by Berry, Tony
‘Yes, here,’ said Dayani. ‘On your patch, as I think the saying goes. Hardly a stone’s throw from your apartment.’
He stopped pacing.
‘Who? Where?’
‘The name doesn’t matter. She was found at the sports ground where you apparently go for a morning jog.’ She paused and briefly smiled: ‘Sometimes.’
Again, they had him tagged, right down to the spasmodic battle waged between his present slobbish self and the remnants of his once far fitter version.
‘I hadn’t heard,’ he said. ‘I’ve been somewhat out of circulation lately.’ And all because of you and your bloody cryptic messages, midnight messengers and bits of cut glass masquerading as diamonds. He rubbed the back of his neck; thinking time. It seemed too much was happening on his doorstep that he didn’t know about. Not knowing was always a worry. It led to too many surprises, to being unprepared, making hasty decisions. There had been one too many of those in the past and he had paid the penalty. He wasn’t going to get caught again.
‘I need to know more,’ he said. ‘Stop holding back.’
He wondered if she was like this in everything she did. If so, pity the poor bloke that fell for those eyes and tried to get really close. Bromo could see her as a child, dribbling the feed into the pond crumb by crumb; never tipping up the packet and letting everything tumble out at once but leaving some poor fish always wanting for more. She would do it with a gentle knowing smile, like the one he was being given right now, lasering into his thoughts.
‘She was a volunteer, a helper,’ said Dayani.
‘You mean you turned her,’ Bromo snapped. ‘Coerced her, applied pressure.’
There were so many phrases he could use. All spoke the truth far more than Dayani’s tame description. The service always hid itself behind coy euphemisms, unwavering in defending its most devious deeds yet too sensitive to describe them in honest terms.
‘We were helping her,’ said Dayani.
‘To do what? To die? To be murdered? Is this what is meant by assisted death?’
Bromo’s rant ran out of steam. He stopped pacing the room, stopped waving his arms around. The anger was tiring, his head throbbing. Dayani stood and stepped towards him, hands forward. It was if she about to embrace him, fold him into her. She stopped.
‘It wasn’t meant to be that way,’ she said, her voice soft and low, almost contrite.
‘Why not?’
Briefly they were communicating on crossed lines, Bromo still anticipating her arms reaching out to him, detouring from the main theme. Her reply put him back on track.
‘There didn’t seem to be any danger,’ said Dayani. ‘She was gathering information from where she worked and passing it on. She said she needed the money.’
‘Industrial espionage,’ said Bromo. ‘Since when has that been considered low-risk? People kill for that sort of information.’
‘Obviously.’
She still sounded regretful, perhaps even saddened by the girl’s death. Bromo gave her points for that, although it did nothing for the victim. He massaged the back of his neck again. It was stiffened with tension. The room was claustrophobic. He put a hand on the door knob and tried turning it gently to the left. It yielded. They were no longer locked in. He could open the door and go – or would CJ and his mates be waiting for him at the foot of the stairs? He turned the handle fully and eased the door ajar. He felt Dayani watching him. She hadn’t moved.
‘Thought we could do with some air,’ he said.
‘You’re free to go any time you like.’
‘And …?’
‘And we will try to manage without your local knowledge and contacts.’
‘And …?’
He instinctively knew there was more. It was a script he could have written himself. She smiled: the cat and the mouse.
‘And we will keep watching and waiting, observing everything Bromo Perkins does, noting his habits, where he goes, who he speaks to, monitoring his movements, maybe his phone calls, even his emails and what websites he visits. Technology is wonderful.’
Dayani sashayed forward, a seductive walk, fixing his eyes with hers. Her hands reached for the lapels of his jacket and pulled him towards her. She stood on tip-toe and formed her mouth into a pout as she kissed him firmly on the lips, holding him there for several seconds. She pulled her lips away but her gaze didn’t waver.
‘It is also very discreet,’ she said.
