by Peter Watt
‘I think I can help there,’ Tom piped up. ‘I am returning to my place in Queensland and Patrick could come with me. He would be safe up on the station.’
‘He needs to be educated,’ Sean said.
‘I have the perfect answer to that – Miss Abigail Frost. She is a highly qualified governess. And Patrick would be living on the land of his forefathers. After all, the original Patrick Duffy knew the same lands.’
‘Sounds like a bloody good idea to me,’ Harry said. ‘Up there the young fella would be well and truly out of danger from anything Sir George might be planning for you, cobber.’
Sean sat and thought for a moment while his two friends watched him in silence. ‘I think that you are right, Tom,’ he said finally. ‘I will miss the little fella, but I have to think about his safety. He has already been threatened once, I don’t think Sir George would hesitate to use him as a pawn in the war between us again.’
‘Wise decision,’ Harry said. ‘I reckon the country air will do him good.’
‘I will purchase another ticket,’ Tom said, swilling down the remainder of his beer.
‘And with your help, Harry,’ Sean said, ‘I can concentrate on finding the man who attacked me.’
‘If we don’t,’ Harry said, ‘I would bet it is a sure thing Macintosh will come after you again, and this time he won’t fail.’
Sean did not reply but privately agreed with his old friend. Yes, he was still at war, but his enemy had more resources to win.
Late that afternoon Sean visited Allison at her flat and found Patrick there in his school uniform sitting at the kitchen table doing his homework. The boy looked up and the smile of welcome melted Sean’s heart.
‘Uncle Sean!’ Patrick said, jumping up to hug him. ‘Auntie Allison said you would be coming to get me.’
Sean glanced at Allison over the top of the boy’s head. ‘Patrick,’ he said quietly, ‘you are going on a big holiday to a property up north, in Queensland. It’s a place with lots of dogs, horses and cattle. You’ll have plenty of space to run around and play in, and you will be with Uncle Tom who is also another of the Duffy clan and a very nice man.’
Patrick stepped back from Sean with a frown. ‘Will I see you and Auntie Allison again?’ he asked. Since he had been separated from his mother he had been shuffled from one adult to another, and now when he said goodbye to someone he cared for he was never sure whether he would see them again.
‘Of course you will,’ Sean reassured, hoping that Patrick would not see the tears welling in his eyes. ‘Now you have to gather up all your personal things into a suitcase and get ready for a very long train ride to Queensland. You will like it there because it is always warm.’
Patrick said nothing else and went to the spare room to gather up the little he had in his life. Just the clothes he wore, and a couple of notepads to draw in. While Patrick was packing his few possessions, Sean sat down at the kitchen table and Allison prepared a pot of tea. Tea always seemed to sooth the most emotional times, Sean mused.
‘Have you heard anything from David?’ he asked.
‘Nothing,’ Allison answered with her back to Sean. ‘Something is wrong and I am at a loss to know why David will not answer my letters. And before you say it, he cannot be that busy he is unable to write me even a few lines. Maybe he has met someone else.’
When Allison turned to Sean he could see tears in her eyes, and her hands shook as she placed the teapot on the table. Sean rose to wrap his arms around the young woman he had grown so fond of. ‘I am sure he will write soon,’ he said, but without conviction. He was as much in the dark about David’s silence as she was.
*
Sarah met her private investigator, John Chatsworth, in Hyde Park. He had done such an excellent job setting up Allison that Sarah had decided to employ him for another task – to keep track of her brother’s movements. Sir George had indicated that he would be going into full retirement because of his ailing health and Sarah knew that he would have to nominate his replacement very soon. So far he seemed to be favouring her, but he could be irrational and manipulative and there was always the chance that he might name Donald to head the family companies instead. She knew her brother was preoccupied with matters outside the realm of making money. She had even heard rumours that he was working some kind of covert operation with the Prime Minister’s people. She wanted to know what he was up to so she could use the information against him.
