by Jay Darby
“Believe what yar want…Only a few bosses knew the identities of all members. They had hundreds of followers, soldiers as they called them, and it was too risky to trust them all with too much. I made good friends in the organization, but never knew their real names, or where they lived.”
“Did you take any photos?”
“Weren’t allowed.”
Lionel squinted at him. “Who would know the files’ current whereabouts?”
“Only the Secretary, who vows to protect them with his life. He would destroy the files, and sacrifice himself if necessary, rather than allow police or others to obtain them.”
“Why not burn ‘em from the start?” Porter said.
“Yar not listening… These files form part of their history and traditions. Only as a last resort can they be destroyed.”
“You reckon this organization will kill you, but how can you know they’re still operating?”
“Aye yar right, I can’t be certain, it’s been fifty years…But they grew stronger, larger in numbers, and were always expanding their business networks and assets. If they’re still active, I’ll find out soon enough when yar leave…”
Lionel huffed, convinced Ferguson had more precise information to divulge. “Alec, it’s imperative we find these files…They can lead us to those responsible for much suffering.”
“Don’t blame yar for doubting it, but trust me, have told yar all I know. And find the Cumal files? Yar never will…”
“A trustworthy pedophile?” Porter sniggered. “Don’t trust you one bit…But at the same time, I don’t know why you’d fabricate such a story?”
Lionel nodded. “And why are you certain we’ll never find these files?”
“Yar answered yar own question a minute ago…” Ferguson smirked. “Aye, the files will lead yar to those who profited from the sale of Koori girls, and papers within them contain the signatures of once powerful and important men. Signed contracts between the organization and the government, agreements for brokerage fees. Famous family names and legacies will be humiliated if those files make it into the public domain. Yar think they’ll let that happen? No, the organization aren’t the only ones protecting the Cumal files. Others will stop yar, long before yar even close…”
Lionel glanced to Porter. Nick Galios, Shirley, and John Rhodes. Were they too close already?
“You were forced to resign from the AWB…Why?” Lionel said.
“Was young and naïve, hoped if I went to the top and told what’s happening, they’d put an end to it.”
“Who’d you tell?”
“I had a secret meeting with the Prime Minister in ‘67. Told him those Koori girls weren’t only sold to white men in Australia but were being sent all around the world. Thousands, more than government archives and Welfare Board records would ever show, were taken from their families. The Prime Minister seemed shocked, to have no knowledge of it…Or maybe he did, who knows? Word got out that he planned to abolish the Protection Act and all the power it gave us.”
Porter gave a bemused smirk. “He would’ve known it was going on. Sounds like he tried to save his own arse?”
Ferguson shrugged.
Lionel shifted in the chair. “Either way, the organization wasn’t pleased to see it abolished. Right?”
“Aye, they weren’t... Hundreds of brokers were doing deals with the Welfare Board and dragging girls from every corner of the nation. For some reason, they suspected me as the snitch, but couldn’t prove it. Fortunately, the PM kept his word and never exposed me. In ’69 the organizations’ high council ordered all brokers to a meeting. We were made to resign from the AWB, vow never to speak of the trade, and banished from the organization.”
“I’d guessed you weren’t the only broker acting for the organization and the AWB,” Lionel said. “But all other missions have records filed in government archives that cover those years, and members of the ‘organization’, must’ve filed them…Why were you told not to file Crooked River’s records, when brokers for all other missions filed theirs?”
Ferguson frowned. “Never thought about that…Like I said, orders not to file the records came from up high, and weren’t for me to question.”
Lionel’s shoulders slumped. He’d hoped Ferguson would give him another clue as to why Shirley had directed him to Crooked River. What had he missed?
Porter cleared his throat. “Bent politicians were raking it in because of the Protection Act. Reckon they weren’t keen on the PM’s plans to abolish it either?”
“Aye, and then he disappeared…” Ferguson clicked his thumb and index finger, then pointed them at Porter in the shape of a gun.
