Winter Traffic

by Stephen Greenall

  ‘Leftie?’

  ‘Not really—heavy as you like. He wasn’t on anyone’s side. A few of the wigs had time for him. And the faggots.’

  ‘The?’

  ‘Lawyers.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘But the queer ones. You know, the gifted Jewish tipstaffs fresh out of Phillip Street, just dying to suck his cock and advertise it…But now I sound like a bigot.’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Yeah. Really.’ Holden gives her the once-over. ‘You’ve got some education.’

  Karen smiles. ‘Law degree. But I wasn’t anybody’s tipstaff.’

  He laughs, the sound cruel and percussive. ‘Correspondence?’

  ‘Nope, straight out of school. New South.’

  ‘Strewth—you had the piece of paper and signed up for a uniform.’

  ‘Everyone was very disappointed.’

  ‘I can’t believe your dad let you do it.’

  ‘Didn’t have much choice. Deceased. Mum too.’

  ‘Oh. Unlucky.’

  ‘Sort of.’ Millar lifts away her minimal fringe to show the scar, the slight but eternal groove it sutured. ‘I was in the conveyance when it happened.’

  Holden cranes back to get a wide-angle view, calibrating the new dimension. ‘How old?’

  ‘Fifteen.’

  ‘Tough kid. If you didn’t join up to piss your folks off, then who?’

  ‘Does it have to work like that?’

  ‘Listen, I got daughters.’

  Millar is rueful, concessional. ‘If it’s any consolation, I don’t get on with my brother.’

  —

  29 MARCH, 1989

  Christopher came to visit. At long last. His presence was subversive, but not in the anticipated ways. Subversive of expectation. His impress remained in the house for a long time after he was gone. The way French women are eminently watchable, irrespective of their beauty—he possesses that singular trait. And beauty besides.

  I would pay to watch him brush his teeth, or fight bare-knuckled. I would pay to watch him eat. Naturally enough, he does not like me.

  But he will come again. There is too much to be had here. And one is to consider, even disgust is a species of fascination.

  —

  They get up and play pool. It’s free. Neither of them concentrate so the game descends into a farce of mindless collisions. No care, no strategy, nothing will sink.

  ‘What’s the Sicilian Offence?’

  Holden’s grimace. ‘Our nickname for it. Some wag walking through the scene—the blood, the pieces.’

  ‘I don’t get it.’

  ‘Not a chess fan, eh? It’s an opening: two pawns, two knights. Sicilian Defence.’

  ‘Gotcha,’ she says. ‘Because the weapon is a chessboard.’

  ‘Sure. But the Sicilian thing gives you the mafia angle. The bikers aren’t Italian, but they’re pretty fucken organised.’

  ‘It’s clever.’

  ‘By cop standards, I spose. I don’t remember who smithed it.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘You know what happened.’

  ‘Just bits and pieces,’ says Karen. ‘No one’s real forthcoming.’

  ‘Maybe it’s the skirt and fresh face, the background with the Pirates. Got Koestler’s journal?’

  ‘Course.’

  ‘Enjoying it?’

  Devouring it. It’s become her standard, her life partner. Internal to her now, carried everywhere, consulted like a codex that honeycombs brain, laces sleep. ‘He has a way with words.’

  Holden nods and chalks his cue. ‘Says a lot without saying anything. But at least he was meticulous, scribbling down his meetings. Chris fucken Slane, final Wednesday of every month. Clockwork the pair of them.’

  ‘Did it surprise you?’

  ‘Yes and no. Slane is canny, knows people up the big end. Cultivates unusual associations so he can seem…’

  ‘Unusual.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What about Koestler?’

  Holden screws his face like he’s playing 500 and can’t make the bid. ‘That’s harder. He didn’t entertain much, and no real regulars apart from the biker prince. What he was getting out of it I’m not too sure.’

  ‘Tell me about the witness.’

  ‘You mean good old Helen Appleton? Spare me.’

  ‘Come on, you’re tough.’

  ‘Think classic English spinster. Think Agatha fucken Christie.’

  ‘Bit of a character?’

  ‘Bit of a mad bitch. Academic with spiderweb hair, a love of brown clothing.’

