Fogarty’s Strike Force Ipswich takes over, their room on the third floor of the police station becoming the clearing house for information coming in from the raid.
A mobile phone has been found in Dee-Dee’s safe, with the names and phone numbers of several known small-time drug dealers. Teams have been sent out to bring them in.
As the evening wears on, fingerprint evidence filters in: Dee-Dee’s prints on the cash box and on a couple of the banknotes inside. They also have fingerprint ID on the four fingers. They belong to Logan McGilvray.
Towards eleven Fogarty calls the team together. An initial interview session with Dee-Dee has yielded nothing, but the physical evidence is overwhelming. Tomorrow a new search of the Ash Island marshes will try to find the body of McGilvray. But in the meantime Fogarty, with Colquhoun nodding by his side, is grimly pleased. He puts everyone in the picture with an outline of Frank Capp’s version of events that led up to the raid. ‘I don’t know what Deb Velasco and…’ reluctantly, ‘…Belltree used to get hold of this information, but it sure paid off.’ There are murmurs of approval. Deb isn’t there, called to a meeting in Sydney this afternoon, and Harry ducks his head in acknowledgement, feeling embarrassed.
They break up for the night. Ross Bramley comes over to Harry, grinning. ‘Hero of the hour, mate. Even Fogarty loves you. And you owe me a hundred bucks.’
‘Eh?’
‘Sammy Lee! I was right, wasn’t I? You got it all arse about face. Sydney was sending drugs to Newcastle, not the other way around.’ He laughs.
‘Dee-Dee’s been set up, Ross.’
‘What! Never give up, do you, Harry? Nobody likes a bad loser.’
Harry hands over two fifties and Ross says, ‘Where’re you staying now?’
‘Hotel; Marine.’
‘Decent sort of pub? Come on, I’ll buy us a nightcap.’
When they get there Harry points up to his window. ‘That’s my room up there.’ The pub looks busy, music coming out into the street. Harry looks again at his window.
There’s a crowd around the bar. Harry says, ‘I’ll have a schooner of New, Ross. I’m just going upstairs to check my room.’
‘Something wrong?’
‘Someone closed the curtains since I left.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
They climb the stairs together, along the corridor. When they reach his door they see the splintered frame. Harry pushes the door. It swings open and they step inside.
‘Jeez, mate,’ Ross says after a pause. ‘Not very neat, are you?’
Every drawer has been pulled out and tipped onto the floor, the mattress is half off the stripped bed, the tray from the fridge is lying in a pool of half-melted ice cubes.
‘You’ve been done over.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Scum. I’ll call it in.’
Harry steps through the mess, trying to see what’s missing. The last time he was here was when he left, soon after 1:00 a.m. yesterday, with an overnight bag. He went out to the hire car to follow the bike, then on to Sydney. He didn’t leave much behind. A few bits of clothing ready for the laundry, his two history books—there they are on the floor, ripped apart—a bottle of whisky, two-thirds full. That seems to be gone, along with some loose change in the glass ashtray by the phone.
He says to Ross, ‘Let’s go downstairs and talk to the manager.’
It takes a few minutes to get his attention through the throng. ‘Someone’s trashed my room,’ he says.
‘What’s that?’
They move to the quieter end of the bar. ‘Within the last two or three hours, I’d say.’
‘Sheesh. Didn’t see anything, mate.’ He speaks to the two barmaids. They shake their heads.
‘Okay. We’ve called the cops. We’ll wait outside for them and take them up. Notice any strangers in here tonight?’
He shrugs. ‘Sorry, it’s been busy.’
A patrol car arrives with two uniforms and Harry and Ross take them upstairs. Ross gives them a statement and they say they’ll get someone to go over the place for prints. ‘Might take a while though.’ Harry tells them to help themselves.
When they leave, Ross says, ‘Reckon you need something stronger than a beer now, mate.’
Harry shakes his head. ‘Next time, Ross. I’m heading off to see Jenny. Should have been there this morning.’
He has a word to the manager about giving the police access and the man says, ‘I remember a couple of guys here earlier, sitting over there, not drinking much. One guy was short, leather jacket. The other was big, an islander. Never seen them here before.’
‘Thanks. If you see them again, can you give me a call?’
He gets into the car, feeling weary, checks the time. He calls Jenny and asks if it’s too late to come. She says of course not, she’ll wait up.
She’s standing on the veranda when he pulls to a stop, the dog by her side, and as he mounts the steps he sees that she’s wearing only her thin nightie on this warm night. He wraps his arms around her, filled with relief, feeling that this is all he wants, ever.
She whispers, ‘Harry, Harry,’ and they make their way inside, still clinging to each other, to her room. He strips off quickly and slides in beside her, wanting her desperately.