Shoot Through

by J. M. Green

  We celebrated with tea and cake in the hospital café. On the tram journey home, she thanked me.

  ‘Don’t mention it.’ My emotions were back in check.

  ‘Ben told me you were caring. You act like you don’t care, but really you do.’

  ‘Of course I do. I’m going to take care of you until you’re safely in Woolburn, and then my mother will care for you.’

  ‘What’s she like?’

  ‘Delia?’ An irascible, hyper-critical, conservative non-sufferer of fools or anyone not bestowed with a punishing work ethic. ‘Oh, you’ll love her, she’s a warm-hearted, generous, sweet old lady.’ One word of truth in there: old.

  As Tuesday came to an end, I fell asleep on the sofa, pleased that Loretta was having proper prenatal care. I also noted with some relief that, once again, I had not heard from Brash all day. But I didn’t need a text to know that, having made zero progress on Joe Phelan’s murder, I was one day closer to mush.

  After work on Wednesday, I came out of the office, got in the Mazda, and drove east. A moronic idea at that time of day. The congestion seemed to send some drivers mad, resulting in deranged lane-hopping. Peak hour was a test of character, and unless swearing and murderous rage was considered good character, I failed. Dripping with sweat, I continued down the Maroondah Highway, suburb after suburb, until the urge to kill someone became overwhelming.

  Over the next hill, I saw the problem, roadworks, with one lane closed. I was in for a long evening. I cracked a window. The stop-starting and the stale air in the car combined made me woozy.

  I fell into ruminating on what Velvet Stone had told me. I’d gone over it and over it, and hadn’t gotten anywhere. Someone anonymous had sent Velvet that first email, the one setting up the meeting with Joe. That person had seen her YouTube demonstration on the ease of detention-bracelet hacking. They’d probably searched for hacking. They wanted to know about how to hack cattle tags. That was the reason for the phone, the meetings. But something had changed when Joe managed to record Pugh. Suddenly he wanted Velvet to go to the cops. He knew he was in danger. Would the Pugh recording save him?

  Maybe he’d told Velvet why the recording was so important. She was still my only lead. She’d given me a few morsels, but she knew plenty more. Plus, she’d set me up, drugged my tea, and called in some muscle — muscle she never wanted to see again. She owed me. I decided that after my meeting with the priest, I’d give Ms Stone a tingle on the blower and demand the full story. Threaten to go to the cops if she didn’t deliver. An empty threat, but it might work.

  A stern voice was telling me to turn left. I’d forgotten I’d set a course with the GPS. What a blessing and a curse these things were. Tracking, watching, and recording. Always watching. Remembering my every move, my steps, my thought patterns.

  I entered the sweeping circular drive of the Villa St Joseph. Elderly Catholic priests, those who were not in jail, retired to church-run nursing homes like Villa St Joseph.

  A senior nun led me to a sunny veranda with a view of a green lawn. Some distance away, a woman in green overalls was pruning a rose bush. Further along, a row of priests were enjoying an early dinner, scooting their plastic chairs up to small metallic tables. The nun pointed out Father Baig. His dinner had just arrived on a tray. A plate of lamb chops, gravy, and steamed vegetables next to a large glass of red. Not bad, Catholics, not bad.

  He wore no glasses and squinted at me. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Stella Hardy. We had a meeting. Sorry I’m late, the traffic …’

  ‘Ah, you wrote to me about that article.’ He smiled and pointed to a spare chair with a trembling hand. ‘Excuse my eating in front of you, Stella. We dine early here,’ he said.

  I pulled up the chair and sat. The nun returned with a mug of strong Earl Grey with milk. One sip and I felt a lot better.

  ‘Where is your brother incarcerated?’

  ‘Athol Goldwater. Minimum security. Fresh air. Could be worse.’

  ‘Could be worse?’ the priest mused. ‘Run by that BS crowd, mug contractors.’

  ‘How bad are they?’

  ‘Public has problems, but private … all the same. Unmitigated disaster. Here and overseas.’ The priest chewed rapidly. ‘Private consortiums scout the globe for opportunities. When a state has problems with their prison system, they offer fast, temporary solutions.’

