by Berry, Tony
‘Freeze! Stop right there!’
Two short-barrelled rifles were pointed at their midriffs. The guns were thrust at them by two policemen swathed in dark protective gear, their faces hidden behind the visors of their helmets. One of them barked an order.
‘Drop! Down on the floor!’
Bromo caught a glimpse of more police further along the corridor as he went into free-fall, arms out to soften the impact. There was blurred vision, too, of a door being kicked in and of a couple of women crouched down, their backs pressed against the wall. Then all he could see was a close-up view of the purple pile of the carpet tufts, a squashed cigarette next to his cheek and grains of dirt pressed into the fabric. He turned his head to Jason, flat out alongside him.
‘This place needs a good vacuuming.’
‘And you need a good lawyer.’
‘Nah, don’t think so.’
‘Optimist.’
‘Pessimist.’
Bromo felt a heavy boot press into the small of his back.
‘Shut it!’
‘Yes officer. But I don’t think we’re the people you want.’
‘We’ll decide that. Right now, you’re not going anywhere.’
Bromo raised his eyebrows at Jason. He got a scowl in return. There was no other outward sign, but he knew Jason would be building up a head of steam over being bested by a couple of cops. Pushing him even faster to boiling point would be the thought he should really be back on site, probably with his hands down a blocked toilet or installing some yuppie’s glitzy new dishwasher. An unwanted explosion could occur at any moment. The commotion along the corridor grew louder. More people were coming their way.
‘I’ll stay, but my mate’s got to get back to work,’ said Bromo, almost chewing on carpet, his voice muffled.
Bromo winced as a boot pushed deeper into his back.
‘And we’re on our way to a fancy dress party,’ responded his captor.
The sympathy vote was not forthcoming. Bromo heard voices coming nearer, calmer, authoritative, but no longer shouting. Male and female. A familiar one among them. He strained to make sure, focusing on the cadence, trying to separate it from the general cacophony.
‘Aah, Mr Perkins, lying down on the job again I see.’
It was her, spoken with an undertone of laughter he knew from old. Tough and dedicated but capable of switching off and letting herself go once the job was done. Today she was in charge.
‘They’re harmless. Let them get up.’
Bromo felt the pressure on his back ease, slowly and reluctantly. The armed response squad were like attack dogs – they never liked to let their quarry go. Bromo extended his arms and pushed up off the floor. The others were doing the same. He saw them as a quartet of gym junkies ending their push-ups session under the eye of a personal trainer. Delia filled that role admirably, standing stock still and taut, hands on hips, leather bomber jacket unzipped, washed jeans ending in well-worn jogging shoes.
‘Sorry to spoil your party. A good diversion. We came in the tradesmen’s entrance.’
‘And it’s good to see you, too.’
She took a firm grip of his elbow.
‘We’ll keep the pleasantries for later.’
He tried lightening the exchange with a smile.
‘That sounds promising.’
‘We’ll see. Right now you can cut the social chit-chat.’
It was an admonishment he should have expected. Delia the cop was in full flight. She ordered the two rapid response cops to escort Bromo’s companions back out the way they had come in. They were free to go. She released her hold on his arm and guided him along the corridor. He got a quick look inside one of the cell-like rooms where the door had been smashed down. He glimpsed two bunk beds with a minuscule space between them, a jumble of grey blankets, a yellow bucket on the floor.
‘Cosy,’ said Bromo.
‘Horribly so,’ said Delia. ‘Bars on the window, reinforced glass, door kept locked. The bucket’s their loo. Up to eight in a room.’
‘How many all up?’
‘Last count was close to 30. All Asians.’
‘What!’
He screeched the word at her. She stopped, stunned by his outburst.
‘Where are Adriana and Lottie?’
The anger was surging through him. They were what this was all about. They were why he’d been threatened, bashed and shot at. They were why Liz and Jardine had been menaced and monstered by criminals. Luke had been stabbed almost to death because of them. Bromo slammed at a half open door, rattling it back on its hinges, as if expecting to find the girls inside the room.
