‘Yes, but we stirred up a hornet’s nest. This is cop priority number one. Today they’ve been rounding up all the bikies who were there and trying to reconstruct what happened. They don’t seem to have anything on your car though. How did you get home?’
‘All the bikes screamed straight off down the main road to Penrith and the motorway, so I took the back streets around the town and headed back through St Marys and Mount Druitt and Blacktown, nice and slow. How about you? Last I saw you were after Bebchuk on some poor bastard’s Harley.’
Harry tells him, then says, ‘They’ve got identikits of us, Tony, and yours isn’t too bad. One of their scenarios is that former Crows might’ve had a grudge against those three, so they’ll probably want to talk to you sooner or later.’
‘Okay. Any suggestions?’
‘Trim your hair and beard—nothing so drastic your friends will remember. And get yourself an alibi for last night. Again, nothing exotic, just something you’d usually do.’
‘Sure.’
‘And they’ll possibly tap your phone.’
‘I’ve had practice, mate.’
‘I know.’
‘Mate, Rowdy’s up there, raising a beer to us. I can see him now.’
Harry rings off and tries Kelly on his unmarked phone. No response.
34
When Deb and Harry spotted Kelly in Mortimer Street, she was staring at the upper windows of the houses. It has taken her a while to get here, with everything that happened last night, but the whole time she was trying to piece together the facts and rumours around the bikie deaths, one part of her brain has been worrying away at the children question. They flit in and out of her mind like little ghosts, just like Phoebe’s description. The reason she didn’t dismiss it as senile rambling was because of something she’d hardly registered until Phoebe raised the topic. That first time the police were in Mortimer Street, when they raided the Crow clubhouse, Kelly remembers seeing children’s play equipment in the Crow courtyard, beyond the flattened gates. It seemed incongruous, comical almost, and she’d thought no more about it until Phoebe. And then, the paedophile allegation against Potgeiter.
Three disconnected references. A very flimsy foundation for any answer to the big question—what the hell has been going on at Crucifixion Creek? But still, the children keep coming back to trouble her, and so Kelly is here now, outside number eleven. Not staring down at the exotic cactus garden but up at the bedroom windows, which are screened by internal grey blinds. And as she looks closer, she sees that the upper windows of the adjoining houses, all along the street, are screened in exactly the same way. Identical grey blinds. A job lot? A group discount buy? The effect is uncanny, like a group of people standing together in the street, all with their eyes closed.
She rings the front doorbell.
Nothing happens for a while, and then she notices a movement out of the corner of her eye. The curtain of the little bay window over to the right of the door. Without turning her head, Kelly slides her eyes to the right and catches a glimpse of a forearm raised as if holding a phone to an ear. Then the curtain closes again.
She waits, and eventually the door opens and Donna Fenning smiles at her, feigning surprise. ‘Oh, hello, um, sorry, I’ve forgotten your name…’
‘Kelly, Kelly Pool. Sorry to bother you again, Donna. Is this a bad time?’
‘Um, no, I suppose not. What is it?’
‘May I come in for a moment?’
‘All right.’
Donna has changed since the last time. She was enthusiastic about Kelly’s articles, was open and welcoming. Now she’s like a different person.
They go into the front room again. Donna seems to rouse herself, and says, ‘I don’t know anything about what’s been happening down the street. I didn’t see anything last night.’
‘Okay. But it wasn’t about that. I just wanted to ask you more about the children.’
‘Children? There are no children here.’
‘Here?’
‘In the street.’
‘But last time you said there were bikie families here with kids.’
‘No, you must have misunderstood me. Years ago I suppose there were.’
‘But…in the bikies’ compound I’ve seen children’s play equipment, quite new-looking, and a sandpit that had obviously been used recently—there was a bucket and spade in the sand.’
‘I wouldn’t know anything about that.’ Donna is looking at her with a fixed stare, and it seems quite apparent to Kelly that she’s lying. Then Donna blinks a couple of times and looks away. It is a moment Kelly recognises, the moment when the interviewee realises they’ve been caught out. It is often followed by an admission.
Donna gets abruptly to her feet. ‘I’ll tell you what. I baked a cake. I’d like some coffee and cake, how about you?’
‘Mm, I’d love that.’ This is encouraging, it means that Kelly is being invited to stay. A hospitable interviewee usually turns out to be a truthful one.
‘Good. You just stay there and I’ll fix it up in the kitchen.’
