoulder removed after his altercation with a terrorist in London. But that wasn’t the hospital visit that came flooding back as he watched a doctor in a white coat walk past. He was thinking about Dexter. The day she was rushed in. The way she left. And then he wasn’t thinking about hospitals at all. He was thinking about the smile that lit up Dexter’s face, igniting the crow’s feet around her eyes. She hated having wrinkles but Bailey had loved them because they made him believe they’d grow old together. If only he’d told her that. What a fool.
‘Bailey?’
‘Sorry. Got distracted.’
Abdo grabbed Bailey’s arm. ‘Are you okay?’
‘All good, Jonny.’ Bailey felt embarrassed, like he’d made a scene, and turned to Matthew Lam’s father. ‘Mr Lam, where would you like to talk?’
‘First I want you to see Matthew,’ he said, gesturing an arm towards the elevators. ‘And please, call me Philip.’
The three men caught the lift to St Vincent’s intensive care unit and walked in silence to the room where Matthew Lam was being treated. The young man was still in an induced coma and Bailey figured that Philip Lam wanted him to see what that looked like, especially if he was going to be writing about it.
Lam paused at the door. ‘My wife’s very upset. We won’t stay long.’
Matthew’s mother was sitting in a chair close to the bed where the young man was lying flat, eyes closed, tubes coming out of him and machines rhythmically beeping all around. She was stroking her son’s forehead, barely acknowledging the men at the door.
‘The doctors say the swelling has gone down,’ Lam whispered. ‘They might wake him tomorrow.’
Bailey didn’t know what to say but he couldn’t ignore the poor woman frowning at him, holding her son’s hand. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Mrs Lam.’
She
nodded, returning a sad, friendly smile.
‘We’ll go now,’ Lam said, turning to his wife. ‘I’ll only be a few minutes, darling.’
The hospital’s café was situated in the main foyer by the entrance and Jonny offered to order the coffees while Bailey and Philip Lam found a table. The café was mostly full but they managed to find a place to sit outside where somehow the sweet smell of disinfectant still lingered.
‘Please.’ Lam gestured for Bailey to choose his seat.
‘I’m sorry about what’s happened to you and your family, Philip.’
‘Thank you.’
In the few minutes that Bailey had known Philip Lam he had concluded that he was a gentle man.
‘Good news that Matthew seems to be getting better,’ Bailey said. ‘What else are the doctors telling you, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘The news has been positive. Positive,’ Lam said, his tired eyes adding more to his words. ‘It appears there won’t be any lasting damage. We won’t know for sure until he wakes up though.’ He nodded to himself, looking away. ‘We just hope and pray.’
A chair squeaked on the floor as Abdo sat down and joined them. ‘The coffees shouldn’t be long. I got them in takeaway cups, Philip. I know you want to get back upstairs.’
‘Thank you, Jonny. Thank you.’
The table fell silent again and Bailey couldn’t help wondering exactly what he was doing here. He cleared his throat, preparing to ask the question when Abdo jumped in.
‘The Lam family would like to talk publicly, John. That’s why we’ve asked you here. There have been many requests coming from television stations and newspapers.’
‘Of course. I’d be happy to help. But as you know, Jonny, I don’t work for a daily newspaper any more. I’m working for a monthly magazine.’ Bailey turned to Lam. ‘I’d like to talk to you for the article that I’m writing, but it won’t be published for a few weeks. If you’re wanting to say something now, something sooner, I can certainly help arrange that for you. What is it you want to say?’
The seconds ticked by as Lam considered his response. ‘This country has given me so much. My family. A better life. I’m heartbroken about what has happened to my son. I’m angry too.’