‘Where the hell are they?’ he yelled.
Delia grabbed at him and pushed him hard back against the wall, her hands spread on his chest. The last time she had done that was to tumble him back on to his bed and launch into a session of frantic love-making. The urgency and tension was the same now as then but for a different reason. She spoke rapidly, a torrent of fury and frustration.
‘This isn’t about them,’ she said. ‘It’s bigger, nastier and deeper than anything you can imagine. It’s a massive slave trade. Sex slaves. It’s about forced prostitution, deprivation of liberty, brutality, manipulation. It involves lying, cheating, starvation. It breaks up families, ruins lives. This is a bigger operation than you and your dad’s army can ever expect to handle.’
She paused for breath. Bromo jumped in, only slightly subdued by her outburst.
‘Okay. Great work. But aren’t you forgetting it was Adriana and Lottie who set you on to these people in the first place?’
Delia let her hands drop to her side. Bromo saw her shoulders lift and fall as she sucked deeply in and released a long sigh. She took a step back, giving him space. When she spoke, the fury seemed to have waned but the frustration clearly remained.
‘What do you think we do all day? Sit on our arses and push paper? We investigate, Bromo, We gather evidence. We watch. And we wait. We don’t rush in all guns blazing at the first sign of trouble.’
‘So what do you call today’s little exercise? Seems to me there were plenty of guns ready to blaze.’
He got no response. Delia turned aside and continued along the corridor, a flick of a hand indicating he should follow. The armed response squad had gone, their place taken by plainclothes police, several with clipboard in hand, walking cautiously into the rooms, making notes, taking photos, peering under beds, lifting mattresses. Delia led the way down a narrow flight of stairs that turned back on themselves halfway down and ended in a large cement floor space.
‘Looks like a disaster area,’ said Bromo.
The area was crammed with people, many of them young Asian women who were resting in broken old armchairs or on an assortment of narrow fold-up beds that seemed to be part of the rough-and-ready furnishings. Two middle-aged men in Salvation Army uniform stood by a stainless steel sink unit making mugs of teabag tea and instant coffee from a hot water unit fixed to the wall. Paramedics wheeled in stretchers and gurneys. Two youthful doctors, white coats flapping open, moved systematically among the Asian women checking pulses, eyes and foreheads in a preliminary diagnosis. A bulky old television set hung from a bracket on the wall. Beneath it was a row of screens linked to a security system. Bromo saw flickering pictures of the police moving through the upstairs rooms, cars and ambulances parked in the rear laneway, and two policemen standing guard at the front entrance.
‘Bit like watching the house on Big Brother,’ said Bromo.
Delia scowled at him.
‘Much nastier. These girls didn’t ask to be victims.’
She threaded her way through the far corner and pushed open a heavy steel door. They were in the parking bay.
‘This must be where Peter Jardine saw them unloading the girls,’ said Bromo.
Delia nodded.
‘Yes, thanks for that. It did help.’
‘At least our dad’s army has been some use.’
She gave a
grudging smile. His phone trilled La Donna è Mobile. He looked at the screen; no caller ID.
‘Yes?’
Two paramedics bumped a gurney over the uneven bluestone cobbles, a dark-haired girl strapped beneath the blankets. Bromo tried clasping a hand over his ear to cut out the clatter of the wheels. It didn’t work. He frowned as he bent to listen and began pacing to and fro. He gave an agitated wave to Delia, trying to manipulate the phone so she could listen. That didn’t work either. She stood off, waiting, aware of his concern. He snapped the phone shut and began striding out of the parking bay.
‘You got a car we can use? Preferably unmarked.’
She jogged to catch up, snatching at his arm.
‘What is it, Bromo? Where do you think you’re going?’
He stopped. She was right, he couldn’t simply run off. It was urgent, but he needed her help.
‘It’s Rosen,’ he said. ‘Vern Rosen, your rogue colleague. He’s got Adriana and Lottie and he wants to do a deal.’
