by Jon Cleary
Pinjarri had disappeared into the grounds of the University. The big campus was deserted; it was the middle of the Long Vacation and, due to the holiday celebrations, there were no summer classes. Clements had put on pace, cursing the warmth of the summer night, about which he could do nothing, and the fact that he was over-weight, about which he had been promising himself for months to do something. He went in through the unguarded gates, wondering where the security men were, and soon found himself in the shadows of the neo-Gothic buildings, the Victorian attempt to bring Oxbridge Down Under. He had never got even close to attending university; indeed, this was only the third time in his life he had ever been on this campus, the oldest of the city’s three universities. A university might have graduates who went on to vice, fraud and homicide, his subjects, but those crimes rarely occurred on campus. He wondered why he had an inferiority complex each time he came up here.
There was no sign of Pinjarri: the black had melted into the black shadows of the big stone buildings as easily as he might have melted into the mulga scrub in a black Outback night. Clements flicked on his radio: “I’ve lost him. I’m going right through the grounds to Parramatta Road. Meet me there, down past the Footbridge Theatre.”
“Right, Sarge.” That was Andy Graham.
Clements kept on through the dark, occasionally lit grounds; there were a few lights in some of the buildings, but not many. He went down past the sports ovals and along to the Parramatta Road gates. They were locked and too high for him to climb over. He cursed and was about to turn back when he saw Pinjarri on the far side of the wide main road. The Aborigine was hailing a taxi, which pulled in beside him with a sharp squeal of brakes. Clements strained his eyes, trying to read the company name on the side of the taxi; but it was too far away and there was too much passing traffic. The taxi pulled away into the traffic stream, heading north towards the city proper.
Clements cursed into his radio: he had lost contact with the follow-up car. Then it came on the air: “Where are you, Sarge?”
“I’m locked in—the bloody gates are locked. Where are you?”
“Up by the theatre, where you told us. Are you on to Pinjarri?”
“He’s just caught a cab, going north.”
There was silence for a moment: the young men in the car were working out where north was. “Right, you mean back to the city?”
“Jesus wept!” Clements held on to his temper. “Get Headquarters to call all the operations boards of the taxi companies. See if any cab radioed in that it had picked up a passenger in Parramatta Road opposite the gates to University Oval. Find out where it took him.”
“What about you, Sarge?”
“I’ll find my way out of here. Go back to the main gate—I’ll meet you there.”
“Right.” Then a pause: “We’ll have to do a U-ie, Sarge.”
“Then do a bloody U-ie! When have you ever worried about the traffic laws? What do they teach you at the academy these days?”
He could imagine his comment going out on the open air, being picked up all over Sydney; he hoped the Commissioner wasn’t listening in. Then he grinned at the thought of the police car trying to do a U-turn in the Sunday night traffic on Sydney’s main western artery. He had to grin at something: there was precious little else to smile about. He could already hear what Scobie was going to say to him for losing Pinjarri.
But Malone had very little to say; he seemed to be remarkably philosophical. “Never mind, we just have to hope Dallas is somewhere here inside the station. If he isn’t, we can only guess Seville’s already met up with him and Pinjarri has passed him a gun. That means Seville’s got to come out into the open again if he wants another crack at Timori.”
“I just wish I hadn’t lost Pinjarri.”
Legion Cabs had, in answer to the police enquiries, reported that one of their taxis had picked up a man in Parramatta Road and delivered him to Central. Yes, he had been an Aborigine and he had been carrying a bag of some sort. He had told the driver he was fed up with the city and was going back to the bush. Clements was waiting for Malone at Central when the latter arrived from his home, having been called just as he was about to fall into bed. In the circumstances Clements could only marvel at Malone’s patience and he suddenly wondered if his chief cared whether Seville was picked up or not.
Clements had already asked for back-up, he told Malone when the latter stepped out of his own car in the setting-down area of the station. “Six SWOS guys are also on their way.”
