by Berry, Tony
‘Perhaps we should discuss what your wonder woman had to say. I got the impression it wasn’t all good.’
Bromo ignored the slight against Delia and took another biscuit. He bypassed the cheese. It did nothing for the scotch. Put it down to a clash of cultures, he decided. He twirled his glass and picked up the thread of their earlier conversation.
‘Vern Rosen’s on the rampage,’ he said. ‘Bit of a cliché, but apparently in official terms he’s “armed and dangerous”.’
He noted Liz’s puzzled look and realised he hadn’t mentioned his earlier encounters with Rosen. The name meant nothing to her.
‘He’s a detective-sergeant with a dodgy reputation and probably on the take,’ he said.
‘So why don’t they pull him in?’
Bromo sniffed and gave a flicker of a smile. It was a question many people had been asking for some time, not about Rosen but concerning several of his colleagues. It had taken months of undercover investigations, surveillance photographs and phone taps to start peeling away at a thick layer of protection that enabled an inner core of corrupt police to continue practising their scams and stand-over tactics with impunity.
‘It’s not that easy, Liz. Surely you know that. Look at what came out at the OPI inquiry and how long that took.’
Liz poured a glass of wine and sank down into an armchair. Like thousands of others, she had feasted for days on news reports of the public hearings staged by the Office of Police Integrity. They had revealed a police force riven by factions, intrigue and illegal actions. High-ranking officers had resigned when faced with irrefutable evidence linking them to lower-ranked police already in prison or on trial for their liaisons with the criminal world. Public confidence in the police force was at its lowest for many decades.
‘He’s surely not that hard to find, or to stop.’
‘He’ll be tipped off before anyone’s within cooee. If there is any evidence it will probably go astray or simply be lost. That’s why Delia and her crew work within the force yet often outside it. They’re policing the police and all those corporate high-flyers who think they can buy mates at court.’
He looked into his glass and swirled the oily, peaty liquid up its sides, letting his mind freewheel.
‘Tricky stuff,’ he said. ‘Dangerous. You never know who your friends are.’
‘And where do you fit in?’
‘That’s what we’re about to find out. Me and Peter Jardine – if he’s still up for it. We’ll set the charges and light the fuse then run like bloody hell. Delia and her mates will clear up the mess.’
He shrugged. ‘At least, that’s the theory.’
Bromo stood up and stretched, loosening stiff joints, circling his head to relax tired neck muscles. He picked up his page of notes and moved towards the desk.
‘Come over here Liz, I’ll show you what we’ve got in mind.’
She followed meekly, pulling up a chair opposite him. In a few steps across the room they had become more business-like, purposeful. No more lounging in chairs, drinking and yacking on. Bromo felt a surge of adrenalin, a need to be up and doing. He sensed it was being transmitted to Liz. She looked alert and attentive, keen to participate in whatever was unfolding.
Over the next 15 minutes Bromo talked her through his plan, occasionally making rough sketches on the sheet of paper, tapping his pen as he moved from step to step. Twice he asked Liz if she really wanted to take part. Although he acknowledged an extra body would be an asset, he suggested she might prefer to remain secure at home. He nearly said something about it being no job for a woman. His tongue was stayed by thoughts of political correctness, the bugbear of those who told it as they saw it. There was no pressure, he told her; the choice was hers to make. He expressed his qualms about involving her, but her firm and positive responses satisfied him. His thoughts continually drifted off to the plight of Adriana and Lottie as he wondered what treatment they were receiving at the hands of their captors. They would certainly welcome Liz’s calm presence if he could pull off what he had in mind.
‘Why don’t we leave it to the police?’ said Liz.
Bromo curbed the temptation to snap back. He took a deep breath.
‘Aren’t you forgetting something? It was because the police refused to listen to you about Melissa’s death that we’ve ended up where we are. There’s also Rosen’s connections to consider. Let’s leave the local cops out of it and hope Delia can come up with something. In the meantime, it’s up to us.’
