by Berry, Tony
‘To say nothing of once a tease always a tease,’ rejoined Bromo. ‘How about we get this show on the road before Peter here goes into complete meltdown.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ said Jardine.
‘I do.’
They were two lads, joshing and flirting, devoting all their macho energy to impressing a woman rather than to the task ahead. So far, Liz had done little to deter them, knowing that the jokey banter was as much a release of nervous energy as any serious flirting. Bromo removed his helmet and chained it to his bike, then locked everything hard up against a metal fence. Jardine pointed to a gravel path winding through a scattering of trees on the far side of the park.
‘Through there and down,’ he said, setting off with Liz at his shoulder and Bromo two steps behind, all walking at a brisk pace.
Although the light was fading from the day, their way was well lit by the tall pylons of lights lining the freeway looming above them. On the far side of the trees the path widened and sloped down towards a murky lagoon where water fowl scuttled to their overnight hideaways. Metal bench seats and concrete picnic tables were scattered among the saplings and native shrubs rimming the lagoon.
Beyond the lagoon was Burnley Harbour, a small marina where the river’s park rangers moored their patrol boats and dinghies. At the foot of the slope the track took a sudden right angle bend under the freeway and joined up with the riverside cycle path. A lone figure, female, slim and lean, was spread-eagled midway along one of the concrete stanchions supporting the motorway walls, more than a metre off the ground. Her fingertips clenched lumps of painted concrete, her feet precariously seeking toeholds from the same source. The woman gained purchase, legs straining. She edged sideways, her right arm closer to her body and moving the left to grip one of the yellow-painted lumps. Her feet lost their grip and she fell backwards to the ground, crouching and gazing at her three spectators.
‘If at first you don’t succeed …’ said Bromo.
The woman gave a rueful smile and shrugged. She flicked at a long mane of black hair and rubbed her hands in a mound of talcum powder.
‘It’s the best I’ve done at this level,’ she said and turned back to the wall, plotting which coloured route to follow.
Jardine pointed towards the river where a lone fisherman was hunched in the reeds, his line hanging limply in the slow-moving water.
‘We go left.’
Bromo unclipped his mobile phone from his waistband.
‘Hang on, got to make a quick call.’
‘Can’t it wait? It’ll be getting dark.’
Bromo ignored Jardine’s show of impatience. He pressed the speed dial.
‘You in place?’
The answer was brief. Bromo flipped his phone shut and clipped it back on his belt. He looked at Jardine.
‘You might be glad later I made that call. Right, let’s go.’
They moved on to a concrete path. Two Lycra-clad cyclists zoomed past. Jardine looked back towards the city where a group of runners was coming off the pontoon laid at the river’s edge.
‘Let’s merge in with this lot,’ he said.
‘Too quick for me,’ said Liz.
‘It’s not a race. Go at your own pace. The main thing is to look part of the scene, not stand out.’
They eased into a jog as they reached a steel causeway separating the boat harbour from the river. It clanked and echoed with the sound of their footsteps bouncing off the arched vaults beneath the freeway. Halfway across they heard the clank of the pontoon’s connecting joints as the following group of runners began catching up.
At the end of the causeway the concrete path resumed, curving beneath the road above and then heading back towards the river and a steep incline. Bromo looked up at the ramparts of the freeway where three lanes of traffic sped endlessly towards the city. In the distance he could see vehicles bumper to bumper on the Church Street bridge.
‘Funny to think it wasn’t all that long ago people were handing over their pennies to be ferried from one side of the river to the other.’
‘What here?’ said Liz.
‘Almost. Perhaps a bit further on and also back where we were. Family called Barrow ran the Nancy Dawson across to Grange Road, taking people from Richmond to Toorak – the workers off to mingle with the nobs. Barrow would pull the boat across on a rope tied to a tree to save energy rowing against the tide. Then a mob called Nelson started using a row-boat between Burnley Street and Williams Road. A penny a trip. One of the Nelsons tried Barrow’s rope trick but fell into the river and drowned. When the bridges were built, the ferries died.’
