Troy, smug: ‘Well, forensics have made one or two other breakthroughs.’
Barry: ‘Namely?’
Duncan: ‘Let’s just say those DNA samples we took from you earlier could prove … interesting.’
Scoffing: ‘If they link me to any of this they’ll be more than interesting, mate: they’ll be fucking sorcerous, ’cause I don’t know a thing about it. You know what I reckon? I reckon you clowns’ve been spending too much time in the evidence room.’
Duncan: ‘What you need to think about, Barry, is what happens to you when Mr X gets nicked. With those prints, you see, we’ve got him on multiple murder, no questions asked. At that stage we’ll want to know the full story, and — with the Rabble so eager to learn the murderer’s identity — we’ll offer him name suppression in exchange for more names. Your life for your story, kind of thing. I doubt Mr X’ll find it a difficult choice. And if your name happens to crop up somewhere in his tale, Barry, why that’ll leave you with a rather juicy addition to your charge sheet, won’t it, old son?’
Barry: ‘I thought they were Black Power? Anyway, if you’re so confident of catching this Mr X, and of the forensic “evidence” you’ve got, why are you wasting time playing your little games with me?’
Troy: ‘Let’s just call it hedging our bets.’
Duncan: ‘The incident was released to the media yesterday, and we’re coming under big pressure to solve it quickly. For this reason we’re willing to solve all of your problems for you, Barry.’
‘… Meaning?’
‘Meaning we’re prepared to wipe all current charges pending against you, and give you immunity from prosecution, in return for your help with the murder investigation.’
‘What kind of help?’
‘Just names, Barry.’
Barry, mordant: ‘Oh, I get it. In your hoggy little minds the game hasn’t changed at all, has it? You just think the stakes have been upped. Through nothing more than my “link” with “Mr X”, you’re hoping me and my “friends”, who escaped your clutches at the Skins’ place, hold the key to solving these murders. Is that about right?’
Duncan, standing, shrugging into his jacket: ‘We’re going to leave you to examine your position for a wee while, Barry. Just think: four little words from your mouth — perhaps only two — and you walk out the door of this station free to do whatever — you — like. The only other hope you’ve got is to wait for Mr X to fall into our hands, pray he’s willing to die for you, and hope the charges we’ve all ready got on you don’t see you go down for too long.’
Troy, assembling his particulars: ‘Pretty slim hope really, eh, Barry? Face it, mate: talk to us or kiss your arse goodbye.’
Barry, sneering: ‘If I actually had helped Mr X, then maybe I’d have to give your generous offer some serious thought. Though having briefly glimpsed the “capability” of the Smoke’s police force, I’d be surprised if you tossers even catch the black cunt.’
Duncan, airily: ‘Really, Barry? I guess you’re unaware of how much of a loose cannon your dusky mate actually is, then. You see, while you sit here suffering for your friends, at least one of them is out there right now, free as a bird, shitting on your sacrifice, nutting out and throwing wee tantrums all over town.’ He conjures another photo from an inside pocket. ‘Yesterday your Mr X made a big mistake, Barry. Rampaging down the Greenlane shop-front? Security cameras everywhere? That wasn’t too smart either, but given the time of night he probably would’ve got away with it. Only he forgot to take his weapon home with him. Got a little carried away, he did, finished with a flourish, smashed his last window from thirty metres away.’ Impressed: ‘Good throwing arm on him.’
The picture Duncan waggles for Barry is of a cricket bat, sealed in an evidence bag.
He continues. Chummy: ‘Finger-prints, Barry. Absolutely chocker with ’em. A perfect match to the Takahera bullets and to the McDicks bashing.’ A weary sigh: ‘The bloke you’re sheltering’s leaving a trail a mile wide, Barry. We’ll have our hands on him inside a day or two. You’ve got till then. Think on it, mate.’
As the door closes Barry manages to count slowly to ten …
… before sweet glee shoots from his nostrils.
Uncle Rangi, my man, I’d have your fucking babies! This, McPike, surely confirms you as The Chosen One. Were you only before me so I could kiss your scrawny arse!
Troy, tight: ‘Do you reckon he knows?’
