“So, the case gets closed. An innocent man hangs. A killer walks.” Harris asked. It was clear Lescott was a sceptic, but at the same time, he knew the ins and outs of what went on at Darlinghurst Road.
“No… The killer swings for it, or at very least gets a life sentence. You get a commendation for outstanding police work, your picture in the paper, maybe a shiny medal…” Lescott’s body language and expression were making it clear he didn’t condone this manner of police work. He sucked down on a cigarette and looked over at Harris to gauge where he stood. “How do you not know how this works?”
“I’m new to the department.” Harris lied.
“Your file says you’ve been in Major Crimes eighteen months.”
“You looked at my file?” Harris was beginning to feel uncomfortable at how much Lescott knew.
“Good thing I did. Otherwise I’d have swallowed that lie and asked you for another.” Lescott cackled.
“What would you do? If you were in my place?” Harris was in the middle of a moral dilemma, looking to the younger man for guidance. He was vulnerable, Lescott could see that.
“Well. I wear a white hat. So, I would search for the truth. I’d look for justice, at all costs. What colour hat do you wear? Black or White?” Lescott questioned.
Harris pulled his cloth cap out of his jacket pocket. “My hat’s grey.”
Lescott laughed at the obvious symbolism, “It’s like in those John Wayne cowboy films. The good guys wear white hats, the bad guys wear black hats… It’s how you can tell them apart. It’s how we know who to root for. There’s a lot of black hats in this building. Not too many white hats…” Lescott waited for a response, which was not forthcoming. “Which are you?”
Harris pursed his lips as he considered the question. “My hat’s definitely grey.” The pair shared a laugh.
Lescott pointedly looked around the deserted Missing Persons department. “That white hat of mine, it’s what brought me here. I took it off when I left IA. But you have a choice. You can work the case and make sure you get the right man. You’ve got the opportunity to do something that makes a difference. Something good. Very few people manage to do anything like that with their lives.” Lescott could see the concern on Harris’ face as he encouraged him to do the right thing. He’d taken a simplistic view and ignored the obstacles that would clearly stand in Harris’ way. Harris couldn’t ignore them. “But then, I don’t like medals; they’re too much like jewellery.”
The pair waded deep into conversation. Having gone through all of the facts, Lescott began to interpret them. He began to fit a rudimentary narrative over them, building a clearer idea of the man they were looking for. They smoked cigarette after cigarette until the room became thick with smoke.
“It’s clearly not an isolated incident. It’s no stretch to suggest he’s done something like this before. Likely more than once.”
“What makes you say that?” Harris was eager to listen to the younger man. He was no policeman, but like Lescott said, this case would grab attention. It had already got under his skin, but he knew he didn’t have the experience or the skills to work it.
Lescott, meanwhile, was an incredibly sure hand. He spoke expertly when discussing psychological profiling and criminal behaviour. The guy looked like he hadn’t yet hit thirty but had a lifetime of knowledge at his disposal.
“Something that grotesque… You don’t wake up one day and do that. You start small. They likely showed psychopathic traits as a child. Pulling wings of flies then graduating to toying with small mammals. Then that stopped satisfying his needs… Years passed, and we find ourselves here. It was bit by bit. Not all at once.”
“Have you seen that before?” Smoke got into Harris’ eyes. He rubbed them sorely.
“This specifically… No. But it’s always the same with these loons. Most of them, the world kicked them when they were kids, either by nature or nurture. This is them kicking back. I’ve read a lot of case files and once you get past the shocking end result, you start noticing similarities. The method varies from case to case, but the outcome is the same. Madness is madness.” The men sat in silence, dwelling on the conversation. It was Lescott who broke the silence. “Seems like your choice is an easy one.”
“I don’t know if I can handle this. In fact. I pretty much know I can’t. I run errands. And if what you’re saying is true, I don’t think my colleagues in Major Crimes will offer me much help.”
“How did you get stuck on a case like this?”
“Have you eaten?” Harris asked.
“Are you asking me to lunch?” Lescott asked in disbelief.
“I believe so.”
