Matthew Flinders' Cat

by Bryce Courtenay

  To confirm either his fears or his hopes, Billy first had to find out why the police were looking for the boy. His next task was to visit the police at Kings Cross. He was even willing to break his precious routine and skip his usual visit to the Gardens as well as his mynah-bird duties. But he knew of old that mornings are chaos in a busy police station, that it was much better to call in during the afternoon if you hoped to speak to the patrol commander or one of the detectives. He would spend the early part of the afternoon in the library and then arrive at the police station about three o’clock. A cop with a bit of lunch in his belly was always in a better mood and easier to talk to. Billy entered the Kings Cross Police Station just after three and asked if he could see the patrol commander.

  ‘Can you tell me why you want to see him, sir?’ the young policewoman at the counter asked.

  Billy smiled, then said politely, ‘Yes, of course, I’m a lawyer and I wish to inquire about a client.’

  The young woman looked a little bemused. ‘You’re a lawyer?’ she asked doubtfully.

  ‘That’s right and I wish to see the patrol commander, please,’ Billy repeated calmly.

  ‘Just a moment, sir,’ she said and left the front desk. Billy was tired from the walk so took the opportunity to sit down. After perhaps another ten minutes the young policewoman returned accompanied by the patrol commander. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties, the new breed, sharp, intelligent and businesslike. ‘Yes, sir, what can I do for you?’

  ‘My name is O’Shannessy, I’m a barrister and I wish to inquire about a client, a juvenile whom I believe you wish to question in relation to a drug-related incident.’

  ‘Oh, I see. His name, Mr O’Shannessy?’

  ‘Ryan Sanfrancesco, like the city, only with an e where the i is usually found.’

  The policeman smiled, ‘Thank you, bound to have typed that incorrectly.’ He moved over to a computer and tapped in Ryan’s name. ‘Yes, here we are, Ryan Sanfrancesco. You will need to speak to a detective, if you can wait a moment.’ He turned to the younger policewoman, ‘Constable, will you see if Detective Barker is in.’ Turning back to Billy, he said, ‘Will you excuse me please, sir?’ Without waiting for Billy’s reply, he turned and left the reception area.

  A couple of minutes later a detective in his fifties, almost a dead ringer and of the same vintage as the dreaded Sergeant Orr, Billy’s Parliament House nemisis, came into the reception area. Billy thought to himself that men like Orr and Barker were probably a dying breed, too stout, too tired and too long in a police force that had long since passed them by.

  He heard the older cop say to the younger police woman in a voice intended for him to overhear, ‘That him?’ He stepped up to the desk some two metres from where Billy stood and leaned both his elbows upon it, sticking his chin out, his overlarge gut dented by the edge of the counter. ‘Over here, please, sir!’ he commanded.

  Billy had seen it all before, belligerence, impatience and intimidation all implied with body language and a short, sharp, commanding opening statement that ended with the obligatory and deprecating ‘Sir.’

  Billy rose slowly and walked over to the detective, showing he wasn’t to be bullied. ‘Good afternoon, detective, my name is William O’Shannessy, I’m a barristerat-law, and yours is?’

  The older policeman was caught momentarily off guard. ‘Barker, Detective Sergeant Barker.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, detective, I would like to inquire about a missing juvenile whom I believe the police are looking for in connection to some matters and I would prefer the discussion to take place somewhere other than at the front desk.’

  Billy could see that the policeman was responding to the authority in his voice. Only politicians and senior lawyers talked to policemen with such polite firmness and, despite Billy’s appearance, Barker’s years in the force had given him a finely tuned ear, so that he usually knew when to bite and when to keep his mouth shut. He gave an obligatory sigh. ‘I knock off at three-thirty, sir.’

  Billy glanced at the station clock. ‘Good, that gives us twenty minutes detective.’