  ‘She picked Slane out of a line-up, put him at the house.’

  ‘Yeah—so Slane stat-decked and said no way, reckoned he was up in West Pymble plastering houses…West fucken Pymble. That taking the piss or what?’

  ‘Reckon.’

  ‘Still, we knew he liked the ferry so we did a canvass. Came up with two eyes who put him and Jamie Sutton on the twelve thirty-seven out of the Quay.’

  Millar’s frown is authoritarian. ‘That’s not in the case notes.’

  ‘Look again. A couple of fifteen-year-olds wagging school. They remembered Slane because they thought he was a bit of alright. You know—the tough stickers. Sutton too, probably. Slane got off in East Balmain and Sutton kept on going.’

  ‘Sounds good to me.’

  ‘Oh, we loved it. Until the parents got involved and realised who the fuck their little darlings just fingered for murder. It was a posh school they were wagging from. Enter family firm, instant recant, never get near ’em again.’

  ‘Understandable really.’

  ‘Spose. After that we went the heavy lean on Sutton. His silence meant it fell back on Helen.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And Rawson waltzed in and fucked the interview of record, cross-examined her like the defence QC. It didn’t help that Miss Appleton is a lush of the highest order, sherry for breakfast lunch and tea. A bit of pressure from the jolly green giant and suddenly she’s fucken gaga. You saw a lot of people go to the judge’s house that day, didn’t you Helen? Did you see Detective Holden go in? “Oh, absolutely.” I bet you even saw me go in—Detective Rawson. And what about Detective Faulkner here? “Oh, sure, sure, all of the above.” Thanks a lot Patty Valentine, play that in court and never bring another prosecution.’

  ‘Rawson wanted the pressure off Slane.’

  ‘Off Sutton. Those two are thick like blood, only his gala performance wasn’t enough. Once the tabloids splashed we suspected a gangster it turned into a bloody circus. Slane was slippery and Sutton never budged—never confirmed the alibi, never scotched it. The Crownie threw up his hands and took what he could get.’

  The ice in Karen’s drink won’t melt. Grime around the rim, the faint suggestion of lips not hers. ‘Instead of destroying your witness, Rawson should have talked some sense into his mate. Told him to sell Slane down the river.’

  ‘Get up to speed, woman—Rawson doesn’t hand out good advice and Jamie Sutton doesn’t take none.’

  ‘Fair enough. But an eight-month stay at the Long Bay Hilton he could have ended any time? What was Sutton’s incentive for protecting the bloke.’

  ‘Dunno. Maybe the bikers paid him to eat the stretch. Maybe it was good-old-fashioned fear.’ Holden takes up his weapon and scans the table with regret. He looks like a man who can’t remember if he’s red or yellow. ‘I miss bigs and smalls,’ he says. ‘Know Melbourne?’

  ‘I’m native,’ says Millar. ‘Lived here till I was ten.’

  ‘You’re not a native unless you’ve got a footy team.’

  ‘Richmond.’

  ‘Oh. Yellow and black. I gotta wife with that affliction.’ He puts one down, then another. Tough shots: Holden is serious now, he’s had enough. Millar says my round and the man nods grim, sends a third one out of the game.

  —

  27 APRIL, 1990

  Othello at the State with Giles, who brought his wife. She has the face o
f an Airedale. It’s very disconcerting.

  The play was uneven, Iago was a boob. It staggered on like one of the comedies with the final scene missing.

  Afternoon: visited in chambers by three detectives.

  Rex Faulkner, Roger Paspaley, Ajax.

  —

  The drear that is the Victorian sky. In an hour it’ll get sick of itself, give way to something else.

  ‘You’re not working this alone,’ says Holden.

  ‘Nope. They gave me free hit.’

  ‘Well don’t pick Brendan. He’s just warming the seat.’

  ‘Plenty of volunteers.’

  ‘Shit yeah—this is the big time. Go with Carseldine maybe. Jim O’Shea.’

  ‘I told them Rawson.’

  Holden closes his eyes. ‘I thought you said you were running this for Berc.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Well there’s no way in hell he’d sign off on Rawson.’

  ‘Mike Samo signed off.’