“Well, I have run out of beer,” Lescott replied.
Harris looked over at Lescott’s wastepaper bin, it was full of empty bottles. Though the guy was little, he clearly had the constitution of a tank.
The streets were busy, they always were of a Friday afternoon. Harris and Lescott had taken refuge from the midsummer heat in the oldest pub in Sydney, The Fortune of War. It had a great view of the harbour and it was said they served the best meat pies in Australia. The bar was busy. Everyone had had the same idea. Escape the sun, grab a cold beer. Lescott listened to the soft upbeat guitar music that played through an ancient-looking radio. “You must like these lads? They’re from your part of the world.”
Harris looked around to see who Lescott was talking about. He spotted the radio and shrugged his shoulders. “Who are they?”
“The Beatles.” Lescott answered disappointedly. He obviously loved The Beatles. Perhaps Harris was too old and a little long in the tooth for it. He looked more like an Elvis bloke.
“Never heard of them.” Harris had little time for music. He spent his time on the streets, getting high, or reading the utterly miserable philosophy of the similarly miserable and moustached Germans of yesteryear. He changed the subject. “So, why’s it just you down there in Missing Persons?”
Lescott was people-watching and hesitated to answer the question. He didn’t know Harris and he certainly didn’t trust him yet. “Corruption crackdown.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Harris laughed, that term was unthinkable in 1963.
“The press made allegations of corruption against the old Missing Persons department. The Commissioner needed to be seen acting. He broke it up. The pieces were put elsewhere. Narcotics… Burglary… Vice. A couple of the old fellas near retirement were given their pension early. The Commonwealth are looking after Missing Persons cases while they figure out how to get the department back on track. Once it is, I’ll be moved on to the next shitty assignment. I did the same for Arson before.”
“I didn’t hear any of this.” Harris hadn’t. It must all have been kept quite hush-hush.
Lescott shrugged his shoulders, “From what I can tell… They weren’t even all that corrupt. Just incompetent and lacking in political nous. That made them an easy, expendable scapegoat. The press got a story, the Commissioner was seen acting against corruption, the corrupt departments like…” Lescott paused.
“Like Major Crimes?”
Lescott nodded slowly, “They got overlooked. Everyone won.”
“Apart from you?” Harris hid a sympathetic laugh behind supping his beer.
“Believe it or not… It was a promotion for me.” Lescott looked out over the street.
“What did you do to deserve a promotion as shitty as that?” Harris grimaced.
“There was an incident.” Lescott distractedly looked out onto the street towards a woman wearing a sundress, holding her infant child on her hip. The woman was in her late 20‘s, she had dark hair and dark eyes, the kid shared the physical characteristics of his mother. They were a beautiful pair. “I shot a man. A man you don’t shoot. Have you ever shot anyone?”
Harris thought back to the incident in the Kelly Hotel and furrowed his brow. He noticed Lescott looking at him questioningly. “I served.”
“Korea?” Lescott asked.
>
“El Alamein. Then Belsen.” Harris answered. He didn’t go into further detail than that.
As the conversation came to a natural lull Harris decided casually to mention the books for Harrington’s brewery. “The brewery’s books… You understood them?”
“I was in Internal Affairs. I know how to follow money. That place is haemorrhaging cash, mysteriously. They’re being extorted; if they weren’t, they’d be earning a fortune. It’s a nice little business.”
“Really?” This was music to Harris’ ears.
“Yeah, they’re running at about 30% capacity because of their negative cash flow, if they could solve the missing money problem, fulfil orders consistently, and then maybe think about expansion… well, they’d make a fucking fortune.”
Harris said nothing; he drank his beer and celebrated inside. He’d had an idea or rather, Lescott had given him an idea. He decided to change the subject. “How do you rate our chances?”
“Sorry?”
“Of us catching this guy… The Rolls Royce. The actual guy.” Harris noticed hesitation on Lescott’s face. “I’m going to need help on this… Someone with a bit of experience. I can’t do it by myself.”
“We’ll see what comes back from the lab. We need him to have made a pretty big mistake.” Lescott was clearly not encouraged by what he had seen.