  He followed the detective through a door to the left of the counter and along a small corridor and then down a set of steps into a downstairs corridor, past an openplan area and into a small interviewing office. The room was only just big enough to contain the usual table and three chairs. On the table sat what looked like a black box with a snorkel sticking out of it. It pointed directly to where Barker asked Billy to sit. The box, Billy was to learn, was called an ERISP (Electronic Recording Interview Statement Provider) and contained three tape decks and various knobs. The snorkel turned out to be a video camera focused on Billy. The policeman reached over and switched on one of the tape decks. Then, leaning back in his chair and still remaining silent, he scratched delicately at the corner of his nose. He appeared to be thinking. ‘Don’t I know you from somewhere, sir?’ he finally asked.

  It was yet another ploy but Billy didn’t fall for it. ‘You may do, detective. After all, I’m a lawyer and you’re a policeman, although I don’t remember meeting you and I have a very good memory for such things.’ Billy was telling him in unspoken terms not to play funny buggers.

  ‘What is it you want to see me about, sir?’ Barker asked, his demeanour a study in lack of interest.

  ‘My client’s name is Sanfrancesco, Ryan Sanfrancesco, I’m sure you’ll agree it’s not an easy name to forget. I believe you are looking for him to aid you in your inquiries?’

  ‘Right, Ryan Sanfrancesco, juvenile offender, age eleven, address 15 Nicholson Street, Woolloomooloo, that him?’ the detective said right off.

  ‘Thank you, yes.’

  ‘I’m happy to say this isn’t my case although I’m well briefed with the facts. The detective in charge is off duty.’ He tapped the desk with his forefinger. ‘He’s wanted for procuring.’

  ‘Procuring! An eleven-year-old pimp? Don’t be ridiculous.’

  Barker shook his head. ‘Heroin. He may also be guilty of manslaughter, his mother died of an overdose from heroin, which was allegedly supplied by your client. I don’t have to tell you, Mr O’Shannessy, it’s a serious charge. I’ve got grandchildren nearly as old as him.’

  ‘And it’s also a preposterous one!’ Billy cried.

  ‘Children don’t kill their mothers by giving them an overdose.’

  ‘I said it was manslaughter, suspected manslaughter,’ the policeman replied, without changing the tone of his voice. ‘It seems that a supply of high-quality South East Asian heroin, sixty-five to seventy-five per cent pure, came onto the market for the price of heroin of lower purity and came to the Kings Cross area at the same time your client was alleged to have procured it. The autopsy reports that the heroin was too pure,’ the cop shrugged, ‘and, well, apparently she overdosed.’

  Billy knew better than to argue, this wasn’t a court of law after all. Trying hard to stay calm, he said, ‘This looks very much like a set-up, detective.’

  Barker sighed. ‘I told you this is not my case, sir.’ He tapped the table again. ‘I just acquainted you with the charge and some of the details. I must remind you that this is on tape and video, and what you have just said may have been careless but could be taken as a serious accusation against the police.’ It was obvious to Billy that Barker believed he had the upper hand. ‘Now I must ask you a question, do you know the whereabouts of your client?’

  Billy noted that he’d dispensed with the formality of ‘sir’ or even his name. ‘No, I don’t, Detective Sergeant Barker,’ Billy said, his voice even.

  Barker sighed and wiped his hand across his face. Like Vince Payne at William Booth, he was a champion sigher. ‘I must warn you, sir, that concealing information from the police is an offence.’

  Billy ignored the warning. ‘May I see what evidence you have to make the charge, please?’

  Barker grinned. ‘
You know better than that, sir. Besides, there is no formal charge, you also know that.

  Your client is simply wanted for questioning.’ He suddenly slapped his palm against his forehead. ‘Christ! Of course! You’re Billy O’Shannessy, the fallen hero.’ He leaned back in his chair, a big grin spread across his face. ‘From barrister to barfly in a hundred thousand easy gargles. Is it true that the distillers of Johnnie Walker pay you a pension?’ He switched off the tape and leaned forward. ‘Now bugger off, Billy, I’m busy!’

  Billy remained calm. ‘I should remind you, Detective Sergeant Barker, that whatever you think of my present position in life, I am still two things. I am sober and I am a lawyer. If it doesn’t seem too great a presumption on my part, I believe I am still a good lawyer. I can and I will be representing Ryan Sanfrancesco!’