“Bullshit. It’s common knowledge he drowned…”
Lionel sensed that Ferguson was about to reveal his darkest secret yet. “You’re saying ‘they’ the ‘organization’, or other politicians, got rid of him? Because of what he knew, and because he threatened to end their profitable business…?”
Ferguson beamed like a four-year-old with candy. “He might’ve drowned, as ‘they’ say. A mystery that might never be solved. Or, is it another national, fucked-up secret? Another lie for men in power to protect?”
Porter laughed. “Come on, get fair dinkum. You’re talking in riddles now…”
Lionel’s mouth gaped. Could Ferguson be closer to the truth than he realized? He turned to Porter. “I’ve heard crazier theories…”
Ferguson yawned. “It’s time for afternoon whiskey, and the missus will be home soon. I’d appreciate yar being gone before then…”
Lionel checked his phone. “Yes, we need to leave anyhow if we want to make our flight. One last question?”
“Aye, what?”
“Did Crooked River police officers help you remove girls from their families? Forcibly, against their will?”
Ferguson hesitated. “Aye, they did.”
“You must’ve spent a lot of time in their company?” Lionel pressed him. “You must remember those officers’ names?”
Ferguson looked to the ceiling. “I don’t, was long ago…” He stood. “Forgotten more than I remember.”
Lionel took a business card from his briefcase. He handed it to him as he stood. “My contact details in Crooked River. If you remember more, please get in touch.”
Ferguson led them to the front door and opened it. He flicked his head towards the police car parked in the driveway. “You coppers may as well draw the target on me chest, or shoot me yarselves...”
Porter dawdled outside, towards the car, cell phone held to his ear.
Lionel stopped on the porch. “Thanks for speaking to us, Alec. You’ve helped, and acted admirably…”
He grunted. “If only yar the one to judge me…” He closed the door.
Lionel stared at it and tried to make sense of the past half hour. He approached Porter, who finished his phone conversation. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah mate, just checked up on Jane and Amber. Both as stubborn as usual, but all’s good down on the farm.”
“Wonderful…” Lionel ran a hand through his curls. “Can you believe what we just heard in there?”
“Dunno why, but yeah, most of it. But he lied through his teeth when you asked about the Crooked River cops who’d helped him...”
“Sensed that too…Who’s he protecting? Still, we know much more than we did before. These Cumal files are definitely the key.”
“Yeah, but be careful how much weight you give ‘em. Can we rely on evidence that we’re not sure actually exists? And finding the files sounds simple, but will be far from it...And our suspects? A secret group of blokes, who again, we’re not sure actually exists…”
“I see your point, there’s much uncertainty…But remember the information from Interpol in Singapore?”
“Which part? About the abductions being an international problem, around the globe?”
“Yes, and this secret ‘ organization’ are likely the ones responsible…We’re on the right track.” Lionel
dropped his head. “Sadly, with three dead friends to show for it.”
“Yeah, there’s a fair chance they’re doing it, that they’re this KA mob we’re after. But as you say, they’re dangerous blokes who’ve killed to protect their secrets, and will again. We’ll get no support from the government, even if we did know who to trust. Or Crooked River cops...”
“So we’re alone in this?”
“Guaranteed...And will more die, searching for answers we don’t know questions to? You heard Ferguson, reckons that even if the Cumal files still exist, we’ll never get to ‘em…”
“You want to give up? Never saw you as a quitter…”
“Nah mate, we’ve come too far and lost too much for that…But I reckon, right now, your inquiry’s the best chance of stirring the pot, and securing the resources we need to find the girls. And there’s a faster way to get it...”
“And that is?”
“We do the historical checks, interview Bill Thompson, Barrett, and the others. We identify the cops who raped those girls in the ’60s, and prosecute. Get your inquiry on that basis, resume Azelia, then widen your scope later. If you ignore that tact in favor of trying to find these files, you risk running out of time, and coming out with nothing...”
