by Berry, Tony
Bromo gave a disbelieving snort.
‘Bullshit. Start of story more likely. And so soon after our little telephone chat. It seems you listened after all.’
‘I always listen, Bromo. You should know that.’
‘Yeah, well.’
He looked down and made circles on the ground with the toe of his shoe. She was unnerving him. He was unsure of their relationship. Did they even have a relationship? He had strained for hints and clues as they had talked on the phone but had heard nothing more than an official voice. She was friendly enough, but it was the tone as laid down in the service manual; chapter and verse from Keeping the Public On Side.
‘So you listen, but you don’t tell me what’s going in.’
‘And why should I?’ she snapped back. ‘Let’s not forget you’ve been put out to grass. You’re out of the loop and until someone decides to resurrect you, that’s how it stays.’
Her words stung. They told only part of the story. Despite the fact that they spent their lives trading in half-truths and double-dealing he failed to see why there could not be times when they stood outside all the lies and deception and treated each other as normal human beings. Delia was the last person he wanted to fight with but he couldn’t resist firing one last barb. He took a step forward and leaned in towards her, his mouth spitting out the words.
‘Don’t forget I’m the one being attacked, mugged and generally fucked about with to the extent that I can’t even live in my own home. If you don’t think I can help you wrap up this sordid business, at least I have a right to know who the hell was using me as target practice back there.’
Delia’s face registered no reaction to his outburst. Bromo realised he should have expected none; the training and discipline were too good. She gave a brief nod of her head to one side.
‘Over here,’ she said quietly. ‘Away from the rabble.’
She took a few steps into the shadows cast by a rather sick-looking peppercorn tree and an outside toilet block, a lingering remnant of the older, seedier Richmond. She rested a hand briefly on his arm. He felt the old tremors go through him. His anger subsided. She dropped her voice almost to a whisper.
‘The men who attacked you are people of special interest.’
Bromo let out a brief laugh when he heard her stilted words. She bridled at his response.
‘You know the language, Bromo. That’s all I can tell you. They’re wanted in three states for a number of crimes.’
‘So what are they doing in Richmond?’
She hesitated. How much to tell? She took a deep breath and continued.
‘We believe we can link them to the murder of that young girl found in the workmen’s hut. She worked at Global Marketing. They’re saying nothing but we believe they did some casual work there, too.’
‘I bet they did. Heavy lifting. Thugs.’
She jumped on his remark.
‘What do you mean? Do you know them?’
Bromo forced out a chuckle.
‘No, no … just a throwaway remark. You know me, speak before I think. Feeling somewhat bitter and twisted right now.’
He clenched his fist to help stifle any further reaction. There were too many balls in the air at the moment and he didn’t want to see any of them drop. He had told her only as much as he felt she needed to know when he had phoned her earlier. There were loyalties and relationships to be considered and honoured – to Dayani, to the mysterious Mr Blood, to his own daughter. Concessions and guarantees had to be in place before he revealed his full hand. Afterwards would be too late. People could break promises, go back on their word. Even Delia. He smiled at her.
‘So I’ll be in the duty book as the innocent victim of a couple of thugs out for a bit of sport?’
Delia gave him a long penetrating stare. He felt the unnerving silence stretching and stretching. His hand went up to his ear and rubbed at the lobe. He looked around. The huddle of cops was breaking up, a couple of them glancing over at him and Delia. Jason was shaking hands with the detective with the clipboard. Bromo took in a breath and held it. At last Delia spoke, a slight questioning smile turning up the corners of her mouth.
‘Is that what you truly think, Bromo?’
He smiled back. Two could play this game. He tried for the innocent look.
‘Of course. What other explanation could there be?’
She held his look.
‘None, of course. Absolutely none.’
One of the plainclothes police was gesturing to her, holding a car door open. They were ready to move on. Delia stepped away, back into the light. Picture-perfect, thought Bromo.
‘Got to go,’ she said. ‘Duty calls.’
She puckered up and pursed her lips into a kiss but moved no closer. That mischievous smile he remembered so well flickered briefly across her face.