“I was thinking… How many people in Sydney own a Rolls Royce? That’s got to make our job a little easier…” Harris suggested hopefully.
“A person with that amount of money has the power that goes hand in hand with it.” Lescott spoke flatly. “Besides, it could have been stolen.”
“You’re a cynic.” Harris smiled; it was a trait they shared. They’d get along.
“You might want to find another partner on this… I’ve got some personal stuff going on.” Lescott clearly didn’t trust Harris enough to give too much else away.
What DS Lescott was referring to was his crippling addiction to alcohol, he was a barely functioning drunk. The first thing he did in the morning was reach for the near empty bottle of whisky on his bedside table. Once he’d polished that off, he’d go to work. There, he’d drink a case of beer. He’d promised himself, no spirits at work. If he could get through the day without breaking that golden rule, he’d go home and treat himself to a fresh bottle of whisky, gin or vodka before falling asleep in a puddle of his own piss. “I’m working on it though.”
It didn’t stop at drinking either. The 1960s were making a name for themselves as a golden age of prescription drugs. He took painkillers for the hangovers, along with amphetamines to get him out of bed in the morning. On a night he’d drop a couple of diazepams to help take the edge off an exhausting day of abusing his body. He relied on them to get sleep. Some people would have said the kid had a problem on top of a problem. I’d say he made substance abuse an art form. What’s certain is that his body chemistry was slipping and sliding along a razor’s edge. Above a volcano. During a fucking hurricane. The kid’s blood would have knocked out an entire village of Cossacks who already use vodka for mouthwash.
“Well, I guess for the sake of full disclosure…” Harris began.
“Heroin?” Lescott may have still been forlornly gazing at the mother and child on the street, but he could sense he needed to cut the man off. It saved Harris the turmoil of chewing over an awkward set of words.
The suggestion hit Harris like a tonne of bricks. He’d always done his best to hide his addiction. Lescott, it seemed, was someone you could not hide anything from. Harris immediately became defensive. Functioning, closeted smackheads carry a great deal of shame on their shoulders. It’s a grubby little secret. “You what?”
“You look like you haven’t slept in a week. Dry mouth… Runny nose… Constricted pupils… That thousand-yard stare you do when you’re avoiding eye contact… Sleeves left rolled down in the height of summer… I’m guessing you’re covered in track marks.”
That was enough for one conversation. Harris looked down at his watch and jumped from his barstool so quickly it fell to the floor with a clatter, “I’ve got to go.” He left.
Lescott continued to stare at the woman and her child. They’d taken on a new appearance. They both looked deathly pale, with dark shadows around their eyes. Their clothes were tattered and dripping with blood. The child turned its head towards Lescott and silently mouthed, “Daddy.”
Lescott rubbed at his eyes desperately and they were gone. “Barman… whisky. A big fucking whisky!”
Rules are made to be broken.
Chapter 7
It was three in the afternoon; the midsummer sun was at the height of its powers. Sydney was baking. Its inhabitants were fleeing the heat, those who braved the pavements were languishing like slugs caught on the cobbles after a big rain.
Harris was preoccupied. The ID parade was drawing ever closer and he had a decision to make. It was plain to see that Livingstone was manoeuvring. He was drawing Harris into a conspiracy, and placing a leashed collar around his neck. That wasn’t good for anyone, least of all Ronnie Prince.
His mind drifted to the poor vulnerable children. Though he’d never had any himself, Harris had a soft spot for kids. He was a jaded man who struggled to come to terms with what modern life was. That meant he pitied children above all. They had it all to go through. They were inheriting the Earth, a world moving further and further from what he would consider to be a habitable place. Each generation seemed to leave it a worse place for those who followed them. Harris harboured a great deal of guilt over that.
