Big White Lies

by Jay Darby

  “Why the big smile, bud?” Klose asked him.

  Lionel tapped a finger on the table. “Can’t say too much yet, but I’m certain Crooked River’s where we need to be…”

  Porter smirked. “Bloody hell, you’ve backflipped better than Nadia Comaneci…Didn’t you say five minutes ago that we’re leaving this place?”

  “Yes, but I’ve since received information that changes everything.”

  “Everything?” Klose said. “It must be good info if you’re this confident?”

  “I’ve got a name, of an ex-Welfare Board employee. Not sure how he’s linked to the missing girls, or what’s happening out here at the moment, but it’s a start,” Lionel stated. He’d been concerned the Carinya team doubted him as much as he’d doubted himself. “Dan, can you ask Claire for a background check and current address search?”

  “No worries...” Porter rubbed his chin. “You wanna interview this bloke as a suspect, based on what your informant has said?”

  “He’s allegedly committed serious crimes against Aboriginal children. Why shouldn’t we interview him?”

  “We should. But it’s best to first get a written statement from your informant.”

  Rhodes nodded. “It’s how I’d do it. We’ve got contacts who can assist…”

  Lionel tugged curls at his forehead. He hadn’t considered getting a formal statement from Shirley, but knew to heed the advice of experienced investigators. “You’re right, we need her story on paper…John, my informant’s in Scotland. Is it possible for her to make a statement there?”

  “Too easy, a mate with Interpol in Edinburgh owes me a favor.” Rhodes winked. “Give me the contact details, and I’ll prioritize the request through Canberra. You’ll have your statement in no time.”

  Lionel said nothing for half a minute while he considered the need to protect Shirley. She’d placed her trust in him. “No,” he said to Rhodes, “my informant won’t be comfortable with police contacting her. Send the request, and ensure your Interpol friend is assigned the job. Once he confirms receipt, I’ll notify my informant. She’ll contact him, to arrange a time and place that suits her.”

  “Understood...Onto it.”

  “You trust Interpol, mate?” Porter asked Lionel. “After what me and Claire just discussed?”

  Lionel held his hands out. “Do I have a choice?”

  “Maybe not, but this isn’t a good one…”

  “Rhodesy...” Klose stood and ambled towards the family room. “I’ll do the request to Canberra. You call your mate in Edinburgh...”

  Porter slid a pen and notepad across the table to Lionel. “Name and approximate age of this bloke you want Claire to find.” He read from the notepad once Lionel slid it back. “Alec Ferguson? Same as that famous soccer coach…”

  Lionel sniggered. “That’s Alex, Ferguson…What’s today’s schedule?”

  “Forgotten? You and me have lunch with Bill Thompson and George Barrett.”

  “That’s today?”

  “Yeah, worse luck…” Porter took the Landcruiser keys from the bench. “I’m heading into town, will pick you up at midday on the way to Thompson’s…”

  Lionel gave a thumbs up as Porter left, then moved towards the whistling kettle. Nick Galios flashed through his mind and chuckled. He realized he hadn’t spoken to him for a few days and decided to call him.

  Galios’ cell phone rang out. Lionel called his office, and a secretary answered.

  “Hi Dianne, it’s Lionel Roberts. Put me through to Nick please.”

  A five-second silence. “I’m sorry Mr Roberts, haven’t you heard?”

  “Heard…?”

  “Such tragic news...Nick was murdered this morning. Shot as he left home…”

  “What?” Lionel yelled into the phone. “Murdered? Who? Wh-…Why?” He dropped the phone.

  Klose entered the kitchen and cuffed a hand around his shoulder. “What’s up, Lio?”

  Lionel brushed him away and scurried out the back door. He ran to the wrought iron fence, gripped it in two hands as he stared into the brown river, and shook it back and forwards. When his rage exhausted him, he slumped against a fence post.

  The back door squeaked. Klose approached him.

  “They’ve killed Nick Galios…” Lionel’s voice trembled. “I’m responsible…”

  Klose sat next to him on the spinifex grass. “Not your fault, bud. He had dangerous enemies long before you came along.”

  “He didn’t want to get involved in all this again, but I knew he couldn’t say no…Murdered…In Australia? Why?”