‘No doubt I’ll see you around.’
She turned and Bromo watched her walk briskly to the car. He knew the madam agent was back firmly in control. A shadow fell across his line of sight. Jason loomed large over him.
‘Come on, mate, time to get you home to Liz’s place. And this time you’ll do what you’re told.’
THIRTY-SIX
Bromo cast anxious looks up and down the dark, narrow street as he waited for Liz to respond to his urgent push on the intercom button. Jason leaned back against the wall, relaxed, hands in trouser pockets.
‘Cool it mate. No one’s watching. You’ll start making me nervous too.’
Bromo hunched his shoulders and scraped a foot to and fro in the gravel. It wasn’t a cold night, yet he shivered and gathered his jacket even closer around him.
‘Yeah, well, you’re not the one being mugged every time he tries to go home.’
There was the metallic click of a bolt being slid back on the other side of the gate. Jason pushed himself forward off the wall.
‘Bloody old grump. You were warned, and not just by me.’
The gate opened and Liz peered out.
‘Children, children. It sounds like the sandpit at the kindergarten out here.’
She ushered them through and pushed the bolt back into place. Jason strode ahead; Bromo followed. Liz caught up with them as they entered the lounge and placed her hands firmly on Bromo’s shoulders. He stood erect and still as her fingers kneaded deep into his lower neck muscles.
‘Seems as if the old grump is in need of a nice shot of Laphroaig,’ said Liz as she probed and rolled the tense tissues.
Bromo felt all his crankiness ebbing away under the pressure of her hands. His eyelids drooped and his mind drifted off. A less practical massage beneath those calming hands would be even better. In the meantime, her offer of a shot of malt would definitely complete the process.
‘There speaks a woman after my own heart,’ he said, temporarily dismissing the more lascivious of his thoughts.
Jason spun round and gave him a big wink.
‘I thought someone else did that.’
Bromo felt the easy rolling motion of Liz’s fingers suddenly stop, but her hands remained in place. He sensed a momentary tension. A few seconds later, the massaging resumed. Nothing was said but he knew she had felt the barb, even if Jason meant it solely in jest. It was another of those moments when he could cheerfully throttle his boofy friend. He winced as Liz chopped down rapidly and hard on his shoulders with the side of her hands for several seconds. Suddenly the pummelling stopped. Liz stepped away.
‘I’ll get that scotch,’ she said. ‘Then we’ll see if we can sort out whatever trouble you’ve got yourself into this time.’
Bromo quashed an urge to protest. It would serve no purpose. But it would be nice if, just for once, everyone realised none of this trouble was of his own making. He was again the victim, not the perpetrator. That quiet life his masters had promised him seemed further away than ever. It was one more lesson in learning to trust no one, especially those who claimed to uphold the truth. And, if you did dare to walk that route, at least make sure
which version of which truth they were upholding.
With drink in hand, Bromo slowly paced up and down the room, launching into a series of random musings and reflections. He spoke in a voice that at times was almost inaudible and at others loudly declamatory. Ice occasionally clinking against the side of his glass provided a suitably haphazard punctuation to his stop-start resumé of events.
Liz and Jason lazed back in deep armchairs, watching and listening to what seemed more like a stream-of-consciousness ramble than a coherent thread of thoughts and actions. Bromo felt his head clearing; the massage had unknotted tired and tense nerves. Things were becoming clearer; a pattern was emerging.
He kept pacing and talking. It was what worked for him. He remembered how rarely he had contributed anything worthwhile to those sit-down brain-storming sessions around the table at headquarters. ‘Let’s chuck a few ideas in the air and see what comes down,’ his masters would say. They sighed and waited as they were given nothing back. So far as Bromo was concerned they might as well have tossed in some dandelion fluff or fairy floss. He needed to be on the move to think; running, power-walking or, as now, simply pacing back and forth across a room. It focused the mind. Briefly he stopped, speaking more to the floor than to Liz or Jason.