Duncan: ‘Oh, he knows, all right. He dealt with most of the traps quite deftly, and he’s a pretty smooth customer, but he’s not made of stone. At a guess, I’d say that he’s definitely the bloke from the Greenlane bashing, and that he at least has information on the Takahera job.’
Troy, salivating: ‘How long do we let him stew?’
Duncan, shrugging: ‘For now, I can’t really see the point in pressing him further.’
Sharply. ‘Why the fuck not? You said yourself, all we need is one name from him. Even if he doesn’t rat on Mr X himself, it’s unlikely his other two buddies are as tough as he is, and I’d have money on all of them being involved, or at least having info.’
Duncan: ‘That’s true — one name and we’d be away. The way things stand, though, he knows the only thing linking him to Mr X is the word of a cop hammered comatose in near darkness. I think he guessed the identikit picture we showed him was phoney. You’ve seen the real picture, Troy: it barely looks like him. If I hadn’t been in the station when your lot brought him in on cop-bashing, and if I hadn’t have happened to hear the description Ryan gave when he woke up, I wouldn’t have made the connection. The height, the hair and the charges were all I went on. Any decent lawyer’ll laugh that out of court … and Barry’s got enough balls to take that chance. His alibi for the time in question is flimsy — just the word of his girlfriend — and with more investigation we might be able quash it, but for now, unless forensics do find something tying him to Takahera, we’re as good as helpless.’
‘What else have they got?’
‘On the fists and clothes of the gangsters and the homie they found a lot of blood, some of it matching Wallace, but most that doesn’t match anyone — they’re guessing it’s Mr X’s. The picture they’re drawing at the moment is this: the gangsters and the homie had a beef with Mr X and Wallace. They took them somewhere to fuck them up. At some point in the beating Mr X managed to capture the sawn-off from one of his assailants. He drills Rabble One in the face. Rabble Two tries to run, gets it in the back. Mr X or Wallace then strangle the kid with something. Where all this took place is so far a mystery. We’re working on the assumption that Mr X — his prints were on the wheel — wouldn’t have wanted to drive the corpses too far, so there’s a good chance it all went down in Takahera itself. We’re running dogs over the place right now, but it’s far too big an area to cover meticulously, and with the amount of rain the storm laid down last week it’s almost certain the place has been washed clean regardless. Anyway, they drive round till they find a place they can get the car well off the road. Then, for whatever reason, Mr X turns on Wallace. Wallace tries to fight his way clear: X’s skin and blood was found under Wallace’s nails. In time X subdues Wallace, sits him down, and tops him. Mr X then cleans his prints from the shooter, rubs Wallace’s fingers all over it, and places it in his hand. But he forgets about his own mark on the bullets. He then pisses off, either in a car Wallace drove out there, or by phoning for a pick-up.’
Troy: ‘Which is where my boys come into it.’
‘Based on Barry’s reaction, quite possibly. With what we know of gang culture, it’s pretty safe to assume no white faces were present while the Rabble went about its business, but who knows who X might’ve called on after doing the deed … If only Barry’d give us a name. The descriptions your Skins gave us of the other two were too bloody sketchy to be of much use.’
‘That’s not surprising. They were practically incognito. On top of that, those cabbage-brain Skins couldn’t remember their middle names, a
nd trying to get any two of the argumentative fucks to agree on something is an act of futility. They fingered the bloke who set up the deal, though. There’s no doubt about this “Bum” character.’
‘If you choose to believe the Skins, there isn’t. But we’ll need evidence a lot more concrete than that before Bum can even be brought in, let alone charged in relation to any of this. If nothing else turns up we’ll keep talking with Bum, but unless he makes a huge foot-in-mouth he’ll be no use at all. If he knows his rights, he’ll just tell us to piss right off … and by what the lads reckon, Bum knows his rights well.’
Troy: ‘So, as far as the search for the two who slipped us at the Skins raid go, all we’ve got to go on is that they’re possible acquaintances of Barry’s?’
‘That’s right. From the identikit pictures Ryan made, Barry’s reaction just now, and the stills from the shopping centre rampage, we can unofficially finger Barry as an accessory of X’s at the Greenlane bashing. But pictures of the third bloke from the alley don’t look anything like either of the descriptions the Skins gave us.’ A terse shrug. ‘Anyway, as soon as I linked Barry to Mr X yesterday morning, and spoke with you about it, I phoned the homicide team down canvassing Vegas, gave them Barry’s details.’