‘Could we skip the history lesson?’ said Jardine as the runners gradually overtook them. ‘We’re almost there.’
He flicked a hand in the direction of a large patch of earth and gravel directly beneath the freeway. A barricade of metal mesh bolted into the concrete sealed it off from the path.
‘All sorts of deadbeats and drop-outs used to doss down there,’ he puffed as they began tackling the slope.
Bromo noted the space provided standing room at the river level but narrowed to no more than crouching room as the incline increased. The gap between ground and freeway was just enough to roll out a swag and not bump your head when you sat up. Liz was dropping back. Bromo eased off to stay with her. His legs were telling him cycling was one thing, running something entirely different. Jardine made a show of letting them catch up but Bromo noted the tell-tale gasps and anguished look on his face.
‘We’re built for endurance, not speed,’ he said. ‘The tortoise and hare syndrome.’
They fell into a fast walk as three cyclists speared past, standing on their pedals to push hard up the hill. Two women jogged towards them and continued down the slope.
‘It should be here somewhere. Watch for the gate, but keep moving,’ said Jardine. ‘We don’t want to panic him if he’s there.’
He pointed. Where the mesh barricade came to an end in the angle between ground and freeway the final section had been formed into a low gate with bolt and hasp. It blended in with the rest of the fencing and was no bigger than an ordinary suburban front garden swing gate. Bromo tried to look into the unlighted gloom beyond the fence as they pushed forward, maintaining their pretence of disinterested joggers. He could see what seemed to be a couple of bedrolls and possibly a backpack. Close to the wall there was what looked like a person, fast asleep, back turned against the light, curled up in foetal position.
‘Early to bed,’ he commented.
‘Not much else to do when you’re homeless and hungry,’ said Liz. ‘No dining out or night-clubbing and no TV to waste your time.’
‘So what now?’ said Bromo. ‘If that’s Luke and that’s his hiding place, why not leave him there if he’s happy with it? It seems secure enough and out of the weather. He could do worse.’
‘Ever heard of duty of care?’ snapped Jardine. ‘Luke is in my charge and I still have responsibility for his welfare, even if he does go running off.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Bromo. ‘Maybe it would help if Liz had a quiet chat at some time, gave him some reassurance, even make sure he’s getting enough to eat.’
The hill was long and winding and they’d slowed to a brisk walk as they reached the crest which overlooked patches of grass sweeping down to a bend in the river at Loy’s Paddock. They’d seen all they needed and there was no need to force the pace.
‘Time to turn back,’ said Jardine. ‘Let’s take another look as we go past. Make up our minds then.’
La Donna è Mobile began playing. Bromo flicked open his phone.
‘Shit!’ he yelled as he snapped it shut.
Within seconds, he was sprinting back to the track, finding a speed he never knew he possessed, oblivious to the others. Liz and Jardine exchanged puzzled glances then jerked into action, recognising an urgency that was there but unexplained. Bromo was out of sight around the bend leading back to Luke’s refuge. They forced aching limbs forward. On the fi
nal curve down to the river level they could see Bromo doubled up and crouched over the gate into the hideout, fumbling with the lock.
Liz sprinted ahead of Jardine and leaned over Bromo as he thrust the gate open, pushing it inwards. They hurtled forward, heads down, bodies bent. Jardine crawled in behind them, gasping and spluttering. Bromo reached the huddled form they’d seen as they’d run past earlier, its back towards them. He put one hand on the shoulder, the other on the hip, and rolled the body towards them.
‘Ugh.’ Liz gagged, a hand up at her mouth, her eyes wide and staring, unblinking, at Luke’s lifeless form.
Jardine put his hands on her shoulders, steadying, comforting. Luke’s chest was covered in a crimson splodge of blood. It oozed slowly from a wound hidden by a T-shirt carrying the slogan Chick Magnet and depicting a weedy guy with ribs more spare than a gold medal anorexic. Bromo placed two fingers on Luke’s neck, feeling for a pulse. He looked at Liz.
‘There’s something there. Faint. Not much.’
He sat up.
