Crucifixion Creek (27 page)

‘The new depot?'

‘Yeah, he's renting one of the empty sheds near Greg's old place.'

The new depot is just one building away from the blackened ruin of the old, and,
Harry realises, abuts the empty shed which the Crows had partially colonised with
their armoury and drug factory. He remembers Wagstaff's briefing, the direction to
find out who owns that building, and it makes him think of the police investigation,
continuing while he is still free to drive around.

A single white ute stands outside, beneath a gleaming new sign,
RIZZO CONSTRUCTION,
MASTER BUILDERS
. Harry pushes open the door to a small office area. A radio is playing
somewhere inside the shed beyond the counter. There is a bell marked
Please ring
for attention
, so he does. After a moment Peter Rizzo appears. He seems surprised
to see Harry, a little put out, but covers it up with a cautious smile.

‘Harry, hi. You're lucky to catch me.'

‘Sam Peck told me I'd probably find you here. He said you're very busy.'

‘Yeah, that's true, trying to catch up on things since…Come on through.'

Harry follows him into a small office. The desk, chairs, filing cabinets, computers,
printer and photocopier, all look brand new. Through the window into the working
area Harry can see cardboard and polystyrene foam from unpacked equipment. They
sit.

‘How's it going, Peter?'

‘Oh, non-stop, trying to catch up on Greg's contracts. Every day there's some new
crisis.' He gives a you-know-how-it-is kind of smile.

‘And it's worked out with the old clients?'

‘Yeah, pretty much. They just wanted to get their jobs finished.'

‘How about the council?'

‘Huh?'

‘Greg was doing work for them, wasn't he?'

‘Just a bit of building maintenance, nothing big.'

‘Are they bad at paying on time?'

‘No. There are a lot worse.'

‘Only Sam told me Greg got into a bit of bother with them three years ago—June, end
of the financial year. Remember?'

Peter frowns, scratches his neck. ‘No…Sam said that, did he?'

Harry keeps his eyes on Peter's, but he is taking in the body
language, the tense
posture, lopsided, as if preparing to bolt.

‘Yes. He said Greg eventually got onto one of the councillors, who sorted it out
for him. You know who that was?'

Peter looks up at the ceiling. ‘No-o, can't say I do.'

‘How about Potgeiter? Does that name mean anything to you?'

‘Sorry?'

‘Potgeiter. Joost Potgeiter.'

‘No, no, can't say I've heard of him.' He raises his wrist to examine his watch.

Harry rises. ‘Okay, I'll let you get on, Peter.'

Rizzo leaps to his feet. ‘Any time, Harry. How's Nicole making out?'

‘Taking each day as it comes, you know.'

‘Sure, sure.'

Actually, when he rings Nicole from the car it sounds as if she's making out pretty
well.

‘Harry! We're planning a barbecue. I was hoping you and Jenny would come over, but
I just rang her and she said you needed a bit of peace. You've had a bad week? Those
people—bikies—they're animals. Poor you.'

‘I just wanted to clear something up, Nicole, about Greg's work. Sam Peck was telling
me Greg got into a spot of financial bother three years ago, because of some problem
with the local council about getting paid. I wondered if you remembered him talking
about that.'

‘Three years ago? No, I'm afraid not. Isn't that ancient history?'

Ancient history
, he thinks. Doesn't she remember what happened three years ago? She
sounds as if she's already got the cork out. ‘There was a councillor who helped sort
it out, apparently, by the name of Potgeiter.'

‘Oh him! Yes, I remember him at some charity do we went to, and then another time
somewhere. Horrible little man. He was all over me, getting too close, touching me.
Really slimy. I told
Greg and he said something about keeping in with the right people.
Joost! That was his first name. Joost keep your hands to yourself was what I wanted
to say to the nasty little creep!' She giggles loudly.

‘Sounds as if you're having a better day today, Nicole. I'm glad.'

