by Alex Hammond
‘I have a lot of feelings about her. Guilt mostly. Regret too. They attacked her because she was with me. If they hadn’t, she wouldn’t have gone to New York, and we might have had a shot. But it’s done.’
Teresa drank her whisky, staring across at the coloured labels and outlandish designs of top-shelf drinks at the back of the bar – the skulls, space-age cylinders and apothecary bottles. They were set in front of a mirrored wall, making them appear more numerous.
The bartender slid a drink in front of Teresa.
‘What’s this?’ Will asked.
‘I like her,’ said the bartender. ‘It’s on the house.’
Teresa smiled and pulled the second Scotch to sit alongside the first.
‘Okay,’ she said to Will.
‘Okay?’
‘I think I’m beginning to understand. And thank you for being honest.’ She leant across the bar. ‘You might as well pour him another one. So he doesn’t feel left out.’
‘One drink is fine,’ said Will, rolling the amber liquid around in the tumbler. ‘I have a busy day tomorrow.’
‘Well, I don’t,’ said Teresa, throwing back the rest of the drink and picking up the second. ‘I have tomorrow and Monday off, and then it’s Cup Day.’
‘I take it you’re going?’
‘Every one since I was sixteen. It’s expected of me. So I go and make nice and laugh at the bad jokes my father’s friends make as they perve at me out of the corner of their eye.’ She held up the whisky. ‘That’s what I do, the dutiful daughter.’
Will held up his glass and took a sip as Teresa swallowed her Scotch in one.
She tapped her glass and motioned to the bartender for a top-up. She turned to Will as the refill was poured.
‘So what do you do, Will?’
She looked at him, eyes sombre, smile gone.
‘I take it we’re no longer talking about Eva.’
‘No, we’re not. I’m drunk so I’m going to ask you what’s been fucking bugging me for a while now. What are you hiding?’
‘Hiding?’
‘Come on. You’re up to something, you and Miller. There’s a reason for the blowback from the police, for Miller’s arrest, for their shutting down the investigation into those guys who attacked you. That’s a lot of heat just below the surface.’
‘Heat?’
‘Either they’re right, or they’re wrong. They’re right and the two of you have been up to no good. Or they’re wrong and it’s . . . I don’t know, corruption.’
‘Well, it’s one of those two, isn’t it? I can’t be specific.’
‘Why won’t you tell me?’
Will took another sip of his drink, the liquor kicking the last of the lethargy out of him. ‘You won’t like the answer.’
She reached out and took his hand. ‘Don’t care. Tell me. Truthfully.’
He took another sip and placed the glass back on the bar. ‘I haven’t told you because I don’t want to expose you. More than I already have. I don’t want to put you at risk.’
‘Why not?’
‘Respect.’
‘Fuck off. The truth?’
‘To protect you.’
Although she smiled, her eyes were distant. This was the satisfaction of being right made manifest. It did not make her happy.
‘I should go,’ Will said.
‘Yeah. I think you’d better,’ Brennan replied.
FORTY-ONE
‘Dianna,’ Will said, standing between two ornamental orange trees on the tiled porch of the small late-Victorian house.
She stood in the doorway in a dressing-gown. Because of her low-hanging fringe, Will caught only glimpses of the dark rings around her eyes. She was struggling with the light.
‘Um, thanks for coming. Ah, come in,’ she said, blinking.
‘Thank you.’
She walked ahead of him along the polished floorboards of the hallway, dressed in the same ratty Ugg boots and purple tracksuit pants as the last time he’d visited. It was mid-afternoon.
‘I was surprised to get your call. Is everything all right?’
She turned abruptly at a doorway and walked into her bedroom. Its walls were covered with life drawings and unfinished portraits of her sister; photo references of the small girl were pinned to the corner of canvases. Dianna plopped onto her bed, where a laptop lay open next to a plate of bread crusts.
‘At home on a Friday?’ Will asked, remaining standing, one foot in the hallway and the other in her room.
