He warily opened his eyes and looked at the enraged Spencer tearing books from the shelf, leafing through them and throwing them away. Then Lucky’s eyes caught a movement at the window. It was a face. Jesus Christ! Lucky’s heart skipped a beat. It was George Everard!
Shayne and John had arrived at Norris’ house and seen Spencer’s car. They’d carefully approached the lit window.
‘I can only see Spencer,’ Shayne had whispered. ‘Where the fuck is Schumacher?’
‘We’ll have to play it by ear,’ John had replied. ‘We’ll go in back to back and I’ll watch for Schumacher.’
It had not taken them long to realise that Spencer was alone. As he threw books around the room, Shayne’s frame filled the library door, his gunsights firmly fixed on Spencer’s back.
‘Hello, arsehole!’ he murmured.
Spencer spun towards the voice as he raised his firearm.
‘Goodbye, arsehole!’ Shayne opened fire and four bullets found their mark, smacking into Spencer’s chest and face, lifting him into the air and killing him instantly. His body crashed into the bookshelves, bringing one down on him as he hit the floor. Shayne kept the gun on Spencer’s body and moved to Norris. He crouched down. ‘Are you all right?’
Lucky opened his eyes. ‘I am now, thanks to you, son. You’re timing’s impeccable.’
‘So what does the statement contain?’ Shayne asked. It was ten minutes later and a shaken Lucky Norris sat in his library chair with a cold compress against his forehead.
‘I never read it.’ Lucky sighed. ‘It was sealed, but I had my suspicions. I reckon Jane Smart witnessed George Everard’s death. I’d bet my life on it. It happened outside her flat, for Christ’s sake.’
Shayne stared at Lucky Norris. Grandfather George? Grandfather George had been murdered by criminals. An underworld hit, he’d always been told. There’d been no witnesses.
‘She came to me one night in 1962,’ Lucky continued. ‘It was about a year after your grandfather was killed, supposedly on duty.’
‘Supposedly?’ John asked as he sat on Lucky’s desk.
‘Yeah. Supposedly—if you want my opinion.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Shayne finally found his voice.
Lucky rearranged the compress to his head. ‘Well, I think there was something fishy about George Everard’s death. Nothing ever came to light, but I had a funny feeling about it. I was a crime reporter then and knew a lot of policemen, especially detectives. Whenever I’d mentioned George’s death, they’d clam up. It wasn’t natural, if you know what I mean? The man was a legend. And no one was ever charged with the murder! That was even stranger still. Coppers will turn the world upside down to find someone who kills one of their own.’
‘Not any more they won’t,’ Shayne said bitterly.
‘Yeah,’ Lucky sighed sadly, ‘they ain’t what they used to be.’ He removed the compress from his head and winced. ‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘for years I was on the verge of reading that statement, but I never did. I never had the guts. Jane told me it was her insurance policy and made me promise I’d keep it safe for her. She said if anything ever happened to her, I was to open it and read it.’ He looked at Shayne. ‘I was half in love with her, you know? Still am. She’s probably the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.’
‘She’s dead,’ John muttered savagely.
‘What?’ The old man could hardly take it in.
‘Spencer and his mate Schumacher cut her to pieces tonight.’
‘Good God!’
‘So where’s this bloody statement?’ Shayne was desperate to read about the death of his grandfather. ‘Let’s read it.’
Lucky shook his head. ‘I’m afraid that’s impossible.’
‘Why?’ Shayne snapped irritably.
He gestured weakly with one hand. ‘Take a look around you. This house is only four years old.’
‘So?’
‘The original house burned to the ground five years ago and the statement burned with it.’
The three men sat in silence, the air thick with their unspoken questions.
‘Well, that’s that then!’ Shayne stood up and stepped through the discarded books to the window. Then he turned and looked at Lucky Norris. ‘Tell me, as a matter of interest, did you ever hear of an organisation called Tip-Toe Investments?’
‘Of course I did.’ Norris looked unwaveringly at him. ‘I know more about this city than you’ll ever know.’
Shayne threw up his hands in frustration. ‘You’re a newspaper editor—why didn’t you ever say anything about it?’
