Dayne stood to the right of the stage strumming the opening chords to Don’t Dream It’s Over. Getch held the microphone stand with one hand and swayed in time to the beat. As Skip joined in on his Dhal, Getch’s spinning and twirling became even more pronounced. After one frenzied pirouette Judy’s face replaced that of the original singer. Dayne, drowned out by an over-emphatic Skip on his drum, walked off stage in disgust. The keyboardist, hunched over her instrument, played the same discordant note over and over. And when she looked up, I saw my mother’s smiling face.
I awoke with a start and slapped the snooze bar on my alarm clock with enough force to knock it to the floor. Blinking several times to focus my vision, I sat up and gingerly rubbed my hands over my face. The annoying conversation amongst a flock of cockatoos in the parkland filtered through my window. Their incessant screeching bored into my brain, a painful reminder of how much I drank the night before. I’d attempted to drown my sorrows; unfortunately, they’d taken swim lessons behind my back.
The effort of swinging my legs off the bed and planting them on the floor brought on a wave of nausea. I remained perfectly still until it passed, all the while the weight of my head pulled me forward toward the floor. My clothes lay strewn across the carpet; like a crime scene without a body. The memory of a pissed-off Dayne leaving the bar came flooding back. There was no holding back the nausea this time. I barely made it to the bathroom before the first retch. Sadly, it wasn’t to be the last. I’m not sure how long I lay on the floor of the bathroom. The cool porcelain of the toilet bowl was soothing to my fevered brow. I held on like a long-lost lover.
In time, my insides finally abandoned their plan of escaping through my mouth; I managed to stand and lurched toward the shower. Standing under the weak stream of lukewarm water, while leaning precariously against the tiled wall, I hoped the water’s fall would revive me. Ten minutes later, I’d rinsed away the taste of bile from my throat and felt some of my senses returning.
Attempting what Dayne and I planned for today was at the minimum audacious; with a hangover in tow, it became foolhardy. But nothing for it now; better options weren’t lining up to be counted. I checked my watch: 11:20, I needed to change and be out the door in ten minutes. A quick peek through the lounge room window confirmed what I’d already guessed, the street was empty but for a Volkswagen Jetta slowing to park a few houses down. No Beast. No Dayne.
Moving with the speed of a sloth on Valium, I collected my running clothes and iPod and prayed there was something in the fridge. Opening the door, a bottle of Powerade and an apple appeared before my eyes like a King’s banquet. Keeping it down may prove difficult, but I needed fluids and something to settle my stomach.
On the back step, I slipped on my running shoes and began a gentle stretch. For a moment, I wondered why a flower pot by the step lay on its side, then remembered the spare key hidden beneath. The first part of our plan involved Dayne driving me home this morning after lying low at his place for another night. I’d stuffed that up with last night’s drunken performance. Dayne’s no-show, I assumed, his way of showing his disapproval. But I knew, with time, he’d forgive me.
At any rate, part two of our plan was all mine.
***
Having already spoken with the head of the Federal Police Force, after an interminable amount of time, Steve Slattery finally had the Premier on the line.
In the meantime, he’d received the preliminary report on last night’s murder in Abbotsford. The victim listed as Dayne Wallingham. His relationship with Craig Walters uncertain. But the fact his body was found beside a car registered in Walters’s name, and with the keys to the vehicle in his possession, proved too much of a coincidence for Slattery to ignore.
With the whereabouts of Walters still unknown; time was of the essence.
Yes, Steve. How can I help?
Are you familiar with the Southern Cross Bank and Trust?
Yes, if memory serves, I believe Thom Lewis is the CEO.
No business dealings with them? No, I’m with Westpac. Why are you asking?
I have my reasons. I’ll explain when I have more time. For now, I need to pass along a message to your chief of staff. With your approval, of course.
Based on a quick review of the files sent by Walters, Slattery knew the Premier’s chief of staff to be somehow implicated in the whole sordid mess, how deeply he wasn’t yet sure. Instinct drove his next move. It wasn’t his grandest plan, but at short notice, it was the best option available.
He quickly filled in the Premier on the message he would be delivering.
Steve, this is highly irregular. I trust you have a good reason for this?
Yes, sir. And, sir. Far be it from me to tell you how to run your office, but you may want to begin looking for a new chief of staff.
***
Brian Monroe dared not say a word. The call came early to pick up the man at the same location as the day before. Ten o’clock, he was brusquely told, don’t be late. Something had gone wrong; he wasn’t privy to know what and wasn’t about to ask.
He pulled up to the pub on Gipps Street at 10:00 on the dot to find the short, wiry man with the crazy eyes pacing back and forth in the laneway adjacent.
