We is having trouble with them Deebs, and Rafi thought the cars that tried to stop him might be the Deebs pretending to be the jacks, so he came here so he could call them and give himself up. Okay? The other two is nodding slowly and Rafi is saying, Thank you, John, please don’t tell Farid. He is so angry with me for all the sorrow I is bringing on the family and Oumi I do not want this new thing to be on his mind. He is such an angry man.
There is thinking to be done but no time right now, so I tell Rafi to call the jacks and I is just going to tell Toni to pull up the roller door when there is this banging on it. I go to the back of the workshop and see there is a gate there but no one in the backyard because the workshop is built right against the buildings on each side, there is no path down the sides. I say, Call the police now, give me two minutes and roll up the door, say you thought it might be the Deebs. Okay?
Then I is out the back and through this gate and I guess I was just lucky because I got away through these crooked streets and is finding this stormwater drain about a kilometre away and there is lots of water rushing through. I throw the pieces of the Glock into it and watch them get washed away.
That night Rafi is still at the police station with Salim, and Farid comes to the house after dinner and he is annoyed. It must be difficult for him trying to run all the business and this war with the Deebs, and he is having to come over to the house all the time for these problems of Rafi. He is in the Hummer tonight and one of his bodyguards Talal comes into the house and says, Hello, Honest John. He is this big guy with shaved hair and tattoos. I gone to school with him and he was always the tough one, a bully, and we is never forgetting this, him or me. Sometimes I am thinking I would like things like that to change.
I ask the papa if he wants to come out for a walk with us but he is watching Seinfeld and waves us off with his hand, he just loves laughing at these Jews. So we two brothers go out and cross the street. Just down the road there is a big white plumber’s van with dark glass on the back door outside Mrs Billecki’s that is having all these renovations done. Mrs Billecki is in the garden clipping at her flowers. She is wrinkled and always smoking cigarettes.
How are the renos going, Mrs B? says Farid. I cannot complain, she says and then says hello to each of us but doesn’t say our names. She has been living in our street since we was born but still she can’t tell one of us from the other. She says, You have your friends here tonight? She looks at Farid’s Hummer that is rocking because two more of his crew is sitting in the front with the volume up high. Farid bangs the side of the plumber’s van and says, Sure, and this lot are working late tonight. Oh they are not here, says Mrs Billecki. They have just left one of their vehicles here and it is full of equipment. Do you think it will be safe? Farid says, I do not think anyone will be stealing this van, and he bangs it again.
Then we is moving off, Talal walking ahead of us, and down the road Farid says, What bullshit is this now with Rafi? And I see then for the first time how the brotherly love between Farid and Rafiq is not so strong anymore, and this is making me sad. I try to talk about this and Farid grabs my shoulders and says, You is not listening to me John. Just tell me what the fuck is going on.
I tell him about the gun and all, and Farid is staring at me and looking surprised, which is very unusual for his face. Then he says, Jesus the Prophet! So Rafi has been telling the truth after all. I ask what he means and he shakes his head, like he is too impatient to explain things to a slow guy like me. But then he does. It is that bastard Harris. Someone else must have knocked Teller, and they is giving him the gun to plant on Rafiq. Then I is seeing it. The Deebs, I say, and Farid is nodding and there is no more surprise in his face, just more anger than you would think a face could show. I say, Why would Sam want to knock his own guy? And Farid says, Teller was selling the snow without telling Sam. He must have found out. That fucking Harris. I bet the cunt’s on the take, just like them ones we’ve got. This way he does the Deebs a big favour, attacking their competitors, and gets a rep for locking up another Habib. Farid looks at me like he is seeing me for the first time and suddenly there is a big hug. Brother John, he says. You have just saved our little brother.
Well I tell you, I was so proud when he is saying this and Farid is still staring at me with a big smile. Then he looks away, up and down the street like he does all the time, checking to see who is there. Fuck fuck fuck, he says, the jacks is working with these cunts to destroy us. I will say one thing to them: they have never seen an angry man.
Farid pats me on the back but his eyes slide away and are looking a long way away like he does when he thinks. I see there will be a lot of thinking going on tonight.
DAY NINE
A trial is like a show, you notice the characters. The cute reporter, the one in the pink jacket, hadn’t been here for several days now. Other personnel were the same except for a man in the public gallery, a short bloke in his mid-fifties, moon-faced, dark suit. Lawyer or cop? He followed Bec out at morning tea, produced a badge. ‘DI Paul Wagner, Professional Standards. Let’s walk.’
They went into Queens Square and Wagner kept going, down Macquarie Street. Professional Standards was under the control of Assistant Commissioner Gary Murphy, committed to rooting out corruption in the force. Sometimes it went too far, but it was understood Murphy did not care. ‘If nobody’s hurting,’ he’d once told a journalist, ‘we’re not doing our job.’ Bec knew this about the unit, but not much more.
Wagner stopped when they reached Martin Place, pulled out a packet of cigarettes. He eyed Bec as he got one going and she stared back, took in the folds of flesh and the broken veins beneath his eyes. So many older men were like human car wrecks. ‘You tried to access a record for Ian Hirst on COPS the other day. Favour for a friend?’