  But Barker wasn’t listening any longer. Even angry, Billy wasn’t a very prepossessing presence, and Barker obviously knew enough about Billy’s sustained career as a derelict to call what he now regarded as nothing but bravado on Billy’s part. He rose and Billy thought the cop was going to evict him, but instead he took three steps towards the door and closed it, clicking the latch on the old-fashioned Yale lock.

  ‘Jesus!’ Billy thought, ‘He’s going to have a go at me!’

  But Barker returned to his chair and leaned forward on the table, his big frame dominating the small room. ‘Billy, do yourself a favour, will ya? You don’t want any part of this. This isn’t about some poor little kid trying to get heroin for his sick mum. There’s other things here that both you and me don’t want to know about. If you don’t want your loved ones to find you dead in the gutter with multiple knife wounds, you’ll stay well away.’ He pointed a hairy forefinger at Billy, ‘And don’t think it’s an idle threat neither, mate.’ He leaned back slightly, a small smile on his face. ‘Who’s gunna worry about an old derro found dead in the gutter, eh? Sure, someone will find out who you once were, that won’t cut any ice neither, you’re a nothing now, less than a nobody, a drunken derro, a homeless person.’ Barker was pushing the envelope. ‘As a policeman, I’d wrap up your case and have it filed away in the Coroner’s Court in less than a morning. We’d assume the usual, some addict rolled you when you were pissed. You tried to resist and he slipped you a blade. You know yourself it happens all the time. Drunks get set alight, stabbed, murdered for a few lousy bucks, sometimes even for fun. Let me tell you something for nothing, even in your former glory you’d be bloody stupid to take this case on. Billy, you’re pissing against a force nine gale, mate!’

  Billy held up his hand. ‘What are you saying, detective, that this is too big for the law? That the child is disposable, a sacrifice? For what? Drug trafficking? What?’ Billy was hoping like hell Barker would come out with the word he needed to hear the most, ‘paedophile’.

  Barker looked at his watch. ‘Look, you’re wasting my time, Billy. I’ve said more than you need to know. I’m warnin’ you now, I mean it. If I see you trying to interfere again, I’m going to have you arrested. Charging you with something won’t be too difficult. I’m gunna arrest you, not to cover my own arse but to protect you from yourself. Leave this alone, you hear me, Billy? There’s powerful people involved, people you can’t get at. Go and get pissed, drown yer sorrows, and stay away from the boy! He’s dangerous.’

  ‘Thank you for that advice, detective, I hear what you say,’ Billy replied. His heart was beating rapidly but he appeared outwardly calm, he was back in a business he understood and his brain hadn’t gone on him.

  ‘Oh, one more thing, Billy. If you’re seen with the boy, you’ll be arrested and charged with sexually molesting a juvenile.’ He paused for effect. ‘Believe you me, the people involved will make the paedophile charge stick, big time, you’ll be a very old man when you get out of Long Bay.’ He spread his hands and sighed, ‘Now be a good boy and bugger off, stop trying to be a hero, stickin’ your nose in where it don’t rightly belong.’

  Detective Sergeant Barker had said it, the magic word Billy wanted to hear. Whatever had happened to Ryan, he was now free of the immediate clutches of a paedophile ring. Barker had as good as told him that this wasn’t routine police business; the mother, an addict dead from an overdose, the child missing, the usual desultory public-don’t-much-care police inquiry. It was something that involved powerful people. It had to be paedophilia. Billy reasoned that powerful and influential people in society don’t run drug cartels. They, whoever they were, wanted Ryan apprehended and put away because he had escaped their clutches and knew too much. They wanted Ryan convicted and, as a minor, placed in Osmond Hall where Davo had been and where they would effectively keep him out of the way while, at the same time, contributing to his ultimate corruption. With a bit of luck he might even take up petrol sniffing or aerosol cans and by the age of fifteen have a brain turned into mush.

  Billy returned to the library and worked on Trim’s story until it was time to walk to his AA meeting at the Rocks. The meeting would end at eight-thirty and he would only have a three-minute walk to the New Hellas Cafe, where Con would be waiting for him. Con’s business closed at ten o’clock and, because there wasn’t a huge demand for coffee at night, it was run at that time by any two of the various young women in his six-female family.