As soon as she’s out of the room Kelly gets up. From the sounds, the kitchen is at the back of the house, while the foot of the stairs is directly across the narrow hallway from the living room door. Kelly steps quickly across and hurries up the stairs. On the upstairs landing she tries the doors in turn—a bathroom, a master bedroom with Donna’s cosmetics on a dressing table, two smaller bedrooms. These other bedrooms are very spartan, in each of them a couple of bare mattresses on folding bed frames and a clothes rack with wire coat hangers. In one room there is a cheap print of a desert island taped to the wall, and in the other a childish stick-figure has been scrawled with a crayon on the wallpaper, low down near the skirting board.
Kelly returns to the stairs, and as she’s halfway down Donna appears below her, carrying a tray. She looks up and Kelly says, ‘Sorry, I was looking for the bathroom, do you mind?’
‘Straight ahead of you at the top of the stairs.’
‘Thanks.’ She turns back upstairs.
When she returns to the living room, Donna is pouring from a coffee pot into mugs.
‘Black or white?’
‘Black, one sugar please.’
‘It’s quite strong. I hope that’s all right for you.’
‘Perfect. I need it.’
‘Your job must run you off your feet. I feel stressed just thinking about it.’
Kelly goes along with the small talk, waiting for the moment of confession. The cake is a well-made sponge, the coffee strong and sweet. She yawns, covering her mouth. ‘Sorry. Late nights.’
‘My husband has that, shiftwork at the hospital. Takes him time to adjust.’
Kelly wonders whether she should ask about what he does there, but frankly she’s not that interested. In fact she’s not that interested in Donna. She asks herself how a reporter could think that. Everyone has their stories to tell, and it’s time Donna told hers, like about that thing upstairs…what was it? She’s so tired she’s finding it hard to think straight. The child’s drawing on the wallpaper, that was it. She yawns again and raises her hand, forget
ting that she’s holding the coffee mug now.
‘Oops.’ Donna takes the mug gently from her. ‘Thanks,’ she mumbles. How did she get to be so tired? Her eyes are blurry, and she tries to focus them on Donna, but it’s too difficult. She closes them, just like the blinds in the upstairs windows.
35
The next day, a Sunday, is Harry’s rostered day off. He feels suspended once again, waiting for events to unfold elsewhere, for the knock on the door, for Deb’s husband and his ninja mates to come storming in for him. He’s grateful for Jenny and the steady, determined way she goes about the daily chores, making the bed together, preparing breakfast, writing out a shopping list. She hands it to him and it’s not bad. Cauliflower goes off the end of the page and no-fat Greek yoghurt runs downhill across my muesli, but otherwise pretty impressive.
‘Fine,’ he says. ‘I’ll get onto it. You’ll ring me if anyone calls on the landline? And don’t answer the door.’
‘Stop worrying,’ she says, laying a soothing hand on his arm. ‘If this is our last day of freedom, let’s enjoy it.’ She’s teasing him. But is that how she’s secretly thinking, that their world may collapse at any moment?
As soon as he’s in the car he rings Kelly again. Nothing. What the hell is she doing?
Frustrated, he calls the accountant, Sam Peck. ‘Sam, hi, Harry. Listen, I need to talk to you about one or two things, Greg’s accounts.’
‘Jeez, Harry, it’s Sunday.’
‘Yeah, well I’ve been busy. Homicide never sleeps.’
‘Lindy’s got people coming over for lunch; she’s going nuts. Actually, yeah, maybe I can spare an hour. At the office?’
‘If that’s where the records are, yes.’
He is opening up the office when Harry gets there. ‘Lindy blew her top when I said I had to go out. I hope this is worth it.’
‘So do I. I want to look at Greg’s records for three years ago, June 2010.’
‘Three years ago? Come on, Harry, that’s ancient history!’
‘What if it was the ATO springing a desk audit on you? Come on, last month of the financial year. You should know all about it.’
‘Mind telling me why? What are you looking for?’
‘Humour me.’
So Sam, grumbling, pulls files from his cabinet and sits down at his desk, switching on the computer. ‘Let’s see, let’s see…’ He begins flicking through Greg’s bulging client file with notes of meetings. ‘Oh god, yeah,’ he groans. ‘He was having one of his crises…Then at the last minute a cheque came in, a big one, right at the end of June.’
‘Who was it from?’
‘The council. Greg was doing a lot of maintenance and small works for them. Yeah, I remember now. They’d approached him a couple of months before to do a heap of small jobs. They were in a rush to get them done before their grant ran out at the end of the tax year. It was a godsend for Greg. He put his other work on hold and took on extra people. Course there were big outlays, materials, wages, but the council blokes assured him he’d be paid in regular instalments. Only that didn’t happen.’
Sam flicks through the pages of the file, notes of telephone calls, meetings. ‘Yeah, after the second month the bank started getting shirty about his overdraft and he got back to the council. More promises. There was some problem with the finance department’s computer or something. Not to worry. But he was worried, Greg, because the council needed to make the payment before the end of June, before their grant money expired, or he might have to wait months before they found the cash to see him right.’