Liz nodded. Bromo wasn’t sure whether she accepted his argument or was simply too weary for further debate. Either way, it was settled.
‘What about Marsha?’ she asked.
He frowned. Puzzled. He didn’t understand the question. Marsha wasn’t in his thoughts.
‘Won’t you be needing her?’
‘To do what? Go in with all guns blazing? Taking pot-shots at anything that moves.’
Liz sighed. Typical Bromo – a rush to judgment.
‘You said we need all the help we can get,’ she said. ‘Marsha will be fine once she’s had some sleep.’
Bromo looked at her, expressionless, sensing there could be a battle brewing if he said the wrong thing. The sisterhood was at work. Liz was being protective. The two women had spent scarcely any time together but he knew it would have been enough for bonds to form and support to be assured. He had seen it happen so often and usually managed to overcome his entrenched male attitudes long enough to regard such liaisons with wistful admiration. It was a boat he would rock at his own peril. Nonetheless, he weighed in.
‘She’s a loose cannon.’
‘She saved your skin and got you here without any trouble.’
He shrugged and said nothing. It was an argument he wouldn’t win.
‘You’re a hard man,’ she said. ‘Hard in the heart.’
Again he shrugged. It wasn’t a label he liked or even wanted. He preferred to think it was far from true, noting thankfully she had given him something of a split decision, watering down her critique with a partial acknowledgment that he was no hit-first-and-ask-questions-later type of thug. Maybe, in those far-off years when the service moulded him to conform to its demands, there had been an imperative to play the hard man, physically and emotionally. Even then it was a barricade, armour-plated shell deemed necessary to ensure operatives always performed at their peak. While in the service, he begrudgingly admitted the merits of such case-hardened conformity. However, the cynic in him saw it as much as a safeguard for his masters as for those who worked for them. The paperwork tucked away at the back of an office drawer may affirm he was no longer in their employ, but he knew they still watched over him and, no matter how much he fought it, their ethos stayed buried within him.
‘I’m better than I was,’ he offered.
Liz pushed back her chair and stood up.
‘In that case, I’m glad I didn’t know you whenever that was.’
She rested a hand on his shoulder, perhaps consoling, maybe a gesture of apology for the sharpness of her character assessment As ever, he was unsure of her intentions. He tensed beneath her touch.
‘At least these days you can sometimes be quite bearable,’ she said.
‘Perhaps I should work on it.’
Her hand clenched and unclenched in a slight squeeze.
‘Might be a good idea. You never know where that might get you.’
She was at it again, sending messages to which he had lost the code. He found no answers in her face. Liz had turned away and was moving over to the kitchen area, busying herself with washing empty glasses. So close and yet so distant. The adrenalin rush of half an hour ago had evaporated. He felt alone. Jardine had gone, Marsha was asleep, Liz seemed more intent on washing dishes than saving kidnapped young women and Delia was telling him to butt out. A tidal wave of weariness washed over him, emotional as much as physical.
‘I think we’d better sleep on it,’ he said.
She looked at him over her shoul
der, one eyebrow slightly raised.
‘On what?’
He tapped at the papers laid out on the table.
‘Everything. All this,’ he said. ‘Take a fresh look at it tomorrow. Probably best not to rush things.’
She turned back to the sink and rinsed a glass.
‘No, let’s not rush things,’ he heard her say, but felt the words were addressed more to herself than to anyone else.
He recalled his mother used to act the same way when his father had incurred her displeasure with his stubborn and cranky attitude to simple domestic chores. She would mutter angry words into the kitchen sink as she scrubbed needlessly hard at already clean dishes.
‘I flushed my frustrations down the plughole,’ she had revealed in a rare moment of candour many years later.
Bromo stole another look at Liz and thought he understood.
‘Better get some rest,’ he said, making his way to the door. ‘This is going to be a middle of the night job.’