  ‘Problems like what? Overcrowding?’

  ‘Everything: drug taking, deaths, behaviour control, high recidivism. Governments of both stripes say, “Ooh, isn’t this marvellous.”’ He clapped his hands. ‘They come to depend on these smooth-talking private setups.’

  I sipped the milky tea. ‘Makes their jobs easier.’

  ‘Much easier. And that means governments aren’t motivated to monitor them properly, let alone address the causes of overcrowding or crime or social issues —’

  His criticism had the effect of pushing me to the centre. I felt a weird urge to defend the government. Crazy. ‘But surely some people in government still develop policies —’

  ‘Social policy? No votes in it. Election rhetoric is all about punishment and cruelty.’

  I ventured a contrary view. ‘But the fair-go thing. Australians aren’t that harsh.’

  ‘Rose-coloured nonsense. Australians abhor what they see as handouts. And punishment is part of our national identity. Goes back to the early days — vicious penalties dished out in the colonies for the slightest infraction. That continues right through to Aboriginal deaths in custody, asylum seekers, child incarceration, mandatory sentences. Harsher the better.’

  I began to feel ill again, and drank some tea.

  ‘In any case, these companies are the direct cause of excessive pressures on the prison system. A private prison operator in the US lobbied for greater prison sentences, mandatory sentences, successfully increasing incarcerations rates. They told their shareholders they had every reason to be,’ he made quote fingers, ‘“optimistic about the future”.’

  ‘Yeah, but that’s America. Here they can’t get away with —’

  ‘They’re experts in aggressive marketing and lobbying. They donate, schmooze, flatter.’

  ‘Flatter?’

  A solemn nod.

  How would one flatter Pugh? Nice watch? I like your tie?

  He wasn’t finished, not by a long chalk. ‘If you invested money in incarceration, would you allow a government to develop programs to address poverty?’

  The question caught me off-guard. My investment plans were private. ‘Me? Certainly not. I mean, I wouldn’t invest in jails. There are ethical investments funds, aren’t there?’

  A pause at last. He laid down his cutlery and sipped his wine.

  ‘What about the counter-pressure from advocacy groups?’ I said, thinking of Meredith.

  ‘Private operators are the greatest obstacle to policies of justice and fairness. Prison-reform advocates know this.’

  I wondered if Meredith blamed BS12 or Pugh for the policies that kept kids in jail.

  He sipped his wine. ‘Oh, strategies do exist to neutralise their influence.’

  ‘Such as?’ Against all expectations, I liked this commie priest.

  ‘You can highlight their utter mismanagement and their financial scandals.’

  ‘What scandals?’

  ‘A classic was the company that charged the UK government for a long list of prisoners wearing their detention tags. Problem was, some of the prisoners on the list were dead.’

  I nearly sprayed him with tea.

  ‘Oh yes, this mob, the UK arm of BS12, they’ve been caught in more financial scandals than Bernie Madoff. Debts, mismanagement. A contract for prisoner escort services was rorted to the tune of two million pounds. Prisoners were said to have been delivered, but were not. A cursory glance at online newspaper articles would tell you these things.
’

  Would the government of this state do that? Look into BS12 and assess their competence as a contractor? Perform basic due diligence? Evidently they had not.

  ‘Justice cannot be privatised, it simply doesn’t work.’

  I agreed with him and took my leave.

  ‘Good luck,’ Father Baig said.

  With what, I didn’t ask.

  Traffic flowed freely as I headed towards the city, blinded by a fiery sunset. There was plenty to be concerned about with BS12. But was it as bad at Athol Goldwater as Father Baig had implied? They were open about their work with cattle tags. It made sense to use the prison farm facility for research. But what of the recording? Velvet Stone and the hacking? Something was definitely up with that. Plan: call Velvet as soon as I got home.

  I switched on the radio to listen to the news.

  A woman has died of suspected gunshot wounds following an incident at Dights Falls in Melbourne’s north. Homicide squad detectives are investigating after Victoria Police were called to the area just after two p.m. A member of the public, who did not want to be named, said she heard the woman scream.

