by Berry, Tony
He could almost feel the silence.
‘What should we do?’
‘It’s a bit late now, but I suggest you wipe any messages still on your phone. And don’t send any more.’
‘Okay.’
She sounded meek and compliant. Bromo hoped the sudden change was genuine and lasting. Phone talk gave no clues. You couldn’t see eyes, watch body language, note the small, tell-tale movements of hands, the twitch of legs, the tapping of feet. For all he knew she could be giving him the finger or sharing a giggle with Lottie. Adriana assured him she was at home with Lottie and no one else was with them. He wanted them out of there.
‘Check the locks, don’t let anyone in you don’t know and keep an eye out for anyone loitering outside.’
Funny how the old routine had clicked in. For a few seconds he was on auto-pilot, running through the basic procedures – once learnt, never forgotten, regardless of how long since they’d been used. He didn’t want to scare them but their links to Melissa O’Grady left him little choice. He double-checked Adriana’s phone number, Lottie’s too, and told her to pack their bags and get ready to move. She gave him her address. It was a squat down a narrow street in the downtrodden corner of Richmond behind Swan Street.
‘Stay there ’til we come. Don’t know who – me, Liz Shapcott, someone. We’ll pick you up. Probably later this afternoon. And when you’re packing, don’t forget that proof you claimed to have.’
‘I don’t have it.’
Bromo slumped back on to a stool and rested his elbows on the kitchen bar, head down in his hands. Why bother? These kids were loose cannons.
‘Don’t tell me, Adriana. Let me guess, you’ve thrown it away.’
She bounced back, sparky and bright. If only he could see her eyes. He needed to read her face, assess her mood. She assured him the papers were in good hands. A friend had them. Another of those anonymous friends. Probably friends who ran outside the law, followed their own codes of loyalty and revenge. Tough, streetwise and so very bloody vulnerable. Bromo felt weary. It was too early to be dealing with this. A second coffee was an imperative. Cut to the chase.
‘Does this friend have a name? Can we contact him, or her?’
‘Sure.’
She was still sounding bubbly. The scared and frightened phase had blown over.
‘He lives in a refuge over in Hawthorn. His name’s Luke.’
SEVENTEEN
Carl West leaned back, hands in pockets. He tapped his toes impatiently on the kerbside as he kept watch from across the road, waiting for Theopoulos to arrive. He levered himself forward off the light pole as he saw the estate agent waddle down the street and push open the door of the double-fronted shop-front, its windows a colourful gallery of houses for sale and flats to rent. West waited for a break in the stream of morning commuter traffic, then made a quick dash and burst through the agency’s door.
The receptionist went through her usual blocking routine. West flattered himself that she hadn’t recognised him behind the rimless glasses, tightly curled hair and neat goatee beard. She was too slow, too late –another successful entry by an old trouper. West was hard on her boss’s heels and into his office. Theopoulos turned at the noise of the intrusion.
‘What the hell?’
‘Yes, hell indeed,’ said West.
Theopoulos fingered his beads.
‘Oh, it’s you. What do you mean, hell indeed?’
‘You haven’t heard? You want the good news, or the bad news?’
‘I’ve heard plenty. Got the call at five o’clock. Bastards. Bloody place is a ruin.’
West stopped, puzzled.
‘What place, ruin, whaddya mean?
Theopoulos slumped in his chair, buttocks oozing over the sides, the beads clicking.
‘I mean Number 85. A bomb. Fire. Isn’t that what you’ve come to tell me. You got names? This had better be good.’
West shuffled his feet, moved towards his perch on the edge of the desk, then thought better of it. Usually he could cope with the Greek’s rants and outbursts, put it down to what he considered typical Mediterranean madness, like the crazies who let off flares at the soccer games and even at the tennis Open. Although those were mostly Serbs and Croats. Not much difference, really. All far too hot-blooded. But this was something else. It had thrown him off-course. There was real anger steaming across the desk. Theopoulos was pushing his beads around their rope quicker than he’d ever seen.
