Too Easy

by J. M. Green

  ‘I understand,’ said Cuong in a soothing voice. ‘Jeff was very brave.’

  Blyton was shaking his head, seemed unable to concentrate. ‘Get Mortimer arrested, take smack. That was the plan.’ He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. ‘The gear was for Jeff and me,’ he muttered.

  ‘Right,’ Cuong said. ‘For Jeff.’

  Cuong was humouring him, even though he didn’t have a clue what Blyton was talking about. But I did. It was Blyton who stole the evidence Bruce Copeland had put in the Guns and Gangs safe. Blyton was the other detective under investigation.

  ‘We were going to get clean, get the hell out of Melbourne.’

  ‘You think someone told Gorman?’ Cuong asked.

  ‘Someone? It was bloody Mortimer. I’d bet my life on it.’

  ‘Wait,’ Cuong said. ‘I just remembered something Stella said. Before he shot Jeff, the Turk said, “This is for Thailand.”’

  ‘Thailand?’ Blyton frowned. ‘Enright?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Cuong said.

  ‘You’re wrong!’ Blyton thundered at him. ‘Jeff didn’t do it. How the fuck did she even get that idea? The feds knew about it before that Enright bitch left the fucking country.’

  Cuong shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

  Blyton pulled the gun from the holster and put it to Cuong’s temple. ‘Where is Mortimer?’

  I had to stop myself from leaping out of the wardrobe and screaming Don’t shoot!

  Cuong spoke, icy calm. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I’m not playing games, sonny.’

  A pause.

  ‘Nothing to say? Then you will be dead in five, four, three —’

  A sigh. ‘Sunshine,’ Cuong said. ‘A squat. I’ll take you. It’s not far.’

  Blyton thought this over. ‘Okay. Yes.’ He threw a pair of handcuffs at him.

  Cuong started attaching the cuffs. ‘Maybe we can help each other,’ he said in that low soothing voice. ‘You want Mortimer to testify at the enquiry, is that it? Help out Copeland?’

  ‘I’d rather eat dog shit than help Copeland.’

  I knew the feeling.

  ‘This isn’t about Copeland, with his money problems, the ex-wife, the fucking wedding. He’s not my concern.’ Blyton turned away, used the hanky to pat his sweaty face. Flu, he’d said on Friday. Yeah, right.

  He grabbed Cuong by the shoulder, put the gun to his back, and ordered him outside.

  I waited a moment then climbed out of the wardrobe. I picked up my bag from where Blyton had thrown it; it smelled of smoke. Still in shock, I unplugged my phone in the bathroom and rang Phuong. She was in her car, she said, only five minutes from St Albans. The sun hadn’t risen and yet the household was up and about. Blyton’s visit had disturbed everyone. Afshan was in the kitchen, buttering a piece of toast.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘You offer me sanctuary and I’ve brought danger to you and your friends.’

  He opened a jar of Vegemite. ‘We’re used to the police bullying us.’

  The grubby kitchen window looked out onto the neighbour’s weatherboards, pink undercoat, a project trapped in perpetual stasis. I stared out, bewildered. Used to the police bullying. Wait, what? ‘Afshan, who are these bullies?’

  ‘Their names, I don’t know. Who asks names when they are ransacking your house?’

  ‘Can you describe them?’

  He smudged the Vegemite. ‘One is young, light-brown skin and thick black eyebrows. The other is older, a white man. An Australian man.’

  ‘That narrows it down.’

  ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Some breakfast.’

  I took the toast to the front steps to wait for Phuong, hoping Cuong was safe. Blyton was a dangerous addict, armed and desperate for someone to blame for Jeff Vanderhoek’s death. And Cuong — what was he thinking? — giving him a crazy brave line about knowing where Mortimer was. He was a good liar, I’d give him that. He even had me going with that quick-as-a-flash response. Sunshine. He was probably going to take Blyton to La Fonderie. But what would he do once they got there?

  Phuong’s little blue car pulled into the driveway. I went down the steps to meet her. She looked at my dirty feet, cut-off jeans and blood-stained t-shirt, knees and hands covered in bandages, half my face blue.

  ‘Stella, look at you.’