  An ambulance spokesman said CPR was in progress on arrival, but ambulance officers soon declared the woman dead. Local residents first on the scene have told the ABC the woman had a number of tattoos, including distinctive vines on both arms, and cropped hair. Police forensic officers collected evidence throughout the morning. A section of the area remains closed to the public while police continue their investigations.

  New plan: drive straight to Velvet Stone’s squat.

  17

  A PARKING bay in the centre of Queen Street had twenty minutes left on the meter. I topped it up with a gold coin and ran up Lonsdale Street to Velvet Stone’s laneway. The padlock was missing, and the door gave little resistance to my shove. The place was in darkness except for the light from the monitors.

  ‘Who’s there?’ A woman’s voice from the recesses of the squat.

  ‘A friend of Velvet’s.’

  She came into the light. Young, tattoos, dreadlocks. ‘The new girlfriend?’ she asked.

  ‘Just a friend.’

  She sniffed. ‘I’m taking custody of Gnawer Barnacle. She’s my rat really.’

  ‘Good for you.’ I went to Velvet’s desk and shone my phone into the top drawer.

  ‘Don’t do that.’

  I ignored her. ‘Where’s Velvet?’

  ‘She left with some bloke.’

  The envelope was there. I slipped it into my handbag. ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘Dunno. I was crawling in the back there, looking for Gnawer.’

  ‘Did he say anything?’

  ‘He said for her to come with him and he’d drop her back in half an hour. I’ve been waiting around here all day, but she hasn’t come back.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Very weird for Velvet to go with some guy, just because he asked her to. Why would she do that?’

  I had an idea. ‘What did he sound like?’

  ‘There you are, Gnawer.’ The rat ran up her arm. She fed it a piece of cracker.

  ‘Hey!’ I yelled. ‘This is important. Did he have an accent?’

  ‘Yeah. Like on the EastEnders. You know that show?’

  ‘I was never here,’ I said and staggered away, backwards, retracing my steps. I was in shock, but also aware that this, too, was now a crime scene, and my hair had a tendency to shed.

  I wandered down Swanston Street, looking over my shoulder, into the milling Wednesday-night crowds. Students, office workers, throngs of young men and women ready for a night on the tiles. I saw a bar and went in. It was dark, with upholstered chairs and fringed lampshades. I ordered a plum Giddy Aunt from a pink-haired woman in a blue wife-beater and Warner Bros. cartoon tatts. I took it to a table in the darkest corner. From there, like a bird of prey, I fixed my gaze on the entrance. A short man with a handlebar moustache in a leather hoodie came in, ordered a beer, and drank it at the bar. I watched him with increasing paranoia. His friend with a Ned Kelly beard showed up, and they embraced. Phew. Next, three middle-aged women entered, one bought a jug of something, another took three glasses, and they repaired to a booth by the window, the impression of habit in every gesture. They were only concerned with themselves. At last, I exhaled. My heartbeat slowed. I consumed the cocktail in two swallows and signalled to the bar for another.

  I got out my phone and started to check media sites for news of Velvet. When it rang in my hand, I nearly had a fit. Kylie again, and again, stupidly, I answered.

  ‘Stella! That was quick! How are you?’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘Just wanted to let you know the good news.’

  Oh merciful goddess, good news at last. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Live cattle exports are up twenty-two per cent on last year.’

  Until now, I hadn’t made the connection. Kylie intended to join in the horror of the live cattle export. Beef cattle was one thing, but herding frightened cattle onto a ship was quite another. At their destination, depending on the abattoir, they could expect, among other possibilities, to be bludgeoned to death with a sledgehammer. It was barbaric. And I had helped her.

  ‘Asian demand. That’s the key. Boosted the total value to one point two billion.’

  ‘Awesome.’

  ‘I did the maths — number of cattle against the value. Guess what? That’s around a thousand dollars for each cow.’