  ‘Samo? Fuck me dead.’ Holden appraises her hard-eyed, stares at the cube of blue chalk in his hand. ‘I hope you got low expectations. Rawson won’t give you nothing.’

  ‘Because he’s compromised?’

  ‘Because these days he can barely investigate his own arsehole.’ Holden takes up his glass and hoists it to say cheers. It was early retirement but he looks retirement age. ‘There are different Rawsons. A few of them I still have time for. But he’s got pressure points, tender mercies.’

  ‘Unpack that for me.’

  ‘He can’t do kids. At the sharp end of Death that’s a serious fail.’

  ‘Kids.’

  ‘A few years back he worked a couple straight. They don’t allow it now. Nor should they.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Been there?’

  ‘No hurry.’

  ‘Amen.’ Holden’s cue is a ruthless piston that shatters the new frame. He stays hunched above his mayhem and eyes her as they scatter. A pair of yellows. ‘I know what you’re thinking. I make it sound like a virtue.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Don’t you fucken believe it. Losing yourself over that shit doesn’t do you any good. Doesn’t help the family, make you a top bloke.’

  ‘What about you, Sam? When did you get lost.’

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘Fencing stolen goods.’

  Holden straightens, stepping towards her and racking his cue. He has laugh lines in plenty but he didn’t get them laughing. ‘You’re no fresh face.’

  ‘Genuine question, one cop to another.’

  ‘You want to sit in judgment?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Good. Because I gave everything to the job and it fucked me over. And not just at the end. Getting stitched on Koestler was just the last in a long fucken line, understand?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And it’ll happen to you.’

  ‘Probably.’ She puts her hand out. ‘Meant what I said. Grateful.’

  ‘Come on,’ says Holden. ‘I’ll walk you to the rank.’

  —

  In a perfect world a taxi would be waiting. ‘Faulkner,’ she says. ‘Good police?’

  ‘Absofucken.’

  ‘He’s in Koestler’s diary.’

  ‘Rex?’

  ‘Yeah. He went to see Koestler in chambers, a year before Koestler copped it. April of 1990. Strange coincidence.’

  Holden noncommittal. ‘Could be plenty of reasons.’

  ‘True. I just can’t think of any.’

  He stares at the terminal horizon, rocking against the cold. She wishes again she had the gift of reading minds, of construing silence for what it actually is. He says eventually, ‘What else?’

  ‘In his diary, Koestler keeps talking about something he’s working on. Some kind of testament.’

  Curt nod: ‘The masterpiece. We quizzed his sec about it, but from memory she was useless. It didn’t help that the bloke was industrious, fingers in every pie.’

  Now the cab does loom. Millar signals her intention and Holden wishes her luck.

  ‘Thanks for the help.’

  ‘You’ll need a lot more.’

  ‘I guess.’

  He looks sorry for her—which is odd, because she is feeling sorry for him. Holden is a grey cipher, walking away from her and lost in grey setting. When he calls back it feels like dream, like the invention of a sleeping mind that isn’t even hers.

  ‘Crime is incest, Karen.’

  She sways and frowns. ‘You mean…incest is a crime?’

  Holden shakes his head at her, at the press of traffic in the costive road. It throbs like an intestine, pulse and pause. ‘I mean that to solve a crime you have to look at the crimes that surround it. At the other crimes that make it possible. Understand?’

  Millar nods to say she does, shakes her head to say she doesn’t.

  11

  You lied to him. You’ve worked a kid.

  Just one. Enough to see the way it works, the way it doesn’t.

  The land should be screaming and the sky in shock.

  But the clouds float on and the birds don’t notice.

  11

  ‘You’re Karen.’

  He speaks as though christening. As though confirming a thing that was previously only provisional. He is younger than she realised, older than her but not much in it. ‘The back of a cinema,’ says Karen. ‘Bit of a cliché. But at least it’s not a porno.’

  Slane does not turn his attention from the quiet advertisements. Smiling? ‘No clichés. I don’t have a lot of free time and I like the movies.’

  ‘Even the period pieces?’

  Slane nods. ‘It’s nice of you to come across the bridge.’

  ‘Nice of your assistant to send me a ticket.’

  ‘That’s alright—I think Li has a crush on you.’

  ‘From one phone call?’

