Bec considered this for a few minutes, considered her promise to Gary Murphy. Then she made her decision and began to speak: she told Knight what had happened the day Ian Hirst died. She told him the explanation Murphy had given her later, and as she spoke it stopped being real and became a cartoon. She was glad she’d decided to speak, saw the power of putting assumptions and fears into words, the right words.
Knight was excited by the Papua stuff, more than she’d ever seen him. He put up a hand and left the table to make a call. On his return he said, ‘I still have a contact in the druggies, woman who does the paperwork.’ Raised his eyebrows and smiled. ‘Harris flew to Alice Springs in February, hired a Commodore to be dropped off in Darwin. Flew back from Darwin three days later. No particular reason to go to Darwin at that time, reason for trip was “interagency liaison”.’
‘The spray?’
‘Get this: he changed the vehicle selection at Alice, took an SR5.’
Big ute. Good for carrying drums of chemicals.
‘Alice Springs?’
‘There’s a weekly supply plane flies direct from the States, no customs check. Resupplies the US bases up there. Brian told me once he got a gift of some Starbucks coffee sent that way, through a Yank mate. He was so chuffed.’
‘Starbucks coffee!’
‘I know.’
‘He’d need a plane in Darwin. Crop-sprayer.’
‘These guys are warriors, Bec. They get what they need.’
She shook her head, going over what she knew. ‘Murphy told me we’d almost linked the shooting at Jackson’s, Marianne Lewis, to the Habibs.’
‘I know one of the blokes on that team. It’s not true.’
She went on with the rest of the story. Their glasses emptied and Knight made no attempt to refill them. Eventually, after what felt like a long time, she finished. In the background the big screen showed sport, and people in the bar drank and chatted about things that did not matter.
‘Jesus,’ said Knight. ‘Brian fucking Harris. I am so sorry. No idea, I had no idea you’d be in danger.’ Put out a hand, gripped her, fatherly. She gripped back, wanted to hug him but did not. Got the distance right this time, unlike with Murphy. You live and learn. ‘He was always straight, but that spray, those deaths, it must have put him on the edge. And then, shit. He’d perjured himself. When he told Mabey coca only grows in South America.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve read the transcript of his evidence. It was a totally unnecessary question, I told you she was off her game. She asked him to confirm all cocaine comes from South America. But of course he had to answer. Couldn’t say anything about Indonesia. Perjury would mean a lot to Brian.’
‘He friggin’ well lied about the photo.’
‘Yeah, but not in court.’ Knight rubbed his face in his hands, as though trying to rearrange his features. ‘Fuck. What do I know.’ Looked at the table, his mind working hard. ‘Ah, fuck.’ He grabbed a fold of skin somewhere around his jawline and tugged. ‘So according to Zames, Teller was on to the spray.’
‘Yes. Why would Harris do it?’
‘The US has intergovernmental agreements with Colombia. Let’s say they wanted to try out a new chemical that kills coca, they couldn’t do it there.’
‘This is speculation?’
‘It fits. Brian wanted to destroy the crop, he didn’t want more drugs on the market while he was waiting for Kalla. Maybe he boasted about it to Teller, or dropped something at least. But then all those deaths, the spray went wide or maybe it was more potent than they expected. Lucky for him Teller was killed, but Teller had already told Zames. Luckily Zames left, but then she came back. She was the weak link. Brian told me not to talk to her back at the start, said she was crazy. You did, though, that’s where it turned to shit.’
‘So they tried to shoot her.’
‘If I had to guess, I’d say Marsden hired someone. He’s a piece of work, Brian’s been protecting him for years.’
‘Harris killed Ian so he could get to Zames.’
‘Probably panicked, figured you’d be back soon.’
Knight was bright-eyed but there was something else there. Fear.
‘What happens now?’
He shook his head. ‘It’s already happened, Bec.’
‘Is that right?’
‘You want prosecutions, front-page stories, justice for all?’
She felt herself reddening. ‘Ian Hirst deserves the truth.’
‘Growing-up time, kid. Where would you start?’
It came down to Harris and Sharon, their word against hers. ‘I could go to the media.’
‘And defame two valiant officers plus an assistant commissioner? Without a scrap of evidence?’
‘It fits.’
‘Strong circumstantial case, like the one against Rafiq Habib. But it’d never get to court.’
‘Why would Murphy suppress this? He’s obligated to do right.’
‘Because he genuinely doesn’t know who to believe and there’s no way of finding out. Because he’s in line for the commissioner’s job next year, doesn’t want this hanging about then, unresolved.’
Bec saw that it was over, but the distress she expected did not come. Instead she felt a great sense of calm, almost narcotic in its power. The fact that at last she knew what had happened meant an enormous amount to her, and in that lay a certain consolation. She had no idea how long this strange and utterly unexpected reaction would last, but for the moment she was grateful, as though she’d been given a painkiller.
