by Peter Watt
‘Okay, we switch off our navigation lights,’ Sean ordered, and the red and green side lights were turned off. Both Sean and Harry had blackened their faces and wore dark clothing. It brought back memories of their youth on the Western Front before they went on a trench raid. Sean was relying on Daniel’s naval skills to guide the boat towards their target. He did so cautiously and soon they could see the white of the waves breaking on the sandy beach. Daniel eased the boat nose in and leaped over the side, running out the anchor in the sand to secure his mooring. When he returned, Sean and Harry were already out of the boat with the items they needed for the break-in.
‘You stick with the boat,’ Sean said to Daniel. ‘If anything goes wrong, you up anchor and get away from here. I don’t want anyone to know you were involved.’
Daniel protested but his father backed Sean, and Daniel backed down.
‘If you see three flashes of light from our torches, that means you make your escape,’ Harry added.
With that, he and Sean made their way up the beach, knowing that when the tide came in a few hours later it would wash away their prints in the sand.
They reached the darkened house, towering above them, and climbed the dunes to its front entrance.
‘Where do we start?’ Sean whispered to Harry, pulling on gloves so as not to leave fingerprints.
‘The garage,’ Harry answered.
The two men made their way along the front section of the house to the garage. To their surprise it was unlocked. Clearly Preston had no fear of anyone attempting to break in to his house.
They stepped inside and turned on their torches. The garage storage was a jumble of tools, fishing rods and tea chests. Sean took the lid off one chest and used his torch to illuminate the contents. He could see a mixture of items that held no interest.
‘Hey, Sean, look at this,’ Harry said, going through the contents of another tea chest.
Sean shone his torch at something Harry was holding up. It appeared to be a couch pillow. ‘It looks like the Shroud of Turin.’
Sean moved over to Harry and looked closer at the pale cream pillow with a brownish outline of what could be clearly seen as a human face. It was eerie and Sean experienced a touch of fear.
‘What do you make of it, Harry?’ he asked.
‘It looks like someone had this over their face and the brown stuff we can see was blood,’ he replied. ‘It gives me the creeps.’
‘We take it,’ Sean said. ‘I don’t know if it has anything to do with what we are looking for, but maybe it could be useful.’
The two men continued to riffle through the many files they found in the tea chests, throwing aside anything that did not have any bearing on their search.
‘Eureka!’ Sean finally exclaimed. He held in his hands a file stamped with the name of Sir George Macintosh, and under that another file with Allison Lowe’s name on it. For some reason Preston had packed both together.
Sean flipped open the file and found a pile of black and white photos taken inside Sir George Macintosh’s home the night he had ‘accidentally’ fallen down the stairs and died. Amongst the photos were a few of Sir George’s body. Sean shone his torch on a close-up of Sir George’s dead face. ‘God almighty!’ he hissed, staring at the photo. ‘Harry, get over here and look at this.’
Harry stared at the photo. ‘What? The photo looks like Sir George Macintosh.’
‘Yes, but look at the blood on his face,’ Sean said.
Harry looked closer. ‘The blood has been smeared. Like someone attempted to wipe his face . . . Bloody hell!’ Harry turned his torch on the pillow lying on the floor of the garage a few feet away. ‘Or maybe put a pillow over Macintosh’s face to smother him.’ He looked at Sean. ‘Surely any investigator worth his salt would have picked that up at the scene.’
‘Preston was in charge of putting the evidence before the coroner,’ Sean said quietly. ‘I don’t ever remember any pillow being mentioned in the evidence.’
Their speculation was interrupted by the sound of a car engine approaching the house. Both men snatched the items of interest they had collected and turned off their torches.
‘I forgot to mention that Preston has a couple of the local boys drop out from time to time to keep an eye on his place. I didn’t think they would come tonight,’ Harry said just as car lights came into view at the other side of Preston’s residence.
‘C’mon,’ Sean said. ‘We have to get out of here.’