  ‘It’s platonic, trust me. He says you’re worthwhile.’

  ‘I’m flattered.’

  ‘You should be. Li is fussy.’

  She takes a seat, one across and one back, and sees him in three-quarter profile. The place is empty except for a mother and baby away far left. Morning session. Karen’s eyes go to the remarkable-looking instrument at the bottom of the auditorium and she wonders aloud what it is.

  ‘They call it the Wurlitzer. Gets played before the weekend sessions, the oldies love it.’

  ‘And some of the youngies by the sound of it.’

  He shifts, thinks about it. ‘I have a lot of time for the past, Karen. But I don’t live there.’

  ‘That sounds like it’s supposed to mean something.’

  ‘Koestler: your bosses think he’s coming back to life.’

  ‘Or maybe just looking for someone to haunt.’

  Now a smile does form, she can tell. It interests her to watch his hands as they gesture at the screen. ‘That sort of thing only happens in movies. Faulkner, Holden—they couldn’t touch me when the case was fresh, so what chance have you got.’

  ‘You’re awfully well informed.’

  ‘It’s my job.’

  ‘Is it your job to bash defenceless old men?’

  ‘Oh, poor Angelus, the innocent bystander. Even Tony Bercovitch knows better than that.’

  ‘You should check out the autopsy, Chris. Sure reads like he was the victim of something.’

  Karen’s heard about the smile. Now she finds that she wants to see him properly, head on. ‘You should stay,’ he says, meaning the flick. ‘They reckon it’s good.’

  ‘Thanks, but I’ve seen it.’

  ‘So you like period pieces, too.’

  ‘Not really. It was a first date.’

  ‘Sounds like there won’t be a second.’

  ‘Wouldn’t have thought so.’

  ‘You didn’t like her?’

  ‘Ha.’

  ‘Who’s laughing.’

  He turns to watch her. The eyes, the eyes. And it’s true there was no attemp
t at humour. Slane’s expression is equable, his calm a quantity that can almost be felt. ‘Three stars,’ she says. ‘Pfeiffer’s hair gave me the shits. You know—the ringlets.’

  ‘What about the story?’

  ‘I could save you some of that precious time, tell you how it ends.’

  ‘But I already know how it ends.’ He puts his hands in his lap, looking momentarily like a philosopher. ‘Maybe you find clichés because you look so hard for them. But Sydney is new country, Karen. You have a strong face.’

  ‘Sure? It’s pretty dark in here.’

  ‘The day Koestler died, I was not in West Pymble. I was at his house—East Balmain. Some of the prints on the murder weapon belong to me.’

  Karen folds her arms, masking the nervous tension that courses through her body. ‘Your lawyer’d be ropeable.’

  ‘I doubt it. You should see what I pay her.’

  ‘Imagine I’m recording this.’

  ‘You are recording this.’

  ‘So why say it?’

  ‘Because I like you.’

  The baby sounds an affronted cry; no prelude, no sequel. Karen thinks about the bullshit urban legend, female brains performing a scan for crying infants every ninety seconds. ‘I take it you didn’t like Holden very much.’

  ‘Holden had no manners. He didn’t ring my office and make an appointment. See? You’re already better police than he is.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘It isn’t much of a compliment.’

  ‘Why are your prints on the board?’

  Slane reaches into his pocket. Mars. ‘That’s enough for now. There’s a present under your seat.’

  Her downward glance is sceptical, and yet it lies in ample waiting—an envelope by her sensible heels. Slane guessed where she would sit. Guessed correct...Karen reaches down to find the article heavy beyond logic, a faint vanilla perfume. ‘There’s no card,’ she says quietly. ‘But at least it isn’t ticking.’

  ‘Yeah it is.’

  ‘Something that clears your name?’

  ‘My name is already clear. You weren’t around, so you won’t remember, but I was put to the torch and found to be pure.’

  ‘Half of Sydney thinks you did it.’

  ‘The opinion of a village is never wrong, detective—but with a city it’s different. It was nice to meet you.’

  Dismissed. She stands, reluctant to go but remembering to thank him, to make all proper observance. The exchange has found its natural end but Karen cannot help herself. ‘If I charge somebody else for this thing, it takes the heat off your mate.’