‘Do you have any overalls here Mr. Cutts.’
‘Not really, but we do have grey house coats for the cleaning staff commander.’
‘Good...could we borrow a couple?’
Chapter Sixty
Jansen stood on the plastic chair and pulled himself into the tunnel, he turned around and held is arm out towards Dutton,
‘Come on Jeff...your turn,’ Dutton grasped Jansen’s arm and heaved himself into the opening. The bank manager then passed them two large flashlights kept for emergency during blackouts. Jansen smiled at the manager.
‘Ring the police if we’re not back in an hour,’ Cutts smiled back.
‘Right you are commander...and the best of luck!’
Dutton shone his light the length of the tunnel; it reminded him of a gigantic worm hole, with dangling roots and cobweb entanglements throughout its length.
Jansen studied the technical aspects and pondered the age of the rudimentary earthworks. It was round, just like the modern cutting of a mole tunnel machine, and yet it had the distinct scars of a hand made edifice. It certainly wasn’t a recent excavation judging by the grotesque collection of cobwebs, and miniature lime stone stalagmites. And yet parts of it were of recent origin seemingly designed to widen the orifice as it approached the bank vault.
It increased in girth appreciably as the two men continued along the floor of the tunnel, and they were now able to stand full height.
There were small dribbles of moisture, and larger riverlets curving down the side of the dampened earth. Droplets fell from stalagmites making tiny splashing noises in the shallow puddles along the ground.
They were the result of occasional heavy Sydney rain storms percolating through the ashfelt jungle above. The tunnel began to curve gently, then suddenly turned sharply and continued for another thirty metres, before branching out into a small round amphitheatre.
A concrete, breeze-block wall partitioned the northern end, and Jansen figured it was the main containment partition to the cross city tunnel. Confirmation came from the heavy droning noise of traffic emanating from beyond the concrete wall. In the middle of the edifice was a sheet of hardboard waist high. It had a tell tale handle screwed to the middle of it. Dutton grasped the handle and gave it a hard tug.
The board came away revealing a direct opening in the wall, and the bitumen road surface of what appeared to be an elaborate underpass. Vehicles raced along creating clouds of carbon monoxide gas -- it was the cross city tunnel in all its glory. Jansen looked back at the crude opening they had just struggled along. This was clearly one tunnel offshoot the irascible Chester had kept strictly to himself, but to be fair to the man, the whole information assemblage Chester was privy to would probably corrupt anybody. And in any case the whole ruddy world seemed to be heading for total corruption. This would probably be the end case for the human race -- death by corruption. The more advanced and complicated life became the more difficult it was to live a normal life for the average person in the street. Eventually it would become virtually intolerable for the human race to exist on any sensible level. The inevitable cliché -- power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely repeatedly reared its ugly head.
One only had to look at Africa and the gross state of humanity on that continent. In spite of the fact that Africa had everything going for it by way of mineral resources, space and agricultural potential -- it was an absolute bloody mess in human terms.
Chapter Sixty-one
Jansen sat in the bar of the Millers Arms, situated under the Sydney Harbour Bridge in the Rocks, studying the array of fizzy alcoholic drinks with their bright translucent colours. It was obvious why they were displayed at the back of the bar right in front of the customer’s eyes. Flushed with money on Friday night, and out for a good time, who could resist such a bedeviling sensuous display. Small wonder teenagers went for them wholesale...a colourful, sweet tasting drink, riddled with alcohol. It was manna from heaven tothe young mind, but a bloody nightmare to the police who had to pick up the pieces afterwards.
He had to admit the classy packing did pull on ones basic desires and was tempted to try one before Jeff Dutton arrived from the coroner's office with a report on Chester’s post mortem. The bar display took him back to the old days when most respectable bars often had a mirror you could look into.
In a twisted, conceited sort of way, it was nice to check up on oneself to see how one looked after five or six schooners. But nature gradually pulled the wool over one’s eyes, and progressively dulled one’s senses until it was hard to see the mirror at all, let alone who was in it. He felt sad, it was getting progressively harder to find the traditional pub in the city where beer was the dominant drink. Times changed, life moved on, and public houses were businesses just like all the others, and if the younger set wanted fizzy alcoholic drinks, then they were the prime fare. He looked solemnly into his beer as if it were about to disappear, then quickly drank the whole glass dry.
Dutton came in with his note book at the ready and quietly sat next to his boss. He thumbed through the pages then stopped half way through the book.
‘Chester’s funeral is tomorrow at ten a.m. sir...you did ask me to remind you.’
‘Thanks Jeff, and the type?’
‘He’ll be buried in the coffin with all the trimmings,’
‘No cremation then?’
‘No, Mrs. Chester is very much a traditionalist.’
‘Thank god for that then...I had visions of having to stop a destructive cremation.’
‘No need sir,’ Dutton gave him an envelope
‘Speaking of Mrs. Chester Jeff, we’ll have to see her again, we’ve just got to take a good look at Chester’s shed. Jensen keyed in Mrs. Chester’s number on his mobile.
‘Hello, Mrs. Chester here.’
