Bay of Martyrs

by Tony Black

  Bec had been thinking the same thing, but hearing the words come out of Eddie’s mouth made her feel slightly defensive. ‘Why?’

  ‘Why? Because you’re not cops. Clay’s running around like he’s Dick Tracy or something, and no good can come of that.’

  ‘No offence, Eddie, but the cops haven’t exactly been on the ball of late. You said so yourself. The Kerry Collins case, now the Jacinta Porter case. It’s starting to look like you can kill a woman in Warrnambool and the authorities look the other way.’

  Eddie exhaled and frowned. ‘I know,’ he said.

  He didn’t follow up on his comment. Instead both started tucking into their first course, a succulent piece of pork belly, sided with the unexpected combination of pumpkin, pomegranate, and radish. My God, this is amazing, thought Bec, and for a couple of minutes there was nothing but the sound of eating and the murmur of the restaurant. When they had finished their starter, Eddie looked Bec in the eyes and leant forward.

  ‘You and Clay need to leave this story alone,’ he said, in a quiet but firm voice.

  ‘Which one? The dead teenage girl or the dead hooker?’

  ‘Both. I’m trying to do all I can with the information you guys have dug up, but there are some serious blockages above me. I’ve spoken to some fellow officers and some union guys to try and unplug some of those blockages, but in the meantime you and Clay need to sit tight.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why?’ he said, his voice rising enough to get a sideways look from the woman seated at the next table. ‘Because you’re one degree of separation from a meth-head who just might be a murderer.’

  Bec noticed the volume level in the restaurant drop off, like an abrupt gap between songs on the radio. Eddie, who was on his second glass of red, had been a fraction too loud. She waited a moment for the conversations to pick up around them again, flashing a couple of forced smiles to the nearby diners.

  ‘I don’t think Clay’s going to stop,’ she said, her voice edging close to a whisper.

  ‘Then that’s a real worry,’ said Eddie, mimicking the low volume. ‘Look, I’ve known Clay for a long time. He’s a great guy. But, to be honest, I’ve never seen him like this. These cases… they’ve gotten under his skin. I’ve never seen him this intense. He used to be really flippant about his job, like he didn’t care, it was all a big joke. But he’s latched onto this stuff and, well, to be honest, he seems a little unhinged at the moment. He’s a skilled journalist, but when you combine that with his recent beating, the fact he’s smoking a lot of weed lately, and his past… it all points in the wrong direction. Have a think about it; what’s his next port of call going to be?’

  Bec thought for a second. Her mind had snagged on the bit where Eddie had said ‘and his past’ but she forced herself to consider the question. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I don’t think I want to know.’

  ‘I’ll tell you where it goes, Bec,’ said Eddie. ‘His next stop is either talking to my superiors, who will make life very hard for him, or it’s trying to deal with Lerner himself. Neither of those scenarios end well.’

  Bec sipped on her wine and felt a wave of sadness wash over her. Eddie was right, as much as she didn’t want to admit it. For a moment, she wished Clay was Dick Tracy, like Eddie had said, and that he could solve all the cases by being smarter than everybody else and then they could just move on with their lives. But that wasn’t how real life worked. Clay was just a journalist, she was just a photographer, and there was probably nothing they could do, especially if the local police force decided they weren’t doing anything about it, either.

  The next course arrived, but Bec didn’t feel hungry any more.

  Chapter 28

  So this is what Sunday morning feels like without a hangover, thought Clay. He was perched on his windowsill looking out across the morning traffic on Liebig Street, enjoying his first coffee and cigarette of the day. Below his dangling feet was the roof of the café verandah, peppered with hundreds of cigarette butts, obviously having come out of Clay’s window. He felt a momentary pang of guilt about this littering, but went back to soaking in the cool morning air and gentle rays of a new day’s sun.

  He’d begged off going out with Gabby for a typical Saturday night at the Hotel Warrnambool by using the legitimate excuse of needing to pack up his house. She’d offered to come and help, but he knew that would have ended with very little packing getting achieved. He was one week from eviction and had found nowhere to put the ever-growing pile of boxes that now filled every room in his apartment. All packed up, and no place to go, he thought with a sad smile.