  Klose helped Lionel stand. “The scum of this world are threatened by men like him, and if it’s any condolence, his death means we’ve got the fuckers worried…Rest easy, bud, we’ll find them. And when we do, they’ll pay.”

  TWENTY FIVE

  Porter hummed his favorite U2 song as he drove the Landcruiser towards the Thompson homestead. Red hills dotted with grey granite boulders looked down on the dusty road. He increased volume on the car stereo. “It’s a beautiful day!” His voice cracked as he strained to match Bono in the chorus.

  With Lionel in no mood for socializing after hearing of Nick Galios’ murder, Porter decided he’d go alone to the lunch meeting with Inspector George Barrett and Mayor Bill Thompson. Curiosity motivated him. Was Detective Sergeant Jim Thompson, the blond gorilla from the pub, a chip off the old block? Wouldn’t two massive wankers in one small town be a treat…And if Bill Thompson didn’t want Carinya in Crooked River, he would ask the question. Why?

  Fifteen minutes after he’d left the Carinya residence, Porter steered the Landcruiser through the Thompson’s open front gates. A steel-picket and wire fence ran the length of the property’s frontage and down both sides of the driveway. He drove past a wooden sign. Black capital letters on it read, ‘Thompson Homestead, 1916’.

  George Barrett waited at the end of the driveway and directed him to a parking space under an aluminum carport. He wore a red polo shirt, jeans, and sneakers. Porter wore a similar outfit, except his polo shirt matched the blue sky. They shook hands and strolled towards the house.

  The Thompson homestead was ringed by majestic eucalypts. It had a wide timber veranda, sandstone veneer that seemed as solid as the day it’d been built, and a federation-red façade. Rays from the midday sun bounced off a rusted iron roof, and pink cockatoo screeched as they settled on it.

  Porter nodded to the white-haired man who met them in the entry foyer. The man had wrinkled skin hanging from his chin and neck. He had an ugly nose- long, red and swollen; on an ugly, red and swollen face. He was sickly thin and 6’5 tall despite being hunched, with broad shoulders. He’d rolled a white business shirt to the elbows, and tucked it into khaki trousers that fell to the heels of brown boots.

  “G’day, son. Bill Thompson...” They shook hands. “Good to meet you...” He spoke like John Wayne, low and slow, but with a thick Australian accent and a wheeze after each sentence.

  Porter returned a ‘G’day’, surprised by the strength in Bill’s bony hand.

  Bill slapped his back. “Come in, son, come in.”

  He led them down a hallway with polished floorboards to a rectangular loungeroom. On the left side of the room, a beige sofa and matching recliners surrounded a sandstone fireplace. A well-stocked bar with marble bench top and shelves dominated the right side. Curtained windows covered the wall opposite the door.

  Against the middle of the wall to Porter’s left, a six-foot medieval knight in gleaming silver armor stood guard, holding a seven-foot steel lance perpendicular to the timber floor. He stopped a meter from the knight and leaned in for a closer look. The mannequin inside the armor had steel-blue eyes, frozen in a deadly gaze. “Impressive. The real deal?”

  “Absolutely, from 13th century Scotland.” Bill ran a hand over the knight’s armor. “A mate of mine owned a castle near Glasgow. He knew I loved this, and when he sold the castle, shipped it over to me.”

  Porter fingered
the steel lance’s sharp tip. “Would’ve done some damage in its’ day.’

  “Not wrong…” Bill moved to the bar and took a bottle from a shelf. “Missus is whipping up a feed out back. There’s time for a quick drink. What’ll it be, son?”

  Porter waved a hand. “Nah she’s right, Thompson. Trying to stay dry.”

  “Call me Bill…A fine Scotch this, but suit yourself. C’mon George, I won’t drink alone.”

  “Just one…” Barrett walked to the bar, waited for Bill to hand him a full tumbler, then turned to Porter. “What happened to Roberts? You were both invited…”

  “Lionel got bad news this morning.” Porter turned towards a section of wall covered in framed photos. “A mate of his died…”

  “Nick Galios, right? I saw it on television. Assassinated, by the look of it.”