Lionel smiled in admiration of Porter’s passion. “You recall the first time we met?”
He grinned. “Bloody oath, came close to knocking you out…”
“I told you Carinya would lead us to Sydney’s missing girls and asked you to trust me…”
“Knew you were full of shit, but needed to believe something.”
“Maybe I was back then…But the answer’s stared me in the face, and I’ve been too blinded by anger to see it. Shirley told me that the past will explain the present…”
“And you’ve preached it to me every bloody day…History repeats, learn from it.”
Lionel chuckled. “Ignored my own advice…Remember what ‘Cumal’ means?”
“Yeah…”
Lionel’s eyes searched the sky, an epiphany made him shiver. “The girls Ferguson sold are much more than missing records from a government archive. Much more than numbers to be added to statistics of the stolen generations…” He looked at Porter. “They were a slave generation, same as these abducted girls being shipped around the world as rich men’s toys are today's’ slave generation.”
“Bloody hell…Not sure how, but you’re making sense.”
“I’m certain of it, Dan. If we can find these Cumal files and identify traffickers of the past, we’ll find those doing it now.”
THIRTY ONE
Inspector George Barrett sat on the Thompson homesteads’ rear veranda and gazed towards Crooked River. He’d just delivered a batch of his wife’s famous scones and joined his long-time friend Kathleen Thompson for a cup of tea, as he did most Friday afternoons around 4pm. He chewed a scone and savored its’ butter and salt flavor.
“Still not sleeping well, are you George?” Kathleen said.
He gasped in mock consternation, then gave his usual answer. “What’s my dear wife Mary told you this time?”
“That your screams wake both of you in the night…We’re all concerned, George, you never seem relaxed…Like now, sitting with that ugly frown on your face.”
“I’m fine.” He faked a smile. “Spoke with Jim earlier…He said he visited you today?”
“Yes, he did.”
“What time?”
“Close to midday…He had lunch here and then said he had to leave for a job.” She smirked. “Why, are there problems with my big baby boy?”
“Oh, no, Jim’s okay…But a few hours ago he found John Rhodes dead at the bottom of Bunyip Hill. He’s one of the Carinya chaps...”
She raised a hand to her open mouth. “My, that’s terrible. What happened?”
“Jim says Rhodes fell off the cliff, was an accident…Lyn Foster disagrees, thinks it’s suspicious, possibly murder, and wants it investigated as such. When I supported Jim, she went over my head and contacted Rhodes’ boss at the Feds.”
“Like I told the girls at bingo, that Lyn’s a troublemaker…And?”
“It’s sorted itself out.” He reached for another scone. “Federal Police Commissioner Watkins is an old friend. I explained Jim’s decision and told him not to bother sending Federal investigators. Don’t need more cops and journalists running around…”
“My god, Bill would have a fit...He hasn’t stopped cursing those Carinya boys since they arrived.”
Barrett straightened in the chair. “Who’s that?”
“Where?”
“Coming up from the river, near the irrigation lines.” He pointed. “See him? Koori chap with no shirt, moving towards the hills.”
“Goodness, your eyes are better than mine…Oh yes, I see him now.”
Barrett stood and marched towards stairs that led from the veranda.
“Where you going?” she said.
“To ask what he’s up to...” He faced her. “Been a few residential break-ins lately, and he’s probably the one…”
Kathleen came alongside him. “I’ve seen that white hair and beard before…It’s my friend.”
“You know him?”
“Well, I don’t ‘know’ him. I screamed the first time I saw him standing here on the veranda, all dirty and dishevelled. He seemed sorry for scaring me, so I gave him cake and a bottle of whiskey. He thanked me and scampered into the hills. Comes back each fortnight for more. He’s harmless, George, leave him be.”
He watched the Koori trot through straw-coloured paddocks, towards a forest of eucalypts near the base of Bunyip Hill. “How old is he? How long’s he been coming here?”