  But as much as Clay really needed to get his belongings organised, he had really needed time to digest the previous day’s events – June, Vegas, the weird argument with Bec. What the hell was all that about? Bec had flipped out, from out of nowhere. But, more importantly, what was he going to do about Lerner?

  Clay finished his cigarette and added the butt to those scattered below just as there was a heavy knock on the door. He felt a chill pass through him. It’s 9 a.m. on a Sunday morning – anyone who knows me wouldn’t come knocking at that hour… unless they were in trouble or needed something badly.

  He swung his feet back inside the lounge room, careful not to spill his coffee, and made his way around the maze of brown cardboard boxes and through the small apartment to the door at the rear. ‘No good can come of this,’ he muttered.

  Clay pulled open the door and there stood the rotund frame of Detective Sergeant Frank Anderson. Barely visible around the sides of his bloated form were two younger men, whom Clay assumed to be fellow detectives, judging by their suit jackets and single-coloured ties, that looked like Kmart buys.

  Beneath Anderson’s overgrown moustache, his mouth was contorted into a smile that made Clay’s stomach lurch a little. ‘Good morning, Mr Moloney,’ the detective said, with a snide mixture of sarcasm and false bonhomie. ‘I do hope we’re not intruding.’

  Thoughts raced through Clay’s mind. What does he want? That was the first one discernible over the din in his head. The second one was something along the lines of, I hope I put all my drug paraphernalia in the coffee table drawer.

  ‘How can I help you, Frank?’ said Clay. He leant against the wall just inside the door and sipped his coffee, hoping to give off an air of calm, despite being anything but. He’s either here to bust me or warn me off, he thought.

  ‘Aren’t you going to invite us in?’ said Anderson.

  ‘Sorry, but no, the place is a mess. I’m in the middle of moving out—’

  Anderson turned to his colleagues, who stood a couple of steps below him. ‘Hear that boys? He’s invited us in. That means we don’t need a warrant.’ With a violent surge of energy, Anderson pushed past Clay and headed up the hallway into the apartment, leaving Clay covered in his coffee.

  ‘Hey! What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ Clay yelled at Anderson, before turning to the other two detectives. They avoided eye contact and followed their superior into the flat.

  Clay trailed them into the lounge room, where Anderson was opening boxes and rifling through the contents. His fellow detectives started to do likewise, making an exaggerated show of ripping the cardboard and spilling whatever was inside onto the floor. Whilst the cops were occupied, Clay quickly scanned the room: no sign of any marijuana. At least that was one plus.

  ‘I said, what the hell are you doing?’

  Anderson didn’t look up from the box he was searching, he merely shoved it aside aggressively, tipping it out like he was emptying a bin, before moving on to another one. Clay heard the sound of breaking glass.

  ‘I think the more pertinent question, Mr Moloney, is what the hell have you been doing?’ said Anderson. The younger detectives were also searching; one was digging through boxes, the other was pulling up the couch cushions, skimming them across the room.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Clay abruptly felt a calming breeze blow over him. Wh
atever it is Anderson thinks he’s looking for, Clay was confident he wouldn’t find it. But more than that, this was obviously an exercise in intimidation, and Clay resolved not to let Anderson get to him. The simple rule he had to abide by was: stay calm.

  Clay walked out of the lounge and into his bedroom. He changed his shirt, exchanging the coffee-drenched one for a clean one bearing the Rolling Stones tongue on the front before heading into the kitchen to make another cup of coffee. The kettle was still warm, and the kitchen was only equipped for coffee, so it didn’t take long. He then returned to the lounge room, walked to the window, and perched up on the sill. Clay sat half in and half out of the apartment in a look of practised nonchalance. He lit a cigarette and blew the smoke at Anderson’s back. The detective was digging in yet another box and Clay could tell Anderson’s agitation was growing as quickly as the damp streak was descending down his back.

  ‘This would go a lot quicker, Frank, if you told me what you were looking for,’ said Clay. ‘Also, you’ll see I’ve labelled the boxes using a texta to make it easier to figure out what’s in them, so you could try reading the side of the box first. Might make this illegal police search move a lot more quickly. See, I’d hate to waste your time. I’m helpful that way.’