Carrying the pillow and the old files, both men exited the garage to the sound of voices and the beams of flashlights approaching. Sean and Harry were stumbling in the dark down the sand dunes when Sean felt himself yanked off his feet. His wooden leg had jammed in the branches of a heavy piece of driftwood he had not seen in the dark.
‘Sean,’ Harry hissed. ‘Where are you?’
‘Up here,’ Sean hissed back. He could hear the voices of the two uniformed policemen only about fifty yards away and coming in his direction. They did not sound as though they had found anything suspicious, but they had a torch and the beam was moving around in the darkness.
Harry scrambled up beside his friend. ‘What’s up?’
‘My bloody left leg is caught in something,’ Sean whispered.
‘Disconnect it,’ Harry whispered back, and Sean twisted to release his artificial leg. It came loose.
The voices were only yards away now, and both men lay very still as the two police officers stood almost on top of them. They were discussing coming down to the beach on the weekend to do some fishing. What seemed like forever went by before the two turned and disappeared.
‘We have to get out of here,’ Harry said. ‘Just untangle your leg and lean on me until we get to the boat.’
Sean tugged at the leg and it eventually came loose. Gripping it in one hand, he allowed Harry to guide him down the dunes to the relative flat of the beach. Harry still had the evidence they had stolen from Preston’s garage.
‘Dad, that you?’ Daniel’s voice came softly from the darkness.
‘Yeah, son,’ Harry answered. ‘Get the anchor up,’ he said as he dragged Sean towards the water.
Daniel had the boat afloat on the rising tide and Harry helped Sean into the cabin cruiser. The three aboard, Daniel turned over the engine and pointed the bow south. When the boat was a good distance from the shore he turned on the navigation lights. It was now safe to turn on the cabin light for Sean to reattach his leg. When he had done so, he reached into the cabin and produced two long-necked bottles of beer.
‘Well, we got away with it,’ Sean said, knocking the top off one of the bottles and handing it to Harry. ‘It’s not real cold but it will do the job.’
Harry took a long swig and handed the bottle to his son at the helm. ‘For a moment back there it was just like old times.’
‘Most fun I’ve had in years,’ Sean said, gulping back his beer. ‘It makes you feel alive again.’
They glanced at each other in the dim light of the navigation guides and held up their bottles in salute.
‘I don’t want to know what you pair of reprobates did back there,’ Daniel grinned, ‘but it wasn’t necessary to bring me a cushion to sit on.’
‘That’s not a cushion,’ Harry said. ‘That’s evidence – and don’t sit on it.’
By morning all three men were back in Sydney, weary but elated by the success of their crime. And the next day Brendan was back in Sean’s office staring at the blood-stained cushion. Beside it were the file and photos of the Sir George Macintosh investigation. Sean briefed the detective on his suspicions, and Harry filled in any details Sean had missed.
‘Unfortunately, even if you are right, the pillow is useless as evidence. There’s the broken chain of custody, for a start, never mind proving it came from the crime scene. Preston would never admit to taking it without entering it into evidence
,’ Brendan said.
‘Why would he keep it?’ Sean asked, and it was Harry who came up with an answer.
‘Maybe to blackmail Sarah Macintosh. If it had been produced at the time, no doubt a more careful autopsy would have been done to look for traces in Sir George’s mouth or lungs of pillow fibres, which may have led to a coroner’s finding of homicide.’
‘But it proves nothing,’ Brendan said. ‘Even if you both are right, I can’t just have the case reopened on the strength of a stolen piece of potential evidence.’
Both men reluctantly agreed. All Sean could do now was carefully store the pillow and examine Preston’s notes of his investigation. It did not help them with Allison’s case, but it was on the verge of something just as dangerous to Sarah Macintosh. Maybe one day forensic science would advance and the cushion would become a critical item. Harry and Sean both felt that it was an imprint of Sir George Macintosh’s face in the last moments of his life.
