by Berry, Tony
If asked tonight who he was representing Bromo would have barked back ‘no one’. Someone more pompous would have rambled on about justice and peace and morality and human rights and whatever motherhood words they could find in the thesaurus. To which Bromo would doubtless have responded with an irreverent ‘blah, blah, blah’. In a less irascible and more reflective moment, he would say he merely wanted to get the job done, which is what he had always considered his brief to be. The service had a motto written in Latin expressing its noble purpose and which the old hands loosely translated as “cut the crap and fix it”.
Between calls Bromo sat hunched forward, arms resting on thighs, his phone clasped between his hands, awaiting the next response – sometimes a text but mostly by voice. He had made the first approaches, throwing out the bait and dropping lures into the murky waters. Now he had to wait to see what was in his net; how much he had to throw back as not wanted or unusable.
There were noises overhead. Briefly he raised his eyes to the ceiling. He heard the sounds of water running, blinds being lowered, the light swish of slippered feet on bare boards. A door clicked shut. He let his imagination run loose for a brief erotic airing as Liz prepared for bed. The ringing of the phone cut short his thoughts. He emitted a rueful sigh and returned to the business in hand.
Bromo made demands and called the shots. Twice he gave Dayani an ultimatum: it was his way or no way. There was no time to be wasted on niceties. Too much was at stake. Delia received much the same short, sharp treatment: he would pass on the information she demanded after he got what he wanted, not before. There was no advantage in surrendering his trump cards while the game was far from over. Both women and their teams knew where to find him yet he had little idea where they were operating from. He was well aware either could blast their way in and render him useless if he pushed them too hard. He needed them onside, or at least taking a neutral position, if his plans were to succeed.
Bromo thumbed the numbers on his phone and put it to his ear. Fokisi answered on the third ring but his voice was almost inaudible. The raucous voices of boozed night-clubbers and the bass-heavy thump of ear-jarring music dominated. Bromo gave up.
‘Text me,’ he snapped and cut the call.
He endured a five-minute wait that felt more like ten before Fokisi responded. Bromo looked at the text and let out a deep breath of relief. One more piece of his self-made jigsaw had fallen into place. He tore a rectangle of paper from a pad on the coffee table in front of him and used it to write down the numbers and words glowing on the phone’s screen. It was a precaution; text messages were too easily erased by mistake.
The phone rang again. “No number ID”. It had to be Delia.
‘Yes?’
He was right. She didn’t even bother with a ‘Hallo’ or a ‘Hi’. She spoke briskly and tersely. Bromo detected an undercurrent of frustration and annoyance. He gave a mental shrug; so be it. She was probably well and truly pissed off at his stubborn resistance, but he was not surprised. All he could hope for was that she would eventually forgive and forget. He allowed himself a brief smile at the thought; a session of kiss-and-make-up was something to look forward to. For now, however, that seemed a long way off.
Bromo made brief notes as he listened. A few words and numbers hastily written on the same scrap of paper as before. Delia didn’t bother to sign off; she simply hung up.
‘Thanks,’ he said to a silent phone. ‘Love you too.’
He tore another sheet of paper from the pad and made more notes. Once more he worked his phone. CJ answered.
‘I want to talk to the boss,’ said Bromo. ‘Put her on.’
CJ obeyed.
‘What’s happening?’ said Dayani. She sounded cautious, even anxious, but Bromo detected none of the aggression he had sensed from Delia.
‘I was hoping you could answer that,’ said Bromo. ‘Any decisions yet?’
‘Give me a minute,’ said Dayani.
There was a clunk as she put down the phone. Bromo heard whispered discussions in the background. He strained unsuccessfully to decipher what was being said. Quite likely they were not even speaking English. He tapped a hand on the table top. Surely they had decided by now. He needed answers. Decisions had to be made and plans put in place. Stop frigging about, his inner voice shouted. The noise level increased. Dayani was back. She spoke calmly.
