At some point during the night Harry is wakened by the noise of an engine in the street outside the pub. He sits up, swings his feet to the floor and steps to the window. There’s someone on a bike down there at the crossroads, just across the street from his own parked car. The engine rumbles, idling for a moment, then breaks into a roar and speeds away. It is 1:30 a.m.
When morning comes he walks around the corner to a café for breakfast. There is no sign of damage to his car as he passes it, but later he kicks the rear wheel and drops to his knees to check the underside for a bomb before he gets in and drives away.
He has no role here. The police don’t want him and all he can do is wait. He drives over to Beaumont Street and gets some cash and a bottle of Scotch, and calls in to MacLean’s bookshop, where he picks out a couple of volumes—histories, not novels. He feels his real life is fictitious enough.
He returns to his room above the pub, and sits by the window, reading and watching the passers-by in the streets below.
Towards lunchtime he gets a call on his mobile. Deb Velasco.
‘Harry, I hear you’re back in Newcastle.’
‘That’s right.’
‘On your own?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where’s Jenny?’
‘Somewhere safe.’
‘I hope so. How would you like to come out with me?’ For a horrible moment Harry thinks she means a date, but then she adds, ‘A prison visit, to see Frank Capp.’
‘Oh yeah? Long Bay?’
‘Yep. I’ve arranged to go down tomorrow.’
‘Think there’s any point?’
‘Won’t know until we try. Interested?’
‘Yes, if you think I can help.’
‘Where are you staying?’
He tells her and she whistles. ‘Why don’t you just put a notice in the paper? Want me to tell the local boys to keep an eye on you?’
‘No.’
‘Okay. I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning at eight.’
He goes downstairs to the pub and orders lunch, and while he’s there he gets a second call. A private number, blocked.
‘Is that Sergeant Belltree?’ It’s a woman’s voice, one he recognises.
‘Yes, Amber. What can I do for you?’
‘I was planning to come down to Newcastle this afternoon. Would it be possible to meet you?’
‘Okay. Where?’
‘Do you know the Nobbys Beach Surf Pavilion? I’ll be there at three.’
He arrives early, finds a free bench and sits down to watch the heads of swimmers bobbing under the dazzling sun. Further along the sweep of beach the surfers glide in on the swell that curves around the outcrop of Nobbys Head. Gulls swoop and dive. High overhead hang-gliders circle and a biplane putters across the blue.
He checks his watch, after three, and wonders if she’s changed her mind. Then one of the swimmers pads up towards him across the sand. Fluorescent pink bathers, brown limbs, long blonde hair, a white towel across her shoulders.
‘Hi.’ She sits down beside him.
‘Water good?’
‘Beautiful. You should try it.’ She rubs her hair with the towel. ‘You’re a smug bastard, you know that? Going around throwing accusations at people about things you have no idea about.’
‘Enlighten me.’
‘I wonder if you even really knew your own parents. You suggested your father was a danger to my family. Well, I only knew him five minutes, but my impression was that he wouldn’t be a threat to anybody. He seemed to bend over backwards to understand both sides of every issue—a compromiser, a reconciler, someone who didn’t really enjoy conflict. That’s probably why they made him the first Aboriginal judge of the Supreme Court—a safe pair of hands.’
Harry goes to speak, but she ploughs on.
‘Your mother, now—different matter entirely. Passionate, committed, decisive. She could be a threat if she put her mind to it.’
‘What was she being passionate about?’
‘I’ll show you—if you can be bothered learning what was really going on instead of jumping to wild conclusions.’
He nods. ‘Fine, okay.’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘Can’t do tomorrow.’
She thinks. ‘All right, the next day, Thursday. The heliport in the Steel River industrial estate. Know it?’
‘I’ll find it.’
‘Thursday morning, ten o’clock. Don’t be late.’
She gets to her feet and walks off towards the pavilion. He watches her go, slightly astonished, wondering if she’s right. He remembers discussions at the family dinner table, his mother throwing down a challenge and his father, his voice calm, reasonable, making the counterarguments. He remembers times when his father would disappear for days into his study, and his mother would tell Harry not to bother him. ‘He’s wrestling with his conscience.’ He can hear her inflection now; it was not the tone of someone with the same problem. And he thinks of the picture in his father’s study of the Freedom Ride. His mother wearing a bandana, her fist in the air; his father at her side, looking cautiously excited. Has he made a fundamental error, assuming it was the judge they wanted to kill? Or was it perhaps the two of them together? The drive and passion of one, the balance and influence of the other.
He goes for a walk along the breakwater, past Nobbys to the very end, the mouth of the harbour, and phones Jenny.
‘Harry, I’m going crazy down here. The house is full of wool—sorry, fleece—and that’s exactly how I feel, wrapped up in thick, soundproof fleece, out of touch with the world. Isn’t there something I can do to help you? Some research I can do?’
He hesitates. ‘Thing is, love, I don’t want you doing anything that’ll let them figure out where you are. Maybe you should give the computer a rest for a while.’
‘That’s rubbish, they won’t be able to track me. I’m not connected to any location finder. The computer’s well protected.’
‘You sure?’
‘Positive.’
‘Well…Deb Velasco has asked me to go see Frank Capp in jail tomorrow. We have all the stuff on his criminal history of course, but I was wondering about his private life. You reckon you could dig into that?’
‘I can certainly try.’
He gives her what he’s got—previous addresses, known associates, date of birth. Then he says, ‘I’ve also got a list of the people who made bookings at Sammy Lee’s restaurant the night McGilvray phoned someone there, remember? If you could find out who they are that would be good. It may be no help—it was probably Sammy himself that McGilvray was calling. But you never know.’
‘Fine. Do you know what’s happened to McGilvray? I’ve been following him on Facebook, and there hasn’t been a chirp since Saturday.’
‘I saw him on Saturday night, Jenny.’
‘What? You didn’t tell me!’
‘I didn’t want to worry you, love. It didn’t work out the way I planned.’
He tells her what happened.
‘Harry, you mustn’t keep this stuff from me. He and his mates tried to kill me too. I want to help you get the bastards.’
‘Okay. The only things he told me were that Sammy Lee was involved in dealing in drugs brought in from the port, and the names Dark Riders and Tyler Dayspring.’
‘I’ll look into it. What else?’
He tells her about meeting Amber Nordlund again. Repeats what she said about his mother.
‘I wouldn’t be surprised, Harry. Your mum was a formidable woman. I always thought your dad’s landmark rulings had her fingerprints all over them.’
‘Really? I just never thought of it like that. You can’t remember her saying something on that last trip that might have a bearing on this? A native title dispute, maybe? I found a cutting on Dad’s desk about the Aboriginal history of the area.’
‘I can’t remember anything like that. And now Amber Nordlund is going to take you off in her helicopter?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Is she pretty?’
‘Hideous.’
‘Liar. What was she wearing today?’
‘A bikini, fluoro pink.’
‘What!’
‘We met at the beach. It was a perfect disguise.’
‘You be careful, Harry. I mean it. We don’t know anything about her. Where does she plan to take you, anyway?’
‘I don’t know. Don’t worry, I’ll be very careful.’