“I’m Chief Superintendent now. Promotions come with pay rises, not pay drops. I wield more power and influence than ever before. You want me as your friend, Devine. Otherwise I’ll be friends with George.”
“Well, perhaps I can make up for the shortfall in goods and services…” Devine twinkled. Run Alan. It’s a fucking trap. She had a fiendish plan to serve her own ends. Livingstone would walk straight into the trap; she was sure of it. She’d been playing grown men while her peers were playing hopscotch. It would have been a tragedy if she hadn’t hit such incredible levels of mastery. “I could do you a deal on snow too. You could make an afternoon of it.”
Livingstone looked around. He had a weakness for working girls. He loved the fact that they were desperate to please, that it was just good business for them. It was an invitation to push boundaries for Livingstone. But this was lunchtime, and the brothel wasn’t yet open for business. There was another, younger whore on the chaise across from him. At some point that morning, she injected heroin to help her forget her shift and get some sleep. She was admittedly not great to look at, but that wasn’t necessarily a deal breaker for Livingston, nor was being unconscious it seems… “What about her?”
Devine looked over and shook her head. “I think that’s rape.”
“Is it not more of a grey area?”
“No. It’s rape.” Devine argued, “Besides, don’t tell anyone, but she’s got a godawful case of the clap.”
Livingstone was frustrated. He wasn’t quite catching on. “Where are the rest of them?”
“Shift doesn’t start until two. Have a drink. Have a line. Make yourself comfortable.” Devine’s eyes twinkled more brightly than ever. She knew he couldn’t spend all day there.
He knew he couldn’t spend all day there too, but the persistent idea of a shag had nestled its way into the predatory part of his brain. He slid along the sofa to move away from Devine. This wasn’t an escape. This was Livingstone assessing the goods. Her hair was dry and frizzy. She was flabby in all the wrong places. Her face and neck were covered in faint scars that gave away the razor wars she’d lived through. Her breasts, though large, were misshapen and somewhat wonky. It seemed she’d hastily put her lipstick on that morning, and it had smeared across her teeth, several of which were missing. The average man who thirsted for the average woman would have found nothing appealing in Tilly Devine. She was divine in name only. I don’t want to go overboard, but if she’d been a cut of meat, she’d have been offal. “You’ll do.”
Like I’ve told you, Livingstone was not an average man. When he looked at that snaggle-toothed hag… He saw power. It wasn’t her he would fuck. It was her power. And that got him harder than any Aphrodite with a sculpted arse.
“You’ve got a face like a bucket of smashed crabs, but I presume you know your way around a shag. Pull up your dress and turn around, you old dog. I don’t want to look at you.” Livingstone recited what I believe is one of the bard’s more obscure sonnets as he stood. It took seconds to untuck his shirt, undo his belt, and drop his trousers down to his ankles. His briefs hit the floor like they were made of lead. And there his little soldier stood, erect and quite unthreatening.
“No foreplay then?”
Livingstone spun Devine around and pulled down her underwear. Within seconds he had bent her over the Chesterfield. He fumbled around for a moment while he tried to achieve penetration. As a whore, Tilly had got by on enthusiasm more than what one might call skill, or so I’m told. On her knees, she bumped backwards and forwards calling Livingstone’s name aloud, “Fuck me, you pig.”
Her mind may have been willing and somewhat desperate, but her physiology was not. The menopause had long since come and gone. She’d startled Elsa earlier when she’d talked of the scheming getting her knickers wet that day. And it was more figurative than it was literal. She was drier than Tutankhamun’s tomb.
He persevered as best he could. But he was little better than a small child trying to fit a maraca in a power outlet. They remained there in that tawdry purgatory of aimlessly bumping into each other for longer than they ought to have done. You see, both parties were embarrassed. Their pride was stinging. Neither of them was enjoying it. But they would not admit that it had been a mistake of titanic proportions. A fitting metaphor given that he, like the ship before him, continued forth on that doomed voyage while she, like the iceberg, kneeled there quite impregnable. “Call me Chief Superintendent again… Bitch,” Livingstone, the born romantic spat frustratedly as he attempted to keep himself in a state of rigidity.
