by Berry, Tony
Bromo trotted to narrow the gap to Delia. Suddenly she stopped, metres from her quarry. Rosen hadn’t moved. He had his hands clasped in front of him, cradling something small and round. Delia caught her breath, hands on hips, diaphragm moving in time to her lungs’ deep regular intakes. Bromo lunged forward, shouting.
‘Where are they Rosen?’
Delia grabbed his arm and dragged him back.
‘No.’
Rosen’s face slackened into a brief complacent smile.
‘Very wise, detective inspector. We must control these public nuisances.’
Delia kept her grip firm on Bromo’s arm and her eyes fixed on Rosen.
‘You said you wanted to deal.’
‘Wipe the slate clean. I want a fresh start.’
‘Can’t be done.’
Leaves crackled as Rosen shuffled his feet, taking a firmer stance, aggressive, legs slightly apart. He clutched the package in his hands closer to his body. It was wrapped in a pink plastic supermarket bag. His voice was a monotone drawl.
‘It can be done and must be done. And quickly. The clock’s ticking.’
He thrust his hands forward, the package resting on them as if presenting a child to be baptised.
‘I set it when you entered the park. Remote controlled. You have ten minutes.’
Delia showed no reaction. Bromo wriggled his arm free of her grip and resisted the urge to leap at Rosen. Both knew what they were dealing with. Rosen was unhinged. Delia put a hand to her chin, thoughtful.
‘What have you got to offer?’
Rosen smiled. It was the smile of the feral beast that’s spotted an easy prey.
‘Your friend wants his two young tarts back. They’re no use to us. Too much bloody trouble. You get the girls, I get a fresh start.’
‘Is that it?’
‘What more could there be?’
‘Information. Names. The guys who are running these rackets.’
‘I don’t rat.’
Delia turned half away, one hand going up as if to brush back her hair. Too late, Bromo realised it was a signal. He heard a metallic sound by the rear fence. He was aware of a blur of bodies in the park’s far corner. Rosen saw it, too. And heard the shouts of ‘Police! Police!’
Bromo launched himself forward, a flying leap with arms extended, hands clawing at the air. He was too late. He crashed face down in a pile of woodchips. He had a worm’s eye view of Rosen’s legs running for all they were worth through a gap in the bushes then disappearing as he jumped down into an alley between two rows of houses and turned a corner. The parcel fell from his hands. There was the throaty roar of a motorcycle. And silence.
Bromo thumped the ground.
‘Fuck, fuck, fuck!’
He caught a glimpse of running shoes flashing past. Twigs and leaves crackled, a peppering of soil hit his face. He raised his head and saw Delia sprinting away from him, towards the edge of the park and its fringe of trees. More bodies hurtled past him. Big men in dark blue coveralls and heavy boots. Two of them stopped, one on either side, their boots pressed into his ribs. He felt firm hands moving along his body, probing, patting at his jacket. They seemed satisfied.
‘Roll over!’ ordered one. ‘Slowly.’
It was no time to argue. Bromo did as he was told. He assessed the two grim faces staring down at him from behind dark glasses.
‘It’s okay boys, I’m harmless.’
‘We’ll be the judge of that. Get up!’
Bromo got to his feet and shook his arms and shoulders, loosening up, checking for aches and strains. Nothing broken. The policemen watched him warily then pointed their weapons to the ground. He was off the hook. He saw more police tramping around the rear of the park, the armed response men mingling with plainclothes detectives. Delia came running back, beads of sweat on her brow, hair hanging over her face. She thrust Rosen’s package at Bromo.
‘He dropped it in the bushes. A fake.’
Bromo peered inside the plastic bag. All it contained was a cheap digital clock. Black plastic with gold trim. No wires trailing from it. No way of being remotely connected or operated. Bromo shoved it back at her and pushed his way between the two policemen.
‘Forget Rosen. Where the bloody hell are the girls? They weren’t at the Purple Lounge and he hasn’t taken them with him. They must be here somewhere.’
He turned back to the policemen.
‘Don’t just stand there, do something useful! Find Rosen’s car.’