  Anderson wheeled around as fast as his weight allowed – his girth meant the movement was something more akin to a semi-trailer attempting a three-point turn. ‘I know where you’ve been, Moloney,’ he said with menace in his voice. ‘I know what you’ve been up to.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘You were at the home of a known drug dealer yesterday. You and that tart of yours. So where are the drugs?’

  ‘I didn’t buy any. I went around there to have a chat with him. He’s an old friend. And calling my co-worker a tart doesn’t do you any favours, Frank. You’re better than that.’ Clay was dialling up the cockiness. If Anderson wanted a battle of wits, so be it.

  ‘Oh, really. And what were you talking about?’

  ‘I thought you said you knew what I’d been up to. Or were you just making that up, Frank?’

  Anderson’s moustache rippled as a scowl crossed his damp face. ‘I know you’ve been sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.’

  ‘I’m a journalist. I can stick my nose wherever the bloody hell I feel like it.’ He sipped his coffee and flicked the cylinder of ash from his cigarette onto the verandah roof below. ‘And I’m especially going to stick it wherever I smell a police cover-up.’

  Out of the periphery of his vision, Clay could see the other two detectives stop what they were doing and look at Anderson, a mixture of confusion and fear in their eyes. But Clay didn’t take his gaze off Anderson, who was lumbering toward him in the surreal manner of a stampeding pig.

  With one fat-fingered hand, Anderson grabbed the front of Clay’s Rolling Stones T-shirt and hefted him off the windowsill. More coffee went flying, this time over the carpet and Anderson’s trouser leg, and Clay’s lit cigarette flew out the window.

  ‘I’m going to say this clearly so you can get it through your thick head,’ said Anderson. ‘You’re conducting an illegal investigation that is disrupting a legal police investigation. If you don’t stay out of the way and cease what you’re doing, I’m going to throw you in a cell down at the station, preferably with a couple of meth-heads. Then I’m going to tell the meth-heads that you work at the newspaper that wrote up their last court appearances. And then I’m going to walk away. Do you understand?’

  ‘I understand you’re a corrupt piece of shit.’

  The punch wasn’t powerful, but it was well placed. Clay dropped to his knees fighting for breath.

  ‘If you’re thinking about reporting this, I’d like to remind you there are three of us and one of you. We’re officers of the law. You’re a grubby low-life journalist who spent most of yesterday hanging out with a prostitute and a drug dealer. How do you think that’s going to fly?’

  Clay gulped for air but couldn’t respond.

  ‘Now, one more time, for dramatic emphasis,’ said Anderson. ‘Stay away from my cases. Your interference isn’t appreciated and won’t be tolerated any longer.’

  Clay finally managed to suck in enough air to squeeze out a sentence. He had a thought that it would be wise to keep his trap shut, but it was immediately cancelled out by a second thought that said he had never been wise. ‘If you did your job properly, I wouldn’t have to do this.’

  ‘And if you did yours properly, I wouldn’t have to do this.’ With alarming speed, Anderson hoisted Clay up by the shirtfront and sank a fist into his stomach again, before throwing the journalist to the floor. Clay landed heavily, curled over, and gulped like a fresh-landed perch. He could feel his face turning red, his eyes bulging, as he sought out the other two detectives, who looked uncomfortable and embarrassed.

  ‘Sir,’ said one of them, ‘I think he’s got the picture.’

  ‘He’s got the picture when I say he’s got the picture!’ roared Anderson.

  Clay croaked in an attempt to form words. Anderson turned back to him.

  ‘Got another wisecrack, smart-arse?’ said Anderson. ‘Something defiant? Or an apology, maybe?’

  Clay sucked in enough oxygen to stop himself blacking out. He rolled onto his back and closed his eyes, before whispering something he knew Anderson couldn’t hear.

  ‘What did you say? I can’t hear you, maggot,’ the detective said, leaning closer.

  With as much energy as he could muster, Clay got his whisper to an audible level. ‘I hope Kerry Collins haunts you for the rest of your life, you fat bastard.’