They always were, he reflected, although this time the odds weren’t so good. These were real night people, not the sort who would succumb so easily to the high element of surprise usually expected in pre-dawn raids. They could well be more awake and alert than the raiders. Liz turned and gave him a weak smile that flickered and vanished almost before it appeared. Bromo moved towards the door.
‘You could stay here,’ Liz said. ‘It would save time.’
Bromo listened for an inflection in her voice, any special emphasis.
‘And where would I sleep? Marsha’s got the spare room.’
He couldn’t help himself. His question hung in the air between them. They both knew what he was really saying. Bromo hesitated, waiting for her reply. It took too long to come, the moment had passed. Words were forming, but he choked them back and stepped out into the night, confused, weary and battle-worn.
‘I’ll give you a call,’ he said.
‘I’ll look forward to it.’
Her voice was low and gentle. Bromo convinced himself it was wistful.
‘Sleep well.’
Her words echoed off the wall. He harrumphed to himself and stepped into the street. Tomorrow was another day – for everything. Although maybe there was one more call he could make.
THIRTY-TWO
Bromo weaved his way along dimly lit, short, narrow back streets until reaching Bridge Road. There he hit the brighter lights of the main drag and the obstacle course created by bars that allowed their inebriated patrons to spill out on to the footpaths, oblivious to more sober pedestrians. At the Bar Nova he side-stepped a trio of long-haired blondes giggling over their Cosmopolitans and elbowed his way through a group of swaggering youths, beer bottles in hand.
‘Watch it, mate,’ said one.
Bromo briefly slowed, thought better of it and ploughed on. He’d had enough aggression for one day
‘It’s a footpath, not a bar,’ he called back over his shoulder.
It was a departing shot over the stern fired more for his own benefit than in any expectation of the rebuke being acknowledged or even heard. The issue of loud late-night music and raucous patrons had been a thorn in the council’s side ever since licensing laws had been relaxed to favour revellers more than residents. Bromo had made his own views felt by signing petitions against a couple of applicants who wanted to keep the booze and music flowing almost until breakfast.
Tonight, the noise-makers were almost non-existent. Most of the cafés and restaurants Bromo passed were stacking chairs on tables and sweeping floors or waiting for a few lingering diners to settle their bills. Two couples hunched into their coats on the footpath outside the Greek place were saying loud farewells and promising to meet again soon. It made Bromo think of an old friend who sent him a Christmas card every year with a note that he’d give him a call to arrange a catch-up over lunch. Several years on Bromo was still awaiting the promised meal.
At Jimmy’s Bakehouse the doors were long shut, the woven bread baskets in the widows cleared of loaves and rolls and the barbecue umbrellas and gas-fired heaters brought in off the footpath.
Bromo stepped into the café’s recessed entrance. He hooded his eyes with his hand and peered through the door’s etched glass. Lights were on in the back rooms. He could see people in white dustcoats and aprons moving around. The bakery staff was gearing up for the start of their night shift.
Bromo took a coin from his pocket and tapped on the glass, hoping the noise would travel. It was a false hope. The bakers were focused on their mixing and kneading. Front of house was another world that didn’t concern them, especially when the café was closed. He kept tapping.
‘Give up. They’ll never hear you.’
The words came over his shoulder. Bromo reacted instantly. He whipped around, the hand that had been tapping at the window brought down rapidly and back, forming a fist and ready to strike. His other hand he opened wide, palm flat, fingers extended, prepared to thrust forward and upwards. It all happened before he had fully registered the voice, been able to put a name to it. Dom, the café’s owner, stepped back out of reach. He laughed and spoke again.
‘There’s too much noise. The machines are running.’
Bromo breathed deeply, calming, gathering himself. He hunched his shoulders.
‘You shouldn’t come up on people like that, Dom. Could get yourself hurt.’
Dom shrugged and tugged on a leather and chain leash. A panting and muzzled rottweiler was at the other end. Dom bent down and patted the animal’s flanks.