They didn’t move. Armed cops don’t take orders from private citizens. They don’t even react. They stand their ground and stare back, implacable and unyielding. Bromo realised his mistake. Delia made sure he knew it.
‘Stop right there, Bromo. You’re out of order and you know it.’
He turned away, chastised and angry. He felt useless and surrounded by people who didn’t care. Adriana and Lottie were more important than a psychotic cop trying to save his own hide. He looked around the park, seeking somewhere that two bodies could be hidden. There were plenty of shrubs and bushes but they were sparse and spindly, not dense enough. The slatted park benches were empty. The single litter bin, plastered with the white-painted scrawls of a tagger, wouldn’t accommodate a midget.
Bromo watched a pink plastic bag, stirred by the wind, float across the grass. It ended its journey jammed against the back of the bluestone plinth, wedged between two king-size green garbage bags, rocking jerkily to and fro. He studied the cars in the street, predominantly small saloons, unlikely to be capable of transporting a couple of captive young women, bound and bundled.
Bundled! His mind recycled something he’d seen minutes ago. Garbage bags don’t move of their own free will. The thought jarred him into action. He hurtled across the grass towards the bluestone plinth and tugged at the yellow ties tightly knotted around the neck of one of the garbage bags. He could hear muffled sounds. The knots wouldn’t yield and the plastic was heavy duty.
‘Over here!’ he yelled.
Delia came running and knelt alongside him. A member of the response squad hefted a mean-looking blade from his belt and slashed at the ties then ran it swiftly down the length of the bag. Lottie, wearing only a thin shift, lay stretched out on the ground. Her legs were bound, wrists tied in front of her and a band of cloth wedged into her mouth and tied behind her head. Bromo saw the terror in her eyes and sniffed the acrid smell rising from the pool of urine puddling on the plastic. He rolled her clear.
‘You’re okay now. We’re the good guys.’
Delia and her team began removing the restraints. Bromo half stood and turned to the other bundle. Other police had already untied Adriana and she was sitting up, back against the bluestone wall, a flask of water being held to her lips. She made a faint smile in Bromo’s direction.
‘Thanks. We’d almost given up hope.’
He shrugged and walked away. Let the professionals take over. He opened his mobile and pressed the speed dial number for Liz, one of only three he had bothered to set. The second was for Delia. The other he kept as a memento of his one-time lover, Aurelia Nuyen, stabbed to death by a frenzied husband. His love life on a SIM card.
Liz answered immediately.
‘It’s all over,’ said Bromo.
‘I hoped it would be.’
Jardine and Luke had already told her much of what happened at the Purple Lounge. Bromo filled her in on the rest.
‘And the girls?’
‘They’ll be fine.’
He had no reason for making such a judgment but it seemed the most comforting thing to say. He cast his mind back to his first encounter with them.
‘Adriana might be a bit fragile but Lottie’s a tough little thing. She’ll get them through it.’
‘I hope you’re right.’
‘Trust me. I’m a man.’
‘That’s what worries me.’
Bromo detected the shift in the tone of their conversation. It was in their voices as well as what they said. They we
re sparring again. Playing with words and with each other, testing and teasing but wary of pushing too hard. Bromo was sure her face was alight with laughter, aware as always of the effect she was having on him, enjoying the moment. He wanted to play the game but too much was happening around him. An ambulance had arrived and the girls were being checked by paramedics. Delia was trying to attract his attention. He spoke to Liz.
‘Got to go.’
‘A bird in the hand—’
Liz left the sentence unfinished.
‘A debriefing,’ said Bromo.
‘Is that what it’s called?’
He felt on the defensive, almost guilty, and wasn’t sure why. Women could do that to you. Liz was taking him down a track he wasn’t yet ready to explore.
‘I’ll call you later,’ he said and cut the call.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Delia was talking to two of her colleagues when Bromo caught up with her near the memorial plinth. He detected the tone of their conversation rather than hearing the actual words. It was muted and desultory.
‘You win some, you lose some,’ he said.
Three pairs of eyes glared at him. He shrugged.
‘So, Rosen got away. But you’ve smashed a network of enforced prostitution and knocked off a migration scam. And you’ve probably put the frighteners on a couple of corrupt officials at City Hall. Not a bad result in my book.’
