by Peter Watt
‘What?’ James asked, puzzled by the smile on his grandfather’s face.
‘It’s out in the garage,’ said James Barrington Snr, handing James a set of automobile keys. ‘We’ll go together to inspect it.’
James followed his grandfather out of the house to the double garage and opened the door.
‘Son of a gun!’ James gasped when his eyes fell on the sleek, red sports car. ‘Is that really mine?’
‘I felt that a young man back from the war, especially one who is a fighter ace, should have something befitting his status. I had it imported, and now it is yours.’
James turned to the old man and thrust out his hand. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said. ‘Do you mind if I take it for a spin? I promise I’ll keep it to a reasonable speed.’
‘Just be back before dinner,’ James Barrington Snr said with a glow of pleasure at pleasing his only heir.
‘I promise,’ James answered, jumping into the driver’s seat and inserting the ignition key. He knew exactly where he was going.
*
The young men and women in the carpark of Sweeney’s Bar certainly noticed the red sports car drive in. The men looked on with envy, the girls with admiration.
James walked into the bar, expecting to see either Bernie or his wife behind, but saw a stranger who had a vague resemblance to Bernie. James sat down on a stool and ordered a drink. The big barman placed it on the counter.
‘Is Bernie around?’ James asked. The barman looked hard at him.
‘Bernie’s me brother. Who are you?’
‘James Duffy.’
The hard expression disappeared and the man held out his hand.
‘Frank Sweeney,’ he introduced himself. ‘Bernie said you might be in one day, and he left something for you.’
The barman disappeared and returned a couple of minutes later, passing James a sealed envelope.
‘Where’s Bernie?’ James asked, accepting the envelope.
‘All I know is that he sold me the bar, and he and my sister-in-law disappeared from the county after the death of the Wilson kid.’
‘Edgar Wilson!’ James exclaimed. ‘When did that happen? What happened?’
‘I guess you’ve been away a while,’ Frank said. ‘It was big news around here. The sheriff found the son of a bitch beaten to death and dumped off a road out of town about five weeks ago. My brother was a suspect, but Hausmann got nuthin’ on Bernie because he was drinkin’ with me at my house. But Bernie thought it wise to make himself scarce.’
‘What about Isabel?’
‘My niece is at college studying medicine,’ Frank answered. ‘I hear she’s doin’ fine.’
James opened the letter of one page:
If you’re reading this Captain Duffy, then you made it back alive. Mary and I will be eternally grateful to you for giving my very much loved daughter the chance to get a good education, and one day become a doctor.
You would know by now Edgar Wilson is dead, and that some people will say I killed him. Why would I kill the son of a bitch who boasted openly of murdering your sister? After all, I don’t have a motive. However, Mary and I have decided that we would like to go overseas with the money from the sale of the bar to my brother. It must be in the blood of us Irish to immigrate, and start afresh in foreign lands. At least they speak American where we will resettle. Both Mary and I wish you all the very best in the future, and I know that Isabel would wish the same.
Yours sincerely
Bernie and Mary Sweeney
P.S. It might be an idea to burn this letter once you’ve read it.
Frank placed a full glass of whisky in front of James. ‘Bernie said I was to shout you a decent whisky if you ever came here and read that letter,’ he said with a broad smile. James looked up at the big man, who had also poured himself a tumbler.
‘To Bernie and Mary,’ James said, raising his glass in salute. ‘Wherever they may be.’
‘To me brother and sister-in-law.’ Frank said, and they emptied the glasses in one swift gulp.
‘Maybe we should have another toast, Captain Duffy. Me and me brother were both marines in the Great War.’ Frank lifted the sleeve of his shirt to reveal the faded tattoo of the marine corps emblem.
‘Semper fi,’ James said, and the refilled glasses were quickly emptied.
James did not make it home for dinner that night.
TWENTY-TWO
All across southeast Asia and the Pacific, Japanese commanders were coming in from the jungles to participate in surrender ceremonies.
Major David Macintosh stood with his company on a parade at the tiny Wewak airstrip. The Australian troops were lined six deep on either side of the strip, and in the centre of the airfield was a table about which were gathered General Robertson, the commander of the Sixth Division, and his staff officers. The morning was clear and hot.
Eventually a jeep arrived at the end of the strip. David watched as the enemy commander General Adachi and a small number of his staff got out and lined up. The Japanese general was marched down with an escort of Australian soldiers to the table where the Australian general was waiting.
The Japanese commander saluted the Australian commander, and then bowed in the tradition of his country. The Australian commander returned the salute. General Adachi was wearing a sword, which he would hand over, acknowledging their defeat.
To David, the scene felt surreal. For all the years he had been in the mountainous jungles fighting the general’s men, he had never dreamed he would one day witness the former enemy admitting defeat. There was a palpable tension running through the ranks of watching soldiers.
The Japanese general was having trouble unbuckling his sword, and a distinctive Aussie voice called out from the ranks behind David, ‘Take it orf ’im!’