  ‘Blyton. He’s the detective caught on the phone, the one who had been demanding money from the Corpse Flowers. But it wasn’t money he wanted, it was heroin. He and Vanderhoek were lovers. Blyton stole the evidence that Bruce had put in the safe so that he and Vanderhoek could use.’

  She blinked. ‘I didn’t know …’

  ‘You don’t need Mortimer to clear Bruce now. Blyton admitted everything. I heard him.’

  An inscrutable movement of her head.

  ‘Call the squad cars, the helicopter. Call the fucking army. He’s the guy everyone wants.’

  Her face broke into the saddest Phuong-smile I ever saw. ‘I can’t.’

  I didn’t understand. And then I did. Copeland. An involuntary gasp escaped.

  ‘Friday night, you put it so bluntly, like a slap,’ Phuong said. ‘His behaviour, the explanations, the secrecy.’

  I blinked at her. ‘And getting you to delete the recording.’

  ‘Yes. I had my doubts, nagging away at the back of my mind. After you went off, I sat in my car thinking … and I had to admit you might be right.’

  I nodded. ‘What he’s involved in? Is he in the Flowers’s pocket?’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I’ve tried to contact him. He hasn’t got back.’

  ‘You can’t protect him, Phuong. Not now. Your career. Your reputation.’

  ‘I’m not doing that. All I’ll do is … delay things. He just needs more time.’

  ‘Oh, Phuong.’ Tears stung my eyes. I felt caught between triumphal glee that she’d seen through Copeland’s bullshit at last, and horror at her passive response. Sticking by him was stupid. I wanted her to get angry, to rid herself of his taint.

  We hugged.

  I wiped my eyes. ‘Shit. Cuong. He’s pretending he knows where Mortimer is. Blyton’s dangerous, he’s withdrawing. My guess is they went to La Fonderie. We better hurry.’

  ‘I better hurry. You’ve done enough, Stella. Go home.’

  43

  I WATCHED Phuong drive away. Afshan brought me a glass of his crazy sweet tea and sat beside me on the steps. ‘What will you do now, Stella?’

  I didn’t have a clue.

  We stayed on the steps, watching the sun come up. ‘I will drive you home, I think that is best.’

  I could not be more indebted to that man. He dropped me off at the supermarket and left me to my misery.

  I took a fifty from my wallet that smelled of barbeque, and bought a bottle of vodka. I was done. I’d nearly died. I walked home unconcerned. Everyone at the Turk’s place had run off. None of them, not Josie or Bust Face, had seen me escape. As far as the Corpse Flowers were concerned, I was dead.

  My street was quiet, as per usual on a Sunday morning. Out of habit, I did a perfunctory scan of the area for bikies, and, finding none, plodded up the stairs. The kitchen was as I’d left it, with day-old cooked pumpkin in a saucepan, and all the ingredients ready for stage two of the kaddu bharta. That meal was never going to happen. I didn’t have it in me to clean it away. Instead, I ran a bath. Then I rang Flemington police and asked for Raewyn Ross.

  ‘Hardy, you working today, too?’

  ‘No, I’m … this is a personal call.’

  ‘Not another favour.’

  ‘This is different. It’s for romance’s sake. And it’s not for me, it’s for a friend. She fancies this cop.’

  ‘My advice, stay away. Cops are trouble.’

  ‘Probably wise, but she’s obsessed. Do you
know the cops at St Albans?’

  ‘Her funeral. Name?’

  ‘Ah. Well. She’s not sure. She met him while he was attending a burg and being, you know, a spunk.’

  ‘Gawd. What a loser.’ Ross was chuckling. ‘So it’s basically stalking?’

  ‘Um, yeah. Kinda.’

  ‘Cool. Got a description?’

  ‘He’s young; nice big, bushy eyebrows. Not my thing, but there you go.’

  ‘That’s it? The eyebrows?’

  ‘She said he was with his partner. He’s older, sort of old-school Aussie white male. If you get a name for eyebrows, maybe an address, she’s gonna ask him out.’

  She giggled. ‘Roger that. I’ll get back to you.’