‘A deal!’
She spat out the words, punctuating their impossibility.
‘He’s got nothing left to deal with.’
‘Oh no? How about two young women, bound and gagged and connected to some bloody explosive device in Nellie Melba Park?’
THIRTY-SEVEN
Bromo had to admit that when Delia acted, she acted with impressive speed. It had been a constant in all their spasmodic encounters. No two situations had been quite the same yet when the time came to move, she moved. In one respect, the public and private Delia were one and the same – a real mover.
Her reaction to his news about Rosen ignited a fuse that sent her into overdrive. She sprinted towards a dark blue Holden Commodore and was strapped in to the driver’s seat, engine running and pulling out from behind one of the parked ambulances almost before Bromo had time to slam his door shut.
‘You’d better navigate. I’ve no idea where this bloody park is.’
Bromo began giving instructions as Delia pushed buttons on the car’s radio. She got a medley of squawks and squeals mingled with calm measured voices until she fine-tuned the channel. Bromo listened to her briefing the control centre.
‘Approach with caution,’ he intruded. ‘It’s a very exposed location.’
She glared at him, but passed his message on. Bromo indicated left and right turns as they threaded through side streets. He wanted to avoid Bridge Road, sure it would be congested with an endless stream of vehicles going almost nowhere. For a main artery, its blood flowed far too slowly.
The radio squawked again. Delia and a deep calm male voice at the other end exchanged staccato sentences. A rapid response team was on its way. She slowed the car to a halt at traffic lights. Bromo patted his jacket pockets and found a pen and a scrap of paper. He scribbled a hurried note and held it in front of her. Delia read it and passed his message on.
Her attention was back on the traffic as they eased into Coppin Street where an unbroken line of parked cars and a central row of trees narrowed their route to a single file. Bromo pointed ahead and to the right.
‘We’re almost there. Take it slow but steady. Do a drive-by.’
The park filled the space of about four house blocks in depth and width. Like the neighbouring houses it ended up against the back fences and garden walls of the homes and apartments in the next street. A sloping path of bluestone led into a central patch of grass edged by low bushes. Beyond them was a border of higher native trees. The landscaping was minimal – the work of council gardeners rather than a design team seeking awards at the Garden Show. A stencilled metal archway identified it as the Dame Nellie Melba Memorial Park. Delia was not impressed.
‘What the hell has a famous opera singer got to do with a bit of old scrub?’
‘She was born here and lived here.’
‘What, in these gardens?’
‘No, down on Burnley Street. One of the grand old mansions of Richmond. Her old man owned a cement works and was a bit of a union basher. Place is a furniture showroom now.’
They cruised past slow enough to get a blast on the horn from the car behind. Delia ignored it. She turned off at the Chalmers Street roundabout and pulled into the kerb.
‘So, what now big boy? I hope this isn’t one of your wild goose chases. I couldn’t see any sign of Rosen or the girls.’
Bromo ignored her slur on his character. As if he would try to mislead the police. Especially now. He felt responsible for Adrianna and Lottie. He had been too dismissive of their earlier plea for help, too slow to probe deeper. It irked him that he had only begun to act when it was almost too late. His own life had been in danger but he had survived and the girls’ plight was now far worse. He was too many removes from the untroubled life he sought yet he had to go on.
‘I suggest we do another slow pass, then go in on foot.’
He took Delia’s silence as agreement. She pulled out from the kerb, did a U-turn, gentled her way through the roundabout and headed back along Coppin Street. Bromo felt the vibration of his phone before it trilled. He flicked it open and listened, mouthing ‘Rosen’ at Delia.
Bromo felt a chill ripple through him. It had been a long time, but he had heard voices like this before. It was cold and calculating; ruthless and calling the shots. They were dealing with a professional, not some hysterical no-hoper driven by circumstances to an irrational act. Rosen knew what he was doing, and why. Not only had he calculated the odds but he reckoned they were in his favour.