‘Karen Mabey’s his mother.’
‘Who?’
‘Crown in the Habib trial.’ Wagner frowned. ‘She’s off her game, I thought if I could reassure her about her son, she might settle in, give us a better chance of a result.’
‘You know it’s illegal to use COPS for private purposes.’
‘I’m trying to lock up a member of the Habibs. Sir.’
‘What do you mean, “reassure”?’
‘Bankstown told her it was a drive-by but she’s got doubts. I thought if I could confirm it, she’d focus more on her job.’
‘Did you talk to Bankstown?’
‘No. I didn’t want to go that far.’
Moment of truth. He frowned again.
‘You haven’t told her anything, have you?’ He stared at her and she stared back, peering through fog. Realised this was political and she was not supposed to say anything. It was going to be okay, because Wagner already knew all about Mabey. ‘It was a drive-by. You have my word.’
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Can I tell her that?’
‘Tell her you checked with a senior officer.’
‘Sir.’
It was like a roleplay, over now. Wagner drew on his cigarette and smiled. ‘Locking up one of those fuckers would be good. What’s a Leb bloke get after sex?’
‘I don’t know, sir.’
‘Ten years!’
Laughter. Bec didn’t join in, but Wagner did not seem to mind. Perhaps he was used to laughing alone.
Strike Force Room 2, Sydney Police Centre
Two weeks in, Knight called a big meeting, announced they had a case against Rafiq Habib. He told the team: ‘We do not have means—the gun’s missing—but we do have motive, opportunity, and behaviour after the event indicating consciousness of guilt.’ As he spoke he stared at Bec, who looked back, seeing where this was going. Thanks to her work on the database, she knew more about the case than anyone here except him. ‘Rafiq bought drugs from Teller behind his brothers’ backs. We believe he got into debt, and Teller seized his car a fortnight before the murder. Rafiq needed to get the vehicle back before Farid, who actually owned it, discovered it was missing. Reason being, this would have led Farid to learn about
Rafiq’s dealing and made him extremely angry. We say Rafiq would go to any length to avoid that. Which is our motive.’
He was avoiding Bec’s eyes now, concentrating on the other detectives. Most were nodding: if Knight said something, it was good enough for them. Not a bad rule of thumb, and Bec found she had to make an effort to keep her own head still.
But she recalled the initial theory, Harris’s claim the Habib mob had been tricked into thinking Teller had helped put Imad in jail, so Rafiq had killed him in revenge. Harris had refused to reveal his source and they’d found no one else to back up that theory, so it had been quietly dropped. The speed with which a new one had been adopted worried her: it seemed to her Knight had been keen to construct a case against Rafiq right from the start. Possibly he was influenced by the Roselands Police Station drive-by, hatred of the Habibs.
All this was of concern. And yet there was no proof Knight was wrong. Her vague suspicion about Teller’s background had produced nothing—Kitchener had called back from Melbourne to say there was no doubt he’d been a serious crook down there. The sergeant had even checked with the prisons, which was good of him. Must really want that coffee.
There was, Knight reminded them, evidence Rafiq had been dealing. There was no hard evidence of the existence of a drug debt to Teller—criminals didn’t keep written agreements—but the circumstantial case for Teller having funded the pizza operation was strong. It also indicated Rafiq had a lot of initiative for a gangster.
Steve Beric could have been helpful, he went on, or Sharon Zames, but both had disappeared. This was interesting, even if not something they could get before a jury. ‘The fact the Carrera was back in Rafiq’s possession soon after the shooting supports our motive,’ Knight said, glancing at Bec. ‘Plus we have opportunity, Habib’s presence in the park, demonstrated by the phone intercepts that the jury is going to love. May I remind you of the immortal final exchange:
‘Teller: “You here?”
‘Habib: “Just coming up the road . . .”
‘We might have no weapon, but that exchange is what is technically known as a smoking gun.’
Laughter. A great deal of cop humour was just concession to power, to fate. Knight snatched another glance at Bec, who wondered why he kept looking at her. It was not as though her opinion mattered to him, he had made that clear by now. He said, ‘Then we have knowledge, the one piece of useful information gleaned from our TIs. I refer to Rafiq’s words to Edi Sande, “They fuckin’ haven’t got a fuckin’ clue . . . haven’t got the forty or nothin’.” You recall we haven’t announced any details of the murder weapon, so how does Rafiq know the calibre if he’s not the killer?’ More nodding. ‘And finally, consciousness of guilt, shown by the lies in the first interview and the rainbow yawn in the second, when Rafiq hears about the intercepts on Teller’s phone.’
‘The jury will love that,’ said Burchell.
‘Sound and light.’ Knight beamed. ‘I think we have a show.’ Pause. ‘It’s a strong circumstantial case, with some very big arrows pointing right at our man.’ More nodding. ‘I’ve had a word with the DPP. They’re hot to trot.’
Two high-profile trials in recent times involving Lebanese gangsters: one had ended in a hung jury, the other in an acquittal that no one, outside the jury room anyway, could explain. And just last week a taxi driver had been killed by a stray bullet from a shoot-out in a car park. The media was full of stories about the state’s inability to control ethnic crime.
