Big White Lies

by Jay Darby

  “She, might have something later?” Klose said, tone sarcastic. “She sends an email from Scotland, to tell you nothing?”

  “I know, frustrating beyond belief. Really hope she makes contact again...”

  “Yep…” Klose paused. “Hey, about Flintoff…”

  Lionel jumped all over the change of subject. “What?”

  “I’ve really come through on this one, bud.”

  “What did you find?

  You wanted dirt, I got you sewerage.”

  “What?” Lionel almost yelled. “The suspense is killing me.”

  “Okay...According to Jenny, my secretary friend, Flintoff’s having an affair.”

  Lionel prayed for her lover to be a well-known celebrity and not her local plumber. “With who?”

  “This, bud, is your deal breaker...Flintoff’s fucking Rothwell, and has been for years.”

  Lionel leaned back, mouth half open. He lowered the phone and scenarios presented by the revelation played out at light speed in his head. He raised the phone to his ear. “As in, Attorney General Rothwell?”

  “Yep. Unbelievable, eh?”

  “And she’s certain?”

  “No reason to lie…She caught them in the act once, and ever since gets a day off work when she wants it…Girl’s a hopeless gossip, but with a secret as damaging as this, I believe her.”

  “Good enough for me... Thanks, Fred, it’s amazing, more than I’d hoped for. Pressure on Flintoff, and Rothwell. Perfect... I’m confident of getting my inquiry.”

  “But not, too confident?”

  “Not at all…And even if McKinlay does oppose it, he’ll have to abide by the majority vote and follow Rothwell’s direction. Transparency goes out the window with careers at stake…”

  “What if Rothwell leaves the final decision with McKinlay and calls your bluff?”

  “Would you risk the international controversy? Married, with a reputation to uphold...”

  “You’re right, it’s perfect.”

  “And I owe you…”

  “Yep, a steak dinner, three times over.” Klose laughed, then his tone darkened. “Listen bud, be careful, don’t let this come back to bite you…How you plan on using this info?”

  “Not sure yet, but there’ll be no mention of the source, you have my word…Will they suspect Jenny?”

  “Don’t worry about her. Apparently there’s plenty close to them who know of the affair. Flintoff’s popular, and they protect her. It’s the best-kept secret in politics...”

  Lionel smiled, because it used to be the best-kept secret in politics. “Fred, if I’m successful with the submission there’s a chance I’ll be taking an investigation team out west. Would you be interested in joining it?”

  “Sure bud, I’d love us to work together…”

  Lionel thanked him again and ended the call. He rocked back in the chair and gazed out the window. An hour earlier he’d felt jaded, had doubted himself and wondered if he’d taken too much on. Weeks of abusive mail, ignorant police and dead-end leads had taken their toll. But now, what a day…Potential witness ‘Shirley’ had emerged, and he had Rothwell at his mercy. Bit by bit his plan came together.

  He didn’t have time for a face-to-face meeting. He opened the computer’s phone directory and called the Attorney General’s Sydney office. Jenny answered, he smiled at the irony. She diverted the call, and he waited, his heartbeat louder than the trilled ringtone.

  A confident voice answered. “Karen Flintoff.”

  He hesitated, then an inner voice urged him on. “It’s Lionel Roberts, Ms Flintoff. I’m an Aboriginal human rights advocate with Legal Aid.”

  A slight pause. “How may I help?”

  “I’ve an urgent matter to discuss. Extremely important.”

  “Go on.”

  “It’s of a personal and sensitive nature, perhaps more suited to a meeting…But I’m sorry, time is of the essence.”

  She huffed. “You’re being very strange, Mr Roberts. If it’s urgent just tell me.”

  “You’re comfortable discussing it over the phone?”

  “My line’s secure, get to the point.”

  “Okay…Please listen carefully, Ms Flintoff. What I’m about to tell you requires your complete, and immediate attention.”

  TWELVE

  Porter parked the unmarked police sedan against the curb and listened to Ian Betts’s phone conversation with the Forensics Unit doctor. He hoped for positive news, that Nadia Tindall’s killer had been identified.

  Five minutes later, Betts ended the call and dropped his phone into the center console. “We’ve been driving around the CBD like chooks without heads for two hours. Seen a hundred white vans, and stopped more than twenty. Is Williams fair dinkum, he really thinks we’ll find our crooks this way?”