  “Terrible news indeed.” Bill came alongside Porter and faced the wall. “The Greens leader, the fella supporting Roberts wasn’t he? Stepped on the wrong toes, no doubt…”

  Porter stood shoulder to shoulder with Bill and feigned interest in his photos. His hands trembled. For the first time since his confrontation with Jim Thompson the hollow ache in his gut returned. “No idea whose toes Galios stepped on, but Lionel’s a mess. Said sorry he can’t make it for lunch.”

  He shuffled sideways along the wall. Mostly black and white, a few faded with time, the photos depicted Bill at various stages of his life. Posing in his police cadet uniform, barely a man. Fishing by a river. Shooting rabbits. Winning a rugby premiership.

  “Not a problem, son, give Roberts our condolences,” Bill said. “Truth be told, you’re the fella I wanted to meet. We need to discuss this Carinya fiasco…”

  Porter faced him. “Why’s that? Lionel’s the investigations manager, the bloke wanting the inquiry. Reckon he’s better qualified to answer than me...”

  Bill’s brief smile revealed tobacco-stained teeth. “That’s not exactly what I meant, son. We’re the same, different than Roberts. We, understand each other…”

  Porter cursed him under his breath. He’d never liked being called ‘son’ by anyone other than his father. It was up there with ‘young fella’, a condescending term that blokes like Bill Thompson often abused. And he wasn’t an idiot, he knew exactly what Bill meant because he’d made no effort to conceal his statement’s racist undertones.

  “We’re the same? ‘Cos I’m a cop?” Porter asked him. “And you were once?” His chest swelled. He’d fired back, and hoped Bill realized that his retired rank didn’t intimidate him. He turned to the photos.

  “Yes, something like that, son.” Bill chuckled and glanced at Barrett. “Something like that...”

  “Did you take these landscape pics? Not bad...” Porter lied to break the awkward silence.

  “Thank you, son.” Bill stepped closer to the wall and pointed to a series of colored photos. “I took most of them around here. A few up in the Territory...”

  “Did you get into it after you left the cops?”

  “No, photography’s always been a passion of mine, capturing natural beauty. That, and whiskey of course…” He smiled and poked Barrett in the ribs. Barrett laughed, as though obliged to. “Got my own darkroom, and process the photos myself.”

  Porter played along. “Like a professional?”

  “Hardly…But every man needs a hobby. Right, son?” He winked and nudged Porter’s elbow with his own.

  Porter pointed to a black and white photo. Bill as a young man, covered in mud, held a trophy above his head. “You were a bear of a bloke in your playing days. A front rower?”

  “Was, son, yes.” Bill slurped whiskey then looked down at his body. “You wouldn’t know it with this sack of bones. But ah well, was only twenty-three in that photo. Much has changed in fifty-five years…Time can’t be kind to us all.”

  “Got that right,” Porter said.

  It annoyed him that he and Bill shared common interests. Photography. They’d both played in the front-row. Fishing…Was Bill a decent bloke, nothing like his obnoxious son? Then he remembered the contempt he’d shown for a dead Nick Galios, and reminded himself not to be fooled.

  Porter noticed the last photo, then bent to study it. A twenty-something Bill stood between two men of similar age, arms draped over their shoulders. One was much shorter than Bill, the other of similar height. All three wore black suits and grinned like naughty kids who shared a secret.

  “What is it, Porter?” Barrett said.

  Porter wobbled his head as he straightened. “Thought I recognized the smallest bloke in this photo. Face looks familiar, but can’t think from where. My bloody memory’s shot these days…”

  Bill pointed at the photo. “Little fella’s Chuck, my best mate growing up. Taller one’s an old workmate. Photo was taken in 1965, and they both moved overseas soon after, so doubt you’d know ‘em. Well,” he rubbed his hands together, “who’s hungry?”

  Porter followed Bill onto a rear veranda protected by insect screen. They sat at a pinewood table covered in trays of baked vegetables, jugs of gravy, and plates of scones with jam. Sweet aromas of home cooked food teased his nostrils and reminded him of his mum’s Sunday roast. He pictured his parents’ farm. Jane and Amber laughed while they rode horses. He smiled, his conscience eased, content with their safety.

  He looked to his left. The tallest hill in sight loomed beyond the northern fence line. In front of him, a hundred meters due east of the house stood a galvanized-iron shed. A hundred meters further on, Crooked River bordered the property. To his right, Thompson land stretched on forever.