A chuckle rippled through the ranks, answered by a growl from the Company Sergeant Major to respect the occasion. David suspected the CSM probably had the hint of a smile on his face too.
The sword came off and was handed to General Robertson, who placed it on the table. This was followed by the signing of papers, then the ceremony was complete and David was able to give the order for his company to fall out.
They were transported back to Cape Wom, where all the talk around the camp was of going home.
David made his way to his tent, where he saw a pile of letters on his bunk. A glitch had held up the mail, but now David had the time to read the news from home. He sorted the letters and placed those from Allison at the front. After carefully examining the postmark dates he commenced with the oldest, and read the words of the woman he always kept as the memory of what he was going home to. Her letters were filled with love, and the desire to be in his arms once again, with erotic hints of how they would spend each and every waking hour in her little Sydney flat.
David smiled as he opened one letter after another until they abruptly stopped. The letters ceased about the same time peace was declared. He shrugged, and thought the mail system must have messed up, and that, with any luck, more would soon arrive.
The second-last letter was from Sean Duffy. Sean had been a consistent correspondent throughout David’s deployments overseas to North Africa, Syria, the Middle East and the New Guinea campaign. David slit open the envelope and began reading. He was only halfway through the first page when he discovered why there were no more letters from Allison.
David felt his hands begin to tremble, and then his whole body. It was not possible that she could be dead, when it was more probable that he would not survive the war. A bloody car accident had taken her life on the very night Australia was celebrating the end of the war.
For minutes David just stared at the letter in his hand. He did not doubt the news was true, but couldn’t accept he would never see Allison again. He also wondered why he couldn’t cry. Was it that his soul had been too hardened by all th
e death he had seen over the years, from Dachau to Spain, North Africa to New Guinea? All he could feel was a loss without limits.
‘Hey, David, you want to join the boys down at the beach?’ Captain Brian Williams called through the tent entrance. It was only when David looked up at him that Williams could see the immense pain in his expression.
‘Is everything okay, old chap?’ Brian asked with concern.
‘No, not really,’ David replied. ‘I think I need some time alone. Can you look after things for today?’
‘Sure thing,’ Brian answered, and stepped back from the entrance. ‘If there’s anything I can do . . .’ he offered.
‘Thanks, cobber,’ David said. ‘I just need a little time. I’ll be okay.’
David remained sitting on his bunk, and glanced at his service revolver. Only hours earlier he had watched as the war was officially declared over. Now he felt that so, too, was his life.
The sun was going down when David looked at the last letter on his bed under the mosquito net. The handwriting was vaguely familiar. He opened it.
It was from his cousin, Sarah Macintosh, expressing her sadness at Allison’s untimely death. It went on to say that she was always in his life if he needed a shoulder to cry on. David barely registered her condolences.
*
Constable Brendan Wren was ambitious. He aspired to move from uniform duties to plainclothes work, and eventually to gain recognition as a detective. He had been too young to enlist, but had followed in a family tradition to serve as a police officer.
The hit-and-run he had attended on the night of victory celebrations was at the top of his list of cases to solve. As a beat officer he had visited every car repair shop in his area, and finally had a break when he found a black sedan that had damage consistent with hitting a pedestrian.
He questioned the owner of the panel-beating shop, and was informed the vehicle had been brought in a couple of days after the incident. Constable Wren took down the particulars in his notebook. He learned the registered owner was a business, which meant anyone from that organisation could have been the driver. At least he knew where to start asking questions.
His enquiries led him to the head office of Macintosh enterprises. There, he asked at the front counter if he could speak with someone in charge.
The doorman looked him up and down with an expression of superiority, but did call down one of the managers, a young man who normally worked in the accounting section.
Constable Wren asked for the driver’s name.
‘I’m sorry, constable,’ the accounts section manager said. ‘I would have to consult with my boss before I release that information.’
‘Who’s your boss?’ the police officer asked.
‘Miss Sarah Macintosh,’ the manager replied. ‘But she is not available unless you make an appointment to see her.’
‘You can tell your boss I wish to speak to her as soon as possible. You can tell her I can be contacted here,’ he said, scribbling down his details on a piece of paper and handing it to the manager.
‘I’ll pass on your message,’ the manager said. ‘If there’s nothing else, I’ll bid you a good day.’
Constable Wren watched the man walk away. He toyed with the idea of barging into this woman’s office, but thought twice when he glanced around at the opulence in the foyer. Whoever ran this financial institution must be an important person, he thought. One of the first things he had learned in policing: the law did not apply equally to the rich and poor.
He left the building and returned to his station for the changeover of shifts.
‘Hey, Brendan,’ called one of his workmates as he passed the front desk. ‘There’s a detective inspector who wants to see you in the day room. Are you going to plainclothes?’
‘I hope so,’ Brendan replied, but he was puzzled by the news.
He went to the day room in the station, which was normally filled with police on changeover of shift. But when he entered the room, there was only one person, a tough-looking man in a well-cut suit.
‘You Constable Wren?’ he asked belligerently. Brendan could see the Inspector was drunk.