West scratched at the side of his nose. His other hand fumbled at things in his jacket pocket – a bunch of keys, old tram tickets and a supermarket docket.
‘What you fiddling for?’ snapped Theopoulos. ‘What you nervous about? You know something? This was no accident. The place was bombed. The police are already asking questions.’
He pointed a finger at West, ticking off each word.
‘You find out who did it before they do. Start earning your money.’
West saw a way in.
‘Well, it wasn’t the kid.’
Theopoulos stopped threading the komboloi. He frowned at West. The change of direction confused him.
‘The kid, the one you told me to take care of,’ explained West. ‘He won’t be any more trouble.’
Theopoulos waved a hand dismissively.
‘Is that your good news or your bad news?’
The voice was slow and measured. Intimidating. He had enough to cope with. West decided to brazen it out.
‘Depends on your point of view, Con, but I thought you ought to know it got a bit messy. Don’t know what he was doing there, but that Bromo Perkins guy came along and someone called the cops. I got out just in time.’
Theopoulos gave a dismissive shrug and reached into his desk drawer for his slim metal Thermos flask.
‘Why you telling me? Good news, bad news, what’s the difference? I told you to fix the boy, you fix. The cops come, but you get away. That Bromo person, no big worry. Me, I’ve got bigger troubles.’
He unscrewed the flask and poured a shot of thick, black coffee. He smiled at West as he put the cup to his lips and took a long, slow sip, making a show of savouring every trickle. He swivelled his chair and stretched his legs, lounging back.
‘So, Carl, where’s the problem?’ he asked. ‘Maybe for you, but not for me. You want problems, you go round to Number 85. That’s a problem. Find out what happened. You boast about your contacts. So, use them. What’s with that cop who’s supposed to be looking after Number 85? Tell him to start earning his money. I gave you the extra he asked for. Or did you keep it for yourself?’
Theopoulos sipped the coffee. His lips turned up in a smile, but his eyes betrayed him: West saw no mirth or compassion there.
‘If you can’t fix the problem, maybe I call CrimeStoppers about the girl in the river and the young man you say you fixed last night. The cops need all the help they can get.’
He sat upright, swung his legs back under the desk, fixing West with a hard stare.
‘Surely you’d agree, Carl. It’s our duty as good citizens.’
West realised he was being cast adrift, without even a paddle to steer his boat. So much for loyalty. His anguish turned to anger. Theopoulos had never threatened him before. He always seemed content to feed off the information West brought him. The Greek was forever stressing his need to be kept at least one step removed from the pressures the failed thespian applied on his behalf to keep the wheels of his dubious little empire churning out unseemly amounts of money. Now, it seemed, he was fading further into the background and widening the gap between them. West was another disposable asset – a mortgagee’s estate, a rundown property going cheap to an astute investor, surplus to portfolio, needs attention, possible high returns.
West imagined the sale sign, not much different from the ambiguous wording of the property listings lining the office walls: “Bids sought for ex-actor and stand-over man, seen better days, could be restored by new owner, adaptable to many roles, well connected with loc
al identities.”
It sounded good. He bounced it around in his head. It had possibilities. The depression and anger brought on by Theopoulos’s threats was rapidly becoming a positive response of his own making. He turned to face Theopoulos.
‘Funny you should mention that about CrimeStoppers, Con. I was thinking the same thing. Upright citizens and all that crap. A good idea. Perhaps I should give them a ring, too. There’s so much I could tell them.’
Glare met glare across the desk. West was the first to look away, stepping back and moving towards the door.
‘Think about it, Con.’
He gave a friendly nod of his head as he turned the handle and began making his exit.
‘Meanwhile, I’ll mosey on down to No 84 and see what gives. Might pick up a bit more info to add to the dossier.’
Theopoulos took a small pillbox from his desk drawer, spilled two pink tablets into his hand and thrust them into his mouth, washing them down with a gulp of coffee. Sometimes the komboloi was not enough.