‘I have followed your brother to a meeting at an inner city cafe, where he met with a woman,’ Chatsworth said, producing a large brown envelope. He pulled out a large black and white photo of a woman leaving a cafe. ‘Do you recognise this person?’
For a moment Sarah stared at the pretty face without recognising it. Then it came to her. ‘Jessica Duffy!’ she exclaimed. She had met Jessica briefly, when her brother Donald had been smitten by the girl.
‘Your brother has been spotted meeting her twice over the last couple of days,’ the investigator said. ‘I followed her and last saw her getting on a train for Brisbane. Your brother saw her off.’
Sarah stared at the photo; she had to admit the Duffy girl was pretty. Since Olivia was out of Donald’s life it was possible he and the Duffy girl had rekindled their relationship. Alternatively, Donald could be plotting to find a way to sell Glen View Station to Jessica’s father.
‘How much do you know about your brother’s work in Canberra?’ the investigator asked.
‘We acquire contacts for our enterprises through his government sources,’ Sarah answered. ‘Why?’
‘It seems your brother is involved in some very high security activities, although I haven’t been able to discover exactly what,’ Chatsworth said. ‘Call me irrational, but my gut tells me it has something to do with this Duffy woman. Your brother moves in unusual circles. He seems to have some kind of link to the Prime Minister, but at that level it takes a lot of money to persuade people to talk.’
Sarah was intrigued. Donald’s extracurricular activities could make it very difficult for him to take over the reins of the family enterprises. It was time to confer with her father. She slipped the investigator an envelope of banknotes and instructed him to keep following her brother.
That evening she sought out Sir George in the living room where he sat listening to the radio. An Australian broadcaster with a polished Oxford accent was droning on about events across the seas . . . ‘Yesterday, Japanese aircraft attacked Allied ships carrying supplies to the Finschhafen bridge head, but only with moderate success. The Australian 20th brigade has broken through the Japanese line on the Bumi River north of Finschhafen . . .’
Hearing the last part of the report Sarah briefly thought about David. Was he in action back in the Pacific? But her focus quickly moved on to what was most important: undermining Donald with her father.
Sarah walked up behind Sir George and placed her arms around his neck. ‘Hello, Daddy,’ she said and kissed him on the top of the head.
‘What do you want?’ Sir George asked with a wry laugh.
‘Why would you ask such a question?’ Sarah pouted, moving around to face her father.
‘Because you are my daughter, and I know you better than you think,’ Sir George replied.
‘I am only ever interested in your welfare,’ Sarah said. ‘I have come across some disturbing news concerning Donald.’
‘From your private investigator, no doubt,’ Sir George said, stunning Sarah into silence. ‘Nothing gets past me, my dear,’ he said with a smile. ‘I should compliment you on using John Chatsworth. He is very good at his job.’
Sarah sat down in a chair opposite her father. ‘Is there nothing you do not know?’ she asked with a note of respect.
‘You are young but you have already shown initiative and the level of ruthlessness that is required in positions of leadership,’ Sir George said.
; Hearing her father’s words gave Sarah hope that he would appoint her as his successor. It paid to be the dutiful and loving daughter from time to time.
‘Do you know that my brother is seeing Tom Duffy’s daughter?’ Sarah asked and saw an expression of surprise on her father’s face. ‘And that he has been meeting with highly placed intelligence people in Canberra?’ This time her father’s look of surprise turned to consternation.
‘How much do we know about Donald’s contacts in Canberra?’ he asked, leaning forward, and Sarah was pleased to hear him say ‘we’.
‘I have asked Mr Chatsworth to look into that,’ Sarah said, ‘but it seems he is doing more than just working with procurement committees.’
‘Well done,’ Sir George said, patting Sarah’s hand.
‘What is it that worries you about Donald’s links with intelligence organisations?’ Sarah asked. She was aware of the shady links the Macintosh companies had with the Nazi party through their involvement in German industry. The fruits of this association were, she knew, well and truly buried in Swedish and Swiss bank accounts.
