by Luke Preston
‘Yes.’
‘You sound like a crazy person. The case is closed.’
‘Something doesn’t sit right.’
‘Yeah, you, goddamn it.’ Wilson looked set to burst, then he sighed. ‘Fine. You want to run with it? I’ll give you three weeks. Look into it again, chase loose ends, put your mind at ease. But I can’t give you any manpower; I just can’t spare it,’ he said. ‘Get it out of your system. You’re a father now, you’re about to be grandfather. Think about them.’
They headed back to the party and Tom Bishop tried to forget about prostitution rings, murder and anything else that kept him awake most nights. But when Bishop looked at Alice he was reminded of Chloe and when that happened he was dragged back to a place of bad thoughts, unanswered questions and the meaning of the word justice.
Chapter Twenty
Bishop put his hand on the door: it was warm. There was someone inside. He pushed his key into the lock, slowly, one groove at a time.
Turned it.
Wilson sat at his kitchen table, a cigarette between his fingers. It stayed there as he picked up a cup of coffee and wet his lips with it. ‘I see you still have your key.’
‘Is there any more coffee?’
Wilson dragged himself to his feet, moved to the bench and switched on the kettle. It didn’t take long to boil. He made two coffees and placed one in front of Bishop. ‘We’re out of milk.’
‘Got anything stronger?’
From his dressing gown pocket came a hip flask. He poured a generous shot into each mug.
‘The telephone rang before.’
‘What did it say?’
‘That you and Taylor pulled the armoured truck job yesterday morning. Later on, you had a falling out and you shot him dead. Rayburn arrested you, and to escape you shot Scott Russell.’
‘What happened to me destroying a house in Broadmeadows?’
‘I didn’t hear about that.’
‘You will,’ Bishop said. ‘Sounds like I had a busy day.’
Wilson nodded. ‘It does.’ He lit another cigarette.
‘What did you say?’
‘That we need to bring you in. One way or another.’
‘And here I am.’
‘And here you are.’
‘What are my options?’
‘Well.’ He smiled. ‘There’s fucked, and then there’s fucked. I can rustle up ten, maybe twelve grand.’
‘For what?’
‘It won’t get you far, but it’ll get you far enough.’
It took a moment for Bishop to realise what he was getting at. ‘I’m not the running kind, Pat.’
‘I can’t protect you, not against this. You shot a cop, a dirty cop. If Rayburn and his crew are dirty, then who knows who else is. It’s not safe here anymore.’
Bishop slumped over the laminex table, his head in his hands. His mind was tired from racing and his body aching from the past two days and forty years. He closed his eyes.
‘You’ve had a bad trot, haven’t you?’
‘You saying I brought this on myself?’
Wilson held up his hands. ‘No. No, I’m not saying that at all. I just meant that Alice was only a couple of weeks ago, and now this.’
‘That wasn’t my fault, Pat.’
‘I know.’
‘It was just an accident. Accidents happen.’
‘I know they do, mate. I was just saying.’
‘I didn’t … I didn’t know.’ Bishop’s voice was barely a murmur. ‘They drive themselves to the hospital all the time.’
‘Of course they do.’ Wilson poured another shot into Bishop’s mug. ‘It was an accident, and it’s in the past. You need to focus on now.’
On the door frame, Bishop noticed the grey lead pencil markings: the evidence of the changing height of a growing child. He rubbed his finger gently over them.
‘It’s hard to believe you were ever that small.’
‘I’m not running, Pat.’
Downing his drink, Wilson shifted his weight on the uncomfortable chair. ‘There may be another way.’
Chapter Twenty-One
It was a twenty-four-hour eatery in North Melbourne. Six-hour-old fried dim sims and potato cakes were in one bain-marie and an assortment of congealing Indian curries were in the other. Despite the hour, the place was packed with cab drivers starting early or finishing late, their yellow vehicles littering the small car park and street outside. They were loud and sweaty and unsure of Bishop and Wilson sitting in the rear corner booth.
Commissioner Mackler pushed through the finger-smudged glass doors. She was out of her truth suit and dressed in civvies of denim and leather. She sat next to Wilson, across the table from Bishop.