Brian watched the dashboard clock of the Jetta click over to read 10:01 and sighed.
I didn’t have time to change it.
Feckin’ amateurs. Just drive.
Where to?
Clifton Hill. The house on Ramsden Street.
Brian made a three-point turn in the small street and sped west towards Hoddle Street. Five minutes later, he turned left onto Ramsden Street to find a police car parked out front.
What should I do?
Keep driving. Slowly now… and park over there.
The old man pointed to a spot behind a Holden panel van.
They must be interviewing the one we want.
The one? But we got him last night.
We got the wrong feckin’ one!
The old man angled the rear-view mirror down and away to keep watch of the house. Brian stared straight ahead at the back of an elderly lady; her energetic terrier dragging her along the footpath on its morning constitutional. He toyed with the idea of turning on the radio, then changed his mind.
***
Thom Lewis glanced towards the ceiling, leant back in his ergonomic office chair and ran his fingers through his wavy hair. With Simcox, he sighed, it was always urgent. Dealing with the Premier’s chief of staff and his incredibly inflated sense of worth was the last thing he needed. At first glance, the tiny man with a pronounced stoop and a nervous tic in his left eye, appeared afraid of his own shadow. Yet he shielded the Premier with a fierce pugnacity as if he alone held the keys to the entire State.
Aside from the financial collapse of 2008, Lewis couldn’t recall a worse eight days. His conversation with Ambrose Sinclair having particularly unnerved him, especially when closely followed by Garth O’Neal’s murder. He’d hoped to suspend reality by convincing himself it was just an act of random violence, but his gut screamed otherwise. And still, the dreaded conversation with Eric Mullane hung over his head, not to mention the fate of his bank if the whole fiasco became public.
A man who thrived on making tough decisions, his inability to face up to this matter disgusted him. At least he’d dodged a bullet with Walters being absent all week; he wasn’t sure how he would’ve reacted if they’d come face to face.
But first, Simcox.
The five-minute tirade from the Premier’s chief of staff completely drained whatever colour remained in his face.
Between the screaming, curse words and threats, Thom picked up the thread of Simcox taking his bank’s advice and opening an offshore account as a tax shelter. Even using the solicitor his banker, Eric, recommended. The same one currently occupying a stainless-steel table at the morgue. The news of Simcox receiving a tip the Federal Police were sniffing around his financial dealings became the rancid icing on top of this turd pie.
His life’s work lay in ruins. The leak spreading out of control, and with little chance of containment. He made a snap decision; best to be seen as proactive. He’d throw Eric to the wolves, and then himself upon the mercy of the federal regulators. If he was lucky, he hoped, he could escape with a penalty and sanctions.
But was he vulnerable in other areas? His mind spun and whirled, fragments of thoughts bouncing off one another. Thom willed himself to order his thoughts. One fragment slotted into place; O’Neal’s murder. Could it be traced back to him? Thom considered the prospect highly unlikely… unless. The realisation sent a chill down his spine.
Thom Lewis picked up the phone and dialled the number he knew by heart.
***
Slattery’s call to Commissioner Colvin of the Federal Police paid immediate dividends. The hastily applied tap on the phones of Frank Simcox and Thom Lewis hit pay-dirt. A transcript of the conversation between the two wasn’t yet available, but the number dialled by Lewis immediately after their brief conversation helped place another of the puzzle pieces together.
Lewis called a local number which directory assistance informed him was linked to the offices of Williams & Teacher, a law firm with offices located on St Kilda Road.
Margaret connected the call a moment later.
Williams & Teacher. How may I direct your call?
Yes. I was given the direct number to one of your lawyers, but I’ve forgotten his name. Quite embarrassing really. Could you help me out?
Certainly. What’s the number?
Slattery paced back and forth processing what he’d learnt. He picked up a cricket ball resting on the shelf of a bookcase, a memento from a long-ago Test match, and tossed it casually into the air. The extension belonged to the senior partner of the firm, Ambrose Sinclair. Williams & Teacher? The ball rose into the air and landed in his palm with a resounding slap. For some reason the name sounded familiar, but why? With the ball midway between ceiling tile and his hand, it came to him – the solicitor murdered earlier in the week near the Queen Victoria Market.
The ball fell to the floor and rolled under his desk. Slattery, working on a hunch, quickly snatched the phone’s receiver from its cradle.
Margaret, get me forensics. And a car. ASAP!
***
Through the powerful binoculars, the black swans gliding smoothly across the surface of Albert Park Lake appeared close enough to touch. The long, elegant neck and unruffled feathers of the adult female moved serenely over the tranquil surface, her four cygnets following, perfectly aligned, in her wake.