  Anderson drew back his foot as if to kick Clay, who flinched, but the cop seemed to think better of it. ‘Come on, boys,’ he said and stormed out of the apartment.

  Clay lay staring at the ceiling waiting for his breathing to return to normal. Another day, another beating, he thought.

  Chapter 29

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ said Bec. ‘There isn’t a scratch on you.’

  Clay was taken aback. They were in the smoking section at the Hotel Warrnambool and he’d just finished telling Bec and Eddie what had transpired that morning in his apartment. He had not received the level of sympathy and outrage he had expected. Maybe she’s still mad at me, thought Clay. Or maybe this latest turn of events did sound a little far-fetched, even for those who had been keeping pace from the start.

  ‘He was careful to avoid my face,’ said Clay, and immediately felt like he was being too defensive.

  ‘I’m with Bec,’ said Eddie. ‘Detective Sergeant Frank Anderson coming into your house and performing an illegal search before assaulting you? Look, I know he’s not the nicest of guys, but—’

  ‘Why is this so hard to fathom?’ asked Clay. ‘We’ve been discussing the likely possibility of a cover-up for weeks, and now that I’ve got proof Anderson’s behind it, all of a sudden it becomes too much to take in? Really?’

  ‘You don’t have proof,’ said Bec in a low voice.

  ‘What?’ snapped Clay.

  ‘You don’t have proof,’ she said, louder this time. ‘You have your word against Anderson’s. And two other cops, apparently. Did you think to film it or record it on your phone? That would have been proof. You telling stories in a bar is not proof.’

  ‘Why would I make this up?’

  Eddie looked away. ‘Cops don’t go around Warrnambool beating people up. It doesn’t happen, not in my fairly extensive experience, anyway.’

  Clay scoffed. ‘Cops don’t go around Warrnambool covering up murders, but we’re fairly sure that’s happening. But you didn’t answer my question, Eddie – why would I make this up?’

  ‘How the hell should I know?’ said Eddie. ‘Because you’re paranoid? Because you’re not sleeping? Because you’re smoking too much weed? Because you think you’re bloody Robocop or something, running around trying to solve crimes that you don’t have the training or authority to solve?’

  ‘You think I’ve finally
gone crazy – is that it?’

  Eddie shrugged. He averted his gaze from Clay’s.

  Clay looked to Bec. ‘And what’s your theory?’

  ‘All of the above.’

  Clay shook his head. ‘I don’t get it, guys. You were happy to believe it’s possible a cop is covering up a murder, but for some reason you can’t believe it’s possible a cop could beat me up in my own home. Isn’t it obvious? Frank Anderson is the one doing the covering up. Someone bigger and more powerful is in the mix here and he’s doing their dirty work. It means we’re getting close to the truth, guys.’

  ‘The truth?’ said Eddie. ‘I thought you said some meth-head called Lerner killed the prostitute.’

  ‘So why isn’t that being investigated?’

  There was silence around the table. Clay sipped on his pint. His ribs and stomach were still sore from the punches. He could handle the pain because it hurt his pride more to know that Anderson had been clever and left no discernible marks.

  ‘Look,’ said Clay, ‘you don’t believe me – that’s fine. I understand my behaviour has been a little erratic, and yes, I’m not sleeping well and whatever. But do me a favour, Eddie. The two cops who were with Anderson today at my place, I’m pretty sure their names are Cooper and Crowe. I’ve seen ’em around on jobs before. You know ’em?’

  Eddie nodded, grudgingly. He still couldn’t bring himself to look in Clay’s direction, the allegations against a fellow officer seemed to be taken almost personally. ‘Yeah, they’re in Anderson’s division.’

  ‘Good,’ continued Clay. ‘I want you to ask them if they were at my place this morning. If they deny it, you’ll know they’re lying, because if they weren’t there, then I’ve magically guessed the names of two cops who work with Anderson. If they admit to being at my house, then ask them what went down. You’re a good cop. You’ll know whether they’re telling the truth or not.’

  ‘Yeah, I can do that,’ he said casually, following it with a sigh. Eddie stood and grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair. ‘I have to start work in an hour. I’ll let you know how I go, but I’m not going to pretend I feel happy about any of this.’