‘Sorry to get you out of bed so early, commissioner,’ Wilson said.
‘Fourteen dead bodies, Patrick: do you really think I was asleep? Now, for fuck’s sake, tell me what this is all about.’
Wilson shot Bishop a look that said, ‘good luck’, then motioned with his hand for him to begin.
‘Rayburn, Cooper, Russell, Warren and Taylor, of Major Crimes: they pulled the armoured truck job yesterday morning. Then turned up to investigate it. They had everyone chasing bullshit and put the whole thing on a couple of poor nobodies with half a history.’
‘They’re dead,’ Mackler said. ‘Tore up their shirts and hanged themselves.’
‘That’s convenient.’
‘That’s sixteen people dead is what it is. Alright, say I believe you; how did you come to this?’
‘At the scene, I pulled an SD card from a Merc. It got tapped with a bullet and its alarm went off, which in turn activated the reverse camera. It captured everything from the first shots fired.’
‘How many shooters?’
‘Four. And a spotter in a backup vehicle parked across the road.’
‘Stolen?’
‘No. Taylor got lazy. It was registered to an Alison Allen. I followed her and found him. Told him what I just told you and he didn’t like the sound of it. He went for a weapon. I was faster.’
‘The girl? Was she there?’
‘No.’
‘And then you called it in.’
‘Uh huh. Rayburn turned up just after the murder dicks. I told him what was what, he played dumb and I bought it. We were on our way to see you when he made his move.’
‘Which is when you shot Russell.’
Bishop shook his head. ‘Wasn’t me. They shot Russell.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s a long story.’
‘And the SD footage?’
‘Gone.’
Mackler stared, tried to figure him out. She could fall either way, and Bishop didn’t know her well enough to gauge her reaction. Her leather jacket creaked as she leant forward. ‘I don’t know,’ she said quietly. ‘I just don’t know. Where’s your evidence?’
‘You have my word.’
‘I don’t know what that’s worth.’
‘With all due respect commissioner, ask around.’
‘This is not my first time around the block with you. You’re still waiting to answer for Judge Jenkins, and I only kept you on active duty as a personal favour to Patrick. He seemed to think that you would be good at this type of work.’
Bishop bit his tongue, spoke though clenched teeth. ‘You have dirty cops pulling armed robberies.’
‘I don’t know what I have yet. For a start, why would one of our elite units do something like this?’
Wilson scoffed, ‘Really? This is the lowest paid department in the country. I’ve got guys who have to take out personal loans to pay their electricity bill, while half the crims they pinch drive Lamborghinis and get let off with not much more than a slap on the wrist. The only surprise is that it’s taken this long to happen.’
She let it slide and focused her attention on Bishop. ‘I’m not saying I don’t believe you, detective. I’m not saying that at all. Everything you’ve told me could be one hundred per cent true. Or everyth
ing you’ve told me could be for some other reason. All I know is that somehow you’re involved.’
Bishop couldn’t believe his ears. ‘This was a waste of fucking time.’
‘Watch your mouth,’ Wilson warned him. He turned to Mackler. ‘The question is: where do we go from here?’
‘Into custody.’
Bishop let the air leak slowly out of his lungs. He stared out the window and said nothing.
‘It’s the only way,’ she continued. ‘Until this can be cleaned up.’
‘What about Rayburn?’ Wilson asked.
‘He’ll be questioned.’
‘Questioned?’
‘I can’t go and arrest the hero of the day on his word alone. I can’t do that. It needs to be by the book.’
‘An inquiry.’
She nodded. ‘That’s most likely what will happen, yes.’
‘By the time it takes to run a full investigation,’ Bishop said, ‘the cash will be gone. They’ll be gone, and everybody will be looking for me.’
Mackler turned to Wilson. ‘Can you give us a minute?’
He nodded, climbed up and moved through the cabbies toward the toilets.