‘And?’
‘Well, I spoke with Dick again just a couple of hours ago, and he reckons they’re getting nowhere fast down there. Everyone involved in the case is either a druggie, a delinquent, or a gangster, castes not renowned for their collaboration with the Force. The Rabble of course refuse to say a word about anything. Every civilian acquaintance of Hemi and Johnson asked who might want them dead, laughs out loud and tells the boys to pick names from the phonebook. Mates of the prospect and homie can’t even be browbeaten into making a peep: they know better than to interfere with Rabble business. Wallace’s family hadn’t seen him in a while, but that’s apparently nothing new: judging by the state of them, Dick doubts they’ve seen him since he turned five. The team managed to get a list together of Barry’s old chums, but they’re all alibied, and not a one of them is talking beyond “Fuck off, Flatfoot”.’
Troy: ‘So Barry and the pair who fled the bust are proving a dead end. What about the vandalism? What are the chances of tracing Mr X through that?’
Duncan, scoffing: ‘Forget about it. Half three in the morning? A few neighbours heard the smashes, but no one even bothered opening the curtains. Security footage suggests he fled toward Cornwall Park. Uniforms gave the area a fly-by when they showed up an hour later, but he could’ve been anywhere by then. We can’t mourn that, though. I mean, being able to get pictures of Mr X through something so petty was a huge slice of luck.’
Troy, sighing: ‘Yeah, you’re not wrong there.’ But his mollification lasts only seconds. Growling, summarising: ‘Just the one solid lead on the murders, then, we’re certain that arrogant little druggie fuck has crucial clues in his head … and we’re helpless. If ever a better example was needed of how the sandal and tofu brigade have fucked up our justice system …!’
Duncan, gently: ‘It’s not your concern any more, Troy.’
‘But …’
‘But nothing. We had our crack at him. I know how badly you need a high-profile bust at the moment — and I could sure’ve used the other half of the credit — but it’s out of our hands now. The only reason you were kept involved was because I made the link between Mr X and Barry and hoped your prior experience of him might come in handy. But we’re getting nowhere fast and the chief only gave me till eight o’clock tonight on this. I’ll phone him in a minute and pass the torch on. As of now, Troy, Mr Barry Reginald Trotter is your prisoner no longer. Homicide’ll start drilling him before the night’s out. This’ll go on for as long as we can hold him, while we hope for a development to give us some authentic leverage on the kid.’
Troy turns away abruptly, kicking the wall. ‘Fuck it all! This was exactly what I needed! Fate gave this to me! Fuck that little cunt! Ten minutes alone with him and my life’s sorted for ever!’ He faces Duncan, appeal gushing from him. ‘Just give me one last shot at him, Duncan. Please, mate. I’ll share anything I get with you, that’s a promise! Just ten minutes, that’s all I ask!’
Duncan, rueful and hushed: ‘Would that I could, Troy. But your “ten-minute chats” are a little too infamous, I’m afraid. You know as well as I do: his old man’s a big wheel in land development and Barry’s getting his arse wiped by the best lawyer money can buy. You go damaging the goods on this occasion and you and I are in serious strife.’
Troy, through desperate teeth, low: ‘No marks, Duncan. That’s a promise. C’mon, this’ll make both of us!’
Eventually: ‘… Well, I guess someone has to escort him to the cells.’
Barry: ‘Well, here comes Jenny, but what’s she gone and done with Burton? What gives, Troyo? Did ya leave him incapable of walking this time?’
Troy shuts the door behind him. He removes his jacket, rolling back shirt-cuffs. Unstraps his watch, slow and brooding.
‘I must insist the pants stay on, Troy. You know I stipulated a longer courtship than this.’
Fists braced on the table, Troy at last meets Barry’s eye. Rumbling: ‘Now, you listen to me, you little of piece of shit. In about three minutes from now you’re gonna be begging me to let you talk … and if it’s your lucky day I might just oblige.’