“Hard to say with the blacks…Seventy, maybe? Been visiting a few months now…”
“A few months, and you’ve never said anything? And giving away Bills’ whiskey, your game…”
She scoffed. “He won’t miss a few bottles. Besides, the less he has, the less he flogs me…”
He avoided her eyes. He and most residents of Crooked River knew that Bill Thompson battered his wife. And like most tragedies in the small outback town, it would never be discussed. “Do you know where that old Koori lives? I’ll send detectives to search his house…”
She chuckled. “His house? Look at him…Bare-chested with bare feet. He goes into the hills and disappears. They’re his home.”
He squinted as the man got further away. “He might live on Bunyip Hill?”
“You know the blacks never go up there.” She took him by the elbow and led him to the table. “Sit down and finish your cuppa.”
“Unpredictable those wild Kooris... Don’t let him near the house when you’re alone, he could try to molest you.”
She broke into laughter. “Oh George, don’t be ridiculous. Who’d want a piece of this old girl...?”
He kept his gaze on Bunyip Hill, didn’t trust himself to look at her. “You’re still an attractive woman…”
She bowed her head while she filled his cup.
They sat and watched the sunburnt paddocks. A shrieking cockatoo broke the painful silence.
Barrett glanced sideways at her. “Keep him away, Kath…Promise?”
She didn’t reply.
He smiled at her stubbornness. “I haven’t seen Bill since Wednesday. Where is he?”
“Sydney, another developers’ meeting, is due back tonight...Always trying to make a new sale. Saw more of him when he was a Sergeant on shift work. You used to travel to Sydney with him quite a bit...Why have you stopped?”
“I still go with him now and again, mainly to buy toys for the grandkids…” He pointed towards land to his right. “Is Bill selling off more acreage over there?”
“No, not that, further along River road. Who’d be silly enough to buy it? It floods every year…”
“Bill didn’t become Mayor to fulfill a sense of civic duty. I doubt that land is still part of the flood zone on council maps...”
“Hmm, true, never
enough money that man.”
“Mary’s been his accountant for fifteen years. She’s brilliant with numbers, but not the most confidential.” He sniggered. “I know more about Bill’s financial matters than he does...”
“Yes, Mary’s lovely, but a few reds do loosen her tongue.”
“Even still, there are secrets of his we’ll never kn--.” He stopped himself too late and dropped his chin to chest. His face burned.
“Secrets?” Her tone chilled him. “What, ‘secrets’?”
“Oh, Kath…” He tried to laugh away her inquisition. “What I mean is, men like Bill never tell us everything...”
“No, George…What, secrets?”
“I was joking...” He sipped tea and avoided eye contact.
She stood and took the plate of scones from the table, then dropped it and leaned towards him. He averted his eyes from her glare, but she moved to follow them.
“No, the joking’s over. Tell me, what do you owe him? Why do you always protect him?”
He shrugged. “He’s been my mentor, my Sergeant. He’s been good to me, you both have.”
“Good to you?” Her head rocked back as she laughed. “He treats you like a fool, always has…But why do you take it? You’re ten times the policeman, and the man he’ll ever be.”
“He saved me.”
She bent lower, her scowled face inches from his. “Yes, he saved your life. Once. And you’ve served him well as a friend ever since. But it’s time to stand up for yourself, you’re the commander of Crooked River for Christ’s sake…”
“You’re always telling me that, Kath, but you’ll never understand. You should be grateful too, for the good life he’s provided.”
She yelped. “The good life he’s given me? You’re as delusional as he is…I wanted to leave him years ago…Then he got sick.”
“And you didn’t leave…”
“I couldn’t, but he knew I’d planned to, and has never forgiven me for it. I’ve stayed through drunken beatings, affairs, lonely nights, and you damn well know it…I owe him nothing.” She straightened and placed a soft hand on his shoulder. “Please George, stop protecting him. Surely your debt’s been paid?”