Chapter 33

Harry stood outside Lutwyche Shopping Centre, sweating in the early afternoon sun. From one side the shopping mall’s white facade beamed light and heat back at him. From the other, waves of pollution washed over him from the traffic on Lutwyche Road. He felt bad about letting Miles down. He felt even worse about lying to him after their conversation, telling him he was heading out to collect some vox pops on the election. He checked his watch, wishing he’d objected to SASmate’s suggested meeting place. He didn’t have a clue what this guy looked like. A nagging part of his brain insisted this was part of some elaborate trap. Cardinal was in military intelligence, after all.

He looked at his watch again. He was hoping to get over to the Brisbane Mail later in the afternoon, and one of Swenson’s front companies was based in Bowen Hills, too. Harry planned on checking it out on the way over. Behind him, the automatic doors opened, giving Harry a brief waft of cool air, before the heat of the day swept it away.

‘Harry Hendrick?’

Harry turned, squinting despite his sunglasses. The man had a long grey beard. Messy hair tucked under a Broncos cap. A faded Bridge to Brisbane t-shirt. Paint-stained shorts. His arms were tanned, and marked with tattoos. He looked like he was in his mid-fifties.

‘Yeah.’

‘Jim. Jim Matthews,’ he said, then grinned, revealing a mouth of misshapen, nicotine-stained teeth. ‘SASmate.’

They shook hands. Jim’s hands were rough, his grip suggested strength borne of hard work, not time at the gym.

‘Come on, I’ll buy you a drink,’ Jim said.

They walked south, towards the city, past a row of worn-out-looking shops. Faded signs. Dirty windows. An abandoned laundromat. A tattoo parlour. Harry peered in, as he compulsively did these days, scanning the designs. He thought about Jess’s cardplayer with the bad hand.

‘Sorry about the odd meeting place,’ Jim said. ‘I just wanted to check you out, make sure you are who you said you are.’

‘No worries. I would have done the same. Except I know nothing about you. I’ve checked out your posts online, but they don’t really tell me much.’

The shops gave way to nondescript office blocks. The sorts of places Jess was talking about. Mail slots. Dirty glass. Names that meant nothing. Ahead of them, the road dropped away, revealing a vista of two giant fig trees and, beyond them, the city skyline. Trucks and cars churned the humid air as they waited at the pedestrian crossing.

‘Yeah. I try not to get too involved in those forums,’ Jim said. ‘But you get sucked in. I’m on a disability pension now, so…you know. Not much else to do. It’s stupid. When I got out of the army, one of me mates who was in security consulting said he didn’t get out of bed for less than $800. And here I am, counting loose change to see if I can afford a beer.’

Harry nodded. He wasn’t sure what to say. He didn’t want to offer platitudes.

The Crown Hotel had been done up as an Irish bar in the mid-’90s, when that was all the rage. The current owners had pulled back a little. But it was still painted dark green, still had a miniature keg over the entrance, with a harp on its side. Someone had draped a bit of Christmas tinsel over it.

‘I’ll get them,’ Harry said. ‘What’ll you have?’

‘Just a XXXX. Thanks, mate.’

Harry returned with the beers to a table at the back of the room. He set the drinks down and sat opposite Jim. The first sip was heavenly, and he felt pangs of homesickness for his old life. Beer on the couch, watching the footy, waiting for Bec to come home.

‘Cheers,’ Harry said. ‘So, what do you know about the crash?’

Jim grinned. Sipped his beer. ‘Hang on a sec. Why do you want to know? What’s it got to do with the Chermside Chronicle?’

Harry shook his head. ‘We’ve been through this…Okay, fine.’ Harry leant forward. Lowered his voice. ‘I’m working on a story. It’s not specifically about Chermside. It started with a local businessman, but it’s spread much further than that.

‘Like you, I suspect there’s more to the crash than the official report makes out. I’ve got information that someone may have been trying to kill a couple of the guys on that Black Hawk. But I need to confirm the information and, ideally, find someone who’s willing to go on the record.’

Jim nodded. ‘Fair enough. I can help you out with the first part…and we’ll see about the second.

‘I was deployed with the SAS team on board the Kanimbla,’ Jim said. ‘So there was us, and there was this spook. Military intelligence guy. I never saw him. Well, at the time I didn’t think I saw him.

‘That morning, the morning of the crash, I went to check the bird. And there was this guy coming back from it. He had the coveralls on. Standard issue. He had gloves on, they were greasy.

‘I didn’t think anything of it. Why would you, right? Hundreds of people on the Kanimbla. Everyone with their jobs to do.

‘At the last moment he looked up and I did this double-take. He had a tattoo, beside his eye. A tear. In the early morning light, it looked like blood.’

Harry felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He kept his face neutral.

‘It was weird. Facial tattoos stand out like dogs’ balls in the ADF. Technically you’re not meant to have them. Afterwards I thought, what was he doing out there? By himself. That early. An hour or so later, Tim and Justin were dead.’

Harry picked up his notebook. ‘Do you mind if I take notes?’

Jim shook his head. His eyes were watering. He drank some more beer.

‘So, I reported it, right? I reported what I saw. Reported the tattoo. No-one could remember a crew member with a tattoo like that.

‘I don’t know if they thought I was lying, originally. Or if they thought I was seeing things. That I wasn’t fully awake, or that I was exhausted after the flight out from Perth. Both of which were true, by the way.

‘I told them to check the security footage. There was a big block of time missing. No-one knew why. And that’s when I got really suss. And the rest, as far as I’m concerned, was a big fucking exercise in covering your arse. No-one wanted to be lumbered with the blame. It made me sick when the report came back blaming Midsy. You know, they were all about fucking protecting the family, looking after his wife and kids. And then they dropped him in it. Dead men can’t talk, right?’

Harry looked up. A little stunned. ‘Right. Yeah, of course.’

‘That’s why I got out. And then I had problems…stress-related. Marriage fell apart. Blah blah blah.’

He waved it away. Drunk half his beer. Harry sipped his.

‘Did you know Rob Johnson?’ Harry asked.

Jim rubbed his face. ‘Now there’s a name I haven’t heard in a while. He went missing. Him and that chick of his. What was her name?’

‘Kyla.’

‘Kyla! That’s right. She was all right.’

‘You knew them?’

‘Ah. You know. You know everyone in the SAS. We’re tight. I reckon there was something dodgy with that, as well.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Come on. Someone fiddles with the Black Hawk. Rob survives. Only to go missing barely a year later. I think someone was tying up some loose ends.’

Jim peered at Harry. Harry stared down at his notebook.

‘You do, too,’ Jim said.

Harry looked up. ‘Yeah. Yeah I do.’

***

After leaving Jim, Harry drove over to Bowen Hills. He pulled into the car park, already knowing what he’d find. The place was deserted, a small block of offices tucked under the nest of highways that had sprung up over Brisbane’s inner north. A hot, humid wind kicked up dust and chip packets. Old, yellowing copies of the Chermside Chronicle sat piled on the dirty tiles. He pulled to a stop outside Daybreak Imports. Climbed out of the car.

He barely recognised himself in the reflection in the glass. He seemed taller, bigger. The dodgy DIY tinting job on the windows distorted his face, making him look like a demon. He walked up to the doorway, tried pushing it open. Locked. He cupped his hands to the glass and peered inside. Mail on the floor. An old desk and broken office chair. A phone, but it wasn’t even plugged in.

Harry took some photos with his phone, then climbed into his car and headed to the Brisbane Mail.