When he was out of earshot, Mackler turned to Bishop. ‘I don’t like you. You think your gut instinct is law and it isn’t. What you did at the Oak Park Apartments was reckless; it could have just as easily gone the other way. If what you are saying is true, then yes, you need protection. If it’s not true, then you need to be in jail. Either way, you are going into custody.’
The doors busted open. Gunmen, two of them. Balaclavas and shotguns. Cabbies tried to scatter, they made it a couple of steps before a shotgun blast to the roof froze the shit out of them.
‘Everybody just stay calm and you’ll live through this. We want your wallets and your night’s takings.’
‘You,’ the second gunman yelled at the waitress behind the counter. ‘Get that cash register open.’
The first gunman paced the length of the eatery. Wallets, rings and watches clattered into his open garbage bag. The other thug reached over the counter, snatching up the night's takings. They moved fast, but were sloppy, letting some of the loot fall on the floor.
The first gunman passed Bishop and stopped. ‘What the fuck did you just say?’
Mackler looked at Bishop. Everybody did.
He moved closer, got up in Bishop’s face. ‘What the fuck did you just say?’
‘Don’t be an idiot,’ a cabbie yelled.
‘Looks like we got a smart prick here,’ he yelled to his mate. ‘Can’t keep his mouth shut.’
‘He didn’t say anything,’ Mackler said.
‘Shut up, bitch.’ He pressed the muzzle of his shotgun into Bishop’s temple. ‘I don’t like mouthy pricks.’
Bishop’s eyes dipped low. The gunman’s shoes: black, basic, rubber soled. Police issue. He cast a glance at Mackler. She was thinking the same thing. This wasn’t a robbery; it was a hit.
The second gunman was getting anxious. ‘Do the mongrel and let’s go.’
Mackler shifted her eyes to the other side of the room, Bishop followed. Wilson had come out of the bathroom, his weapon in hand. He pulled it up onto the second gunman, back of the head, and squeezed off a round.
Pink mist.
Bishop shifted from the shooter’s barrel and slammed his gun hand into the table, breaking his wrist. He relieved him of his weapon.
‘He’s got another,’ Mackler yelled.
He pulled a snub out from God knew where. Mackler tried to get hold but slipped. A round fired into the floor, another into the wall and before he could get off a third, Bishop buried the piece into his chest and pulled back on the trigger.
Blood sprayed Mackler’s face from the exit wound.
The corpse slumped onto the table.
Cabbies cleaned out of the joint. The yellow in the street disappeared.
Mackler sucked in a breath. Blood dripped from her chin onto the table. ‘Give. Me. The. Gun,’ she said.
Bishop unloaded the weapon, left it on the table for her. Wilson holstered his piece. ‘Are you two okay?’
Mackler couldn’t muster up the words, so Bishop spoke for the both of them. ‘We’re fine.’
Wilson pulled the balaclava off the gunman’s head. He took one look at the face and stepped back. ‘Christ.’
Bishop recognised him.
‘What?’ Mackler whispered.
‘He’s a cop,’ Bishop said. ‘Do you believe me now?’
*
Bishop pushed through the doors and into the street.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’ Mackler said.
‘Tom, stop and think about what you’re doing,’ Wilson said.
Bishop slowed by the footpath. The street empty, the sky breaking in shards of chrome grey and white. ‘What do you want from me?’
‘Do this the right way,’ Wilson said.
The commissioner tried to light a cigarette. Her hands too shaky. Threw it to the concrete. ‘You need to come with us, now.’
‘Commissioner, your department’s gone bad. How do you think they found us?’
She shrugged. ‘I don’t know?’
‘Did you sign out your address before you came here?’
‘Yes.’
‘I go into custody and I’m dead. You don’t know who to trust and I’m not going to be the way you find out. A long, drawn-out investigation isn’t going to get this done. The only way out of this mess is to find out who Justice is and to do that I need to follow the money. I need to find that fifteen million dollars.’
‘Careful what you’re saying here, Tom. What you’re talking about is not being a cop. You need to stick to the system. You need to stick to the rules. It’s what makes us better than them.’
‘The world doesn’t work that way, not anymore.’
‘This is vigilantism.’