‘The odd thing about tonight’s little fracas,’ he said, ‘was that the Feds were lying in wait for those two thugs because of Tamsyn Chong’s death and not because of any link to Dayani and her murderous activities. It’s as if they’ve got two separate investigations going on and haven’t yet made a connection between them.’
‘And I suppose you have,’ said Liz. It was more a statement than a question.
Bromo threw a slightly startled look in her direction, as if unaware until then that there were others in the room.
‘Yes. Almost from the start.’
‘Clever you,’ murmured Liz.
Bromo flashed a questioning glare at her, trying to judge her mood, but she had turned away, pretending to be occupied with brushing crumbs off her seat.
He resumed his pacing, voicing his thoughts aloud as he retraced events from his early contacts with the Sri Lankans, the explosive raid on their cafe and the warning from the jeweller, Jacowiscz. He reminded them of Fokisi’s hit-run attack and expanded on the little he had told them about his encounter with the enigmatic Mr Blood. He spoke briefly of his emotional reunion with his daughter and her commitment to the worldwide war on the deadly diamond trade. It was all so confused and exasperating. He paused for breath and spread his arms wide, hands upturned, his face creased in a frown.
‘And it’s all because of bloody Liz and her do-gooder’s heart.’
The throwaway remark had hardly left his lips before he realised his mistake. There was a time and place for his weak attempts at humour – and this wasn’t one of them. It needed rephrasing but it was far too late for that. Liz spun round, furious at his accusation. Bromo raised a hand to halt the protest forming on her lips.
‘Hold it right there, Liz. I’m simply stating facts. You took lonely little Tamsyn under your wing and next thing we know we’re embroiled in the third world war, or at least a war of the third world’s own making.’
Liz fired right back.
‘And who was it that fell for a story spun by some dark-eyed charmer he was probably bonking somewhere back in his mysterious past? God, Bromo, you’re so damned gullible for someone with such a cynical view of life. A woman whistles, you follow. You’re like a bloody sheepdog. Last time it was a couple of simpering students. Now it’s some Asian version of Superwoman. Can’t you just say “No” for once? Where’s it all going to end?’
She ran out of steam, exasperated and exhausted. She pushed a hand up over her brow and back through her long coils of hair. Jason leaned over and put a consoling hand on her shoulder. Liz reached up and covered it with her own.
Bromo studied the pair and shook his head in a mix of despair and puzzlement. The three of them formed a fragile tableau blanketed by a silence rife with recriminations and accusations. He thought of a computer stuck in a “not responding” mode. It was time to take a step back and find a “restore” point.
‘What’s done is done,’ he said softly. ‘We all did what we thought was best at the time. The best of intentions.’
‘And you know where that road leads,’ said Liz, her mouth turning up in the slightest of smiles.
Bromo relaxed. Maybe the storm had blown itself out and Liz was responding to his conciliatory tone. He was surprised at the extent of his relief when she gave that brief smile; it was a minor shock to find her reactions mattered. The idea that he may have driven an irreparable rift between them had disturbed him more than he thought possible. Her smile told him they were back on track. As the prime minister of the day was fond of saying, they were going forward … that was if he could find a way to get off Liz’s proverbial road to hell.
Bromo rubbed at his ear. The old wound was an infallible sign of stress. Too bloody infallible. He had to refocus; rewind to some point before Liz’s outburst. He resumed his to-ing and fro-ing, again talking as he went, eyes downcast to the timbered floor. He offered a quick summary of the hustle that preceded the killings at the airport and reviewed the meeting with Fokisi and his telephone call to Delia. They were up to date. He stopped pacing and stood in front of them.
‘So that’s where we’re at. Any comments?’
He held his glass out towards Liz.
‘Any chance of a refill?’
She nodded towards a wall cabinet.
‘You know where it is. Help yourself. And while you’re at it perhaps you can explain why clever little Delia hasn’t made the connection between your attackers, the Sri Lankans and the diamonds. Or were there other reasons for your conversation?’