He tried to read her, feeling stirred by her closeness and the firmness of her kiss yet uncertain of the message she was sending: was it a warning or an invitation? She soon enlightened him: ‘It worms its way in without anyone knowing. And then it moves on spreading whatever it has gathered.’
Bromo felt stumped for a response. Too many unwanted things were worming their way into his mental and emotional systems. Adding to the physical bruising of recent days, upsetting the balance of his life. Pushing him where he never wanted to go. Like the couple of white water adventurers he had watched in a recent documentary being hurtled forward down a rock-strewn torrent. They may have wanted to stop, or even go back. But the only secure way – despite the danger – was to continue surging forward. Bromo felt the torrent thrusting him on, with Dayani waiting at the end of the ravine to pluck him from the whirlpool. At least she had the grace not to show any sign of victory. But he was sure she was laughing inside. Oh yes, she’d won all right. They both knew it. Bromo spread his hands wide in resignation.
‘Okay, I’ll help.’ He opened the door. ‘You’ve persuaded me.’
‘Let’s say we’ve convinced you.’
Bromo lacked the will to argue. He needed to move on, away from the uncertain physical closeness of this storeroom. He could no longer be bothered with the semantics of their relationship.
‘Whatever,’ he said, hunching his shoulders into a dismissive shrug. ‘You say tomaytoes, I say tomahtoes—’
‘But you won’t call the whole thing off.’
‘How could I – not unless I want to end up like whatsername.’
‘You mean Tamsyn … Tamsyn Chong.’
Bromo heard the name echo in his head. Reverberations of his sombre conversation with Liz Shapcott. Recalling her story of an encounter with a menacing man at a funeral. A picture was screening in his mind – a leaflet for the celebration of a life.
‘We’d better get going,’ he grunted.
He hurried out into the corridor. Dayani was two steps behind.
THIRTEEN
Bromo stood on the platform at the tram super-stop facing the vast colonial sandstone-coloured façade of Flinders Street station. The overhead indicator board said the next tram would be arriving in ten minutes. A Number 70, trundling all the way out to Wattle Park, a suburb he regarded as unknown and distant as some unpronounceable city in Outer Mongolia. As usual, the indicator was wrong; already he could see the flashing lights of a Number 75, destined for even more far-off Vermont South, less than a minute away at the Elizabeth Street stop. Timing was supposed to be everything, but not when you operated the city’s trams.
Bromo sidestepped around two dithering women to grab a forward-facing seat and stuck his ticket in the validating machine. He glanced casually at the person who had slid into the seat alongside him and placed a backpack on the floor between their feet. Not what he had expected. So much for getting some much needed down time to himself. Dayani had moved in next to him. He thought she had accompanied him to the tram stop only because it was on her way to the train station. She had said nothing about taking a tram. Behind her, arms reaching up to hold on to the overhead straps, were CJ and Duptha. Another surprise. Bromo felt hemmed in. Was this a threat or protection? Or was he being paranoid: maybe they were lost; strangers in a strange town? Bromo leaned closer to Dayani.
‘Wouldn’t the train be more convenient?’
‘Why?’
‘Easier, quicker. Direct lines to Oakleigh, Glen Waverley, Chadstone or wherever it is your lot gather.’
‘That’s a racist assumption,’ she said. ‘But I’ll let it pass.’
Bromo ignored the rebuke.
‘Statistics,’ he said. ‘Apparently out there is where most of the Sri Lankans settle.’
It was a snippet he had picked up from the endless debate on the country’s migration program. The Sri Lankans had been coming to Australia for a hundred years and this city was home to about half of them. Counted in their tens of thousands. Preserving their heritage and creating their own community in the distant suburbs.
‘I reckoned that’s where you’d be heading,’ he said.’ Home from home.’
‘Too dangerous. Too many factions and spies.’
She kept her voice low and confidential and seemed to have forgiven him, although he saw nothing to forgive. There was even a way to gain some credit.