  My second Giddy Aunt was taking too long. ‘Per head, not “each cow”. And I’m not sure that’s how —’

  ‘Just think what we stand to make here! Once their weight is up —’

  ‘Terrific. Listen, Kylie, I have to go, my toast just popped.’

  I put my empty glass on the bar in front of the pink-haired bartender. ‘Another, please.’

  ‘Is that what you wanted? I thought you were telling me to turn the music up.’

  ‘Oh, come on! Has anyone ever asked you to turn the music up?’

  ‘No.’ She put a scoop of ice in a large wine glass, added one part plum schnapps, one part plum brandy, a splash of champagne, garnished with a red plum segment on a toothpick.

  I gave her a lobster for the cocktail.

  ‘Are you okay, sweetie?’

  The kindness undid me. Tears escaped. ‘I’m fine,’ I whispered and fled to the darkness.

  I sipped my drink and tried to think. They wanted the phone. They had the phone. No, only half a phone. One SIM of a dual-SIM phone. They knew something else was on it — the recording of Pugh. The thug had asked Loretta and I if we knew what was on it. Velvet didn’t know about that, she didn’t know the recording existed. They killed her because she knew one small fact, that they wanted the phone. They. They killed Joe, and they killed Velvet.

  I rang Loretta, terrified she’d be wandering the streets instead of where I needed her to be, vigilantly checking the street for violent men.

  ‘Mate, where are ya? Been waiting here all day. I’m starving.’

  ‘Thank God you’re at home. Listen, can you do me a favour? Check the street — don’t go out, do it from the window — and see if that bloke from the other night is waiting around. He might be in a car, one of those four cab things, like a ute but bigger.’

  A pause. ‘Yep. There’s a car like that out the front. Want me to check if it’s him?’

  ‘No. Just wait there, Loretta, while I think of something. I’ll call you back.’

  I put down the phone and twirled my plum. What to do? I had an idea. No, it was crazy. But I was desperate. I picked up my phone and rang the only person I knew could help.

  After a short conversation I ran to my car and drove to Ascot Vale in a gear-grinding, lane-swapping frenzy. A few streets from home, I turned, went up to Mount Alexander Road, and came down Roxburgh Street from the east. I parked on a hill about
a block from Pine View.

  I checked my phone and waited. At nine o’clock I rang triple zero on Joe’s phone, and told the operator that a man had collapsed outside my building. She put me through to the ambos. I fibbed to them at length about a person on the nature strip, suffering from severe chest pains, must be a possible heart attack. ‘Oh no,’ I said. ‘He’s stopped breathing!’

  Then I got out and walked down towards my building. The monster ute was there. The same one he’d driven from Velvet Stone’s squat. Inside it, someone lit a cigarette.

  I walked up to the driver’s window and knocked. ‘Looking for me?’

  Startled, but pretending not to be, he lowered the window and flicked the smoke into the darkness. He took an object from the centre console, raised it to the window for me to see. A handgun. ‘Where’s the phone?’

  ‘I gave it to you.’

  ‘I don’t think you did. Not all of it, the rest of it, whatever.’

  I shrugged.

  ‘It’s been a long day,’ he sighed. ‘Go get the fucking phone.’

  ‘I’m afraid,’ I said. ‘After I do, you’ll kill me. You killed Velvet Stone today, didn’t you?’

  ‘I won’t hurt you. I had the chance, and I didn’t. Doesn’t that tell you something?’

  I hesitated. He glanced down the street. I turned to look. Quick as lightning, his hand darted out the window, wrapped around my neck, and pulled me in towards him in a headlock, lifting me almost off the ground. With his other hand, he pressed the gun hard against my cheek.

  ‘Okay,’ I said, through gritted teeth. ‘The rest of it is upstairs, in a safe place.’

  He released me. ‘Wait there. I’m coming with you.’

  Movement in my peripheral vision, a shadow crossed the lawn in front of my building. I walked slowly around the car, then sprinted up the path to my building. He sprang from the car and sprinted after me. I was nearly at the door to the foyer. His hand caught a piece of my shirt, and I was yanked back. I heard a rip. ‘Hurry up!’ I yelled.