  “You’re right, it’s harder than finding a pork chop in Tehran…But it’s the only lead we’ve got.”

  “A waste of fucking time…Head to Mickey D’s can you, craving a Big Mac.”

  Porter glanced at the dashboard clock. “It’s only five-thirty…Didn’t you eat lunch?”

  “Four hours ago. Not my fault you never eat, skinny bastard.”

  Porter gasped in mock disbelief. He shielded his eyes from the setting sun with one hand and steered the sedan into peak-hour traffic with the other. “What the doc say about Nadia?”

  “Sure you wanna know?”

  “Mate, I had a Barry Crocker yesterday, but all’s good now,” Porter lied. “Tell me...”

  “Alright. She was messier on the inside than out.”

  Porter winced. “Fingerprints?”

  “Nope, spotless.”

  “Same as the truck in Newcastle. It’s gotta be the same mob…”

  “Yep, and they’re bloody good at what they do.”

  “Raped?”

  “Several times, the doc had never seen internal trauma like it...”

  “DNA?”

  “Multiple profiles found. No matches yet.”

  “Mongrels…” Porter increased volume on the police radio. “We’ll get one, these blokes are bound to have form.”

  “Yep...”

  “City 15 or any car in the vicinity.” A female voice crackled over the police radio. “Check bona fides...Anonymous informant states two men, not further described, acting suspiciously in a white van in the Cinema City carpark, corner Lane and McGowan streets, Surry Hills. Informant says the van’s circling the carpark with teenagers congregating. City 15, any car in the vicinity.”

  Porter nodded at Betts and threw the sedan into a sudden U-turn.

  Betts snatched the radio handset. “City 106 copy that,” he blurted. “Five minutes...Anything else, radio?”

  “106, five minutes, copy,” the operator said. “Nothing further on the van. White is all we’ve got...”

  “106 copy...” Betts replaced the handset then gripped the ‘Jesus bar’ above the passenger window.

  Porter drove his foot into the accelerator pedal and weaved the sedan through traffic. “These are our crooks, mate, can feel it,” he yelled above screeching tires.

  “Fair chance. Let’s ho--.”

  BEEP! BEEP! The police radio sounded through the speaker again, loud and piercing. “Any car in the vicinity,” a male operator said this time, “corner Cleveland and Pitt streets, Redfern. Raja’s mini-mart. Confirmed armed robbery in progress, knife produced. Two Aboriginal males in late teens, wearing white hooded jumpers, not further described. Informant’s the store attendant. Any car in the vicinity...”

  Porter scanned the road ahead. They traveled east on Cleveland street, towards Surry Hills, three hundred meters from Raja's minimart. “We’re on top of that, gotta take it.”

  “No, keep going past it. We want the white van.”

  BEEP! BEEP! “Any car in the vicinity,” the operator persisted. “Confirmed armed holdup, Raja's minimart, corner Cleveland and Pitt streets, Redfern. Suspects have left the store, last seen running east on Cleveland towa
rds Chalmers Street. Armed and dangerous. Any car in the vicinity.”

  The speaker crackled, numerous police crews acknowledged the job.

  “There!” Porter pointed ahead to the right. Two males in white hooded tops darted across the road and avoided an oncoming car by inches. He followed them with a hard right turn into Chalmers street. Traffic squealed to a halt, car horns blared.

  “Fucking hell, Port!” Betts grabbed the radio handset. “City 106 in pursuit. Two suspects from Rajas are on foot, east on James Street.”

  Porter swung the sedan into a right-hand turn then slammed the brakes. “Shit, bollards…” The suspects hurdled steel posts that blocked vehicular entrance to a narrow lane then ran down it. “Got the porty and torches…Call for a dog.” He grabbed the portable radio and two torches.

  Betts wheezed a hurried breath. “Foot pursuit, radio. Suspects south on…” He spun to search around them and squinted. Day rapidly became night.

  “Elizabeth Lane,” Porter told him.

  “South on Elizabeth Lane, radio,” Betts said. “On portable. Request a dog, responding crews must cordon perimeter.”

  “Copy 106,” the operator said. “Foot pursuit south on Elizabeth Lane. Proceed with caution. Both suspects armed with knives and dangerous. Dog and backup on the way.”