SEVEN
The hours on the campaign trail were exhausting and David always looked forward to returning to his house overlooking the ocean. There he could sit on the hill and gaze at the great breakers rolling in from the ocean. His political future was uncertain but John Glanville thought the signs were promising that he would be elected as the federal member for the local electoral division.
David heard the sound of a car engine and knew it was Gail driving up to join him, as she often did when he was home from campaigning.
‘Hello, David,’ she said and sat down on the grass beside him, staring out over the ocean rolling gently under a warm sun on a cloudless day.
For a short time, they both simply gazed at the ocean.
‘I have something to tell you,’ Gail said in a strained voice. ‘I have decided to start seeing someone else.’
For a moment her words did not sink in, then David realised what she was telling him.
‘That’s good,’ he said, struggling to hide the pain he suddenly felt.
‘I know that we are friends,’ Gail said, ‘and that we will always remain that way. You have been a positive influence in my son’s life, and I will always be grateful for that. I didn’t want to tell you on the eve of the election, but this is a small town and you were bound to hear rumours.’
‘I will miss our times together,’ David said, plucking at a blade of grass. ‘I wish you all the happiness in the world.’
‘Is that all you have to say?’ Gail said angrily, turning to face David. ‘You hope I’ll be happy?’
‘What else should I say?’ David said, forcing back the rush of emotion swirling up in him. He knew he wanted Gail, and had from the time he had first seen her standing on the railway station platform when he returned from the Korean War, but he had denied himself any expression of his real desires. How many women had he loved and lost to violent ends? He did not want this to happen to Gail.
‘If that is it,’ Gail said, standing up and brushing down her skirt, ‘then I wish you all the best in the election and hope you find what is missing from your life.’
She walked away and left David alone again, watching the ocean. After a moment he felt tears on his cheeks. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he broke down into sobs of grief for what he had lost. He had led men into battle and lost, but losing Gail was different. He felt that he had just lost the most important battle of his life, and suddenly, winning a seat in parliament meant nothing much to him at all.
*
Slacks and shirts were a welcome change from jungle greens for the men of Patrick’s platoon who were going on leave from their base. The three-hour truck drive to Butterworth military base and then the ferry across to Georgetown held the promise of booze and bar girls. Lieutenant Stan Gauden had his married quarters on Penang Island. With a broad grin, he warned the men about the dangers of venereal disease as he waved them goodbye.
‘Let’s go get an ice-cream,’ Patrick said to Terituba as the party of happy soldiers fanned out to explore the carnal and material delights of the town. They headed towards a large shop, Singapore Cold Storage, and walked inside into the cool, a welcome relief from the baking sun of the tropical town. They purchased a couple of cones and stepped back onto the street to join the din of traffic and honking horns and cries of merchants peddling their wares in the narrow, twisting streets. They were staying overnight in a hotel that smelled of curry spices. The room had two single beds, simple but clean, with a view over the cramped street filled with Chinese, Malays and Indians going about their daily lives. It was a long way from the screeching of monkeys in the jungle, the eerie silence of the rainforest, and the ever-present threat of danger from the elusive enemy.
‘I reckon we should go and find a bar with some good-looking sheilas in attendance and consume as much as we can until we fall down drunk,’ Patrick said, and they set off in search of such a paradise, as soldiers had done for as long as there had been armies.
They found a promising-looking bar and pushed their way inside. The place was crowded and immediately they spotted some of their comrades from the platoon. There were also other Aussie soldiers in the bar, probably artillery gunners from the base at Butterworth.
‘Hey, Pat, Tracker, over here!’ one of the platoon members stood and shouted above the din.
Ted Morrow glared at them as they joined the small group sitting around the small wooden table, glasses of beer in front of them.
They dragged up chairs and ordered extra beers from a stony-faced Chinese girl carrying a tray of empty glasses. Patrick could see from Ted’s scowl that the knockdown in the barracks was not forgotten, and the man was spoiling for a fight. Patrick did not want to fight; all he wanted was a day of drinking cold beer and chasing women.