Barry, frowning, musing: ‘Hang on a sec. It’ll come to me. Heat, right? Was it Heat? It was either Heat or Serpico. He can’t’a said it in Scarface, ’cause he played the robber in that, didn’t he?’
Troy, an ominous mutter: ‘You know what I’m going do if you don’t give me a name, Barry?’
‘Strap on a riot helmet and turn rolly-pollies in the smoko room?’
Leaning forward, grinning: ‘Not quite. I’m gonna leak it to the Rabble that you were involved in the murders. I’ll tell them where you’re doing your time and everything. I’ll give them your fucking cell number. You won’t last two minutes … pal.’
Barry, scoffing: ‘You’re a regular paragon, aren’t ya, Troyo? Well, ya know what? If that’s the game you wanna play, I’ve got a couple of shots to fire myself. Ya see, my lawyer filled me in on the reputation you’ve got around town. And what she found even more interesting than I did was the way you were so frantic to prosecute me for the sixty pounds of dope, when it can so easily be stuck to the Skins, an organisation you’ve supposedly been invested the job of taking down. I gave her a detailed account of our “conversations” on the matter, and when I next see her I’ll also tell her about the threat you just made — make affidavits detailing the lot. I’ll then tell her to sit on what she knows till I leave the Joint in a body-bag. At that point she’s to forward the information to every journalist and politician in the country. There may not be any proof as such, but when the story “Troy Wilkinson: Rotten Cop?” hits nationwide headlines, given that it wouldn’t be the first time you’ve been mentioned in such a light, I’m guessing your career could be in for a bit of a nose-dive. What do you reckon, Troyo?’
Troy’s teeth snap closed. He starts around the table. A low rumble: ‘Insist on doing everything the hard way, don’t ya, Barry?’ He takes Barry’s ear in one hand, twisting viciously. Purring: ‘How does that feel, Barry? Still cocky? I might just rip the fucker right off.’
Barry, thickly, face set: ‘I guess it’s lucky I’ve got two of them, then.’
With his other hand, Troy snatches a handful of Barry’s long hair, wrenching it in the opposite direction. ‘You think you’re sooooo fucking tough, don’t you?’ The pressure mounts, the cords of Troy’s forearms bunching. ‘You and I’ve got alllllll day and night in here, pal. You just sing out when you’ve had enough, OK?’
Eyes wide, teeth grinding, Barry pants: ‘You couldn’t break a virgin’s hymen, cunt. I’ve got fuck all to say to you!’
Troy releases his hold suddenly, hauling Barry up by the underarms. Hammers his ribs with an upper-cut, does it again, all the torque
of his shoulders in the blows.
Throws him to the floor. Rolls him to his back with one foot. Crouching, pinning a knee across Barry’s chest and cuffed hands, holding him still.
Draws careful aim, high back-lift …
… drives the heel of his palm against Barry’s sprained knee.
Barry convulses like a shock-shop patient …
… mewling like a lamb in the slaughterhouse …
… one foot trying pathetically to push him free of the big cop.
Troy, neighbourly: ‘Ya ready to continue, Barry … or perhaps you’ve thought of something I might like to hear?’
At last Barry nods, face red and wrung; Troy suppresses a long sigh. When he speaks, though, Barry’s whisper is too thin.
Troy, leaning to him: ‘Again, please, Barry. I didn’t quite catch that.’
Barry, strengthless: ‘Hope ya brought thumbscrews along, bitch, ’cause you hit like a fucking fairy.’
18
Thursday, 30 March, 5.15pm, Sydney Airport
— G’day, mate. So you’re the new bloke, right?
— Ah, yeah. Name’s Travis.
— No worries. I’m Danny. Close the door behind ya and take a seat; you’ll be working aboard C here.
— Cheers, Danny.
— Tell ya what, Travis, you look pretty bloody familiar, mate. You a Steak and Kidney local, or what?
— Certainly am. Cabramatta born and bred.
— Dead set? Me too! Cabramatta High?
— Yep.
— That’d make you Travis Georgalis then, eh? Steven’s younger brother?
— Spot on, cobber. Do you know Steven?
— Not overly well, but I was in his year and played a bit of footy with him at Wests. How long ya been out of the neighbourhood then, mate?
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