‘Yes, Bromo, we agree.’
‘All of you?’
He didn’t want any dissenters. Total co-operation was the key.
‘Yes, all of us,’ she said.
‘Good. I’ll be in touch. Meanwhile, perhaps you should pay a visit to your neighbours.’
It was only a hunch but Bromo was almost a hundred per cent sure he was right. The information Delia had let drop had been too good to have come from anywhere but the source. And that meant surveillance of the closest kind.
He pulled the notepad towards him and scrawled a brief note to Liz: “Back soon. Gone to get some fresh air.”
It was a partial truth. It would give reassurance if she happened to wander downstairs in the night. He could well be back before she saw it and she would be none the wiser.
He left the note to Liz alongside the sink then gathered up his other bits of paper and the folder Liz had retrieved from the council’s files. He stepped stealthily towards the door, slid the latch slowly back and eased himself out into the night.
THIRTY-EIGHT
BROMO took the scrap of paper from his pocket and unfolded it beneath the streetlight, checking the address Delia had begrudgingly dictated to him. The silos loomed overhead; in the distance, at the end of the street, three flags fluttered from the town hall towers. A young couple swayed up the road towards him from the pub. They stopped frequently, entwined around each other, hands wandering, oblivious to his presence.
He waited for them to pass and sauntered behind them, peering hard into gardens and doorways, looking for house numbers on gate posts, not sure if he was going in the right direction. He pitied the postmen and delivery people; so few numbers were to be seen. Eventually he found one, then another. Both were odd and they increased as the road sloped upwards from the town hall. He reckoned he was on the right track with probably not much further to go. Forty paces later he was proved correct as he paused briefly outside the dreariest building in the street. The unloved and unlovable block of flats was a blot on the urban landscape, a sad throwback to an era of cheapskate building by uncaring developers and greedy landlords.
Bromo strolled on, eyes and ears alert for hidden watchers. He got to the next corner and turned back. Not a loitering person nor a suspiciously parked car to be seen. He trod slowly and silently up the dimly lit staircase to the first-floor landing. There were no bits of litter dropped where his feet would tread to cover pressure pads set to trigger alarms inside the Sri Lankans’ flat. He could see no sensors beamed across the corridor or the tell-tale red glow of a camera up under the roof. The element of surprise was on his side. He rested the palm of his right hand against the door ready to apply gentle pressure just in case it had been left unlocked. Unlikely, but you never knew. He recalled the time when …
The door flew inwards. The beam of an industrial strength torch struck his eyes, killing all sight. An arm speared towards him. Bromo gasped as a hand grabbed his shirt tight at the collar and tugged him forward, stumbling and tripping. He heard the door slam shut behind him; felt someone at his back clamp hands firmly down on either shoulder. They had stopped him falling but also held him too tight to move.
Overhead lights went on and Duptha slid his torch to “off”. Dayani stepped into the hallway, smiling gently.
‘Good evening, Bromo. Sorry for the rough welcome to our humble abode. But you did rather try to sneak in.’
She gestured to the person behind him and he felt their hands slide away. Bromo rolled his neck muscles and stole a look over his shoulder. The motionless figure was clad entirely in black body-hugging garb from heat to foot with only
their eyes showing through the narrow slights of a balaclava.
‘You look bloody ridiculous,’ huffed Bromo. ‘There’s not much call for bobsledders in Richmond.’
‘But we do need someone who can merge into the shadows and keep an eye out for unwanted visitors,’ countered Dayani. ‘It seems your trade craft is not what it used to be back in the days of Sigiriya.’
She noticed his rueful look and laughed – with him, not at him he hoped – and waved him through into the main room.
‘Come, we have things to discuss and perhaps Rani will remove his headgear if that will make you feel more at ease.’
Bromo took a few rapid steps forward until he was next to Dayani. He bent over her and spoke softly.