  I took the screwdriver and the knife from my pocket and placed them on the bathroom sink. They looked out of place on the laminex, so I put a towel over them. Then I stripped everything off and assessed the damage. A square sticking-plaster over the screwdriver wound, the burns were healing. I slid into the hot water, leaving one leg hanging over the side, sipping a double vodka. The water was cold when I staggered out. I put my phone on silent and crawled into bed, falling into dreamless oblivion.

  Some disturbance of mind woke me a few hours later. Pain was everywhere. I washed down a couple of Panadol and made a mug of tea.

  Trotsky started barking next door. I put on a robe and checked the peephole. Phuong.

  ‘You didn’t answer your phone,’ she said. ‘I was ready to call the cops.’

  I was horrified. ‘Are you crazy? You’re the one telling me not to.’

  ‘I’m joking.’

  ‘Oh, right. Hilarious.’ I checked my phone: three missed calls, all from Phuong. Nothing from Brophy. I threw it on the sofa with a heavy sigh.

  ‘You’re stressed.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘You haven’t debriefed. You need to slow down and you need to talk to someone.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘When you’re under stress, you fall into bad habits, like binge-eating.’

  ‘Binge-eating, nope. Binge-watching, hell yes.’

  ‘Or drinking.’

  I had to laugh at that.

  ‘And there’s the flashes of uncharacteristic anger.’ She met my eye.

  ‘Look, I said I was sorry.’

  ‘And the obsessive need to solve problems. Leading to guilt and exhaustion.’

  I put my hands to my face, acted shocked. ‘You’ve been reading my diary.’

  ‘I’ve been reading psychology texts.’

  This was Phuong’s way of saying she cared. But analysis was not understanding and the road to hell was paved with second guesses. She lifted a saucepan lid, inspecting the day-old pumpkin fiasco. Her concern was hard to take sometimes, and I moved the conversation along. ‘Come away from there. Tell me, did you find Cuong?’

  She parked her skinny arse on the edge of my coffee table. ‘Yes.’ A sheepish, almost contrite Phuong put her hand on mine. ‘Mortimer was squatting in the empty flat next to Cuong’s. Well, he had been. When they got to the flat, Mortimer wasn’t there. So, Blyton went off and left Cuong behind.’

  I took my hand away, not in anger; I wanted both hands in the air to express my incredulity. ‘Mortimer was there the whole time?’

  Phuong sighed. ‘I think so.’

  ‘I’m running around the state, getting abducted, beaten, and Mortimer was hiding in La Fonderie the whole time.’

  ‘I know.’ Phuong was more pale than usual. ‘Every time I look at your face I feel sick.’

  ‘What am I, hideous?’

  ‘I should never have got you involved.’

  ‘Yes, you should’ve asked your cousin. He knows where everyone is.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re alright here? You can come and stay with me, if you like, let me take care of you.’

  Tempting — she may have had poor judgement with men, but the woman could cook. ‘That’s a nice offer … but I’m fine, really.’

  ‘Then come for dinner.’ She glanced around my flat like she expected to see listening devices. ‘We have things to discuss.’

  ‘True that. Phuong, we have to report this.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And what about Bruce? You’ve been keeping him informed about Cuong?’

  The Phuong-smile came tinged with sadness. ‘Not yet.’

  I raised my eyebrows. ‘What? Not even Bruce?’

  ‘He’s my cousin.’

  ‘Your cousin is up to his neck in Corpse Flower doings. Did he finally confess everything to you?’

  She shrugged. ‘Some things. But I feel like there’s still a lot he’s not telling me.’

  She probably had that right. Still waters ran to the Mariana Trench with that one.

  ‘I need to talk to him.’

  She nodded, like that was fair. ‘He said he’s going to the temple in Braybrook. He’s going to make offerings, say a million prayers. He’s freaking out again. Worried about appeasing the “friend”. Says he sees it in his sleep.’

  ‘The friend is your departed loved ones, right? Family?’

  ‘Not necessarily. Anyway, he’s convinced Gorman knows he helped you. He’s going to ask the monks if he can stay at the temple.’

  ‘I didn’t know you could do that.’

  ‘You should stay at my place, just for a few days.’

  ‘Not necessary. Gorman thinks I’m dead.’

  She gave me a hug. ‘Come for dinner, let me feed you proper food at least.’