EIGHTEEN
Peter Jardine picked up at the third ring. Bromo didn’t waste time on the niceties.
‘Bromo Perkins here, I’m sending you two new residents,’ he said.
‘Bloody hell, mate,’ rasped Jardine. ‘Get real. You can’t do that.’
‘Try stopping me. They’ll be on their way as soon as I can arrange to pick them up.’
Bromo clicked the switch on his coffee machine. Desperation was setting in: out of bed for an hour and still without his first shot of caffeine.
‘It doesn’t work that way, Bromo,’ said Jardine. ‘There are procedures to go through. People to advise. Documentation to complete.’
‘Stop talking like a bureaucrat.’
‘It’s not my call to make. The department decides and there’s a bloody long waiting list. More kids in need than you’d ever believe.’
True enough, Bromo thought. It was all too true. Deciding priorities would be a bugger of a job. Did it matter whether the kid was being victimised at home or on the streets, whether the abuse was self-inflicted or at the hands of violent parents or even their peers? There was no league table to rank the levels of need. They all needed protection and a chance to escape their menacing, hopeless environment. Some would turn their lives around under the care of people like Jardine. Others would reject the opportunity.
‘These are special need,’ Bromo argued.
‘They all are.’
Bromo played his trump card.
‘They’re linked to Luke.’
There was a long pause. Bromo tried to tamp the coffee into the filter while he waited for Jardine’s response. Eventually it came.
‘Tell me more. But make it good.’
Bromo deciphered the underlying message as he slotted the filter into place. It was what he wanted to hear. Jardine might be persuaded, Bromo’s hopes like a vacuum cleaner salesman’s who had talked his way into a customer’s lounge-room.
‘They don’t have to go on the books,’ said Bromo, pushing the switch. ‘No need to feed ’em or give them anything other than protection. All I’m asking is for somewhere they can sleep for a few days so they’ll be safe.’
He paused, waiting the seven seconds before the dark brown liquid began streaming into the glass.
‘I thought you’d be the best bet.’
Bromo gave Jardine time to consider. He removed the glass with its thick crema and served his ace.
‘They claim they’ve got proof about Melissa O’Grady’s murder. It seems they gave it to Luke for safe keeping. They’ll need to go through his things.’
‘I could do that. Or Luke himself. Strictly between you and me, the tough little bugger looks like pulling through.’
The cheerful uplift in his voice was palpable, but Bromo felt the need to press on.
‘Hey, that’s great. But we’ll save you the trouble. Besides, the girls know what they’re looking for.’
‘Girls?’
‘Yes. Didn’t I say?’
‘What are you trying to do to me, Bromo? I need more girls like Iraq needed Bush. The testosterone level in here is high enough as it is.’
‘Trust me, they’ll be all right. They’ve got each other.’
‘Like that, are they?’
Bromo wasn’t sure. It was just a feeling he had and worth hinting at it if it clinched the deal. His hand went up to his ear, rubbing the wounded lobe. The irritation was fierce – a constant reminder and permanent giveaway. He sipped his coffee, sensing an immediate charge, a hit. The day could begin.
‘Okay,’ said Jardine. ‘I’ll do it.’
Bromo stifled a sigh of relief.
‘Thanks, mate, I owe you one.’
‘You owe me plenty.’ Jardine was gruff, unforgiving.
‘And Luke?’
‘More blood loss than real damage. He’s had a transfusion, been stitched up and could be out in a few days. But don’t let on.’
Bromo didn’t understand. Liz would want to know. The kid was on his way back. Good news was in short supply and needed spreading around
‘The official line is Luke’s still unconscious and not likely to make it,’ said Jardine. ‘The police are keeping him under wraps. There’s every chance he can identify his attacker – someone he calls Mr Morris.’
The bolt struck home. It should have hit ages ago. It was the name Luke had pitched to him as they sat on the footpath outside Liz’s place. The mystery man who drifted in and out of the kid’s life, giving orders, making threats. No wonder the name rang a bell, although that’s all it did. Other links evaded him. There was no extension to the connection to Luke, no one else he could call to mind to flesh out the identity.