Andy Graham came out of the ticket hall. “No sign of Pinjarri, Inspector.”
“Seville?” Malone had no real hope that they would recognize the terrorist.
“No, sir.”
The Special Weapons Operational Squad arrived in their wagon, pulling in behind Malone’s car. The SWOS men tumbled out, a little too self-conscious in their eliteness; they barely looked at the men in plainclothes and the four uniformed men now converging on Malone. Their sergeant approached Malone and was briefed on where to post his men.
“Try and not frighten the natives, Sergeant.”
The sergeant gave Malone a look that said he and his men knew how to treat the natives; then he snapped an order and the men trotted away. Clements looked after them. “They’re all so bloody keen.”
“Righto, Rambo.” When Malone looked at Clements he always thought of himself as in peak condition; when he saw the SWOS squad he wondered if he should retire as an acknowledgement of his age and debilitation. “Let’s go inside. If you sight either Pinjarri or Seville, no gunfire unless they shoot first. I don’t want half a dozen dead bystanders on my report sheet.”
He led Clements and Andy Graham in through to the main hall. A blond man in glasses passed them on his way out, but Malone stopped him. “Excuse me, sir?”
Seville stopped. “Were you speaking to me?”
“Yes, sir. We’re police—we’d like everyone to remain in the station for a few minutes.”
Seville hesitated. He had seen the SWOS men in their flak jackets and with their rapid-fire weapons come trotting past him; he knew if he made a run for it now, they would blast him before he got out of the main hall. He decided to gamble: life had been a gamble for him ever since he had joined the Tupamaros all those years ago. He had headed straight for Malone.
“Certainly, officer.”
But then as he turned to go back into the hall he felt the weight of the dead policeman’s gun in his jacket pocket. It was a lightweight linen jacket; the material did nothing to hide the bulge of the gun. He could feel it standing out on his hip like a giant heavy tumor. It was too late, however, to turn and run.
It took Malone’s men less than two minutes to round up all those who had been waiting in the hall, the cocktail lounge and the rest rooms. The SWOS men, meanwhile, had scoured the empty platforms and come back to take up their posts around the hall. Seville, standing in the middle of the group of civilians, felt that every gun in the hands of the SWOS men was aimed directly at him.
He was hemmed in by those around him; he was glad of their closeness. Two young detectives were trying to get the group to sort itself into a line, but several were rebelling at being marshalled like that: they had their rights, what was this all about? A young detective stood in front of Seville and said, “May I have your name, sir?”
“Hey, what about me?” said the young woman next to Seville. She was heavily made-up, wore a cotton-knit shirt with no brassiere so that her nipples showed through like press studs and she smelled of a heavy perfume that suggested it could be bought in family-size bottles. “I gotta go—I’m late for a date—”
“Business, love?” said Andy Graham. He looked at Malone, who had just come up behind him. “We need to keep the ladies, Inspector?”
“Do you know a man named Dallas Pinjarri, miss?”
“Who? Never heard of him. I was just passing through to go downstairs to catch the train to North Sydney—” Seville remembered her now. She had been standing beyond
Pinjarri outside the cocktail lounge, waiting for any rough trade that might come by.
He was studying Inspector Malone. There was experience there in that bony face with the wide, good-humoured mouth; it showed in the dark-blue eyes and the patient way he looked at the cheap little whore. He was not treating her as a whore and the girl, unexpectedly, seemed to appreciate it. Seville guessed that Inspector Malone would be a very good man at gathering information from any source.
“You might have seen him here. A young Aborigine, light-skinned. He was carrying a bag of some sort.”
The girl frowned, brushed her long blonde hair away from her face. “Yeah, come to think of it . . . He come outa the lounge there. I looked at him, but—” She stopped: she wasn’t prepared yet to admit she was on the game. “Then he saw the young pig—sorry. The young cop—policeman—”
“Which young policeman was that?” said Malone.