‘I do not like my children going behind my back,’ Sir George snapped. ‘If Donald is obtaining security information that might benefit this family, I expect him to let me know about it.’
Sir George was growing petulant now and Sarah knew she should not pursue the matter any further. She bid her father goodnight and went to her bedroom to change for the evening. She had a date with a handsome factory owner; he was married of course, but that suited Sarah perfectly. She had already booked a hotel room.
*
Sir George was no longer listening to the radio when the popular comedy hour came on. He was pondering his conversation with Sarah. His paranoia had been growing since the killing of Lord Ulverstone. Preston had said that a woman had fired the fatal shots. Was it possible that the Duffys had joined forces to conspire against him? Had it been Jessica Duffy who had shot Ulverstone in cold blood? Was it possible that his son was conspiring with her to kill him too?
Sir George was afraid. It was growing dark, and he feared the night with its shadows as his syphilis-ridden brain played tricks on him. Wallarie was coming each night to stand by his bed and taunt him with requests for tobacco. Fenella was with him too, and it was her words echoing through his waking hours that terrified him the most . . . Your own blood will bring your death to you.
Twenty-five
When Jessica Duffy stepped off the train at Roma Street in Brisbane it was a beautiful morning. Around her men and women in uniform scurried to retrieve luggage. She held her small suitcase in her hand and wondered whether she had packed the essentials for a prison sentence. Despite Donald’s assurances she still felt sick with apprehension.
It was not a long walk to MacArthur’s HQ in the city and when she entered the building she was quickly intercepted by two armed military policemen. Jessica explained that she wished to speak with her commanding officer and identified her section.
They told her to sit down in a chair in the foyer whilst they made a telephone call.
Jessica sat quietly, watching the uniformed people moving in and out of the building. Some faces she recognised, but she kept her head down to avoid them.
After some minutes one of the MPs came over to her. ‘I will escort you upstairs,’ he said. ‘You can leave your suitcase here.’
Jessica stood up and followed the guard. Her hands were shaking and she squeezed them together tightly. She was not shown to her old section but taken to a room in a part of the building she was unfamiliar with. This made her nervous and she was left alone for some minutes sitting in a chair and staring at the blank walls. The only other things in the room were a small table and two spare chairs. It was an ominous place that appeared soundproof. The door opened behind her and the pungent scent of cigar smoke told her who was entering the room.
‘Sergeant Duffy, you have returned to the fold,’ the colonel said, taking a seat at the table.
Jessica rose from the chair as military protocol dictated. She came to attention as the form of salute when not wearing a head covering.
‘Sit down,’ the colonel said. ‘We have been expecting you.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Jessica said, and did as she was told.
‘It appears you have friends high up in the Aussie government,’ the colonel said, ash falling to the table from his thick cigar. ‘And it sounds like you have one hell of a tale to tell.’
‘I am not sure what you have been told, sir,’ Jessica ventured cautiously.
‘Well, for a start, you were listed as a deserter,’ the colonel said, staring at her pointedly. ‘You know our attitude towards people who leave their post without permission. It usually ends badly when we catch up with them.’
Jessica felt the grip of fear at the colonel’s words. ‘I fully understand that I was foolish in going absent without leave,’ she said. ‘But I felt that I had to do something about Lieutenant Caccamo’s mission.’
‘That is what worries me,’ the colonel said, leaning back in his chair. ‘How did you find out about his mission? Did he spill the beans to you?’
‘No, sir,’ Jessica answered quickly. ‘I had other means of finding out – which I do not wish to reveal.’
‘You realise that under your code of military justice I can force you to reveal how you found out about Lieutenant Caccamo’s mission?’
‘I know that, sir,’ Jessica answered, feeling her mouth go dry. ‘But the important thing is that Lord Ulverstone is dead and cannot do any further harm to our security.’
‘Did you kill him?’ the colonel asked bluntly. ‘The report I got said he was killed by an unknown assassin but that that the shooter was suspected to be female. Was it you?’