Bromo took a deep breath. He concentrated on pouring his drink, facing away from Liz and taking an extra firm grip on the bottle. It would be too easy to spin round, needled by her comments, and resume hostilities. Bloody women; like a Jack Russell with a ball of wool, relentlessly picking and tearing at it until completely unravelled.
He turned slowly, straining to stay calm.
‘For the record, my call was strictly business. I didn’t give her the connection to Global Marketing and Natalie Cordoza, but we did discuss Dayani and her interest in the diamond trade. She’ll get the links when Fokisi has done his thing. And I did clarify what led up to the incident at the airport.’
‘Ha, is that what you call it now? An incident, like some bingle between a couple of cars in a parking lot.’
Bromo briefly closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, shutting out Liz’s outburst. Of course she was right but he was not going to be sidetracked into another war of words. He breathed out and opened his eyes, fixing her with a steady stare. He noticed Jason had placed a restraining hand on her shoulder, calming her down.
‘I provided information, but only so much.’
He had resorted to the time-honoured excuse for telling half the truth – the need-to-know syndrome. No one lied anymore; they never misled or deceived. Instead, they fudged their input. Information was simply imparted on a need-to-know basis with the informant making all the decisions as to how much would be revealed.
‘I thought you wanted her help,’ protested Liz.
‘I do, and she needs mine. But I also need her compliance. She’ll receive the inside running on Dayani and her crew if they get unimpeded passage back to Sri Lanka. When that’s agreed we’ll spill the beans on the link to Global Products, Natalie Cordoza and the death of poor Tamsyn.’
‘So a bunch of killers goes free.’
Bromo smiled.
‘Think of the greater good, Liz. No one’s going to miss my airport handlers. No innocent people got killed. It’s a result, as we used to say.’
Liz sniffed. She knew the reasoning. It had been used often enough in Melbourne’s incessant gang warfare. It was killer against killer. Let them wipe each other out and save police time, legal costs
and prison space. But she still didn’t approve. Jason gave her another gentle pat on the shoulder.
‘Stop worrying, Liz. It’s not your problem. Poor old Bromo’s the one you’ve got to worry about.’
Liz slowly stood up and walked over to the sink, turning on a tap and rinsing her glass. Jason winked at Bromo. Bromo rolled his eyes in response. They waited as Liz placed the glass to drain and turned to faced them.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Do whatever you have to do. But no more stupid macho heroics. I don’t want to spend my life swabbing blood and tending to your cuts and bruises.’
She walked briskly across the room, took Bromo’s face between her hands and kissed him firmly on the forehead. She stepped back and waved a hand in the direction of the door. Her long loose skirt swirled behind her as she headed for the stairs.
‘I’ll leave you to see Jason out and lock up after him. I’m off to bed.’
Bromo wiped his fingers gently across his brow and spent a few seconds inspecting them as if to see the remnants of her kiss. He looked at Jason and shook his head slowly from side to side.
‘Women,’ he said. ‘Funny creatures. They never cease to amaze me.’
He put an arm around Jason’s shoulders and walked him to the door.
‘You’d better be on your way, big boy. I’ve got things to do.’
Jason grinned and elbowed him in the ribs.
‘You sure have. Looks like you’re on a promise tonight.’
Bromo shook his head.
‘No way, mate. That’d be jumping the gun.’ He smiled broadly. ‘Maybe one day.’
He took his mobile phone from his pocket and held it up towards Jason.
‘Anyhow, I’ve got a few calls to make.’
THIRTY-SEVEN
THE phone calls were brief and sharp, almost curt. They went back and forth for almost an hour. Bromo was well aware that a conference call would have been quicker. But he knew it would also be much messier with too many interruptions. He needed to deal with them one at a time and one-on-one and with no secondary interference. Tonight he was the broker negotiating between buyer and seller, setting conditions and securing concessions. He saw his role as akin to that of the buyers’ advocates who infested the local real estate market, acting as middlemen for people too naive to do their own wheeling and dealing. They took a bit and conceded a bit and let no one know their final price.