Seville felt he was holding his head in place so that it would not swivel round to look out through the ticket hall to the area where the car was still parked. Where, since there had been no commotion, the young policeman’s body was still wedged between the car and the wall.
“I dunno. I looked away and when I looked back, he’d just gone. He wasn’t there.”
“Who? The officer or the young Aborigine?”
“Both of ‘em, I guess.”
Seville’s arm suddenly seemed to ache as he willed his hand not to stray towards his pocket and the gun.
“Find the officer,” Malone said over his shoulder to Russ Clements. He nodded to the girl, smiling at her. “Righto, miss, thank you. Just give your name and address to Constable Graham. Come on, Russ, let’s go round the traps.”
He glanced at Seville, looked along the straggly line and then walked away after Clements. Graham took down the girl’s name and address, which she gave with some reluctance.
“Can I go now? I got this date—”
Seville put a hand on her arm, hoping he had guessed right: if he hadn’t, he was done for. “Wait for me—I shan’t be long—”
“Who are you, sir?” said Graham. “Do you know this young lady?”
“I came up here looking for her. I was told over at the hotel where I’m staying—” He tried to look knowing and at the same time embarrassed, a businessman looking for a cheap pick-up. Behind him an elderly woman clicked her tongue disapprovingly; he heard someone snigger. The girl just looked surprised that perhaps the night was going to turn out to be more profitable than she had expected. “My name is Gideon, I’m a visitor—” He was giving away his identity, but it didn’t matter; he had two other passports, two other choices of identity, to take him out of the country when the time came, “I was just looking for some company. The celebrations, you know . . .”
Graham was writing in his notebook. “What hotel, sir?”
“The one across the square.” He had seen it when he had walked up to the station. The Plaza something.”
“You don’t know its name?” Graham raised an eyebrow.
“A taxi driver took me there. I had no booking, I was fortunate to get in.”
“Where have you come from?”
“Melbourne.” He hoped he wouldn’t be asked any questions about Melbourne. He hadn’t the faintest notion what that city was like, he only knew it was some thousand kilometres away to the south. He could feel himself beginning to panic, just as he had after he had realized he had not killed Timori.
“Have you any identification?”
Seville, steadying a hand that threatened to tremble, produced his passport. Graham took the particulars of it and handed it back. “Okay, you two can go. Have a good night.”
The elderly woman clicked her tongue again, but Graham just grinned at her. “It’s the celebrations, mum, everyone wants to enjoy themselves. What were you doing here?”
The elderly woman swung her handbag and caught Graham on the side of the head. In the confusion and laughter that followed, Seville took the girl’s arm and pulled her after him. The girl put her arm in his and followed him.
“My name’s Dolores. Where we going? Your hotel?”
They went out through the ticket hall. A taxi drew up in front of them, deposited a soldier with a kit-bag, and Seville pushed the girl into the taxi and jumped in after her. “Geez, you’re eager!” she said.
“Pitt Street,” said Seville, grabbing at any destination.
“Which end?” said the taxi driver, a Tongan as lost in Sydney as his passenger.
“The bottom end.” Whichever that was.
The girl snuggled up to him, then instantly drew away. “What’s that? In your pocket.”
“Just protection. You don’t need to worry.”
“Did you think I might have a pimp or something?” She was indignant that she couldn’t be trusted.
By now the taxi was at the bottom of the ramp that led up to the station, halted at traffic lights. Seville took out his wallet and gave the girl twenty dollars. Then he passed five dollars to the driver. “Take the young lady wherever she wants to go.”
“Five lousy fucking dollars!” said the young lady. “How far d’you think that’ll take me?”
“Out of my sight,” said Seville, opened the door and got out. He walked quickly away. He had no idea where he was going, all he wanted was to be as far away from the police as possible. His panic had subsided; he was now angry and frustrated at how things had gone wrong. He was only thankful that Pinjarri had had the sense and intuition to be gone before the police could catch him. But now he had to be found again: he still had the rifle.