‘You’re a cop!’ Norris snapped. ‘Why didn’t you?’
‘You were in a position of power—’
‘Bullshit!’ Norris roared. ‘Grainger Bertram owned the newspaper I edited! He was in it up to his neck and look what happened to him! I was just another shitkicker like you!’
Shayne’s voice softened. ‘Did you know my father was involved?’
‘Yes.’ Lucky nodded his head slowly. ‘I certainly did.’
‘Well, it’s all going to come out in the wash now,’ John Buck said. ‘We don’t need Jane’s statement. We’ve got them by the balls. Schumacher, this bastard here,’ he laughed pointing to the dead body of Spencer, ‘Jane Smart, your old man, Helen Gorman’s evidence, the fucking lot!’
‘Too right!’ Norris got to his feet, suddenly feeling stronger than ever. ‘Front page news! I’m going to tell the whole bloody world. I’ve got to get into the office and stop the presses!’ On his way out of the room, he stopped. ‘One of you’d better ring your workmates and get them here.’
‘Hey, Lucky,’ Shayne called after him. The old editor turned. ‘Did Jane ever tell you about a box and a gun?’
‘No,’ Norris replied, intrigued.
‘That’s what she said as she died,’ John added.
‘A gun in a box?’ Norris mused.
‘No, not exactly,’ John corrected. ‘She said “Lucky Norris, papers. The box, the gun”—they were her exact words.’ He slumped into a chair.
‘The box? The gun?’ Norris repeated.
John shrugged. ‘That’s what it sounded like to me.’
‘The box, the gun.’ Lucky stared into space for several seconds, muttering ‘the box, the gun,’ and then a slow smile appeared on his face, ‘Well I’ll be buggered!’
‘What is it?’ Shayne asked.
‘She didn’t say box,’ Norris laughed. ‘She said Boxer!’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘She was a clever, clever girl!’ Lucky chuckled. ‘She meant Norris has the papers and The Boxer’s got the gun!’ He roared with laughter again.
‘Would you mind sharing the joke!’ Shayne snapped.
Lucky calmed down. ‘Jane told me once that on the night your grandfather was murdered, a man had helped her get out of Sydney. Everyone was looking for her, but she managed to give them the slip and get to Melbourne, with his help. She called him The Boxer. It was his police nickname. He was in Thirty-Three Division.’
‘Do you know who he was?’
‘I certainly do!’
‘Is he still alive?’ John interjected.
‘Yep, and I even know where he lives,’ Lucky replied smugly.
‘Hell!’ Shayne gasped and looked at John.
‘What is it?’ John saw the panic in Shayne’s face.
‘I just figured out why Schumacher isn’t here!’
CHAPTER TWENTY
Tom Bromley sat at his living room table, his mind wandering through a lifetime of memories. Memories of times long gone. Memories of a carefree, barefoot childhood in the streets of old Newtown. Running wild down back alleys with the other kids, pretending to be cowboys, or pirates, or soldiers, or whatever else they chose to be. Blissfully unaware of the innocence they would all too soon lose. He recalled the tired face of his mother as she sat on the back steps of their old house and explained in her soft voice why he had to wear his brothers
’ old school uniform. He had six brothers and two sisters, but Tommy had been the youngest and they’d all married and moved away before he’d reached his teens. And he remembered his mother’s tears when the police had come to tell her that his father had been killed in an accident on the wharves. He’d been nine years old then. And he also remembered winning the hundred yard dash at the school sports day, and the soft lips of the girl who’d kissed him behind the bicycle shed after the race. Kathleen Coleman was her name. She was the sister of Dasher Coleman, the first kid he’d ever fought in the ring.
He’d been ten years old and the shock of seeing blood spurt from Dasher’s nose had turned into wild exhilaration when the referee had stopped the fight and held Tommy’s hand up. ‘You’re the winner, kid,’ the ref had said. ‘Well done. Now shake hands with young Coleman and congratulate him on being a good opponent.’ That referee had been Alfie Leonard. He’d taken Tommy under his wing and taught him to box.