Ambrose Sinclair placed the binoculars back on the window ledge and turned from his tenth-floor view of the lake. Matters were spirally out of control. It required all of his negotiating skills at the hastily arranged meeting to keep a panicked Thom Lewis from doing something stupid. But for how long was anyone’s guess.
He replayed the current scenario once more in his mind. Federal police would soon be crawling all over Southern Cross B&T; the numerous frauds perpetrated by O’Neal and Mullane quickly exposed. He mentally checked the bank off as a lost cause. A rogue solicitor, he knew, would be an embarrassment to his firm, but the fallout manageable.
So how best to contain the damage? The police were still to connect the two murders, but he assumed they soon would. And the imminent death of the young banker? Well, he was now superfluous with the fraud exposed, but his death wouldn’t change things one way or the other. No, the police had nothing to connect him to the murders, other than… Lewis.
A small amendment to his original plan begun to take shape. Another call to his firm’s investigative company in order. Their operative would have an additional assignment; this one made to look like a suicide.
Ambrose returned to the window and his observation of the swans gliding gracefully across the surface of the lake. He marvelled at their majestic appearance and how they kept the turmoil of their manic gyrations beneath the surface safely hidden from view.
***
Sean Costello sat perfectly still his attention focused on the police car parked outside of the house he desperately wanted to be inside.
After 20 minutes of deathly silence in the Volkswagen, his patience was rewarded.
The two constables chatted for a moment across the roof of the patrol car, then climbed in and drove off. As soon as the police car turned the corner, Sean leapt from the car and crossed the street.
Brian readjusted the rear-view mirror and watched as the man with the crazy eyes stepped over the small front gate, strode up to the front door and in one smooth action kicked it in with the heel of his boot. He took it as his cue to reposition the Jetta. He’d no sooner pulled up by the large eucalypt out front of the house before Sean was back and climbing into the passenger seat.
He wasn’t there. They must’ve been searching for clues.
So where to now?
The only other address I have, the house on Separation Street. And make it fast, boyo!
Five minutes later they pulled to a stop three houses down from the home of the young man they believed they’d eliminated the night before.
Brian was the first to ask the question they both were wondering.
And if he’s not here?
If he’s not, then he’s gone to ground, and we’re stuffed.
The muffled melodic ring of a mobile phone filled the interior of the Jetta.
Brian wasn’t able to make out the voice on the other end of the call, nor did the older man make a sound. Two minutes passed before a word was spoken.
Sean ended the call and turned to the young driver.
Brian wasn’t sure what he meant, but was sure he’d find out soon enough. One of his dad’s old expressions came to mind: In for a penny in for a pound. He hated the old bastard with a passion, and beginning to hate this assignment just as much when movement from the house caught his attention.
Holy shit! Is that him?
***
Where to, sir?
Asked the visibly nervous young constable as the acting chief commissioner of police slid into the passenger seat of his patrol car.
Slattery gave the address in Alphington he’d gleaned from the VicRoads database and secured his seat belt. A call to Southern Cross Bank & Trust had informed him Walters was off work for the week. The house on Separation Street now his last option in tracking down the young man. He pulled his mobile from his pocket as they merged into traffic and headed east on Collins Street.
Slattery paused midway through punching in a number and turned to the constable.
Constable, is this vehicle equipped with lights and a siren?
Yes, sir.
Then I suggest you use them and stop driving like your grandparents.
Yes, sir!
The surge in power pushed Slattery back in his seat. He found it difficult to hide a sly smile. The pure thrill of being back on the streets pleased him, then the task at hand quickly wiped the smile from his face. Slattery went back to punching in the number to the forensics department.
He ended the call two minutes later and pensively stared ahead as the patrol car slowed before running the red light at Spring Street. His call to the forensics department proved his hunch to be correct but didn’t improve his disposition. The slugs taken from Dayne Wallingham matched those recovered from the body of Garth O’Neal. The murders were linked, and he assumed they also played into the disappearance of Craig Walters.
Mind if I use your radio?
Not at all, sir.
The patrol car, lights flashing and siren blaring scythed through traffic at a rapid pace. Yarra Park to their right was a blur as they tore down Wellington Parade. And by the time they’d made the left turn at Hoddle Street, Slattery had ordered the closest available patrol car to meet them at the Alphington address. The order engaging detectives of the homicide squad to take into custody Thom Lewis and Eric Mullane at the Southern Cross Bank & Trust, as well as a solicitor on St Kilda Road, had the young constable momentarily taking his eyes off the road to observe the man to his right. He thought, what a story I’ll have at the pub after this shift.