‘Hello, it’s Roger Jansen her again Mrs. Chester, please forgive me for bothering you yet again, but I wonder if we could possibly take a look at Clement’s shed.’ There was a pause and Mrs. Chester asked how soon he could get there, Jansen smiled triumphantly, she had tentatively agreed.
‘We could be there in ten minutes.’
‘Well I’m on my way out for a hair appointment commander, but I could leave the shed door open...Just lock up when you go, there’s a key in the flower pot next to the shed.’
‘Right you are Mrs. Chester...thank you so much,’ Jansen gave Dutton the car keys as they left the Millers Arms.
‘You’d better drive Jeff...I wouldn’t trust myself even though I’ve only had one schooner,' Dutton looked mischievously at his boss.
‘A very sensible decision sir,’ Jansen smiled inwardly and slowly opened the envelope, taking out the coroner’s report sheet.
It was a conventional report with all the usual remarks and pathological assessments, followed by a predictable conclusion -- suicide while the balance of the mind was deranged. It seemed to be nicely tied up with no lose ends A good perfunctionary job, like stuffing a chicken and cooking it at the correct temperature and timing it in an electric oven, and getting a predictably good result.
He put the envelope back in his pocket and methodically patted it as Dutton drove into the driveway and parked in front to of Chester’s shed. It was one more thing out of the way...or was it?
Even post mortem's were not totally reliable. Past experience had revealed numerous inconsistencies in such cases requiring the ultimate corporeal carve up.
Unless the case was an absolute foolproof, cut and dried job, such results should be treated with due caution, especially if there was any hanky panky involved in the case.
Chapter Sixty-two
A little judicious fishing in the flower pot produced the padlock key and Jansen quickly removed the open lock and pulled Chester’s shed door open. A strong musty odor wafted past him and Dutton covered his face with his hands. An image of the offal pit at the local garbage dump passed through his mind.
‘Maybe we should put the air conditioner on first before going
in sir.’
‘A good idea Jeff...but lets be a little cautious here, it could disturb the contents...we could still find critical clues, even though the police have been through it. I think we’ll just make do with the light,’ Dutton flicked the switch and a dingy scene sprang to life. The police had certainly made their presence felt by scattering things all over the place, including tools of all shapes and sizes.
It was as if they had deliberately fudged the crime scene to prevent anyone who came after from gleaning any fresh evidence.
‘Perhaps it’s Mrs. Chester’s way of spring cleaning the place sir?’
‘I doubt it...I rather think she might have gone one step further and thrown all of it in the garbage bin -- the whole mess smells of rancid vindictiveness to me.’
Jansen slowly gazed at the roof scanning it from end to end. He came back to the middle where a lone piece of cord dangled from a centre beam tied by a double knot. To one side on the floor of the shed, was an over turned metal stool. This was clearly the scene of the supposed suicidal hanging.
There was little else which could have produced further enlightenment on the case, and Jansen refocused his eyes on the scant evidence. Meager though it was, it held several vital clues, and Jansen squinted once again at the coroner's report. One thing that usually gave some degree of accuracy were the blood tests, invariably carried out on most post mortem victims. He compared the report figures with a standard list of physiological norms he carried with him on a small laminated paper the size of a credit card. He went carefully down the list of standard values.
The amount of alcohol and isotropic drugs were extremely high -- too high in fact to be compatible with the physical evidence.
Jansen righted the metal stool, stepped onto it, reached up, and struggled to untie the cord from the beam -- after a valiant effort, he finally pulled the cord down and gave it to Dutton.
‘I want you to get up on this step Jeff and re-tie the cord, the way it was,’ Dutton frowned quizzically, then move forward, confidently looking at the task as a challenge of his capabilities.
‘No problem sir,’ he pulled the cord taunt and mounted the metal steps, almost over balancing as he did so, then slung the cord over the beam. He then proceeded to tie a double knot, but missed his footing on the small platform area of the steps. He made a second attempt and managed to tie one lose knot, then struggled again to keep his balance as he attempted the second knot. Finally after another laboured session he stepped off the stool and surveyed his handy work.
‘There sir...childs play!’
‘I don’t think so Jeff...lets face it, you made a hard job of it, and you’re a relatively young man,’ Jansen tugged at the cord several times finally undoing the two knots and pulling the cord away again.
‘You couldn’t hang a skinned rabbit with that knot sergeant ’
‘But Chester would be more deliberate and determined than me sir.’
‘I doubt that Jeff...you see he would be so pissed and infused with cannabis, that I doubt whether he could even have balanced on the step, let alone tie two sturdy knots and then hang himself. If he did, it would have been more like a lucky accident than a planned suicidal exercise. Also bear in mind he was an old, retired man, well into his sixties...may be even seventy something. In fact I think he was probably so bad, I doubt he could even walk the length of the shed without falling over.’
‘I see your point sir...you think he was murdered?’
‘Without a doubt, unless of course his wife carried out an assisted euthanasia. I personally doubt that very much, having met her in the flesh.’
‘Well that throws a monumental spanner in the works sir.’