“Oh, Chief Superintendent, punish me. What a bad girl I’ve been.”
“Shut it Devine.”
“Do me, you pig.”
“I said, shut it.” The occasion was becoming a bit much for Livingstone, he’d done some pretty rotten things in the past. But as he stood there, simulating sex with a pensioner, it felt like he’d hit rock bottom.
Rock bottom. What a curious turn of phrase. Because, yes, he had further to sink. But also, because rock bottom is exactly where he decided to head when his ever more flaccid cock couldn’t achieve vaginal penetration. Tilly’s eyes widened in shock as Livingstone did the unthinkable. And that is the story of the time Chief Superintendent Alan Livingstone sodomised a senior citizen.
Chapter 58
Harris scarcely said a word as they travelled back to Sydney. He broke his silence when he requested Lescott drop him off at Harrington’s. He knew all of Prince’s old strongholds were now out of the question. He knew he couldn’t be seen on the street. His flat was likely being watched. Harrington’s was the last port in the gathering storm.
“Who’s Harrington?” Charlie asked.
“I actually have no fucking idea. It’s just a name. It’s a brewery I part own.”
“When did you buy a brewery?” Lescott wasn’t sure how that hadn’t come up in conversation.
“The day we met. It was on your advice.”
Lescott thought back to the day they had first crossed paths. He was drawing a blank. “Was I drunk?”
“No more so than usual.”
“A brewery?” Charlie asked excitedly. Beer in Alice Springs was either imported or brewed in someone’s garage. The art of brewing hadn’t yet hit the town. On more than one occasion, a dodgy batch of homebrew had hit the market and caused widespread, on-the-spot diarrhoea. “Where they make the beer?”
“You should see it, Charlie. It’s fucking Shangri-La. I swear it makes sense of life.” Harris smiled as he remembered the camaraderie between the brewing team. It was light-hearted, and it was a far cry from the seriousness of recent events. He was looking forward to talking about nothing of any great significance whatsoever.
As the car turned onto that Woolloomooloo street, Lescott cringed. He saw the ashen wreck first. Then Harris’ face distorted. His eyebrows raised and his jaw dropped. When Lescott pulled in outside the building, Harris just sat there gawping. Maybe, he’d suspected Watson would have turned up after the business. But it was a good business, run by good people, it made no sense to burn it to the ground. That was heartless.
When Harris got out of the car and stood in front of the wreckage, his eyes moved at once to a police communication which had been pinned to the burnt door frame. It had his own likeness upon it.
WANTED FOR QUESTIONING: JAMES HARRIS
If you have any information on the whereabouts of James Harris, please contact the Major Crimes Department of New South Wales Police Force immediately.
A reward awaits anyone who can provide information that helps with our enquiry into the Harrington’s Brewery fire and the murders of seven individuals.
Sincerely
Chief Superintendent Alan Livingstone.
Harris was crestfallen as he removed his luggage from the boot of Lescott’s car. He didn’t say a word before he gestured for them to leave him there.
Inside the car, Lescott took a look at Charlie, still championing desert chic. “I’m going to drop y
ou off at the tailor’s before I head into the office. You can buy some new clothes. Help you fit in a bit better.”
“What’s wrong with these?”
“Well. You look like you’ve fallen out of a boab tree.”
Lescott dropped his suitcase at the door of Missing Persons and stood there dumbfounded. The weeks they had spent out of the city had been unkind to Harris, but there had been an upheaval in Lescott’s absence too. In Missing Persons, everything had changed. The department had been cleaned up. It had been staffed. He stood there in the doorway with a gormless expression wondering what the fuck he was supposed to do, and whether or not he still had a desk in there.
The room was filled with cigarette smoke. The rows of shelves holding those beloved, and simultaneously be-hated files, had been removed to make way for desks. And for people. Lescott had endured his fair share of drug- and paranoia-induced hallucinations in his time there. At first, he wondered if this was just the latest prank his mind was playing on him. But the smell of body odour and Brylcreem convinced him otherwise.