‘But they did pay?’
‘Yeah, on the thirtieth of June, right at the death knock. But only after Greg had gone to see one of the councillors, who eventually sorted it out.’
‘Do you know his name?’
‘No, no idea. Someone he met at Rotary or Lions or somewhere.’
‘Did Greg go on doing work for the council?’
‘Yes. He called it bread and butter work, not the sort of difficult jobs he liked to get his teeth into, but it was good for the bank balance.’
‘And were they responsible for his latest crisis?’
Sam frowns. ‘Not that I know of, but I can’t really be sure. Greg tended not to confide in me until things really went pear-shaped, and this last time was all about the Bluereef loan. And like I said, he didn’t consult me on that one until it was too late.’
‘Okay, thanks.’
‘Should I be looking into the council contracts?’
‘No, don’t worry. I might have a word with Peter Rizzo.’
‘You’ll probably find him at the new depot. He told me he’s flat out.’
‘The new depot?’
‘Yeah, he’s renting one of the empty sheds near Greg’s old place.’
The new depot is just one building away from the blackened ruin of the old, and, Harry realises, abuts the empty shed which the Crows had partially colonised with their armoury and drug factory. He remembers Wagstaff’s briefing, the direction to find out who owns that building, and it makes him think of the police investigation, continuing while he is still free to drive around.
A single white ute stands outside, beneath a gleaming new sign, RIZZO CONSTRUCTION, MASTER BUILDERS. Harry pushes open the door to a small office area. A radio is playing somewhere inside the shed beyond the counter. There is a bell marked Please ring for attention, so he does. After a moment Peter Rizzo appears. He seems surprised to see Harry, a little put out, but covers it up with a cautious smile.
‘Harry, hi. You’re lucky to catch me.’
‘Sam Peck told me I’d probably find you here. He said you’re very busy.’
‘Yeah, that’s true, trying to catch up on things since…Come on through.’
Harry follows him into a small office. The desk, chairs, filing cabinets, computers, printer and photocopier, all look brand new. Through the window into the working area Harry can see cardboard and polystyrene foam from unpacked equipment. They sit.
‘How’s it going, Peter?’
‘Oh, non-stop, trying to catch up on Greg’s contracts. Every day there’s some new crisis.’ He gives a you-know-how-it-is kind of smile.
‘And it’s worked out with the old clients?’
‘Yeah, pretty much. They just wanted to get their jobs finished.’
‘How about the council?’
‘Huh?’
‘Greg was doing work for them, wasn’t he?’
‘Just a bit of building maintenance, nothing big.’
‘Are they bad at paying on time?’
‘No. There are a lot worse.’
‘Only Sam told me Greg got into a bit of bother with them three years ago—June, end of the financial year. Remember?’
Peter frowns, scratches his neck. ‘No…Sam said that, did he?’
Harry keeps his eyes on Peter’s, but he is taking in the body language, the tense posture, lopsided, as if preparing to bolt.
‘Yes. He said Greg eventually got onto one of the councillors, who sorted it out for him. You know who t
hat was?’
Peter looks up at the ceiling. ‘No-o, can’t say I do.’
‘How about Potgeiter? Does that name mean anything to you?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Potgeiter. Joost Potgeiter.’
‘No, no, can’t say I’ve heard of him.’ He raises his wrist to examine his watch.
Harry rises. ‘Okay, I’ll let you get on, Peter.’
Rizzo leaps to his feet. ‘Any time, Harry. How’s Nicole making out?’
‘Taking each day as it comes, you know.’
‘Sure, sure.’
Actually, when he rings Nicole from the car it sounds as if she’s making out pretty well.
‘Harry! We’re planning a barbecue. I was hoping you and Jenny would come over, but I just rang her and she said you needed a bit of peace. You’ve had a bad week? Those people—bikies—they’re animals. Poor you.’
‘I just wanted to clear something up, Nicole, about Greg’s work. Sam Peck was telling me Greg got into a spot of financial bother three years ago, because of some problem with the local council about getting paid. I wondered if you remembered him talking about that.’
‘Three years ago? No, I’m afraid not. Isn’t that ancient history?’
Ancient history, he thinks. Doesn’t she remember what happened three years ago? She sounds as if she’s already got the cork out. ‘There was a councillor who helped sort it out, apparently, by the name of Potgeiter.’
‘Oh him! Yes, I remember him at some charity do we went to, and then another time somewhere. Horrible little man. He was all over me, getting too close, touching me. Really slimy. I told Greg and he said something about keeping in with the right people. Joost! That was his first name. Joost keep your hands to yourself was what I wanted to say to the nasty little creep!’ She giggles loudly.
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