  Porter sprang from the sedan, pressed the remote lock as he ran, and tossed a torch to Betts. Fitter, faster and thankful he wore sneakers, he pulled ahead of him.

  He flicked the torch on and lit up the lane. Deserted, bordered by rubble where torn down apartments hadn’t been replaced. At the end of it, a brick wall surrounded a construction site. The hooded males ran to the left when they reached a T intersection.

  “Went left towards the building site,” Porter yelled over his shoulder. He heard an angry grunted reply behind him. He sprinted towards the corner where they’d turned. Wailing sirens got louder. He urged himself to run faster, wanted to make the arrest before backup arrived. He rounded the corner at a sprint, his shoulder scraped a brick wall.

  A steel bar struck him flush across the nose. Bone snapped, his head whipped back. He skidded across the road with momentum, heels first, then the back of his head thudded against concrete and flopped to the side. The portable radio clattered to the ground. The torch rolled then stopped. Its’ bright beam lit up the construction site.

  Porter moaned and closed his dazed eyes, then forced them open. What the fuck? A deafening crescendo of whizzes and whirls rang in his ears, the sounds of alien spaceships from childhood cartoons. He tried to lift his head from the road, but it would’ve been easier to heave a hippo from quicksand. Blood flooded his face and stung his eyes. His hand shook while he wiped it away, a finger brushed his nose. He stiffened, teeth gritted, and rolled onto his side.

  He stared down the lane, blinked and tried to focus blurry images. When he did, two Koori boys in hooded jumpers stood over him holding steel bars. Eddy Tindall glared with eyes full of hate. Ben Neilsen snarled.

  “Eddy?” Porter said with a metallic, bloody gargle in his throat.

  “Like that pigeee?” Neilsen’s high-pitched squeal echoed along the lane. “Bam!” He swung the steel bar like a baseball bat. “C’mon bro, do it,” he shouted at Eddy, “finish this dog.”

  Eddy moved closer. He hissed down at Porter and raised the bar above his head.

  Porter mustered the last of his energy and tried to stand, but couldn’t. He stared up at Eddy, into owl-like, bloodshot eyes.

  Neilsen jumped up and down like the drug crazed clown he was.

  “Don’t…” Porter pleaded with Eddy.

  “Fuck you pig! For my sister, you cu--.”

  “Stop! Drop it!” Betts yelled. He panted loudly, aimed his Glock at Eddy and shone the torch in his face.

  Eddy dropped the bar and raised a hand to shield his eyes.

  Neilsen grinned. “Yay, another piggy to play with.” He swung the bar then pointed it at Betts.

  Betts crouched into a combat stance three meters from Neilsen and shifted his aim onto him. “Put it down,” he shouted, “won’t tell you twice.”

  “Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha.” Neilsen waved the bar above his head and danced in a tight circle. “Piggy, piggy, pi--.”

  BOOM! The hollow-point bullet tore between Neilsen’s eyes and took half his head out the other side. He thudded to the ground next to Porter.

  Eddy looked at his dead friend, eyes and mouth wide open, then snarled at Betts.

  “On the ground dickhead,” Betts shouted at him.

  Porter struggled to his knees. “Fuck…Betts. Why? Didn’t have to--.”

  “Shut up,” Betts snapped at him. He aimed the Glock and torch at Eddy. “Said to get down boy...Do it!”

  In adjoining lanes, sirens stopped wailing. Car doors slammed shut and dogs barked. Excited voices called out.

  Eddy lowered his chest to the ground and eyed Porter, a cocky smirk on his face.

  Betts stepped towards him, holstered the Glock and took handcuffs from his belt.

  In an instant, Eddy pushed up and landed on his feet. He shoved Betts in the chest, spun and ran.

  Porter swayed as he stood, then watched Eddy sprint down the lane.

  “Run you little bastard,” Betts yelled. He raised the torch and Glock in one smooth motion, wrists and elbows locked at shoulder height.

  Porter saw him close one eye to take aim. “Betts! No!” He staggered toward him.

  BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! Betts fired and kept the torch aimed. Three bullets struck Eddy in the back. He collapsed against concrete, a crumpled mess. Betts smirked, then frowned when uniformed police ran into the lane.

  Porter glared at him then picked the torch up and stumbled forward.