A nearby detective had noticed the gawping man in the doorway, “DI Lescott? I’m DS Townsend…” DS Townsend laughed, “He told me you’d have that dumb expression on your face when you walked in.”
“It’s DS Lescott,” Lescott was confused. “Who told you I’d have a dumb expression?”
DS Townsend had a funny look on his face as he attempted to clear up the situation, “No sir. It’s DI Lescott now. I think you ought to go speak to Detective Chief Superintendent Livingstone.”
“Chief Superintendent Livingstone?” Lescott sat down on the nearest chair. He was struggling to keep up. “What… What the fuck’s happened here?”
“The internal review into the corruption of Missing Persons is over. There’s been a rotation. Welcome to the new Missing Persons department.” The man smiled.
“Do I still work here?”
“You should go speak to DCS Livingstone; he can tell you more than I can.”
“Of course. I understand.” Lescott was barely present. He was distracted, trying to figure out what political game was being played behind the scenes. “I’m just going to grab a few case files, if that’s ok.”
“I’m sorry, DI Lescott. Your clearance for Missing Persons has been revoked.”
“What?”
“You really should talk to the Chief Superintendent.”
Lescott grabbed his suitcase and made his way to the lift. He’d taken the stairs down to the basement, but he wasn’t about to climb ten flights to the ninth floor. When the lift doors opened. Lescott was met by another surprise. Standing there, in a maroon bellboy outfit, was a lift operator. A man whose sole purpose in his professional life was to push buttons for men more important than him. Of course, he was an Aboriginal chap.
On one hand, the fact that NSWPOL had hired an Aboriginal in any role represented some level of progress. Integration and equal opportunities are the key to a progressive multi-cultural society. But on the other hand, they couldn’t have given the lad a more tokenistic job if they’d tried.
“Are you getting in, sir?” The man asked as Lescott stood there like he’d just been asked to explain Schrödinger’s Cat to a basset hound.
“Hello.”
“What floor, sir?” The attendant asked politely.
“I’m Fred Lescott.” Lescott smiled and offered his hand to the man. “Who are you?”
“Not allowed to get chatty, sir. Can’t use first names. Or touch people. Mr Livingstone’s orders.” The attendant seemed to fear for his job.
“That’s because Livingstone isn’t a human. He’s a jackal in a human suit. His rules don’t apply to me.” Lescott left his hand outstretched. “My name’s Fred Lescott. I’m a Detective with… I’m a Detective.”
“My name’s Warrin. I’m the lift operator.”
“Good to meet you, Warrin.” Lescott and Warrin shook hands. “Floor Nine, please.” Warrin pressed the button and the men stood with their backs to the back wall of the lift. “You’re new here?”
“Yes.”
“Are you liking the job?”
“It has its ups and downs.”
Lescott breezed straight into Livingstone’s office. He didn’t wait for an invitation to sit down. Livingstone smiled the smile of a hunter who has his prey firmly within the crosshairs. “New South Wales Police’s prodigal son… Back again.” Livingstone’s eyes lit up as he realised something. “You must have taken the lift up… Did you see the New South Wales Police’s newest employee?” Livingstone laughed. “He looks like one of those cymbal-clattering chimps.”
“He looks like a bloke earning an honest wage for honest work, to me,” Lescott spat back, “But I’m no expert. I’m a policeman. At least, I was before I left…”
“A lot has happened since you left. You’re talking to a Chief Superintendent now. I need good people around me. I’m bringing you up.”
“To Major Crimes?”
“Heavens no. You did so well as the Head of the Missing Persons squad in its time of transition… You’re to lead Burglary while it undergoes a similar process. You won’t have a staff. You’ll work on small cases. Big cases will run through Major Crimes. Any overflow will go to the Commonwealth. Congratulations, Detective Inspector.”
Lescott felt like he’d been kicked in the gut. He was being shifted to a position where he would do less damage to PR. But his self-pity dissipated somewhat when he noticed the offensively painted fireman’s doll sitting behind Livingstone. Somehow, it looked familiar.