Bromo repeated his thanks and cut the call. He plugged in the toaster and slipped a couple of slices of wholemeal bread into the slots. It was all too much to cope with on an empty stomach. And he still had a bomb site to visit.
NINETEEN
Halfway along, the road had been roped off. Orange cones directed cars into a side street, leaving drivers to find another route. Bromo decided it didn’t apply to cyclists and rode on. Blue and white police tape wrapped a ribbon around the scene of devastation. Two fire trucks were parked facing each other in the left hand lane, their crews winding hoses back on board. Water streamed down the gutter. A cluster of police vehicles was ranged at odd angles outside the building, one of them on the footpath. A throng of uniformed and plain-clothed police traipsed over the rubble. A couple in blue coveralls labelled “Forensic” crouched over the splintered wreckage of the front gate. Two paramedics leaned with arms folded against an ambulance, their services so far unneeded. Behind the police tape, TV crews jostled with press photographers, waiting for access to the site. Journalists with voice recorders at the ready stood off to one side. A breed apart from their pictorial colleagues, they waited for someone to feed them words that would later appear beneath their bylines as if they had created some original literary work.
The high fence that had provided Bromo and Jason with such a barrier a week ago was a pile of crumbled bricks. Beyond, the front of the house gaped wide open, its windows glassless and its walls mostly collapsed. Heavy brocade curtains clung torn and blackened to a brass rail leaning at an angle, one end ripped from its fixtures, the other still tenuously in place. The room on the right looked like a lounge area with big soft leather sofas and two deep armchairs. In the room on the left, which had somehow escaped the full impact of the blast, the centrepiece was a king-size, four-poster bed, immaculately made up and ready for use. A large spa bath filled one corner of the room. A pile of towels was stacked alongside its ornate, gold-plated taps. It was a garish fantasy setting for those in lust, more boudoir than bedroom.
Bromo pedalled as close as he could before stopping and straddling his bike, a leg either side of the crossbar. A couple of women in high fashion tracksuits were talking into a tape recorder held by a pert young woman wearing an anorak bearing a radio station’s logo.
‘We always suspected something was going on,’ said one.
‘But it’s not what you expect in a neighbourhood like this,’ said the other, adding emphasis with a haughty sniff and a dismissive toss of her head.
‘I mean, we have young children to think about,’ said the first.
‘And think of the temptation for your husbands,’ chimed in Bromo, unable to stop himself.
Three female heads turned and glared at him, a picture of ferocity and admonishment. Gorgons of the suburbs, he captioned them.
‘Sorry, ladies. It sort of slipped out.’
‘Yes, that’s what men always say,’ snapped one.
‘We were going live to air,’ said the holder of the mike.
‘Double apologies,’ said Bromo. ‘Keep that one for the blooper file and start again.’ He mimed a clapper-board action: ‘Take two!’
The women moved away, three voices going as one, united against men in general and Bromo in particular. Bromo dismounted and turned to the man on his right – an eccentric-looking type with rimless glasses, a mass of curly hair and an ultra-neat goatee, his hands thrust into the pockets of a long tweedy jacket at least one size too big for him.
‘Some people just can’t take a joke,’ said Bromo, surprised at the startled look he saw flash briefly across the man’s face.
Carl West shuffled his feet, looked down at the ground and grunted a begrudging acknowledgment of Bromo’s presence that didn’t encourage further talk. Bromo studied the bowed back of his neighbour’s head and noted the uneven hairline. A toupee. You could always pick them. No matter what the advertisements said, they never looked natural. A rug that slipped over the slippery dome beneath. He recalled a TV motoring show which road-tested several brands of wigs by sitting the wearers in an open sports car and seeing at what speed each hairpiece was blown away. It didn’t take much.
Bromo persisted.
‘What gives? Anyone hurt? Any idea what happened?’
‘Too many questions,’ said West.