  I said I would. When she passed Brown Cardigan’s door, Trotsky burst into frenzied yapping. Tough revolutionary he was, barking a rallying call to the workers to bring down the government.

  I stood in my kitchen, feeling overtired and overwhelmed. I scraped the half-finished kaddu bharta pumpkin mess into the bin. Then I took a couple of aspirin to help the Panadol along. If I had another nap, I’d probably sleep all day and wake up feeling like crap. Instead, I put the dishes in the sink, hit the hot tap and squirted a shot of green liquid. Foam rose. I stared into the bubbles. It was not over. Gorman had said so. I put on some washing-up gloves. Jacks don’t know where to look.

  I took off the gloves and opened my laptop.

  There were plenty of articles on Ricky Peck’s death, but not many featuring photos of the house. After a bit of trawling, I found a suburban paper with a short piece, and a large picture of the location. Peck was recently found dead in a house in Sullivan Street, North Sunshine. The unoccupied house was used to grow cannabis.

  Ricky Peck died in a fifties cream brick-veneer, double-fronted place with a high iron fence, and large, slightly rusty wrought-iron gates across the driveway. The house appeared to be adjacent to open land, or a park of some kind. A quick search on a map showed Sullivan Street was a cul-de-sac, which ended at the Kororoit Creek reserve.

  I had a brief debate with myself about this idea. Ethically, I was on shaky ground. Legally, I was on no ground at all. But my considerations were of a different order. I turned my hands around, seeing the burns and cuts. I had a reason to go. I wanted those bastards crushed. And I had plenty more reasons to go. This was for Cory. And it was for the girl I saw him with, and Razz and Brook and Angie, and for all the ones who slip through the cracks and were cheerfully preyed upon. It was politics. It was personal.

  It was not for Copeland.

  I dressed in long pants to cover the bandages, a t-shirt, and put on a pair of runners. Then I ran around the flat gathering my washing-up gloves, the knife, and the screwdriver, and threw them in my handbag. I was going to break in, maybe steal, and I was equipped. I went down to Union Road and hailed a cab, telling the driver to head to North Sunshine.

  Fifteen minutes later, I was at the corner of Sullivan and Wright. I paid the driver and walked to the end of the street. The ho
use looked the same as the photo, a respectable-looking family home. That surprised me. I foolishly imagined that perhaps the hostility of its owners, the drowning, or even this ridiculous weather might cause some deterioration. I expected police tape or some crime scene barriers, but nothing about the place indicated a criminality had been committed there or that it was off-limits. It was plain and tidy. The tall, ironwork fence and closed gates were the only clues to the owner’s need for privacy. One side of the property bordered the reserve. A pathway between Ricky Peck’s place and the adjoining property led into it, and I follow it through to a stretch of rolling green crown land with a bike path flanking the creek. Along the length of the dope-house property, ran a high paling fence.

  I sat under a tree in the park and considered my options.

  A young child on a bike with training wheels rocketed along the path, followed by a mature woman on a dragster, awkwardly perched on the banana seat, helmet sliding off her head, yelling ‘Slow down!’

  Last time I’d gone into a Corpse Flower house it had ended badly. I stretched my leg. I had been lucky. Luckier than Jeff Vanderhoek.

  I turned back to look at the Ricky Peck house. There would have been cameras. But not now. Padlocks and deadlocks. Burglary required skill, the right tools, and the knowhow.

  I walked back towards Wright Street, thinking of catching a bus to Phuong’s. At a small strip of shops, most of them closed, I walked into a convenience store. Baked beans, dog food, toilet brushes. A woman sold me a chocolate milk and a Mars Bar, the tradie lunch.

  I sat on a bench outside and downed the food. After some deliberation — in which I talked myself out of, and then back into, my next move — I wandered up the street to Ricky Peck’s house.

  The front gates had a simple latch mechanism. I went up the steps to the house. A dead pot plant on the concrete porch. The bamboo curtain over the door slapped in the wind. I looked in the front windows: a mess of plastic bags, takeaway food boxes, and more industrial-type waste, hoses and metal scraps. I pressed a hand to the sliding aluminium window to shove it sideways, but it was locked.