Jessica knew that to answer yes meant that she was admitting to murder under civil law. ‘Yes, sir,’ she said quietly. ‘I killed Ulverstone to finish Tony’s mission.’
Jessica sat absolutely still as the man on the other side of the table contemplated her words in silence. Eventually he leaned back in his chair and took a long puff on his cigar. ‘You should go home and get back into uniform, Sergeant Duffy,’ he said. ‘You are to report to the swamp tomorrow morning at oh-seven hundred. We have arranged for you to return to your old accommodation. Do you have any questions?’
Jessica could hardly believe what she was hearing. It was as if nothing had happened. She had a thousand questions, but realised it might not be wise to ask any of them. She did realise that the transfer downstairs to tactical operations was a way of disciplining her, and that now she would be of no real assistance to Donald’s intelligence gathering. Still, there was one question she needed to ask.
‘What is the official stance on the death of Lord Ulverstone, sir?’
‘He died in a car accident,’ he said, rising from the table with a shrug. ‘Happens every day.’
Outside, a guard escorted her downstairs to retrieve her suitcase, and a staff car drove her over to her old flat at Toowong. Her personal effects and uniform were in place as if she had never left.
*
Harry Griffiths asked a lot of questions – usually over a beer in the many public bars of Sydney. His gym had seen one or two heavyweights of the underworld make his acquaintance over the years. A lot of money could be won or lost on boxing matches, and although Harry had tried to prevent matches being fixed, he was pragmatic enough to know he could not stop the practice. As he had a reputation for being discrete about such matters, he was accepted by some of Sydney’s toughest gangsters. So when he asked questions about an attack on a popular Sydney solicitor Harry received a sympathetic response from most of those he questioned. It was only when he found his way into the public bars frequented by the city’s wharf labourers that he realised he was on dangerous ground. These were men with their own organised thuggery, but it was worth the risk for a man he viewed as a member of his own
family.
‘You don’ wanna go askin’ questions like that around here, Harry,’ said the small wiry man standing beside him at the bar.
‘The Major got you out of a bit of trouble if I remember rightly, Spencer,’ Harry said, eyeing the tough and grime-streaked men coming in off their shifts on the wharves.
‘I think you should piss orf while you can,’ Spencer said loudly so that his work mates could hear him. Reluctantly, Harry finished his beer and took Spencer’s advice. These were men with a reputation for not talking to anyone outside their circle. He left and returned to the empty gym.
Harry glanced around and wondered how long he would be able to keep the place open. Some of his best fighters had enlisted, and all he was getting were teenage boys who would sign up the moment they were old enough.
He heard the front door squeak open, and turned to see Spencer enter. Harry walked over to him.
‘Yer right, Harry,’ Spencer said. ‘The Major has been a friend to a lot of the boys down on the wharf. I couldn’t say much at the pub as yer can understan’,’ he said, looking furtively around the empty gym. ‘The man yer lookin’ for is Micky Slim. That’s the name ’e is registered under with the union. I ’eard he is ’oled up in a place in the Rocks with a stab wound. The boys think he might ’ave ’ad a go at the Major. Yer know we can’t dob in a brother comrade.’
‘Thanks, Spencer,’ Harry said. ‘You might drop around soon if anything of interest falls off a truck. I might have a buyer or two.’
‘Thanks, Harry,’ Spencer said and turned to walk away. He paused for a moment and turned around. ‘Yer might look fer ’im in the Hero of Waterloo. I ’eard he drinks there.’
Harry watched the little man leave, then he stepped outside and caught a taxi to the Rocks, the seedy area adjoining Circular Quay. He walked into the old hotel that had seen men shanghaied not so many years ago. He glanced around the bar filled with men in uniform, the odd old-timer standing at the bar and ruminating into his beer. Harry noticed one of the men had a heavy bandage around his shoulder. He pushed his way to the bar and stood next to him.