V
Russell Hickbed was separated from his wife. She was a down-to-earth country girl whom he had married when he had first started out in the construction business as a supplier of ready-mixed concrete; she had never become accustomed to their wealth and his greed for power. She had come to Sydney with him, but she had never been comfortable in the huge mansion at Point Piper or amongst the eastern suburbs Society, with a capital S, its semi-precious vowels and its opinion that anything two or three miles further west of its own domain was Ultima Thule or the Aboriginal equivalent. She had returned to Perth and a generous allowance and left her husband to his ambitions and his occasional mistresses.
Hickbed stood at the huge picture window in his immense living-room and looked down across his flood-lit gardens to the eighty-foot cruiser moored at his jetty and cried poor mouth: “We’re going to lose everything, Abdul, if we don’t get you back to Bunda.”
“We have already lost everything,” said President Timori, to whom money was not quite everything. “My reputation.”
“Abdul, for crissake, you never had a reputation, except a bad one.” Hickbed would bow the knee to no one, except perhaps the Queen; he hankered after a knighthood, but so far his friend the Prime Minister hadn’t nominated him for one. Norval, the glad-hander, sometimes took egalitarianism too far. “Let’s talk money,” he said and looked at Madame Timori, who was fluent in it. “If we don’t get you back to Bunda, you owe me quite a lot.”
“What’s quite a lot?” Her tone was frigid, that of an Antarctic bank manager.
“Several million. That’s not counting what I’ve got invested in Palucca.”
“We can’t afford anything like that.” She had a reputation for extravagance, but not towards other people.
“Russell,” said Timori, who, having lost all his oil income, still had to pour oil on waters troubled by his wife, “we are grateful for everything you have done for us. But it is too early to talk of repayment. Friends don’t speak in those terms.”
Hickbed backed down. “I didn’t mean I wanted it now. But things aren’t going well—”
“No. Someone is trying to kill me.”
“Yeah, there’s that,” said Hickbed, who hadn’t been thinking of that priority. “I hope to Christ the security is tight enough here. But I mean otherwise. Money-wise. You heard the news tonight. The bloody generals are going to try and freeze you
r funds. The States, Switzerland, everybloodywhere.”
“Not Australia?” Madame Timori sounded apprehensive, a tone foreign to her.
“I dunno. I don’t think Phil will allow it, but you never know. He has some mean-minded bastards in his Cabinet, real bloody Lefties.” There were no left-wing ministers in the Norval Cabinet, but Hickbed had his own standards. “What are you going to do about your holdings in Switzerland and those other places?”
Timori looked at his wife. “You’re the treasurer, my dear. What have you done to protect our pension?”
“It will take months, even years, to trace it all.” Once she had had money to handle she had become magical at it: millions disappeared into thin air and foreign banks. She fondled the bag of emeralds as if they were loose worry-beads; she carried the bag with her since the unfortunate accident of their discovery in Mr. Masutir’s pocket. The bag looked like a pot-pourri sachet, so she had sprayed the emeralds with “Joy” to further the illusion; it would have been sacrilege to have used a lesser perfume on such gems. “We don’t have to worry, not at the moment. It’s the real estate that’s conspicuous.”
“What about the stuff in the crates up at Richmond?” said Hickbed. “That’s beginning to smell.”
“Money never smells, Russell.” Neither did gold nor gems. She felt certain they would lose none of their possessions to the Australian Customs. She had forgotten that though the local natives were no strangers to corruption, it was not endemic amongst them as it was in Palucca. “Philip will fix everything.”
“I wouldn’t be too bloody sure about that. He’s trying to sound independent. He’s on the phone to Fegan twice a day.”
“That doesn’t sound like independence.” Timori, an ex-President, no longer had any faith in Presidents still in power. He sighed, tired out already by exile. “I’m going to bed.”