Knight concluded: ‘I think we’ve got enough to start work on a brief.’ Despite what had gone before, several of the detectives looked surprised; Burchell glanced at Wallace. There was a difference between a pep talk and the laying of a charge. But they said nothing, and the sergeant pushed on, cheerfully. ‘I’m going to go round the room now and ask each of you if you agree we’ve got enough to convict. Just a word will do, straw poll.’ Unusual, highly. Bec watched as the sergeant looked at each of the officers in turn, and received the nodding equivalent of a Mexican wave. Until it reached her and she shook her head. Prepared to speak, but Knight said quickly, ‘Unanimous decision of a jury no longer required in New South Wales for murder.’ Laughter and he looked away from her, brought all the attention back to himself. ‘We’ll wrap this up by next Friday, you can all return home then except Easterley, he’ll stay to help with the brief. Anyone wants a day or two off next week, it’s fine by me. You’ve all done well.’
There was clapping, some of the team players were actually putting their hands together. Bec couldn’t do that, but she decided she would accept Knight’s decision. She had no evidence to refute him directly, and he was the boss. A lot of life was like that.
But afterwards he came up to her desk in a corner of the room, big man looming. ‘Not with me?’
‘Not on this. But—’
‘That’s bad news. A bit of support from colleagues is always useful.’
‘I’m sorry, but it’s what I think. You know—’
‘You’re finishing up here tonight. They need you back in Liverpool.’
For a few seconds she didn’t understand. Then, stupidly, ‘But we’ve got more to do.’
‘I thought you didn’t like computer work. Now’s your chance to get out of the office again.’
‘I’ve coped—’
‘You could never see Rafi as a killer, could you?’
‘Well—’
‘Instincts can be misleading.’ Not quite what he’d said before on the subject. He was looking around the room as though Bec had already passed from his life. ‘Thanks for what you’ve done. Hand over to Rooster before you go.’
Moved off, the fat fuck.
Liverpool. Car thefts and minor drug deals, gangs of fourteen-year-old shoplifters rampaging through the malls. If she applied for another squad they’d say, ‘Why haven’t you given Russ Knight as a referee? Didn’t you work with him?’
Life went on, around her.
That night she had the dream again, of the body and the park. But now the man was in her house, on the floor of the lounge room, a dark place with old sofas and a screen, a plastic Christmas tree leaning against a wall. The man’s head was turned slightly to one side. There was a smell too, the dream came with a smell now although she couldn’t identify it, except to know it was foul. She was no longer sure if it was a dream or a deep memory.
She got up and turned on the light, sought to distract herself with the art book. Flicked through the heavy pages to a big picture of one of Salvador Dali’s floppy clocks and began to read the text, tried to think about time as bendable. She’d seen the clock pictures before, but had never thought about what they might mean, or that time was anything but linear and fixed, like a ruler. With this dream though, this memory or whatever it was, she could no longer be sure. Her mind began to feel heavy, the way her arms did following a long session at the gym.
And so she returned to Liverpool and her job pursuing the lazy, the mentally ill and the plain stupid. She chased them through the dirty housing estates, tracked her prey through pubs and back lanes, into schools and hospitals and malls. Always there was the sense of a parallel world just out of sight, of dealers and users, bikies, prostitutes, shoplifters, car rebirthers. Something bigger than the police force, more organically part of the surrounding society.
She rang Chevon, who professed to having no knowledge of a man ever dying in their house. Occasionally she spoke with Meaghan Burchell, who rang out of the blue and described the course of the investigation. The call surprised her, but she listened hungrily. Burchell said she’d had concerns too about Knight wrapping it up early, told Bec she was brave, you didn’t take him on once he had an idea fixed in his mind.
‘If you’d call it a mind,’ Burchell said.
‘I’d do that, I just don’t think we’ve had the full benefit of it.’
‘You what?’
Bec couldn’t explain, and yet those words came closer to describing Knight than any thoughts she’d ever had on
the matter.
The brief had gone to the DPP, been rejected: insufficient likelihood of a conviction. Apparently Knight had left out the photograph of Teller meeting Habib in Darlinghurst a month before the shooting. After the rejection, he put the photo back in, added a few other things, and the DPP reconsidered and decided to prosecute.
‘Why did he leave out the photo?’ asked Bec.
‘It was a mad rush, we were given other jobs. The boss gets impatient these days.’
‘There was nothing wrong with the photo?’
‘I think he just overlooked it. Why?’
‘Nothing.’
One night she went into Leanne Walton’s office and tried to explain her vague doubts about Habib’s guilt. When she got to the end, her doubts sounded even more vague. ‘You want me to raise this with someone?’ Walton said. Bec stood up. ‘You’re right. I’m just glad we had this conversation.’ ‘Any time.’
DAY TEN
Paul Wagner rang Bec on Friday night. ‘The gimp’s gone and got himself arrested.’
Poor Karen Mabey. ‘Drugs?’
‘Graffiti, University of fucking New South Wales. He was with some others, they ran but he couldn’t, because of his leg. Got him for possession too, small quantity of meth.’
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