The small, yappy dog, now silent, looked up at him from the end of the bed and huffed.
‘I’m not feeling that great.’
‘This has something to do with Saxon. There’s something wrong with him, isn’t there?’
She closed the laptop and pulled a pillow to her chest. ‘Yes.’
‘Are either of your parents here?’
‘No. They’re at work.’
‘Do they know you called me?’
‘No.’
Will sighed and stepped into the room, leaning against the wall between the doorway and a cluttered dressing table, its mirror framed with light globes.
‘What’s going on, Dianna? With Saxon?’
Her face was stricken. ‘He said he isn’t going to be arrested. Is that true?’
‘It looks that way, yes.’
She looked down at the dog, who was now snuffling at its paws.
‘Dianna?’
‘Dee.’
‘Dee, I don’t mean to be rude. But I have just come from some important case preparation. I can’t stay too long. You wouldn’t have asked me to come over if you weren’t going to tell me what was bothering you.’
He didn’t intend to be brusque with the girl, but his patience was rapidly draining. He’d left half-a-dozen messages with Caja demanding they meet up. Each time he found his rage building momentum while he spoke. Added to this he’d spent the morning in the hotel room coaxing a statement from a suddenly reticent Eloise. Miller had been working with Leah in the adjoining suite. After a tearful reunion Will had had to explain, at length, why they couldn’t prepare together – collusion, perjury, the possible consequences of the hearing. The significance seemed lost on them and now, having driven for just under an hour into the suburbs, he was facing the same issue.
Except that in this instance the stern approach seemed to work.
‘I’d kinda hoped he would be arrested.’
‘Why?’
‘Because of what he did to Connor.’
‘What did he do to Connor?’
‘Set him up like that.’
‘Set him up? Did you know that Connor was attracted to —’
‘Boys. Yes. I knew. So did Saxon.’
‘When we spoke on Saturday you told me that Saxon had encouraged you to try and be, ah, intimate with Connor.’
‘Saxon has a way of convincing you to do things.’
‘So you said the last time we spoke.’
‘It was kind of a dare. He said that Connor wasn’t sure if he liked girls because he’d never really been with one.’
‘So you’d say he was being manipulative? Like with the waterboarding?’
‘He is. He is manipulative. He said that Connor was into me. That he liked both girls and boys.’
‘But he didn’t.’
‘No.’
‘You do realise that I have been hired by Saxon’s family to help him avoid being charged and sent to juvenile detention.’
‘Yes,’ she said, the word falling out of her in a whisper.
‘Has Saxon threatened you?’
‘No. It’s not like that. It’s more, I don’t know the word . . . invidious.’
‘Insidious.’
‘That’s right. You’re never sure if he’s being your best friend or setting you up for something really bad. He’s so encouraging, so generous most of the time, but when he isn’t it gets really nasty, uncomfortable and weird. Like he’s experimenting on you or something. Testing you all t
he time. I think he deliberately pushed Connor, until Connor couldn’t take it any more.’
‘If you have something, you can report it to the police. You should.’
‘I don’t. Not really.’
It was not the advice he was supposed to give but he didn’t like where any of this was heading.
‘What is it that you’re not telling me? Dianna?’
‘It’s nothing. Saxon is my friend.’
‘If it’s nothing then what has your friendship with Saxon got to do with it?’
It was only in retrospect that he realised his frustration was starting to show.
The dog was grunting happily as Dianna scratched it behind its ears – its satisfied face in complete contrast to hers, with her grim furrows and pinched anxiety.
‘I . . . Ah, I’d like you to go now.’
She’s scared. Confused.
And yet reminding himself of this only irritated him further. She was hiding something.
Push her and she’ll close up.
He didn’t want to threaten her. What kind of person would that make him?
Will breathed. ‘You asked me to come here. Are you sure?’
‘I think so. But I’m not sure any more. I need to think.’
Will stepped away from the wall. Her face was now locked in a precarious resolve. She nodded to him and lifted the dog up onto her lap.