‘Oh, Harry, I
am feeling better. For the first time I feel as if there's light at the end of the
tunnel. Of course nothing will ever be right again with Greg gone, but I've been
so worried about the money, and giving the girls a good life. I know how hard you've
worked to sort things out for us, but now I am feeling optimistic, for the first
time in ages.'

‘That's good. Has something happened?'

‘Oh…nothing specific, you know.' She is suddenly cautious, sober. ‘I just feel things
will be okay.'

‘Good. I think you're right.'

‘And Harry, do talk to Jenny about lunch. We'd love to see you, if you feel up to
it.'

‘I'll do that.'

He stops at a supermarket on the way home to pick up the groceries on Jenny's list.
Shoppers with glazed, hungover expressions push trolleys through bland music, and
Harry has a sudden urge to shout at them.
Wake up! Don't you realise how vulnerable
you are, how little there is between you and chaos?

He wheels his trolley out into the car park. The grey sky is clearing, a wintry sunlight
glimmering through. He notices a pristine new Mercedes opposite him in the car park,
and as he opens the boot a man gets out and comes towards him. He is wearing the
sort of casual clothes you might expect in an expensive country club, out of place
among the T-shirts and track pants in this suburb, but it is a moment before Harry
recognises him in this unlikely context.

‘Detective Sergeant Belltree.' The man transfers his shopping bag to his left hand
as if he might offer his right.

Harry continues to load his boot. ‘Mr Horn.'

‘A strange place for us to meet,' the lawyer says with a thin smile.

‘We all have to eat.'

‘True. Actually, I'm glad I've seen you. There's something that I've been wanting
to tell you, if I may.'

‘Go ahead.'

Horn comes closer and lowers his voice. ‘In confidence? It concerns three of my clients,
but since they're dead now I feel at liberty to share this with you.

‘As a member of the legal profession I was of course very much aware of your father's
remarkable achievements, in fact we sparred several times, when he was at the bar
and on the bench. I admired his passion and integrity.'

As you might admire an exotic plant, Harry thinks, but says nothing.

‘The last time we met was outside the courtroom, in his chambers. Not long before
he died.'

He has Harry's full attention now. ‘Really?'

‘It was on a matter that hadn't been publicly announced but was known to a small
circle of people within the profession, myself included. The state government at
the time was considering introducing a bill to impose severe—I might even say draconian—restrictions
on the rights of members of outlaw motorcycle clubs to assemble and wear identifying
clothing. The attorney-general had decided to seek the advice of the profession on
the legality of this legislation, and was considering establishing an advisory tribunal
chaired by your father.

‘My clients, represented by one of the three recently deceased—you may guess the
gentleman I mean—were extremely concerned about the proposed new law, and asked me
to try to find out where Justice Belltree stood on the matter. Well, I made an appointment
to see him, ostensibly on another issue, and went to his chambers. He was very friendly,
very open, and our conversation ranged over
a number of topics, including the one
my clients were concerned with, and it became very clear to me that he was firmly
of the view that the proposed legislation was in the public interest. He also believed
it could be reconciled with constitutional principles, and in fact he seemed very
eager to get the tribunal going—prod the government into action.

‘I reported this to my clients, and heard no more on the matter. Two months later
your father was dead, and soon afterwards the tribunal and the legislation were quietly
abandoned.

‘Of course, there may be no connection between these events, but I felt uneasy. To
be frank, my client was a violent man with an extensive police record, and it would
not have surprised me if he had used lethal force to further the interests of his
associates and himself.'

Horn falls silent. Stands there in his cashmere sweater and Rockports, waiting for
Harry's response. Harry says, ‘Are you planning to make a statement to the police?'

Horn shakes his head. ‘Not a word. It would be professional suicide. But I wanted
you to know. You may say that I am merely trying to ease my conscience, and you could
be right. But I think you have a right to know.'

‘Thank you.'

Horn does his tight-lipped smile again. ‘I'll get on with my shopping then. Have
a nice day, sergeant.'