‘Our rules don’t work anymore. People are getting hurt.’
‘You walk and you’re on your own,’ Mackler said.
‘I stay and it’s no different.’
Pat rubbed his tired face. ‘Where you’re going, what you’re doing, I can’t be a part of.’
‘I’m not asking you to.’
Wilson took Bishop by the arm and they stepped out of earshot of Mackler. ‘If you’re going to do this thing,’ he said, ‘you have to go all in. You have to be as bad as they are.’
‘I know.’
He tapped Bishop’s chest with the back of his knuckle. ‘That feeling you have inside sometimes, the one you try to keep in line and buried deep? It’s time to let it out,’ Wilson said. ‘Do you have a weapon?’
‘No.’
He pulled the pearl-handled .45 his father had used in World War II and slapped it into Bishop’s palm. ‘You’re going to need it.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
Bishop stole a car and drove out to Ascot Vale. The house was a three-bedroom bungalow that lacked the freshly painted charm of its neighbours. All that was left of the yard was dry and dead, and one of the front windows had a crack that ran vertically from one edge of its peeling frame to the other.
He knocked on the door and asked for Con Taylor.
‘The cunt’s not here, and fuckin’ why should I tell you anyway?’
‘Come on, Trisha. I just want to know where Con is.’
A dog barked from somewhere inside the house, a large bastard by the sound of it. ‘Shut the fuck up!’ Trisha snapped over her shoulder. It did as it was told.
She leant against the doorframe. ‘Christ, I’m sorry, Bishop. Con just gives me the shits, that’s all. You want a coffee?’
Bishop followed Con Taylor’s widow down the hall. Twenty years ago she was something to look at, but two decades of hard drinking had left her haggard and sagging in all the wrong places. Her hips hung over the edges of her jeans, stretch marks accented by fake tan. She wore a G-string.
Families were always the last to know when a member was gunned down. Sometim
es they found out via the television. Trisha hadn’t turned hers on yet and Con Taylor wasn’t liked enough for anybody to pay her a visit.
They sat in the kitchen. Trisha pulled a pack of cigarettes from the top of the fridge, lit one and poured him a cup of coffee from the percolator. She collapsed into a chair and swung her grubby feet up on the table.
Bishop took a sip.
‘How is it?’
‘Fine.’
‘Don’t suck my dick, Bishop. It’s yesterday’s shit.’
‘I wasn’t going to say anything.’
She coughed up a wheezing chuckle. ‘So you wanna know where Con is, huh?’
‘Or who he’s with.’
‘He owe you money? Fuckin’ owes every cunt money, that cunt does.’
The dog started up with its barking again.
‘Shut up, you fuckin’ piece of shit!’ she yelled, turning back to Bishop. ‘Fuckin’ kill that cunt, I will.’
‘The thing is, I need to borrow one of his CIs for—’
‘Yeah, yeah, whatever.’ She rubbed her thumb and forefinger together. ‘What’s it worth to you?’
‘Doesn’t Con look after you?’
‘Yeah, he looks after me real fuckin’ well. That’s why I live here in this big beautiful mansion and wear all this expensive type shit.’ She butted her cigarette in the ashtray and immediately lit another. ‘So, cashola?’
Bishop dug around in his pocket and pulled out a twenty. He laid it on the table.
She looked at the crumpled bill as if it had just taken a shit on the rug. ‘You pigs are all the same.’
He pulled another twenty. She rolled her eyes but snatched up the notes anyway. ‘He’s with Mick Evens. The two are like a couple of fags. You find one, the other’s not far.’
‘Mick Evens … Ex-cop?’
She nodded. ‘Con don’t take a shit without Mick standing by with a bog roll on hand. Runs a joint now, called Dreams or something.’
A couple of knocks rattled the front door. The dog started up again.
‘Fuckin’ hell. Hang on, I’ll be right back.’
Bishop knew it would be uniforms armed with the news of Taylor’s death. He looked at the shitty room around him, then pulled three fifties from his wallet, all the money he had, and left them on the table for her. By the time Trisha was halfway down the hall, he was out the back door and gone.