‘Hey, Scipio, hear what the man said? All bullshit, eh? Only one person going to get hurt and it’s not me.’
The dog nuzzled close to Dom, its tongue lolling out, almost as if licking its lips. Bromo felt Dom could be right. He’d seen dogs charge in where humans would have serious second thoughts and still come out the victors. Their canine colleagues had often been the weapon of choice in the old days.
‘Thought I might catch you at home,’ Bromo said, nodding in the direction of the upper level of the shop.
He tried to keep his voice even and low. His heart rate was taking time to slow to something like normal. He was smugly pleased at his quick reaction to Dom’s sudden appearance but disturbed at the long recovery time. It was easy to pretend the years weren’t taking their toll as long as the theory wasn’t tested.
‘Bit late for coffee,’ said Dom.
‘How about information? About the Purple Lounge.’
Bromo noted Dom’s biceps straining against the leash. It wasn’t T-shirt weather but he seemed unaware of the night’s damp chill.
‘And perhaps a bit of muscle if you feel like it.’
He nodded towards the dog.
‘Your mate could come, too. He’d probably enjoy himself.’
A woman in the nurse’s uniform of the local hospital walked briskly past, carrying the spoils of a visit to the all-night supermarket in an eco-friendly green bag. She gave them a wary glance and hurried on. Bromo decided two men cloistered in a dark doorway was not a good look. It seemed Dom shared his concern.
‘Better come up.’
He ushered Bromo around to a plain black wooden door set in a shallow alcove between his own shop and the neighbouring pharmacy. He pressed several numbers on a keypad set high up in the frame and pushed inwards. The door opened on to a flight of highly-polished bare timber stairs. A handrail of rounded metal was bolted to the left-hand wall.
‘Straight up, turn left and first door on your right,’ said Dom.
Bromo did as he was told and found himself in a large, bright room he reckoned ran the length and width of the entire shop below. The décor was unfussily simple, the furniture emphasised comfort before design. A colourful kilim rug partially covered the polished pine floorboards. It was a glimpse of how the city’s earliest merchants would have lived before their modern successors turned their upper floors into offices and storerooms and commuted daily to homes in distant suburbs.
‘Never took you for
a collector,’ said Bromo as Dom moved in behind him, releasing Scipio from leash and muzzle.
The dog sidled past Bromo with a sideways sniff at his leg and plumped himself down on a pile of cushions in the corner of the room. Bromo continued appraising the diverse selection of paintings arrayed along the length of the longest wall. His knowledge was scant but he’d trekked around the suburb’s numerous galleries long enough to guess there was a small fortune hanging on Dom’s walls. Good going for a local café owner.
‘Not bad, Dom. Are you really an art tart or is this some tax dodge?’
‘Sometimes one compliments the other,’ said Dom. ‘It can be an expensive hobby. And talking of tarts, what’s all this about the Purple Lounge?’
He took a bottle and two glasses off a shelf and poured them each a drink.
‘A nightcap to get you going?’
He extended a glass to Bromo.
‘And keep it short. I’ve got make an early start.’
Bromo took the glass and settled into a high-backed wing chair that did all but sigh as it cosseted his bruised and aching body. It was like being wrapped in the arms of a lover and already he felt that leaving her embrace would be the hardest task of the night. He caught Dom’s look – a hint of impatience – taking his interruption in good spirit but keen to get to bed.
Bromo marshalled his thoughts, collating all that had happened since Melissa’s death, linking the events surrounding Luke, Adriana and Lottie, glossing over Carl West’s death and editing heavily his own misadventure. He kept his account factual and selective. He emphasised the support he was getting from Peter Jardine, Liz Shapcott and the McIntyres, omitted all mention of Delia’s possible help and played down the menacing presence of Vern Rosen. He was gratified that Dom let him speak without interruption, not stopping his flow with comments or questions. He was on a roll, the first time he had sat and gathered together all the threads of his involvement since Liz had first asked for his help. Everything crystallised as he spoke.