  Con was already waiting for him, illegally parked in a gleaming Mercedes. ‘Come, Billy, we go!’ he yelled excitedly, lowering the electric window of the big black car.

  Billy climbed into the passenger seat. ‘I thought only buses and taxis were allowed to park in this part of the Quay,’ he remarked.

  ‘Coffee!’ Con replied, laughing. ‘Coffee for parkings inspector, no probs, myte!’

  Maria, Con’s new wife, wasn’t exactly ugly but neither was she pretty nor even attractive, she was dead plain and slightly plump. She was dressed in a purple silk shantung suit with the jacket tucked and flared at the waist and it seemed to be two sizes too small, with the tight mini-skirt fifteen centimetres above her knees. Wearing high-heeled shoes dyed to match her outfit, she was forced to walk in small, mincing steps. It was obvious that she’d dressed in her best for the occasion.

  Con touched Billy on the shoulder and whispered into his ear. ‘Very sexy that dresses, eh, Billy.’

  Billy guessed that Goddesses must come in all flavours and, while beauty faded, a good cook lasted the distance.

  Shy at first, Maria soon turned out to be very gregarious and, all things considered, spoke surprisingly good English. She was also not in the least afraid to remonstrate with Con and was by no means the grateful migrant bride. She laughed a lot and cried in anguish when Billy refused a dish, of which there were numerous and in sufficient quantity to feed ten people. None of the girls seemed to be around and when Billy remarked on this, Con explained, ‘Tonights, Billy, Goddess time, for meetings my wife, myte.’

  At one point during the evening Maria asked, ‘The boy, why you not bring that boys?’ She looked over at Con. ‘That boy’s not bad one, ise vlakas Kosta!’

  Con shrugged. ‘Maria, she is right, I am stupids Greek man.’

  After Con’s invitation that morning, Billy had anticipated her question. He had intended avoiding a long explanation by saying Ryan was away and he hadn’t seen him since his return from Queensland, ignoring Ryan’s visit to the chapel at William Booth. But he could sense that Maria was not the sort of woman to whom you gave truncated explanations. Moreover, he couldn’t remember when he’d felt so warmly embraced and he started to tell Con and Maria the whole story of Ryan and Trim, ending with the visit to the police station that afternoon.

  He hadn’t needed to explain the notion of a predatory paedophile ring to Maria, who seemed to understand immediately. At the end of the story, Con simply looked up at Billy with tears in his eyes. ‘Sorry, Billy, I ashame, myte,’ he said softly.

  Maria’s eyes blazed at the conclusion of the story. ‘You find, Billy, that boy, he come Maria
!’ she cried, her forefinger stabbing her chest. Then she looked defiantly at Con. ‘Many girls, no boy! No good, Billy. He come stay here! To cook only girls not so good.’

  Con looked at Billy and shrugged. ‘Bloody oaths, Billy, no problems, myte.’

  Con tried to insist that Billy stay the night, though Billy declined. He couldn’t help wondering how they might accommodate him with seven people in what was not an overlarge terrace house tucked somewhere in a back street in Newtown.

  ‘Thank you, Con, that’s very kind of you both but I must be back at my bench in case Ryan turns up in the morning.’

  Clutching two large plastic cartons containing an assortment of Greek sweetmeats with unpronounceable names, which threatened to keep Billy munching for several days, they drove back to the library. Con seemed reluctant to go, even though Billy knew he had an early start down at the Quay. Finally he took Billy’s hand in both of his large, hairy ones, making Billy’s freckled paw disappear in their embrace. ‘Billy, you my fren, myte. You find that boys, we take a him to Maria, soon he be fat like pigs, fair dinkums.’

  Billy retrieved his blanket from among the woodchips and settled down on Trim’s bench for the night. He didn’t know what to do with the food Maria had given him so he tucked it under the bench, reasoning that even city rats couldn’t chew through a vacuumsealed plastic container without waking him up.