‘Listen, I’m not sure if I can help you,’ he sighed, hating that he had to say these things to her. ‘Saxon has enough evidence to knock back the charges. It didn’t seem that way at first, but now he does. I wouldn’t be doing my job properly if I didn’t try to get these charges dropped. Normally that wouldn’t bother me so much, but I’m getting the sense that there’s something else going on here. If you don’t tell me, then Saxon will walk away from what he’s done to Connor. I don’t like it but I can live with that. The question is, Dee, can you do the same?’
The words lingered with him as he left the house and got into the Porsche. He took out his phone.
FORTY-TWO
Will could see that Derek Quayle’s living room had been cleaned since his last visit. To the casual observer it would have appeared much the same, as though loose pages, books and newspapers were spilling out of the shelves to creep in a slow migration around the room. However, this was no longer a random collection of papers. As Will scanned them, he could see that each item that had staked a claim to the room’s limited surfaces was tied in some way to research into the early history of the British in Australia.
Old military records, pay musters and cemetery archives lay among contemporary genealogy trees, land titles and printouts of newspaper articles. Interspersed with these were books on Australian history – the Rum Rebellion, the First Fleet, the early histories of New South Wales and Victoria.
Even now, as Will stepped among the chaos, more pages were being produced by an old laser printer that kicked up equal parts dust and toner. This was where Quayle stood, hair wild, face lit by the screen of a laptop. He was rubbing his hands together.
‘Just printing out my report now,’ he said to Will, who was still in the process of removing his coat.
‘Your report?’ Stephenson-Wrigg called from the kitchen.
‘Yes, yes, our report. How soon until we eat?’
‘Now,’ she said, the floorboards creaking under her weight as she emerged with a casserole pot in her thick hands. ‘He didn’t have a tagine so I had to make do with the Le Creuset.’
She lumbered over to the dining table, which was separated from the living room by folding doors held open with a pair of ceramic leopards. A large, cluttered, oval table was surrounded on three sides by overflowing bookshelves of dark wood. Stephenson-Wrigg placed the pot down on a cork mat at the far end of the table, the only clear space in both rooms. The table was set for three.
‘Derek tells me you’re a vegetarian,’ she said to Will, taking Saturday’s paper from his seat and placing it on top of a teetering pile on a sideboard.
‘That’s right.’
‘Whatever for?’
‘It’s complicated.’
‘It must be, to deny yourself the joys of meat. You’re not a New Ager as well? Crystals? Reiki? Burning sage around the house?’
‘No.’
‘Well, there’s a small mercy. Derek? Are you ready?’
‘Yes, yes,’ Quayle said, waddling over in a pilled, over-stretched cardigan, freshly printed pages in his hand.
Stephenson-Wrigg lifted the lid on the pot. Steam rose and the smell of spices filled the room.
‘A Berber stew of vegetables and boiled eggs, seasoned with orange blossom water, saffron and sweet paprika.’
‘It smells fantastic,’ Will said.
She dished it into china bowls while Quayle poured the wine that Will had brought.
‘Now I’m impressed. A Croix de Bois. You’re just trying to spoil us.’
‘It’s a thank you. For helping out with all that research.’
Quayle sat down and rubbed his hands over the bowl. ‘I can almost forgive your mother-henning, Patricia, when I remember how well you cook.’
Stephenson-Wrigg grunted. ‘He’s just showing off for you, Will. That’s the closest thing to a compliment I’ve heard since I arrived here three weeks ago.’
‘How soon until you head back?’ Will asked.
‘Actually, I’m going to spend next semester teaching at your alma mater. Australian constitutional law.’
‘Half-baked bastard of American and British law,’ Quayle said through a mouthful of potato.
‘Oh, I think it’s a very civilised constitution. A sophisticated intermingling of a number of influences, the best document of its age. Shame about your last constitutional referendum, though. I would have thought it was time to cast off the yoke.’
‘Will isn’t here to talk about that.’