Harry watches him walk away, then slams the boot and stands for a moment, thinking.
He walks over to the shelter of a stunted gum and phones home, using the rogue mobile.
He asks Jenny to find out where Nathaniel Horn lives. It doesn't take her long.

‘The North Shore,' she says, and gives him the address. It is at least twenty kilometres
away. Then he tells her he's spoken to Nicole, and suggests that they take up her
invitation to lunch. Jenny says she'll ring her.

As he gets back into the car he's thinking that it is impossible
that Horn met him
by accident. But if not, then how did he know where to find him? Are they tracking
his car, his phone? The story Horn told is very tempting, but also very convenient.
He has no doubt that Bebchuk and his mates killed his father and mother. The problem
is why? For whom? Now Horn has provided an answer. They did it for themselves. Case
closed.

When he gets home he sits Jenny down next to the CD player and puts on some music
to cover their voices and murmurs his conversation with Horn; also his meetings with
Peck and Rizzo. ‘I think Peter is up to something,' he says. ‘It may just be that
he's setting himself up in Greg's business and feels awkward about it, but he's acting
shifty. I think it would be good if we could find out more about him.'

‘Okay, I'll see what I can do.'

Once she would have winced, catching herself using the word
see
. Now it doesn't seem
to bother her.

‘Why did you change your mind about going to Nicole's?' she asks. He tells her about
her sister's change in mood.

‘I don't think it was the champagne. I think she was celebrating, and I'd like you
to find out what's happened.'

‘Harry, you see problems everywhere, even when people are happy.'

It is the first barbecue at Nicole's since the day before Greg died, and although
Nicole seems oblivious, Harry finds it uncomfortably poignant—the same tortuous route
down to the deck, the same brand of beer in his hand, the same smell of burning meat.
He calls the girls over so Jenny and Nicole can talk, and they ask him about the
bikie killings, about which they seem to have a morbid fascination. ‘Did they really
just shoot each other down in the car park? It's like a western! Anyone could have
been killed!'

It's late in the afternoon when Harry and Jenny leave. In the car he turns the radio
on and asks her what she's found out.

‘It took a lot of probing, but eventually she came out with it. She's had a visit
from a lawyer representing the estate of Alexander Kristich, who told her that it
had never been Kristich's intention to evict them from the family home. He assured
her that that would not happen. She's over the moon about it.'

‘A lawyer?'

‘Yes. She showed me his card. Nathaniel Horn. He made her promise to tell no one
about his visit. Said it might prejudice the arrangements he was making for her.'

That's it then, Harry thinks. Horn is cleaning up the mess. So they are tracking
him, whoever they are.

He uses his unmarked phone to try Kelly's numbers again. No answer.

There is a text message on his phone from headquarters. He is instructed to attend
a health and safety workshop first thing tomorrow, no ifs, no buts.

36

Kelly blinks awake, feeling cold, thinking there's a frog in her throat. She tries
to cough it up and chokes. She is lying on her front on something…a mattress. It
stinks, she is suddenly aware, of urine. She tries to roll over but her arms are
pinned down. And her legs too. She is spreadeagled on the mattress. The frog croaks
and she hears a shuffle behind her.

‘Ah, Kelly, you are awake at last.'

She blinks up but can't see him, though she knows the voice, that South African accent.
Potgeiter.

‘Water?'

He grips a handful of her hair and pulls her head roughly back, holding a cup of
water to her mouth. She gulps, chokes. Much of it spills, running cold over her skin.

‘It's
so
nice to meet you again, Kelly,' he purrs, his mouth close to her ear. ‘The
last time you and your sweet little friend had the advantage of me. You had fun with
me, didn't you?' His grip tightens on her hair and she cries out with pain. ‘And
now I have the advantage of you, and I will have much more fun with you.'

‘Please…' She barely manages to croak out the word.

‘Oh, you will please me, Kelly. Without a doubt.'

‘Why?' she gasps.

‘Why? Well, my friends are very keen to learn where you got those photographs of
Jakarta and Vanuatu, and who gave you all those interesting titbits of information,
and what else you know. Would you like to tell me?'