Eyes on the road, constable.
***
Both men watched as a young man fitting the description of Craig Walters appeared on the footpath at the rear of the property. He’d exited through the back gate, more than one hundred metres away and began a slow jog towards the parklands beyond.
That must be him.
You think he’s seen us?
I doubt it. I don’t think he’d take the time to change into his running kit before making a dash for it.
What should we do? Wait until he comes back?
Hell, no! The police could show up anytime. Follow him.
Brian slammed the gear shift of the Jetta into drive and accelerated down Separation Street. At the parklands, Brian swung the Jetta left onto the narrow road paved with bluestones adjacent to the trail.
They trailed Craig Walters by less than 200 metres. The tree line separating the road from the parklands partially obstructed their view, but as they bounced down Smith Street, they quickly closed the distance.
Sean took the Walther from inside his jacket pocket and rested it on his thigh. The gap now just 50 metres.
Shit, the road turns away from the trail just ahead. We won’t catch him in time.
Does this piece of shite have navigation?
Sure. Hit the button there.
Brian pointed to a black button labelled NAV. Sean pressed it, and a map of their location instantly appeared on the screen in the centre console.
Sean pointed to a warren of streets winding left and right. Brian slowed to make the left-hand turn.
… to Darebin Road. We can cut him off there.
***
The last thing I felt like doing was to go for a run. The apple and Powerade helped to settle my stomach, but as soon as I began a slow jog, my brain began to bounce uncontrollably in my skull searching for an exit. Luckily my earbuds blocked those cavities as a means of escape.
A funereal tune by David Bridie ushered me onto the Darebin Parklands Trail. The mournful keyboards brought back the painful memories of yesterday. Of laying my mother to rest. The stark realisation I was the last surviving member of my family line. That my life was in danger became an abstract concept which, for the moment, I cared little about. If I were gone, who would know? Who would care? Dayne? Sure. Judy? Hopefully.
And, of course, my job – surely, I’d never considered it a career – at Southern Cross was over. I presumed the next I’d hear of the bank would be in a newspaper or an online article in the coming days. Would the scandal be front page news, or had the public become immune to banking malfeasance? It would mean jail time for Eric, possibly others. Garth O’Neal escaped punishment, though catching two bullets the hard way was probably a much harsher judgment than a court would’ve handed down.
I pushed aside the morbid visions, pushed aside the throbbing pain in my head and attempted to lift my pace. Only one thing mattered for the moment; the one thing I could set right.
And I’d a schedule to meet.
***
Sean pointed to a short thoroughfare to the right. Brian swung the wheel right, then left and right again around the traffic island. With the slick manoeuvring they’d left the residential neighbourhood behind, factories and warehouses now lined both sides of the road.
Brian punched the accelerator, the speedometer climbed to 110 kph before he stamped on the brakes to make the turn.
The Jetta ran the stop sign at Darebin Road, Brian giving only a cursory glance in either direction. A Toyota van slammed on its brakes, the driver wrenching the wheel hard to the left to avoid the collision. Brian already accelerating as the front panel of the van slid by his rear bumper.
Sean pointed towards a walkway leading down to the trail. Brian screeched to a stop outside a collision repair shop. The bridge over Darebin Creek less than 20 metres ahead.
Sean was out of the car and running towards the sloping walkway in an instant. With the pistol in his right hand and hidden inside his jacket, Sean kept his left hand in his pocket to keep it from flapping open. It made running difficult, but he made the pathway to the trail in short order. He slowed as he reached the trail to get his breathing under control and began looking to the left and right for his prey.
***
The trail funnelled under the bridge at Darebin Road. The darkness a brief, yet welcome, respite from the scorching sunlight drilling into my brain. The stark contrast left me momentarily blinded.
Beyond the shadows, the blinding sunlight awaited my re-emergence. Though, not more than 100 metres further on tall willows and scraggly gum trees formed a tunnel diffusing the sun’s brilliance. Dappled sunlight shone through the leaves turning them into a shimmering canopy of silver and gold.
Through my earbuds, David Bridie gave way to Augie March. Lead vocalist, Glenn Richards, sung of just passing through. Though what they were “passing through” was somewhat nebulous. Town? Life? I’d always found it hard to interpret.
Nevertheless, I forged ahead. Out of the shadows and into the light.
***
Steve Slattery was knocking loudly on the front door of the last known address of Craig Walters when the call came over the radio.
The junior constable standing beside the patrol car quickly relayed the original message to his superior.
We have a report of shots fired on Darebin Road.