Knight watched her and after a while he nodded, as though aware of her emotion. ‘You can be innocent or experienced in this world, but don’t combine the two. That’s what Brian Harris tried to do.’
‘What?’
He laughed and looked at his empty glass. ‘Want another?’
‘No.’
‘I do.’
She hopped up and went over to the bar, bought him one more beer. It was what detective constables did.
Waiting to be served, she thought about the time after the man had died in their house at Dubbo. The thing about a police investigation of an Indigenous death was that it was never going to go anywhere, and this one did not. The cops were white and the Aborigines just made them tired, with avoiding their eyes and all their long silences and meandering answers, their uncertainty about any question involving numbers. Maybe if there’d been an Indigenous detective and six months to spare, someone would have got the beginning of an idea. But of course there was not.
Now there was her, though. Cop and killer in the one package. She looked around the pub, saw some sort of commotion on the screen on the wall. Police cars, fire engines, a pillar of smoke. When she got back, Knight had pulled out his phone, was checking for messages.
‘Good news,’ he said. He looked slightly stunned. ‘Someone’s blown up Sam Deeb’s apartment block with a car bomb. Half the building’s collapsed.’
‘They got Sam?’
‘No idea.’ People in the bar were gathering at the foot of the screen, pointing and talking. Someone cheered. Knight said, ‘You’ll have to have that drink now.’
But he didn’t move. They sat watching, until the small crowd dispersed and another sports story came on. They left the bar and walked out into the evening’s heat. As it gripped them, Knight hesitated on the step and murmured, ‘I used to like this city. Once.’
For Bec it was not like that. It was as though she’d come closer to its heart. But she was still young.
JH: Mate, that is the end of the story.
RW: Thank you.
JH: All this stuff I am telling you, it is client privilege?
RW: Of course, now I’m your lawyer again. Did you hear Bish-jay died of his injuries last night? That makes five.
JH: Yeah. We Muslims have this word naseeb, it is like God’s plan for everyone. They got any ideas what happened?
RW: One of my police contacts said his colleagues are struck by the novelty of the device
. It’s the first time they’ve seen a car bomb in ages. Very clever too, as far as they can work out. It was a Mitsubishi, and you’re known to be a critic of the marque, but they have nothing else against you.
JH: Them jacks, hey, always with the joking. They really care who killed Sam Deeb?
RW: I think they’ll be happy with Farid. Finding the detonator and wires in that shed at his house has made everyone very cheerful. Except Farid himself. Salim says he’s insisting you visit him at Silverwater. He claims they were planted. He’s very upset.
JH: He’s got to learn how to handle that anger, do a course or something.
RW: How’s your mother?
JH: She’s seeing Rafi every week and going to Rookwood all the other days, to talk to the papa. Lucky she got Shada to take her . . . I is telling Shada to go to the uni next year, but she’s got all this other stuff to do. You got the news on Brian Harris?
RW: Attached to the Federal Police, overseas posting.
JH: Tell me as soon as you find out where. It’s all different, isn’t it? The line in the sand, eh?
RW: Oh John. And poor Rafiq, how is he?
JH: In protection now. They reckon his liver is going to be all right.
RW: That’s good. I’m sure the appeal will be successful, no way that was a fair trial. You enjoying your new job, John? Big office, pretty secretary outside?
JH: I been thinking about the prophet Jesus and the cup, you know, the cup he had to drink from. All I want is what’s best for the family. You know that, don’t you mate?
RW: I know that, John. You keep sticking that knife in the desk—
JH: I’m getting a new desk, steel one. New place too. I been looking at a new block in Darlinghurst.
RW: Top floor?
JH: Just bought the whole building. You’ll have your own office, next to mine.
RW: I don’t want—
JH: You heard any more from Dani?
RW: She says if you won’t see her, would you at least tell her where her dog is. She’s quite distraught, John.
JH: You got to tell me what some of them words mean one day. Distraught. Got to go now, dinner with some guys in King Cross, sort this stuff out. Put the tape in the safe deposit box with the others, will you?
RW: You know there’s a slight risk, even with privilege?
JH: I want all the nephews and nieces to hear what it was like one day, when they grow up. They’ll be politicians and doctors and stuff, but it’s like, I want them to know where they came from.
RW: You’ll be able to tell them yourself.
JH: P’raps.
About the author
Michael Duffy has worked for the Sydney Morning Herald and the Sun Herald as a reporter of crime and other urban issues. He has written two true crime books and the novels The Tower, about crime and globalisation, and The Simple Death, about voluntary euthanasia and the law.
Drive By Page 37