Bromo nodded as he listened, taking in instructions, saying nothing beyond the occasional ‘yes’ or ‘no’ as Rosen ticked off his demands. He glanced at the park as they passed but noticed nothing unusual. The call ended abruptly and he folded away his phone. He turned sideways in his seat and looked at her.
‘He wants to deal with you.’
‘Why me? I’ve got nothing to offer.’
‘He seems to think you have. Because you’re in charge of one of those secretive little units that everyone pretends doesn’t exist he reckons you can pull strings, lose the paperwork, remove files.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘Really? There’s plenty of public evidence to suggest otherwise. You know, turn bad cop into good cop. Read the papers. It’s happening all the time.’
‘Not where I come from.’
‘As the virgin said, there’s a first time for everything.’
Delia did another U-turn and pulled into a vacant parking bay 30 metres from the park. She stopped the engine and turned and faced him. It was a moment of stillness such as they hadn’t shared for a long time. Bromo held her gaze. The deep darkness of her eyes was as alluring as ever. The softness of her skin seemed little changed apart from slight traces of crow’s feet at the edges. She still hadn’t tamed the strands of hair that fell forward over her brow. He shook his head, snapping out of his reverie. She smiled and briefly rested a hand on his.
‘Another time, Bromo.’
‘Yeah.’
And there were pigs flying low overhead.
‘What’s Rosen demanding?’
Bromo dragged himself back from a momentary bout of depression. There was no more eye-gazing; the official Delia was back. They had to get moving.
‘He’ll hand over the girls if you’ll wipe his record clean and walk him out of the park. He knows how things work and that you’ll have called in the cavalry.’
‘And if I don’t.’
‘He says he’s rigged up some sort of device which he’ll trigger the moment he senses a SOCCO anywhere near. Goodnight Lottie. Goodnight Adriana.’
‘And he’ll go, too.’
‘Not the way he tells it. Something about a timer and a remote control. He’s in one part of the park, the girls in another. Big bang for them, lots of chaos and he gets away.’
They stepped out of the car, closing the doors with the merest of snicks. Foliage from the street trees gave them something to hide behind. But not much. Bromo still felt exposed. If Rosen was armed
he could easily take a warning shot at them.
They edged along the footpath. Getting a clear line of sight into the park was impossible. The foreground was cluttered by a parked car, a mailbox, a wheelie bin, a light pole, a council sign, the metal arch and a bluestone plinth. Beyond that were the trees and bushes.
‘You got the rear covered?’
‘Of course,’ she snapped back.
He should have known better than to ask. But he needed reassurance. At the far left-hand corner of the park a small opening led into a narrow street of six houses that dog-legged back to the main drag. Midway along a high mesh metal fence in the centre of the park’s back border was a gate used by residents from a cluster of apartments with their own gated driveway. Few of the thousands of commuters who travelled along Coppin Street every day would know of either access point. Bromo hoped Rosen was equally ignorant. He saw them less as escape routes for Rosen but more as a way of taking him by surprise.
Bromo felt uneasy. There was no sign of Rosen or the girls. Delia’s comment about a wild goose chase was starting to look too close to the mark. She startled him with a light tap on his arm. Her voice was a whisper.
‘Over there. By that post.’
Bromo followed the line of Delia’s pointing finger. Rosen was standing beneath a canopy of branches spreading out from a tree two-thirds into the park. His upper body was shadowed by the overhang. The lower half was invisible behind a wild tangle of bushes and shrubs.
‘Looks like part of the furniture,’ muttered Bromo.
He followed Delia as she stepped between a break in the traffic and up the slight slope of bluestone paving leading on to the grassed area. There was no sign of the girls and Rosen hadn’t moved. Bromo dropped behind as Delia surged ahead. She seemed to have lost any sense of caution. Bromo felt any warning would be wasted. He looked to the rear of the park for the promised back-up but could see nothing. That didn’t mean they weren’t there but he felt no better for the thought. And where were the girls? It seemed they were becoming the forgotten pawns in a bigger game than he was playing.