‘The ambos are coming. Jason called them.’
As if to validate his words, there was a wail of sirens nearby and getting louder.
Liz raised her head, showed her surprise.
‘Jason? Is he here?’
‘Yes. A precaution. In case we set off alarms, I asked him to wait at the end of the track to see who came through.’
‘And?’
‘The old guy you mentioned. He was running for help. None of the joggers had phones. He asked Jason to make the call.’
Bromo gestured towards the fence: ‘Seems it worked.’
Two paramedics were scrambling through the entrance, weighed down by cases of equipment and dragging a stretcher behind them.
Jardine tapped Liz on the shoulder. He thumbed in the direction of the exit.
‘Let’s move. We’ll be in the way.’
‘But—’
Her voice trailed off. She looked back at Bromo and the paramedics clustered around the body.
‘Can’t we—?’
Jardine put his hand firmly in the middle of her back.
‘No, Liz, we can’t. Leave it to the experts.’
Bromo came up behind them as they crawled towards the exit.
‘Sorry, Liz, it doesn’t look good. He’s alive but they don’t hold out much hope. Best thing we can do is find whoever did it. Or we can leave it to the cops. They’re on their way.’
As they eased their bodies upright, Bromo looked back along the track he’d hurtled down only ten minutes ago.
‘It’s a long way round, Liz, but maybe you should get back up the hill and make yourself scarce. Go home, fix a drink, give yourself time to recover. It could be a long night.’
She clutched his arm: ‘Nice thought, Bromo. But it looks as if it might be too late for that.’
He followed her gaze. A police motorcycle, lights flashing, was cruising down the slope towards them. He looked in the opposite direction. Two uniformed police were closing in as fast as their bulk and the equipment swinging from their belts would allow. Behind them was Jason and a man in a long, red anorak over tartan plaid trousers.
‘Could someone give us a hand?’
Jardine bent to answer the paramedics’ plea as they tried to ease a stretcher through the narrow gate. Luke was covered by a metallic space blanket and firmly strapped in. One of the paramedics juggled with a plastic bag feeding a drip line trailing beneath the blankets. He passed the bag to Jardine
‘Hold this and come with us.’
They raised the stretcher and began walking past Bromo and Liz towards the boat harbour. Luke’s face was uncovered, eyes closed. Bromo winced as Liz’s fingers dug into his arm.
‘He’s so pale and drained,’ she whispered.
‘He’s lost a lot of blood,’ murmured the paramedic. ‘It’s touch and go.’
His words were meant more for the two policemen now stopped and gasping alongside the stretcher. Their urgency was palpable. They didn’t want to stop. The taller, bulkier policeman waved them on and turned to Bromo.
‘Well, well, isn’t this a nice surprise. And just what bit of mayhem have you got involved in this time?’
Bromo tried a nonchalant shrug. Then added a flicker of a friendly half-smile. The relaxed, innocent look. Which he really knew fooled no one, least of all his old mate and occasional adversary Sergeant Grant Mayfield. Mayfield nodded a greeting to the policeman dismounting from his motorcycle and threw a look over his shoulder towards Jason and his companion.
‘And to complete the picture,’ he said, ‘we have brought along Jason Conquest, last seen breaking into the Town Hall and carrying an unlicensed firearm.’
‘Cut the funny stuff, Grant,’ said Bromo. ‘You know bloody well it was Jason who called this one in, and as for us …’ he waved his arm to include Liz, ‘… we were out for a gentle jog when we came across that poor kid.’
Mayfield’s hands gripped either side of his waist, fingers spread wide, elbows angled out.
‘Yeah, and the Pope’s converting to Islam and the Tigers are going to win the flag. Pull the other one, Bromo. Then when you’ve done that you can start giving us the real story.’
He turned to his shorter, stockier colleague.
‘Mr Perkins enjoys riding around in police cars so I think we’d better give him and his friend a lift back to the station after we’ve taken a look around here. Sorry we don’t have a more sexy chauffeur this time.’