‘No. Of course not,’ she said, waving a hand over the table. ‘He’ll want to know about Hawk’s Covenant.’
‘Hawk’s Covenant?’ Will asked. ‘That’s the Covenant? It’s the same thing?’
Quayle laughed. ‘Quite a tease, isn’t it? But yes. Basically.’
‘What about Eldon? Is there a link?’
‘Oh, there’s time for that. We’re getting ahead of ourselves.’ He swigged a mouthful of wine and pulled his reading glasses out of his pocket.
‘Let’s start with a bit of background.’
Will had been struggling to find his appetite over the last week and a half but Quayle was correct – the food was excellent. He sipped the wine between mouthfuls and focused his attention on the two academics in front of him.
Quayle placed his fork on the side of the plate and spoke. ‘As you already know, the New South Wales Corps arrived on the Second Fleet in Sydney Cove in June 1790. These ships carried with them the soldiers sent to relieve the marines who had arrived two years earlier with the First Fleet. However, some of these marines were already imbedded in the colony.’
‘If you’ll excuse the pun,’ said Stephenson-Wrigg.
‘Some had married convict women, some owned land, and others stayed to avoid debts and punishment back in Britain. One of the marines who chose to stay was Private Edward Hawk. He owned a small cottage and had married. He distinguished himself in the early conflicts of colonial Australia, including fighting against the Castle Hill Rebellion, after which he was promoted to the rank of corporal. But he had his eyes set on bigger things . . .’
Quayle shovelled some more food into his mouth as Stephenson-Wrigg spoke.
‘It seems that our man Hawk gained a few freeholdings over the next six years, through his association with John Macarthur, whom he’d served under at Parramatta. Macarthur owned a few trading ships, and Hawk, with his background as a marine, helped him to run the small fleet.’
‘Is this where the Rum Rebellion comes in?’ Will asked.
‘It is,’ nodded Quayle. ‘Somewhat critically for us.’ He sipped some more of the wine
and continued.
‘What you need to know is that the corps were paid with goods, barter being the leading form of economy in colonial Australia. The military had a monopoly on a range of items, notably rum, and key officers, including Hawk, benefited from this greatly. Governor King resigned due to his continued conflict with the corps, and Bligh was sent over to govern the Crown’s ownership of prime holdings awarded by previous governors. This made up most of the property owned by Macarthur and many of the small estates held by members of the corps in Sydney. In a power play with Macarthur, Bligh had him arrested on unspecified charges over one of his South Pacific trading vessels, one managed by Hawk. Well, you know how the rebellion played out: the corps – under the urging of Macarthur – stormed Government House to stage a coup. Bligh ended up in Hobart, Macarthur returned to Sydney and the corps was recalled to England and disbanded.’
‘But,’ said Stephenson-Wrigg, ‘over one hundred men remained in Sydney on garrison duty.’
‘And Hawk was one?’ Will said, finishing his meal. ‘Thank you, Patricia, that was delicious.’ She smiled back at him and pulled a leather cigar case over from the bookshelf behind her. Quayle rummaged in his pocket for his tobacco pouch and rolling papers.
‘He was one, along with a few of the others you have listed on your map. But Hawk learnt an important lesson from the rebellion: the best type of power is that which is kept hidden. So much so that we couldn’t find any written records in the Australian National Archives about Hawk, other than a death notice. But we’ll get to that in a second.’
Quayle started to roll a cigarette while Stephenson-Wrigg removed a short cigar from the case, which she then held out towards Will.
‘No, thank you,’ he said. ‘There is absolutely no record?’
‘None.’
‘So how did you —’
‘Aaah, my boy,’ said Stephenson-Wrigg, clipping the end of the cigar, ‘this was why you came to us.’
‘It was?’
‘It was.’ She nodded sagely.
Quayle lit his cigarette. ‘We were tearing out our hair on Thursday night when Patricia had a brainwave.’
‘It was obvious, really,’ she said, holding a long match under the cigar as she slowly rolled the end of it in the flame.