Prince would know what to do. Ronnie always seemed to have a calm head in a dire situation. You don’t rise as high, or stay at the top so long, without a good deal of fire power between your ears. And so, Harris found himself at the Kings Cross Hippodrome. The Hippodrome was an all-purpose den of vice, owned and operated by Emily Prince, Ronnie’s infirm and bedridden mother. It was a tax thing, she was well out of the criminal game, everyone knew it was Ronnie’s place. The Hippodrome housed a theatre, several bars, a lavish casino, four restaurants, two peep shows, and an incredibly niche brothel in the basement. The kind of place the average person just wouldn’t dream of entering. It was full of really quite nasty stuff. It tended to be frequented by politicians. And that’s what set Prince apart, it’s how he made his money. He put every depraved act a person could want under one roof. He charged it to your soul.
As Harris walked through the doors, he was met by the familiar sight of Sydney’s most extravagant split staircase. At the top of the staircase, he entered the harshly lit casino. Those places were as timeless as they were soulless. You could walk in on an afternoon and walk out at some point the following morning having no idea where the time, or your money, had gone. Free drinks flowed, food was on the house, and there was always an attractive looking woman who wanted to share your company, for a price. It was great while you were on a winning streak, but when that streak broke, the room began to look very, very different. The flashing lights became dizzying and there was no respite, the windows were blacked out and let in no natural light. The air was stinking recycled muck. The beer was flat, and the food was stale. Look closely and you’d see the women weren’t the kind you’d want to share an intimate moment with, never mind an entire evening. As long as you had your hand in your pocket, you were made to feel like a king. But the moment you put your wallet away, the friendly visages in that place melted away, leaving the demonic gargoyles underneath exposed to the world.
That day, the casino floor was empty other than two women arguing loudly, by a blackjack table. I don’t want to say they were Chinese, because they could have been Korean, or Japanese, but they certainly weren’t white. The croupier was standing between them making his best efforts to mediate between the angry pair, but it was having no effect. The noise of their squawking grated at Harris. It was then he realised his body was beginning to itch for a fix.
Harris kept one eye on the arguing women as he walked over the bar. The
young barman had noticed him as soon as he entered the room, and slid a glass of whisky over to him. Just like the black and white films. “No. No whisky right now. Get me an orange juice or something.” Harris was feeling peaky, he’d been drinking all day.
“Will tomato do?” The barman asked innocently.
“Do I look like I drink fucking tomato juice?” Harris looked at the bloke like he’d just insulted him.
“To tell you the truth… You’re looking a bit like you drink blood over there, big fella.”
“What?” Harris turned his gaze to the mirror behind the bar. The kid had a point. The Pom hadn’t realised he was looking so under the weather. The blood had drained from his face, his brow was covered in beads of cold sweat and his eyes were bloodshot. This was the midday slump of a functioning smack addict; his body was telling him it needed a fix, but his mind and his routine were just about keeping him going. He needed the second wind that would drag him through the second half of the day. He took a deep breath, that second wind didn’t come. Instead, he downed the whisky in one go. “Is the boss about?”
“Queensland,” the barman informed him.
Harris looked over with a “No-one fucking told me” expression slapped all over his pallid face.
The barman shrugged, “Something came up at the last minute on the Gold Coast. Some situation…”
Harris exhaled deeply, “Hell’s Angels again. They won’t give up.”
“Ned told me to send you in if you showed up.” The barman nodded towards a door at the side of the bar which read “Staff Only.” Harris slid the empty tumbler over to the barman and headed for the door. Still the squabbling women grew louder and louder.
Ned was a bespectacled, waif-like numbers guy. He was the kind of accountant who was born to be an accountant. He was slim, neat, greasy-haired, and untrustworthy. Exactly what you looked for in an accountant back then. He wore a pinstripe suit. No one had worn a pinstripe suit since the 1930’s. But too much time spent amongst villains, and too many Humphrey Bogart films had given him the green light to make that particular faux pas. You could see your reflection in the tips of his overly polished brogues. He wanted to look like a gangster, but as it was, he looked like he ate numbers and shat out tax returns. Safe to say he and Harris had little in common. Ned was sitting at his desk when Harris entered, he jumped in surprise when the door swung open. He had what you’d call a nervous disposition. “You’re late.”
THE DEVIL IN THE RED DIRT: DIVIDED IN LIFE. UNIFIED IN MURDER Page 7