‘Why don’t you and I go for a walk?’ he said. ‘Take a stroll up to the park. Somewhere we can’t be overheard.’
He welcomed her look of surprise. The scales were shifting back his way. His suggestion had unsettled her; shaken her confidence.
‘You can trust everyone here,’ she said.
‘It’s not your people I worry about,’ replied Bromo. He remained close and kept his voice low and firm, one stop away from threatening.
‘It’s the others; the listeners,’ he whispered.
He waved an arm in the direction of Rani and Duptha, the long torch held across his body like truncheon ready to be swung into action.
‘They can come, too,’ he said. ‘And where’s CJ?’
‘We took your advice,’ said Dayani. She gave him that smile of deceptive innocence he had long ago learnt to fear and mistrust. He looked into her eyes and thought of the Blue Lake at Mount Gambier: such a clear and sparkling surface to such deep and treacherous depths.
‘He’s taking care of our neighbour,’ said Dayani.
A spasm of alarm shot through Bromo. He had already seen what happened when this group of dedicated renegades started “taking care” of people. They acted decisively and with chilling finality. He wanted no more of that, regardless of the relentless war they were fighting. Certainly not on his home patch and definitely not before he had seen all his fragile plans slotted into place. He gripped Dayani’s upper arm, intending to steer her towards the door above. Rani and Duptha crowded in, Duptha swinging his torch down and back, ready to strike.
‘Relax everyone,’ snapped Dayani. She put her hand over Bromo’s and lifted it away from her arm. ‘Especially you, Bromo. Our neighbour has come to no harm. Let’s just say she is under house arrest and CJ is looking after her. Her listening devices have been silenced but she is still able to communicate with her colleagues. CJ is simply making sure she gives them no cause for alarm.’
Bromo relaxed slightly and stepped away from Dayani, back towards Duptha and Rani, claiming more personal space. They moved sideways. He took a deep stabilising breath. With CJ in charge next door at least half the risk had been eliminated. But other concerns remained. He waved an arm in the direction of the apartment door and mouthed the words ‘Let’s go’. The others hesitated before slowly following.
He led the way back along the corridor and down the stairs into the driveway. They stood clustered close together, uneasy and alert. Bromo whispered his concerns that taking charge of their neighbour’s listening equipment might not have been enough. Their flat might still have live bugs tracking their conversations. Delia would have left nothing to chance and he wanted to talk free of any eavesdroppers.
Dayani’s phone glowed in the dark as she tapped out a text message. Bromo frowned, his eyebrows creased.
‘I’m letting CJ know where we are,’ explained Dayani.
Bromo nodded assent and headed into the street. A row of old weatherboard cottages on the other side of the road hid low down behind a profusion of untamed geraniums and rampant jasmine vines. Not a light was to be seen. Bromo turned right and up the slight incline towards a small park where a children’s playground had recently been built beyond the road’s end. No cars could get near and they would have open space on all sides with a clear view of anyone approaching.
Bromo squashed his backside into a rubber tyre suspended from two stout chains. He swung gently to and fro. Duptha and Rani leaned back against the swing’s support posts, hands in trouser pockets, their faces blank and unsmiling, giving nothing away beyond suspicion and doubt. They looked relaxed and casual. Bromo knew they were anything but; one false move and they would be on to him.
Dayani stood a metre away, facing him full on, legs slightly apart, her arms folded across her chest, a faint smile at the corner of her mouth, her look conveying none of the animosity of her companions. Bromo felt distracted; her stance was challenging and enticing, almost raunchy. For a few lost moments it took his mind off in other directions and back to their brief first encounter in the searing hot and dusty bush country surrounding Sigiriya’s forbidding ancient fortress. She held his gaze and her smile broadened slightly into that of a woman who sees well beyond a man’s outward shell. Bromo sensed her reading his thoughts, slowly turning the pages of his mind like a reader would an open book. He shook his head, rousing himself out of his brief trance.
