BRUNO SLEEPS THE FIRST twenty minutes of the drive to Brisbane. He stirs as they cross the Logan River. As soon as Reynolds notices he’s awake, he says, ‘You ready to explain yourself?’ The man sits hunched over the wheel, wound up like a rubber band.
Bruno reaches for his workbook. ‘Give me a sec. What’s with this traffic?’
‘The Games,’ says Reynolds. ‘Everyone’s going to the Games.’
Bruno turns pages, forces his head clear. ‘Someone was making unauthorised withdrawals from Phillip O’Grady’s bank account. That’s why I was at the branch yesterday. I found a handwritten note in the O’Gradys’ mail from the manager who was shot in the robbery, Al Simmons. Simmons had noticed irregular outgoings and let Phillip know.’
‘And what did Al have to say for himself yesterday?’
‘Not much. That someone had Phillip’s ATM card and was using it without him knowing.’
‘Sounds like the son,’ says Reynolds.
‘Definitely an option.’
‘Is that it?’
‘Does your bank manager send you personal notes?’
Reynolds rolls his shoulders. ‘No. Don’t think I’ve ever met my bank manager. But then again, I’m not a rich cunt like this O’Grady guy. You think Simmons and O’Grady were into something together?’
‘Simmons knew the O’Gradys were away. He’s checking their financials personally. And now he’s dead, executed by your robbery crew because he wouldn’t hand something over. Meanwhile, the O’Gradys are missing.’
‘Okay. That’s certainly not nothing. Why are we headed to the airport? We checking flight manifests?’
‘Nah. Phillip O’Grady had a package held up at customs. Figured we’d take a look.’
The traffic slows. They crest a hill and see a line of cars snaking out.
Reynolds curses under his breath. ‘Why do you need me for this? We could have sent a uniform to do it.’
‘You wanted in, you’re in.’
Reynolds keeps his eyes on the road.
‘You really want to know?’ Bruno touches the wound on his head. ‘Your lot are involved in this, I reckon. That’s why you were assigned in the first place. I just want to solve the thing, but …’
‘What?’
‘It’s getting messy and I don’t want to end up transferred to Cunnamulla when it’s over.’
Reynolds keeps driving. No comment.
Two minutes later he says, ‘Cunnamulla’s not so bad.’
‘You reckon?’
‘There are worse places.’
The Bureau of Customs initially gives them the runaround. There’s talk of sending them to the city office, but then calls are put through to various managers before a woman in a Federal Police uniform looks at Bruno’s ID card and Phillip O’Grady’s notice, and nods her head. The Fed brings them out back to a garage area where a baggage handler and a motorised cart are waiting. The handler takes them across the steamy black tarmac to a large white shed on the periphery of the airport grounds. There, he guides them through an unmarked door into a shabby foyer with a flimsy counter and cheap pale plasterboard walls. It looks like a film set. There’s an open ceiling exposing the steelwork of the shed’s roof. The corrugation above cracks and plinks under the heat outside.
There’s a bell on the counter. Reynolds gives it a light tap.
A customs agent in a Hawaiian shirt appears.
Reynolds dead-eyes him. ‘Is it casual Friday?’
The agent doesn’t answer. He just glances at them blankly. ‘What is it?’
Bruno shows the man Phillip O’Grady’s notice and puts his police ID card down alongside it.
The man reads the notice and slides it back.
‘We want to have a look at the seized material,’ says Reynolds.
‘All right then.’ The agent leads them out of the pretend foyer and into the shed proper, which is about half the size of a football field. As they walk through, they pass rows of shelving, each containing numbered cardboard boxes. The agent doesn’t check the aisle markings. He just strolls along, all-knowing.
‘You familiar with this case?’ says Reynolds.
‘Chapman handled it,’ says the man, as if that means something. ‘Down here.’
‘Is this all seized material?’ asks Bruno.
The agent laughs. ‘Welcome to Queensland, mate. Fun is outlawed, remember?’
The agent selects a box dated 5 September 1982 and points to a demountable office parked against the warehouse’s far wall. ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ he says, and walks away.
‘What do you reckon?’ says Bruno.
Reynolds looks around the warehouse like the answer might be posted somewhere. ‘I don’t know.’
The whole thing feels off, but they take the box to the demountable. The office is light on furnishings, just a card table, two folding chairs, and a bench along one wall. The bench contains a television and a VCR, a film projector and a few bits of kit that neither of them recognise.
Reynolds plants the box on the table and opens it. ‘Videotapes,’ he says. ‘Do you know how to work that thing?’
‘I’ve seen it done.’
Bruno turns one of the tapes in his hands. No label or case. He takes it to the VCR machine and slips it into the slot, then turns the TV on. The screen pops and fizzles to life. Bruno presses the glowing green button on the VCR and stands back to watch.
A man in a brown business suit makes his way through the gate of a suburban house. Plenty of yard and garden. The front door opens and a couple invite him in. The three of them are good-looking. Not quite movie stars but in shape, young, presentable. They talk in German.
‘Can you fast-forward this shit?’ says Reynolds.
They race through the rest of the conversation. Lots of smiling and laughing in the blur. The Germans stand up and their clothes fly off. The guest and the woman start fucking, with the man watching on. Then it’s the man and the woman with the guest watching, occasionally reaching in. Then it’s both men at different ends of the woman.
‘Crikey,’ says Reynolds. ‘You don’t see that every day.’
‘Yeah,’ says Bruno, wiping sweat from his neck.
The threesome go at it in different rooms, a flickering montage of obscene positions. They walk through the house, nude bodies on the carpet, hands holding hands, through a door and down a stair into the basement. There’s a brace down there, a full-sized wooden cross. The guest is strapped to it and lashed with a black leather whip.
Reynolds peers at the screen. ‘Now we’re talking.’
They let the guest down and the man cradles him, soothes him. It turns into more than that. The two men lock mouths. Their hands searching each other out as the camera zooms in close.
At this exact spot, the VCR clips back into regular speed. Sound fills the room. The two detectives watch the men go at it in real-time, too shocked to move.
Reynolds starts shaking his head. ‘Bloody hell,’ he says. ‘Can you turn that off?’ There’s real fear in his voice.
‘Sorry, sorry.’
The screen snaps to black.
Still flustered, Reynolds turns to the box and looks at the other tapes. There’s two more. He hands one to Bruno without a word.
They only watch snippets of it.
It’s the same actor, similar terrain.
But different too: mixed couples, more fetishes.
A little bit of lesbian stuff.
Plenty of men fucking men.
A lot.
‘I feel crook,’ says Reynolds.