‘It certainly does sergeant, but it also provides us with much more cannon fodder to play with...things are never what they seem...even if they do look cut and dried.’
Chapter Sixty-three
Jansen had just strapped himself in to this car when his mobile buzzed.
‘Hello, Jansen.’
‘It’s Steve Deakin here commander,’ Jansen instantly recognised the ASIO director’s piecing voice, ‘any progress commander?’
‘Lots sir, it seems Chester has written a wonderful biography riddled with exposes about the government and the police force.’
‘How much of it is false and how much is true?’
‘There’s so much sir, I wouldn’t know where to begin and I suspect it’s all true, down to the last detail. It is Chester’s confession to the world, and something he desperately needed to get
off his chest. It was also his pièce de réistance, or his magnum opus if you like, against the establishment.
‘Where did he keep this sordid tome...according to the police the place was thoroughly searched when they found his body?’
‘That may be sir, but I suspect the police probably didn’t do a real good job. Apparently, his wife found the book in a tool chest while she was cleaning out his shed. Another point they seem to have missed is that Chester knew the Sydney tunnel system better than anyone else in the world. His father took him around the numerous tunnels when he was a boy, and there are in fact, many more tunnels that only Chester knew about.’
‘These tunnels...are they lost to us then?’
‘Fortunately, no they aren't sir -- in Chester’s biography there’s a whole lot of maps -- interestingly, there is one map showing how to get from the cross city tunnel to St. Peters Bank.’
‘That’s probably a bit of a coincidence?'
‘I’m afraid it isn’t sir -- you see Clement Chester’s biography pulled no punches, he has revealed in his book a plan to rob St. Peters Bank. Not only that, I have just been down the very tunnel that was used by the BIB to rob the Bank. It opens up within the cross city tunnel about half way along the distributor concourse.’
‘Really, how did they manage to hide it?’
‘Well sir, the opening was covered by a large sheet of hard board, which had been tiled on one side so that it matched the tunnel decor.
I suspect they robbed the bank during the height of the presidential siege via this tunnel, then made their way back to the distributor. But before they entered the cross city freeway, they probably stayed in the tunnel and waited until the coast was clear.’
‘So the BIB has the $50 mill then?’
‘Not quite sir...it seems Chester acquired ten million which is now in possession of his wife, and I must warn you sir, she is determined to keep the money or else.’
‘Or else what?’
‘Or else she will publish Chester’s book -- which will demolish the present government and most of the police hierarchy as well...not to mention a goodly number of retired high ranking officers.'
“I see...look, I think we have no choice here but to relay this immediately to higher office...Mrs. Chester may even be considering publishing that book regardless. It could well make her a millionaire over night. We have a political hot potato on our hands -- can you get in touch with her now commander, while I pass this info on to safer hands. Tell her to hold everything -- tell her we will consider any proposition she has in mind.’
‘I will...but one small point here...I don’t think it’s wise to pass the information on at this stage sir. We could be acting a little too prematurely...give me a few more days.’
‘All right commander, I’ll bow to your superior knowledge and experience, but sooner or later we’re going to have to pass it on.’
‘Thank you sir for your patience,’ Jensen cut the call and keyed in Mrs. Chester’s number.
‘Hello Mrs. Chester, this is commander Jansen again, sorry to bother you but an important matter has surfaced. You remember our little talk on Chester’s biography.
‘Yes commander, and I meant what I said, the book is in London under lock and key, and can be published at the drop of a hat.’
‘I fully appreciate that Mrs. Chester...but all I wish to say is...hold everything...please don’t quote me, but we may be able to offer you the earth, pro
viding you don’t publish Clement’s book,’ a raucous laugh erupted at the other end of the line.
‘Well you can take it from me commander, it will be the earth, and a damn site more, unless you get back to me in short order. I’ve a vice president to entertain.'
‘A vice president -- who would that be Mrs. Chester?’
‘Non other than the United States Vice president Frederick Jenkins.’
‘Really, what is he doing here?’Jansen sat back in his car seat, his brain went into overdrive, and his face turned pale.
‘He’s come to see his old friend Clement for a last farewell word or two.’
‘You mean Clement was a friend of Jenkins?’
‘He certainly was commander they were in the Power Play Club together.’
‘The Power Play Club?’
‘Yes, it’s an exclusive private club in New York, only men of real power may become members, they all share their power play secrets. Most of the US presidents were members and quite a few other well known dignitaries.'
‘I see...and Jenkins is on a private visit to attend the funeral then?’
'That's right commander, and he wishes to remain anonymous, along with his secret service entourage; please don’t mention his visit to anyone.’
‘No I won’t -- I trust they’ll all be at the funeral then Mrs. Chester.’
‘Yes...but I won’t be there...funerals always upset me terribly. I will say my good-byes to Clement before they take the coffin away,’ her voice wavered and she sobbed.
‘Thank god for those boys,’ she said endearingly.
‘What boys?’
‘The lads of the US secret service, they have volunteered to take Clement’s body away,’ more sobs filled the earpiece.
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