‘It’s no more dangerous than riding on a tram without a ticket,’ he said. ‘Getting bailed up by a bunch of ticket inspectors isn’t the best way to blend into the scenery.’
Bromo pointed to the gleaming metal machine on the other side of the doorway.
‘Feed a few coins into that monster and look like you live here.’
He enjoyed detecting the flash of uncertainty caused by his advice, signs of her being caught unprepared, and watched her unfold a slim black wallet taken from inside her jacket. He sorted through a handful of coins from his trouser pocket and held a couple out to her.
‘Use these,’ he said. ‘Bloody thing doesn’t take notes.’
He nodded in the direction of CJ and Duptha.
‘Your boys are big enough to pay for their own.’
Bromo allowed himself a self-satisfied smile. There was a perverse pleasure in watching the briefly frenzied chatter between Dayani and her companions. About time they felt some of the fluster and panic he had been enduring in their company. And he didn’t even need threats and murder to achieve it. The ticketing demands of the transport system could usually be relied on to cause mild stress and consternation. Few travellers were immune.
Dayani returned to her seat and flicked the ticket at Bromo.
‘Satisfied?’
‘Very,’ smiled Bromo. ‘Good to see you can act within the law.’
‘Always.’
They fell into an uneasy silence, the sort that follows a spat between two lovers. The tram was gathering speed down the hill alongside the Fitzroy Gardens ready for the incline up to the Hilton. Bromo twisted around in his seat and looked at CJ.
‘War zone for Sri Lankans coming up,’ he said. ‘Scene of some terrible defeats.’
He let them puzzle it out as the tram rattled on past the hotel. Another serve of local knowledge to add to their confusion and provide a mild boost to his own confidence. He pointed to the vast circular arena dominating the parklands on their right, its six massive light towers rising 85 metres above the ground.
‘The MCG,’ he said. ‘Melbourne Cricket Ground. Scene of the 1995 Boxing Day massacre. Sri Lanka lost the test match by ten wickets.’
Bromo recognised the look of awe that crossed their faces as CJ and Duptha bent to peer out of the window. He’d seen it so many times. It was the reverence shown by cricket lovers everywhere as they encountered this shrine to their game. The massive arena – throbbing to more than 100,000 shouting voices for the biggest games – loomed as big as any Coliseum or Great Pyramid in their lives. CJ and Duptha gazed at the stadium for the brief time it remained in their view. But within seconds the tram had sped on, past the grand old mansions of Lansdowne St and Berry Street to slither to a halt to wait for the Punt Road lights to change to green.
‘See it and weep,’ said Bromo, speaking over the top of Dayani’s head. ‘Remember, visitors can’t always be winners.’
Dayani turned to him.
‘Thanks for the reminder, Bromo. However, we’re not here to play cricket.’
Her reminder was superfluous; he had already made that assumption. It would be much better if she revealed the real reason for their presence on his patch. Dropping hints about illicit diamonds and murder verged on the melodramatic when there was nothing to back them up. He thought he had seen the last of suffering under superiors who subscribed to the need-to-know style of operation. Now he was being hassled in similar vein by Dayani. She stood as the tram gathered speed along Bridge Road, stopped briefly at the Lennox Road intersection and then hurtled downhill towards Church Street and on to the town hall. She pressed the red “Stop” button.
‘I believe this is your stop,’ she said.
Suddenly Bromo’s moments of triumph evaporated. With Dayani alongside and CJ and Duptha close behind, he sensed he was under arrest as they crossed the road from the tram stop. It was one thing being locked into the café storeroom. He was on their territory then, with a crazed attacker downstairs. But this was home ground, far too close for comfort. He offered a hand to Dayani.
‘I’ll leave you here; my place is just around the corner,’ he said. Telling them what they already knew. So what. Brazen it out. He gave the three of them a fleeting all-embracing smile.
‘Thanks for your company. A bit like old times.’
Yes, and something I could well do without. Dayani shook his hand and held on, a firm and steady grip. The sort a person would need if they were going to take pot shots at people.