Ding ding ding ding ding! The bell had made him flinch and then he heard the nasal voice of the ring announcer, the silver-haired man in the dinner suit. What was his name again? Tommy strained to remember it. George Unwin! That was it, George Unwin. What a silly name for a fight announcer.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ the tannoys had screamed, ‘in the blue corner, weighing in at …’
Tommy smiled, he couldn’t even remember his fighting weight. But he remembered the outcome—he’d knocked out Slammin’ Sammy Taylor in the fifth round and was crowned Amateur Middleweight Champion of Australia. He also remembered Alfie’s first words to him after his hand had been raised. ‘Well done, Tommy,’ he’d said. ‘Now go and shake hands with young Taylor and congratulate him on being a good opponent.’
They’d had a party that night! What a party! Beer and pies at the old gym till nearly three in the morning and Tommy had walked home in a euphoric dream, with his title belt tucked tightly under his arm.
‘Gentlemen, as from today you are officially members of the New South Wales Police Force,’ the man had said. Tommy couldn’t remember who he was, but he’d been an important politician. ‘You are entrusted with the preservation of life and property of His Majesty’s subjects in this State. You have taken an oath to serve and I’m sure each and every one of you will do your duty without fear or favour, malice or ill-will.’
Fear, favour, malice, ill-will. Such old-fashioned words Tommy had thought, but he’d stuck by them. As had his fellow officers. They’d been tough and fair and dealt out justice in the streets to anyone who dared disturb the public peace. They were honest and true, and Tommy could hold his head high in any man’s company.
Whenever bad or evil men appeared, Tommy and others like Knocker Reid and The Prince of Darlinghurst himself, George Arthur Everard, would charge through them like bowling balls through skittles, sending them running with their tails between their legs. They were great days, back then when honest men weren’t afraid of the police.
George Everard. The name came rushing back to haunt him. And Knocker. Dear old Knocker. Tommy knew that Stan Ames had arranged Knocker’s death. It was no heart attack. George and Knocker were gone forever. Cops like them didn’t exist any more. They were knights on white chargers in the good old, bad old days of post-war Sydney Town. And Tommy had been one of them, for a brief while at least.
His eyes looked around the small lounge room. There were no lights on. Tommy knew where everything was; there was no need for light. These days he hardly ever turned on the light. The street lamp glow through the front window was all he needed. Tommy smiled sadly. There was no light at all in Tommy’s life any more. He was a sad old man on the eve of his retirement. This was his last night as a policeman and he was alone in his lounge room, surrounded by memories and ghosts.
For a moment, his senses were alert. He thought he heard the click of his front gate being opened and closed, but it couldn’t be. No one would come to his house. He hadn’t had a visitor since …
His eyes fell on the photograph of Josie and a pain stabbed at his heart. Then, in an instant, he was dancing with her. Spinning around the dance floor with his Josie, in her beautiful blue dress. She smiled right into his eyes and in hers he saw the promise of everlasting love.
Josie had given him that love in great abundance. She’d given him joy and happiness and the wonderful belief that he was capable of conquering the world. Then, all of a sudden she was gone. Like George had gone. And Knocker.
Memories crowded into his brain of the night they’d killed George. He’d been a party to the act! He and Fadden had known about it. They’d stood in that bloody garage in Surry Hills and drawn matches to see which of them would kill him! He remembered the panic after the killing. The terrified state of Ames and Harold when they’d all met up at Darlinghurst Police Station later that night.
Harold was a mess and Ames looked like he’d been to hell and back. They’d killed George and stupid Harold had lost his gun. The murder weapon! Tommy couldn’t believe it. And then to top it off, they reckoned that Jane Smart had probably witnessed the whole thing and had disappeared with the gun.
The four of them had gone in search of her and all through those hours, the remorse in Tommy’s soul had deepened. Finally, Tommy had found her. The poor little bitch was hiding in an alleyway shaking like a leaf. She was fifty yards away from the bus which would take her to Melbourne.
Jane Smart had cowered in the dark alley, staring at him like a scared little rabbit.