‘Yes, sir,’ Wren replied. ‘I was told that you wanted to see me.’
The detective walked up to the constable, until he was only inches from his face. Wren felt uneasy. ‘I heard that you were bothering the boss of the Macintosh companies,’ he growled.
‘I never got to meet the boss,’ Wren said.
‘Nor will you, constable, if you know what’s good for you.’
‘Sir, I was investigating the serious matter of a fatal hit-and-run and . . .’
‘Shut your gob and listen to me,’ the inspector said. ‘The Macintosh family are amongst our most important citizens in this town. I’m telling you now to drop your investigations if you know what’s good for you. I also heard in the traps that you want to come to the detective’s division some day.’
‘I’m hoping to do that,’ Wren acknowledged.
‘Well, if you keep your nose clean, do what I tell you, you just might have a chance. Let me look at your notebook.’
Wren slipped the small, hardbacked notepad from the top pocket of his tunic and handed it to the detective. He flipped it open until he came to the pages noting the details pertaining to the hit-and-run investigation. The detective took a fountain pen from his pocket, and scribbled under the notes ‘no further action’, then signing his name, Inspector Preston.
‘Matter closed, constable,’ he said, handing the notebook back to the shaken police officer, who had been drilled to obey orders from superiors in the police force. ‘I believe you’ll be late for the changeover parade if you do not go now,’ Preston said, stepping back from the cowed constable. ‘Just remember what I told you. Stay away from the Macintosh family.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Brendan answered, slipping the notebook into his tunic pocket.
The inspector left the room and Brendan hurried to his parade with confused thoughts. It appeared that the senior officer was attempting to interfere in a legitimate investigation. But what could he do? He knew the culture of his job did not encourage mere junior constables to question seasoned, senior members of the service. It was as if the notebook in his pocket was burning a hole into his chest.
*
Sarah Macintosh paced her office, cigarette in hand. The damned police, she thought. At least she had been able to contact Preston to put out any potential fire the lowly constable may have started. But that was not her only worry. She had been informed that some mysterious company had been buying into their public shares, and had done what she thought was impossible. They had taken out a fifty-one per cent share. The only way that could have been achieved was through treachery from within her own family. It had to be Donald.
‘Miss Macintosh, you have a visitor,’ her personal secretary said, popping his head around the door.
‘I do not wish to have visitors,’ Sarah snapped.
‘It’s your husband,’ the secretary said. ‘Should I tell him you’re not available?’
‘No, send him in,’ Sarah sighed. She had not seen Charles in two years, since his posting to Darwin to fly Spitfires. Charles entered the room wearing his uniform. On his chest were the ribands denoting his conspicuous service to his country, including the Distinguished Flying Cross.
‘Hello, Sarah,’ he said. ‘I can see you’re pleased to see me.’
‘Welcome home, Charles,’ Sarah replied coldly. ‘Why are you here?’
‘Oh, I thought I might have a job back with the firm,’ he said, glancing around at his estranged wife’s plush office. ‘At least discuss the future with you.’
‘You know there’s nothing to discuss,’ Sarah said, walking back to her desk and stubbing out her cigarette.
Charles walked over to the window, gazing down on the city on the brink of turning
from day to night. The activity he saw below was so much like he remembered before he went to war. People had resumed their lives as if the war had never happened.
‘I thought we might start with a discussion about my son,’ he said, standing in front of the large glass pane. ‘I believe you have him at Goulburn.’
‘I’m too busy to raise a child and run an enterprise as big as this. Michael is in the capable care of his nanny.’
‘Well, I want him back with us in Sydney,’ Charles said. ‘His nanny can come, and continue looking after him here.’
‘What gives you the right to walk in here and start running things, Charles?’ Sarah asked. ‘You have been off the scene for years.’
‘I suppose I can claim the right of a good husband, and father,’ Charles retorted. ‘I will be demobbed this week, and in need of a job. What better job than being by your side, assisting in running the business?’
‘What makes you think I want you back?’ Sarah countered. ‘If you had any good manners you would accept a divorce.’
‘Ah, but that’s not as easy as you think,’ Charles said, sitting down on the sofa. ‘It gets very messy, what with lurid photos produced to the court of infidelity. It would not do your reputation any good should the newspapers get hold of the story. After all, I’m a returning war hero who has risked his life in the skies over the Pacific for my wife and child. No, it’s better we keep up the pretence of a marriage for the sake of my son, and the good name of Macintosh. I’m sure your late father would have agreed with me.’
‘What do you really want?’ Sarah asked, sitting down and leaning forward across her desk.
‘The same as you,’ Charles said. ‘Money and power. I’ve not fooled myself that you have any feelings for me because you would first have to have a heart. You can live your life the way you feel fit but be discreet about what you do. I can promise you we’ll prosper even more as a team. I think it’s a good deal.’
Sarah sank back against her chair, and thought about her estranged husband’s offer. It had potential, so long as she remained the boss of the financial empire.