‘I’m sure you can find your own way from here,’ she said.
‘And you?’
He had to know. She smiled and gestured towards CJ and Duptha.
‘Oh, we won’t be far away. Here in Richmond is a good place for us to be. You know how it is, so cosmopolitan, so diverse. No one will notice us; a few more ethnics – we’ll fit right in.’
Bromo thought he heard mockery in her voice. Sending him up. Or maybe it was her idea of reassurance. Dayani released his hand and winked at her companions, still giving nothing away. She stretched tall and briefly brushed her lips against Bromo’s. He turned to move off, hoping they were going in opposite directions. Thankfully he watched the gap between them widen.
He scuttled around the corner into a dimly lit side street, head down and contemplating a restorative Laphroaig. Too hasty and unaware. A double whammy brought him to a sudden stop. He was unsure which came first – the buffeting collision with two bulky policemen or the barked command from one of them to ‘stop right there’.
The taller policeman gripped Bromo’s upper arm, the other stepped behind him. He was sandwiched. He felt their presence was no accident. It was intimidating – and meant to be. A surge of guilt welled up that he couldn’t explain. There was nothing he had done to justify their attention. He flexed his arm against the grip the taller policeman had on it and forced his voice into casual mode.
‘Come on, Grant, it’s me. Bromo. It’s not that dark. There’s no need for this.’
‘Who says?’
Bromo thought he detected a softening in Sergeant Grant Mayfield’s tone. Probably getting some smug pleasure from the situation. Their paths had crossed many times before. Bromo saw them as sparring partners, usually on the same side of the law although taking different routes to reach their goal. Maybe Mayfield had different views. He delighted in occasionally reminding Bromo he was well informed on his former life. A surreptitious dip into the police department’s supposedly top secret database had given him all he needed to apply gentle leverage whenever he felt it was required.
‘Whenever I find you running round the streets late at night you seem to be up to no good.’
Bromo didn’t have to ask what Mayfield meant. He could recall two or three recent incidents that contained a justifying grain or two of truth for what the policeman said. But nothing he hadn’t been able to explain, or at least get away with. Until now.
‘Bit of a hurry to get home,’ Bromo mumbled. �
��It’s been a long day. Didn’t see you two lurking there.’
‘Oh, lurking were we?’
It was as Bromo had suspected; it was no coincidence that they were around the corner from where he had said goodbye to Dayani and her sidekicks. Not the most subtle surveillance, if that’s what it was meant to be. Yet surveillance all the same.
‘You need lessons in trade craft.’
‘And you’re the man to give them, eh? From what I recall you’ve had a stuff-up or two in your time.’
It wasn’t worth answering. Antagonising the burly six-footer was no way to go. As best he knew, the cop had so far kept details of Bromo’s dossier to himself. It would be good to keep it that way. Mayfield let Bromo’s arm go. He put a hand up to his lapel and pressed a button on a radio device.
‘One male person detained,’ he said.
There was silence. No lights showed from the houses hunkered down behind high brick fences. A dog barked in the distance. Bromo felt the unmoving presence of the policeman standing behind him. He watched a frown of concentration crease Mayfield’s face. Only then did he notice the spiral of wire trailing down from an earpiece. Mayfield raised his head and looked at Bromo, a slight smile on his face.
‘Yes,’ he said into the radio device. ‘You were right. The usual suspect.’
Another silence. Briefer. Mayfield nodded his head in unspoken agreement with the person at the other end.
‘Will do,’ he said and clicked the device off. Bromo decided to take the initiative.
‘So I’m a suspect am I?’
‘Always,’ grinned Mayfield.
‘Suspected of what?’
‘That’s up to others to decide. I’m sure they can find something. How about consorting for starters?’
‘Consorting?’ Bromo sniggered; he couldn’t help himself. Wasn’t consorting something you did with prostitutes? He shuffled his feet, inching away from Mayfield’s colleague.
‘You and your mates from the sub-continent,’ said Mayfield.