Terituba stood to make a trip to the toilet and a stranger from a table nearby bumped into him, spilling the beer he was carrying.
‘Bloody Abo,’ the man snarled. ‘Bloody useless anywhere you go.’
Terituba was about to apologise and buy the man another beer but was shoved in the chest. He was sent sprawling across the table, scattering glasses of beer and knocking Patrick from his seat.
It was Ted Morrow who was on his feet while Patrick untangled himself from the floor.
‘No one speaks to Tracker that way,’ the big man roared and launched himself at the offending man, shoving him so hard that he fell onto the table of his companions, causing the same amount of damage.
By now Patrick had scrambled to his feet and watched as Ted waded into the other party yelling, ‘Bloody drop shorts. You don’t insult the infantry.’
It was an evenly matched brawl, and above the screams of the bar ladies, smashing of furniture and grunting of the combatants, a high-pitched voice could be heard yelling, ‘I call police.’
The warning sobered both gunners and infantrymen alike, and the punches and kicks ceased as they hurried for the entrance to escape the possibility of either military or civil police turning up. Outside, Terituba and Patrick ran as hard as they could down the crowded street until they felt they had put enough distance between themselves and the destroyed establishment of pleasure.
Catching their breath, they looked back to see Ted Morrow puffing his way up to them. ‘Bloody drop shorts,’ he gasped.
‘Thanks, Ted,’ Patrick said, extending his hand.
‘What for?’ Ted asked, eyeing Patrick’s outstretched hand suspiciously.
‘For sticking up for Tracker back in the bar.’
‘Tracker is one of our mob,’ Ted grunted, accepting the hand of friendship. ‘No one goes messing with one of the best diggers in the platoon. You know anywhere else we can get a cold beer?’
The three men found another bar and little else was remembered until Patrick awoke the next morning fully dressed on his bed. He felt sick and his head was pounding, but he didn’t want to waste the few hours left of his leave. Maybe a dip mi
ght help ease his pain. Terituba lay on his back, also fully dressed, happily snoring away the hours.
Patrick scooped up his swimming trunks and an army towel. There was a swimming pool reserved for Europeans not far from his hotel; once inside the grounds he dropped his towel on the manicured lawn adjoining the clear waters of the pool. It was virtually deserted. He walked to the edge where a young woman wearing a one-piece swimsuit was lying on a towel. Patrick didn’t dive so much as fall in, causing a great splash of water. He descended to the bottom and resurfaced to see the girl sitting up and looking at him with anger in her eyes.
‘You splashed me,’ she said in an educated voice.
‘Sorry,’ Patrick replied, swimming to the edge of the pool. ‘My balance is a bit off today.’
He looked up into her face and saw how pretty she was. He guessed that she was around his own age. ‘You sound like a Pom.’
‘You act like a colonial.’
‘My name is Patrick, and I once again offer my apologies for disturbing the lady of the lake at her repose,’ Patrick said with a grin.
‘Are you a soldier?’ the young woman asked.
‘Would it make a difference if I were not?’
‘Well, you’re obviously an Australian, but you have almost an English accent.’
‘Yeah, a few of my friends have told me I sound like a Pom. I guess that’s a result of a decent education.’
‘So you must be an officer?’
‘If you tell me your name I’ll answer your question.’
‘You Australians have a very forward manner, but I will tell you my name. It’s Sally.’
‘Hello, Sally, pleased to meet you,’ Patrick said, extending his hand. She moved closer to take it and he immediately yanked her into the pool.
‘You, you . . .’ she spluttered as she resurfaced.
‘It’s a hot day and you looked like you were baking,’ Patrick laughed. ‘The lady of the lake appeared in need of rescue. As to your question about me being an officer, the answer is no, I am just a simple infantry soldier.’