‘Business,’ he said sharply. ‘To put it mildly, you’re in deep shit with only one way out. And that’s my way.’
For the next five minutes Dayani, Duptha and Rani listened without interruption as Bromo rocked to and fro on the swing, wasting no words as he detailed his plan. He presented it as a fait accompli. It was an ultimatum delivered in firm, level tones. They were playing on his turf now. He chose the pitch and set the rules. They had no alternative but to accept his conditions. Rejection would mean obliteration and an end to any hopes of continuing their campaign against the horrors of the blood diamond trade.
When he finished, there was an extended silence. The only sound was the creak of the swing and the rattle of trams down on Bridge Road. Outwardly all else was the deep suburban slumber of seeming respectability. Bromo tried to interpret looks being exchanged between the Sri Lankans but got nowhere. All they told him was that he was in a poker game with high stakes. He felt his tension rising. His ear started itching and he put one hand up to scratch it. The movement unbalanced him and he toppled sideways, head down, almost falling off his seat. Not a good look when negotiating with international mercenaries. He quickly righted himself and hoped the dark hid his blushes.
The sudden movement startled Dayani. She turned and caught him twisting his way back into an upright position.
‘Perhaps you’re better with the roundabouts than the swings,’ she said, briefly allowing a ripple of laughter to lighten the mood. Again she struck that challenging pose, arms across her chest.
‘We’ll do it,’ she said.
Bromo needed reassurance. You trusted no one in this business.
‘No ifs and buts?’
‘I told you, we agree.’
Bromo accepted the reprimand. Dayani took things at face value; hers was a black-and-white world.
‘I’ll need time with Duptha,’ said Bromo.
‘You’ll have it.’
Duptha pushed himself forward off his leaning post, one hand extended towards Bromo.
‘Shake on it,’ he said. ‘Name the time and place and I’ll be there.’
Bromo grasped his hand. The grip was firm and strong. The clasp of a soldier.
‘Thanks,’ said Bromo.
He did a quick mental run-through of his plans. The schedule was tight. The night was still fairly young.
‘Why not now – at your place? You won’t regret it. We’ll all be winners.’
There were nods of agreement all round. Bromo crossed his fingers behind his back and prayed to whatever god might be listening to make it happen. Even non-believers had to play the religious card when the line between success and failure was so thinly drawn and there was nowhere else to turn. He squeezed his fingers even tighter.
THIRTY-NINE
STEVE Maloney propped himself on the corner of Delia’s desk, one jean-clad leg dangling, the other
planted firmly on the floor. He spoke to the side of her head as she concentrated on images on one of the two computer screens that took up more than half her workspace.
‘So, what’s the deal between you and this Perkins guy? There’s a few whispers going around.’
Delia gave no sign of hearing his question, or even of being aware of his presence. She stayed concentrated on the computer in front of her and tapped at the keyboard. Her frown deepened. Steve persisted.
‘A bit of history between you? I think the team needs to know if there is.’
She turned her head quickly towards him and back to the screen. She stayed focused on him for merely seconds. Steve thought he caught a flash of anger, or severe annoyance at least. Like a masseur finding a knotted tendon, he pushed harder, testing how far he could go; even using the physio’s language.
‘Is that a nerve I touched? Do we go easy on him?’
His steady probing hit home. Delia slammed her hands down on the desk and swung her chair round to face him. Her eyes glared, icy blue and hard.
‘Pull your head in right now, Steve. We will treat Mr Perkins like everyone else we come into contact with in this and every other investigation. His rights will be respected and if we suspect him of any wrongdoing or that he is withholding information we will carefully consider all the evidence before taking any action.’
Steve felt the force of her fury but held her look.
‘So last night’s little punch-up outside his flat was all in the line of business; nothing to do with helping a mate or returning a favour? It seems very convenient we happened to be right there when Mr Perkins was being attacked.’