‘Here,’ she’d whispered, holding up Harold’s revolver. ‘Take it, take it—only please let me go,’ she’d sobbed.
Tommy shook his head. ‘Keep it. As long as you’ve got that firearm, no one will touch you.’ She’d stared at him, unable to comprehend what he was saying. ‘Go on,’ he nodded, ‘you’ll miss your bus.’ Then he’d turned and walked out of the alley.
Tommy’s mind returned to the present with a sudden jolt. A shadow appeared at his window. Someone was on his front porch. Who in hell could it be? The shadow appeared again. Then the silhouette of a man. The man looked into the darkened house. Tommy sat perfectly still. The silhouette disappeared and Tommy heard a scratching noise at his front door. Good God! he thought. Someone’s burgling my house!
Slowly Tommy’s front door opened and he watched as the man entered the hallway. The man’s hand held a revolver and his other reached for the lounge room light switch.
Hell! Tommy thought, the cheeky bastard, as the room filled with the deafening roar of gunfire.
Once more that evening, Shayne and John found themselves approaching a house with adrenalin pumping through their bodies.
Shayne stopped at the front gate and signalled to John Buck. He opened the gate and they moved quickly through it, running silently to either side of the open front door.
John nodded and they moved swiftly but silently into the hallway. They came to a sudden halt and stood looking down at a bullet-riddled body.
‘Drop your guns, boys, or you’re both dead men!’ The voice came from behind them and they heard the front door being pushed shut.
Frozen to the spot, they did as they were instructed and raised their hands above their heads.
‘Now turn around—slowly.’ The voice was cold and dangerous.
The two men turned slowly and stared down the barrel of Derek Schumacher’s service revolver.
‘Come to see what happened to your mate?’ Tom Bromley snarled, as he raised Schumacher’s gun and fixed the sights firmly on Shayne’s forehead. ‘You’re shithouse burglars, boys,’ Tom said, but even as he spoke his attitude was changing. He squinted at Shayne for several seconds. ‘You’re young Everard!’
Shayne spoke calmly. ‘That’s right. Jane Smart sent us. You worked with my grandad in the “Dirty Tree”, didn’t you?’
Tommy kept the gun trained on them. ‘You’d better move carefully into the lounge room and sit down. I want an explanation. And it better be a very, very, convincing one!’
‘Jane came back
to Sydney about a year later,’ Tommy said. Twenty minutes had passed and he’d relaxed after hearing Shayne’s story. ‘She gave me the gun and I told her to put what she saw in writing and give it to Lucky Norris. He was a straight shooter, Norris. An honest man in a dishonest world.’ Tommy fell silent for a minute as his mind wandered back into the past.
‘Why was my grandfather killed?’ Shayne asked.
Tommy stirred. He was tired. He wished they hadn’t interrupted him. He’d only been minutes away from putting the gun in his mouth and pulling the trigger. He shook his head sadly. Perhaps he should have let Schumacher do it for him. It would have been ironic. But when he’d seen Schumacher’s gun he’d acted instinctively, and raised his own pistol which he’d been clutching on his lap for over an hour. He’d shot the intruder six times. Now he could hear police sirens wailing and knew that soon his house would be full of cops and photographers. ‘What did you say?’ he asked.
‘Why was my grandfather killed?’ Shayne asked again.
Tommy sighed. He’d never felt more weary. ‘Because he was tough. And honest. And I mean honest in the true police sense of the word. He’d brick a man as quick as look at him, but fabricating evidence wasn’t dishonesty, not in George’s book. Not if it meant stopping a criminal. And he’d thrash the living daylights out of standover men and bullies. If you were a fair and honest man, he’d treat you fairly and honestly. But when it came to taking money or making a dishonest living by using the badge like cops do these days, he wouldn’t have a bar of it!
‘The whole of Thirty-Three was on the take except Knocker Reid,’ he continued. ‘And George found out. He was ropable. He would have killed us all because we’d betrayed his trust. And the trust of the people we served.’ Tommy sighed again and fell silent.
‘Who killed him?’ Shayne’s voice was a whisper, barely audible over the approaching police sirens.
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