“That’s Uncle Tom. Him and his friends are the newest members of Major Crimes. We placed him on a park bench holding a Bible to test our department’s response to crime.”
Lescott put his head in his hands. “The homeless woman who reported the body?”
“It’s a tragedy actually. She died of a heart attack just last week.”
“Heart attack…” Lescott shook his head. “I guess the officer I met has, what, developed amnesia?” Lescott was careful not to make allegations. He was just filling in the blanks. He did so by goading Livingstone into boasting about his dirty work.
“He’s been such an exemplary constable walking the beat here he was offered a position in plain clothes in his home state. He’s working Major Crimes in Adelaide as we speak.” Lescott could have laughed. Livingstone had so much control of a situation.
“I guess that leaves me…”
“In Burglary. Where I can watch you.”
“Sorry.” Something Livingstone had said had stuck and was rattling around, needing clarification. “Did you say this… ‘Uncle Tom’ had friends?”
Livingstone smiled. He wasn’t about to be drawn into revealing anything to a man he considered inferior.
“You must know there is no version of this story that ends with you getting away with this?” As soon as Lescott spoke the words, they felt hollow. They didn’t mean anything. They were just a product of Lescott’s desperation. Livingstone was getting away with it. He had been for years.
Chapter 59
The nature of the crimes Alan Livingstone had been getting away with had darkened in recent times. Throughout his career, he had played the part of the acceptable face of police corruption, institutional racism, and human cruelty. In that significant role, he had allowed misery to flourish, the innocent to die, and the wicked to go unpunished.
It’s important that you know Alan Livingstone wasn’t born a villain. He was a product of an apathetic society. That’s not to make excuses for the man, no excuse would mitigate the life he led, nor the ruin he’d brought upon others. But he wasn’t born that way. He was a sweet, sickly infant who had clung onto life with a kind of resilience that children possess, but adults forget. He was a bright boy who showed much promise, but he learned quickly that no one cared for him as much as he did. Using his wits, he learnt the system. He found his way into a good home, got himself a pristine education, and as so often happens, a broken product of socie
ty became the society doing the breaking. The loop closed. He was a poor father who would raise damaged children knowing nothing of love nor meaningfulness, just a hunger for money and power. Then his ruthless ambition for money and power translated into him becoming a terrifying force within Sydney’s political and criminal landscapes of the 1950’s and 1960’s.
The weapons he had at his disposal were many, and they were amongst the most useful imaginable. Wealth, wit, charm, creativity, a flair for oration, and a little black book filled with the names of the ruling class. There really was no one like Livingstone for realising favours got you everywhere in life. There was no one’s back he wouldn’t scratch in return for a little clout; “Hero” and “Villain” alike.
He had an interesting position in all of this. He was something of a conduit between the legitimate and the criminal. Over the years, he had curated himself as entirely the former, but he was self-aware enough to know something was missing. Something he could use to his advantage. That hollow, empty, blackness behind the eyes of men who had killed people in cold blood. It struck fear in the hearts of those around in such men’s company. But he did not have it. And as such those who did, the likes of James Harris, George Watson, and Tilly Devine, well they would not take him seriously until he joined their ranks. Until such time, he wouldn’t truly be the formidable force, on all fronts, that he wished to be.
And so, one day, he planned to change that. It was a day of tying up loose ends. When Constable Mulhern, the officer first on the scene that day in Hyde Park when the Old Man with his Bible was found, Livingstone took care of him. He gave the chap every uniformed policeman’s dream promotion. He was to move into detective work as a Detective Constable, and in Major Crimes no less. The most glamorous of police departments at the time. The downside was, he was being shifted away from Sydney, his wife’s hometown, to Adelaide, his own hometown.
He was being moved far away from Darlinghurst, away from the Death Car, away from the Old Man with his Bible, away from Fred Lescott and James Harris. Most importantly, he was being shifted away from the Sydney Press, and from any do-gooders in Internal Affairs.
THE DEVIL IN THE RED DIRT: DIVIDED IN LIFE. UNIFIED IN MURDER Page 44