  When the smell of sizzling roast lamb wafted to Porter’s nostrils and shook him from the daydream, a kind-faced woman stood next to him. She wore a floral dress under a cooking apron, her grey-streaked hair tied in a bun. She appeared to be close to his mum’s age, mid-sixties, and he guessed she’d been a stunner in younger years. He peered toward the shed.

  “That’s Bill’s storage shed, where he keeps his toys,” she told him, as though she’d read his mind. “Boats, bikes, guns and old cars.”

  Bill returned with a new bottle of whiskey. “Son, my wife, Kathleen. This young fella’s Dan Porter…Senior Constable from the city, working that investigation I told you about.”

  Kathleen smiled at Porter. “Didn’t need to hear it from Bill, you Carinya boys are the talk of the whole town.” Her kind eyes sparkled. “Do you like lamb? Bill can’t eat it anymore, but it’s George’s favorite.” She shifted her eyes to Barrett, then frowned. “George dear, you look awfully tired. Those dark circles under your eyes...”

  “I’m fine, Kath. Only the usual…”

  Bill chortled. “Come on, son, don’t tell us you’re still having bad dreams? Not the bogeyman black fellas again?” He swilled more whiskey.

  Barrett’s face flushed red. His chin dropped to chest, he lowered eyes.

  Bill poured himself another glass and turned to Porter. “It’s hilarious, son. George always sees things that aren’t there. Says the ghosts of Kooris haunt him, and it’s why he can’t sleep.” He scoffed. “Never heard such bullshit...Then again, you’ve always been a bit loopy…” He jabbed Barrett’s shoulder. “Haven’t you, son?”

  Barrett sat silent.

  Porter didn’t laugh.

  Kathleen placed a hand on Barrett’s forearm and glared at Bill. “Leave George alone, you’ve embarrassed him.” She turned to Porter. “Don’t listen to Bill, thinks it’s a big joke…George isn’t the only one haunted by Koori ghosts, you know? Others say the same, that they visit their dreams in all forms –crocodiles, eagles, snakes. Spirits of this land, who’ll never stop haunting us whiteys until we give it back…”

  Kathleen cooked a mean roast lamb, and Porter piled a second helping onto his plate. She asked about his past. He indulged her with his life story, except the parts he always left out. When it got closer to recent events, he ended it and decided to make her the subject of conversation.

  “So, Kathleen, how�
��d you and Bill meet?”

  “Oh, that’s not interesting at all.” She waved a dismissive hand. “Our families were close. I was the prettiest girl and Bill the toughest boy. Was always meant to be…”

  Porter sensed a hint of resignation in her voice. Bill had been the toughest, but who’d been her sweetheart? “Fair enough...” He turned to Barrett. “And you boss, what’s your story in Crooked River?”

  Barrett paused before answering. “Came here as an underaged cadet in ’68, and been here ever since. Bill was my Sergeant. No exciting stories to tell. A simple country cop, living a simple country life.”

  “Must be close to retiring?”

  “Yes, later this year.”

  Bill’s neck wobbled as he shook his head. “No exciting stories? Bullshit…” He gulped whiskey. “Tell young Porter about the day I saved your skinny arse. There’s a story…”

  Barrett’s face flushed bright red. Kathleen shook her head and carried plates inside.

  “Right then, I’ll tell the story.” Bill leaned towards Porter, eyes glazed. “George was eighteen, mothers’ milk still wet on his lips. We were coming back from the mission, and I sent him into the pub to get whiskey. Was dozing in the Cooper, wondering what’s taking the bastard so long, when three Koori boys bolt from the pub. So I head inside and holy shit, there’s one hell of a brawl. Bottom of the pile with four shearers whacking the crap out of him, was young George.” He chuckled and drank, then continued. “Tell him, son, tell him why those shearers flogged you...”

  Barrett moaned, as though he dreaded telling the story but had resigned himself to it. “Shearers were forcing the blacks to fight each other, and taking bets. I tried to stop them…”

  “Long story short, I threw them off in the nick of time. George went to hospital with more broken bones than a half-eaten chook…Did those Koori boys help when he’s getting flogged to death? No, the weak mongrels left him for dead. Moral of the story, son…Do no favors for a black fella...”

  Barrett sighed “… cos they’ll do you none in return.”