Bromo saw the glares soften. An outsider’s view could have that effect. His phone trilled its operatic ringtone. Liz’s ID showed on the screen.
‘You’d better answer that,’ said Delia. ‘She’s probably worried about you.’
Bromo looked at her, puzzled. Delia smiled.
‘Who else would it be?’
He turned away, bemused and baffled by Liz contacting him again so soon. He put the phone to his ear.
‘Have you lost something?’ said Liz.
‘Eh?’
‘What do we do about Dom?’
The forgotten man, still tied to a chair at Liz’s place. The miserable pawn getting involved in something he didn’t understand for the sake of fast money. Bromo looked at Delia and her colleagues. They were pointing to where Rosen had escaped down an unseen back lane, making notes on clipboards, pacing out the ground. They had plenty to get on with. Dom would be little more than an unwanted addition to the workload. He was a bit player who had completed his role. Why drag him back into the footlights for an unnecessary curtain call? He checked with Liz.
‘Is he behaving himself?’
‘What would you do with Marsha pointing that gun at you?’
Bromo nodded. Her question needed no answer.
‘We could let him go. He’s just a greedy little shit who wanted to make a quick buck. He was shareholder more than a big-time director.’
‘Sounds familiar,’ said Liz.
There had been a rash of finance companies going into receivership, leaving investors with no hope of recovering millions of dollars. The excessive returns they had been promised were never delivered although the schemes’ promoters reaped huge fortunes, drove imported prestige cars and lived in luxurious mansions. Bromo took another look at the trio of detectives and made a decision.
‘Dom’s not worth the hassle. Let him go and tell him I never expect to pay for another coffee in his miserable little café.’
‘Isn’t that bribery and corruption?’
‘More like the price of freedom and silence. And he can throw in the occasional croissant.’
He heard the throaty ripple of her laugh. It sounded good. It aroused feelings he didn’t want to analyse. That way lay complications – the very things he spent his days trying to avoid. She broke into his thoughts.
‘I’ll tell Dom what you said and turn him lose, then Marsha can return to Alex and the kids.’
There was a slight pause.
‘And you’d better get back to your detective dame. She’ll be worrying about you.’
She ended the call. Bromo looked at the silent phone. Another remark with an undercurrent of meaning. First Delia about Liz, now Liz about Delia. Hidden messages capable of so many interpretations. He ran his hand through his hair, rubbed at his earlobe. Delia had broken away from her group and was walking towards him. She clasped a hand around his upper arm. A good feeling. She smiled.
‘Didn’t mean to ignore you.’
‘You’re busy.’
‘Tidying up. Lots of loose ends.’
‘What’s happening about Rosen?’
‘We’ll get him.’
‘And then?’
She shrugged. They both knew what was behind his question. The recent years had seen a succession of police appearing in courts on all manner of charges at variance with their duty to uphold the law. Few had been sentenced or even found guilty. The police force was riven by factions: old style police versus modern methods; resistance to lower entry standards; opposition to an influx of women; dispute over how close police should get to the villains. The police union fought police command, and the government. Officers portrayed as rogue cops and offenders gained support of hardcore colleagues.
‘It’s out of my hands,’ said Delia. ‘All I do is provide the evidence. There are others who will take it from there.’
‘Or let it rest.’
Again she shrugged, signalling acceptance of a state of affairs she opposed but was unable to change. Her hand tightened on his arm.
‘Can we catch up later? When I’ve finished here. Or are you busy elsewhere?’
‘What did you have in mind?’
‘Do I have to spell it out?’
Of course she didn’t. They both knew. Consenting adults and all that crap. He studied her face. The tension lines of earlier had smoothed away. The hard law enforcer was softening into a tender and loveable woman. A fleeting thought of Liz intruded. She would probably be expecting to hear from him. Later, maybe.
Bromo rested his hand on Delia’s.
‘I think I’ll make myself scarce. I’m only in the way here.’
He gently lifted her hand away.
‘You do what you have to do. Give me a call when you’re ready.’
He turned towards the street. The sanctuary of home was a short walk away. A bottle of Lagavulin and a pile of CDs awaited.
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