  Eddy lay on his side and sucked at the cool air. Porter knelt beside him and cringed as Eddy’s guts slithered through the hole in his back. The road resembled a butcher’s floor, littered with bits of flesh. Bloody rivulets zigzagged over it.

  He cradled Eddy’s head in one hand, patted his wet hair with the other. “Sorry, champ...”

  Eddy wheezed, as though desperate for a final breath. Crimson bile spilled over his trembling lower lip. His moist black eyes darted back and forth between Porter’s then froze, eyelids wide open. Porter’s fingers shook as he closed them.

  He searched Eddy’s pants and found a sharpened ice cream stick. Knife, my arse. In one jumper pocket, he found a zip-locked bag of white crystals. Ice. In the other, he found crumpled banknotes. Thirty bucks…Fuck, he died for thirty bucks?

  Porter tried to stand, but his conscience weighed him down. First Nadia, now Eddy. He’d failed them both. His eyes flickered, the time bomb in his head exploded.

  THIRTEEN

  After his productive phone conversation with Karen Flintoff on Thursday morning, Lionel Roberts had turned his attention back to the email from ‘Shirley’. He’d sat at his desk for an hour and pondered the best course of action. Crooked River was an insignificant, outback town. Why had Shirley told him to go there? If he did take an investigation team and found no evidence of neglect and abuse, to what extent would his proposed inquiry suffer from it? He wanted to reply to her email and ask questions. But he couldn’t, because she’d made it very clear. If he did, she’d cease all correspondence.

  At 10am he’d called Wendy into his office, told her bare details of Shirley’s email, and tasked her with gathering information from State Archives regarding Crooked River’s township and greater district. He wanted copies of everything on record about its’ history, residents, and the Aboriginal mission within it.

  Wendy returned at 6.30pm, dropped a manila folder onto Lionel’s desk, and collapsed into a chair opposite him.

  He smiled. “Busy girl, were gone all day…How’d it go?”

  She pointed to the folder. “That’s all there was.”

  He flicked through pages inside the folder then squinted at her, unable to hide his disappointment. “Ten pages? Certain you found everything?”

  �
�Yes, went through all sections of the relevant archives.” She rubbed her eyes. “Four times over...”

  Lionel frowned. “Crooked River’s mission has been there since the early twenties, and the Aboriginal Welfare Board was required to file the names and birthdates of all who lived on it. Don’t see any here dated after…” He paused to skim over the second page. “None after, mid-1963?”

  She covered a yawn with a hand. “I’m aware of the AWB and records they were supposed to keep. I’ve studied them, same as you, and all government archiving systems. Remember?”

  He huffed at her uncharacteristic sarcasm. “Then why couldn’t you find the old Welfare Board files?”

  “Told you, Lionel, I searched for hours. That’s the lot.”

  “Nonsense.” He sat back, arms folded. “Guess I’ll have to find them myself...”

  She hesitated, and he wouldn’t have blamed her for calling him an arrogant pig. Her eyes glistened. “I’ll go back tomorrow.”

  An awkward silence.

  “Sorry, shouldn’t speak to you like that,” he said. “No excuses, but it’s been a draining day for both of us.”

  She broke eye contact and nodded.

  “Record keeping during the stolen generations was notoriously lacking, but this is ridiculous…” he said. “I need those records. They can’t have vanished, without a trace?”

  “Michael at Archives agrees…Thing is, they didn’t vanish, because there never were any AWB records filed for Crooked River after ‘63. As you know, all nationwide record keeping ceased when they abolished the board in ’69. For Kooris living on Crooked River mission between ’63 and then, it’s like they never existed.”

  He scratched his temple. Could there be substance to Shirley’s advice regarding Crooked River? “How’d the AWB get away with that? Crooked River was one of the more populous missions…”

  “Yes, with more than four hundred families at its’ peak.”

  Lionel smirked, she knew her stuff. “So where are the records of those families now? How can Michael be certain they never existed? Removed from the archives, perhaps, or deleted?”

  “I asked him if they’d been deleted and he said it’s impossible. All records in the archives, old and new, get filed electronically. Few people have access to their maintenance. He opened the database and showed me the file history. Nothing’s been deleted. Like the printout shows,” she gestured to the folder, “record keeping ceased in ’63.”