He winked at Bromo and bent down to look through the gate to where Luke had been found. Bromo ignored the wink. He understood the reference. So did Liz. She also gave him a wink and smiled. Too many winks; too many people in the know. Little had ever been said but it seemed half of Richmond was aware that the last time he was embroiled in local skullduggery he’d got up close and much more than comfortable with a special branch inspector named Delia. Jason came alongside.
‘What’s going on mate?’
‘Apart from Mayfield being a total fuckwit? You tell me.’
They watched the policeman edging backwards out of the hideout.
‘Ever felt like kicking arse?’
‘Probably not a good move right now.’
‘Pity about that. But I guess you’re right, Jase. Better play it soft and cool. Who’s your mate?’
Bromo indicated the red anorak man standing meekly next to Jason, eyes rheumy, a dribble at the end of his nose, arms hanging limply at his side.
‘Oh, sorry, I thought you knew. This is Ulrich. He’s been letting the kid doss down with him. He saw it all. Still in shock.’
‘Hi Ulrich. I’m Bromo.’
Bromo extended his hand. The man studied him through his weepy eyes, scarcely blinking. He raised his right hand slowly and ran the back of it beneath his nostrils, wiping the dribble away, and brought it down to shake Bromo’s. He said nothing. More police were arriving from both directions, uniformed and plain-clothed. Tapes were being unwound and lights erected. Bromo noticed Jardine edging Liz to one side, away from the activity, and sitting with her on a mound of earth looking out over the river. A good move. Mayfield was busy talking to two detectives, their heads turning to look towards him and Jason. Bromo felt things were closing in; time was short. He wiped the palm of his hand down his side and leaned in towards Ulrich.
‘Quickly, tell me, did you see who did it?’
The man made short, shaking movements of his head. Nervous. Dazed.
‘No. He was doing it when I got there, His back to me. Didn’t realise. I thought they was larking about. Everyone crawls about in there. No room to stand.’
Bromo caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. Mayfield. Coming their way.
‘Go talk to Mayfield, Jase. Head him off.’
Jason moved away. Bromo focused on Ulrich.
‘What happened next?’
‘He saw me, pushed me away. Hard. Then he sort of slipped away. Fast. Like a bloody goanna. Skinny bugger. All in black. Dark glasses.
Skittled off up the hill.’
‘And you?’
Ulrich stared at Bromo, brow creased, puzzled. He went through another bout of quick, short shakes of his head and ran his hand under his nose to wipe away a gathering droplet.
‘I could do stuff-all for the kid on my own. He was too far gone. He whispered something about Horace or Morris, something like that. Yeah, Mr Morris it was. He’d talked about him before. Then he passed out. So I went for help. Tried to follow the bloke, but he’d vanished. None of the joggers had phones. They didn’t want to stop anyway. Miserable lot.’
‘No one else?’
‘Only a blind guy – y’know, white stick and all – walking up ahead about where your mate was standing.’
Bromo felt a heavy hand on his shoulder.
‘Not interfering with witnesses, I hope.’
Bromo resisted the impulse to turn round. He maintained eye contact with Ulrich and gave him a conspiratorial wink.
‘Of course not, Sergeant. Would I ever do anything like that?’
‘Only if she’s young, blonde and wandering around a gallery without her clothes on.’
Another reference from their past. When would Mayfield let go, stop baiting him, trying to score points?
‘I must be in the clear, then. Poor old Ulrich doesn’t fit any of those descriptions. However, I would suggest he needs a bit of TLC. He’s had a nasty shock. Perhaps you could get him checked out instead of pestering honest citizens.’
Mayfield chuckled.
‘Yeah, right. Don’t tell me I’m the only one who finds it odd that Bromo Perkins happens along whenever people are being beaten up.’
‘Put it down to my public spirit. Or something to do with the cops never being there when you need ’em.’
Mayfield refused to bite. He put a hand under Ulrich’s elbow and began guiding him towards the detectives clustered down the track.
‘C’mon, mate, we’ll get the medics to take a look at you. Then you’ll need to answer some questions.’
He looked back over his shoulder.