Crocodile tears, p.29
Crocodile Tears, page 29
Mira Soares was well enough to receive visitors by early Saturday afternoon. The police guard had checked Driscoll’s name against an approved visitors list and examined his ID. Driscoll would let Sharon and Kwong have their game with Guthrie’s phone. At some point they’d come to their senses and realise he was on their side. He was, after all, wasn’t he? José would make his next move in his own good time and that, for the moment, was outside Driscoll’s control. So here he was holding Mira’s cool hand, listening to the machines beep and watching the numbers on the monitor.
‘Hey,’ she said. ‘I’m here. You’re visiting me, not the machines.’
The bullet had lodged high in her chest within the pectoral muscle. It had been extracted and the internal damage repaired. Driscoll wondered why José hadn’t gone for the more certain head shot to finish her. He’d have had time. Maybe he wasn’t as cool-headed as he pretended. Or he didn’t mean for Mira to die. Who knew? ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Great. Never better. Maybe we can hit the clubs tonight?’ Her face was grey and drawn, but the smile was genuine. She coughed and winced with the pain. ‘This would be a good time to give up smoking, you think?’
‘Good idea.’
Mira shifted in the bed, trying to find some comfort. The machines didn’t like it and beeped in protest. A nurse popped her head round the door briefly but didn’t stay. Mira squeezed Driscoll’s hand. ‘Why did José do this to me? What is all this about?’
‘I don’t know. I thought you might. He said nothing to you?’
‘I don’t remember anything between Darwin and waking up here.’
‘It has to be about either the past or your journalism. The oil stuff with Willie Mason maybe?’
‘Then why didn’t he make his move in Dili?’
Driscoll eased a kink in his neck. ‘Who knows? Clearly Ximenes was part of the equation.’ A pause. ‘What do you recall of that day of the massacre at the church?’
She lifted her hand away from his. ‘Nothing. Horror. Blood. Noise. I was terrified.’
‘Do you remember seeing any Westerners that day? Malae?’
‘No.’
‘Did you know Willie Mason was there that day?’
She shook her head. ‘You’re lying. He wouldn’t …’
‘He was.’ He hadn’t told her of Mason’s death yet. Decided against it for now.
‘No. He told me it wasn’t him. Some other malae, but not him, not that day.’
Could that be true? Whose word did they have? Ximenes? Mason himself must have seen some truth in the allegation, and he was trying to bargain his way out of it. Was that because he was guilty or because he could feel a noose tightening around him? The noose that found him at Christmas Island. ‘Did Filomena ever talk to you about the malae involved in Paul Reinado’s arrest and interrogation?’
‘His torture and rape, you mean? Yes, she did.’
‘She said she saw the man again at the market in Darwin.’
‘Yes.’
‘It wasn’t a story you wanted to write about as a journalist?’
‘I did some digging but there was nothing to go on. No photograph. No name. The description of a thousand nobodies.’
‘Where did you dig?’
‘I can’t remember.’
The nurse came back into the room. It was time for him to go. Mira was clearly tired and no longer up for this.
‘Try and think,’ he said. ‘Please.’
His mobile buzzed. Kwong. They had finally come to their senses.
All of the numbers were being monitored both by WA police and by Aunty’s spook contacts. Only one was active: B. Driscoll left the same message on the other two and then punched in the numbers for B.
‘G’day, mate.’ It was José. Of course it was. He was the only one of the three whose cover was already blown. ‘What took you so long?’
‘Let me guess. B for Bunbury?’
‘Nah, mate, nothing so deep.’
Kwong was seated close by, taking a direct feed from the techs at HQ if they traced any of the numbers. The old guy, Hutchens, had gone his merry way and Sharon was looking after the bub. That left the two of them and where more public, open, and teeming with witnesses than Fremantle’s Cappuccino Strip on a Saturday evening? It was already dark and a brisk wind shook the olive trees outside Gino’s. Driscoll and Kwong made a fine pair and were already attracting their fair share of attention. For all its claim to multicultural laissez faire, Freo still wasn’t ready for a bashed-up Chinaman in the company of a tall, and in this mood, dangerous-looking Aboriginal. Double takes, open staring, bouncers on alert. It all suited Driscoll just fine. If anything happened, it would be noticed. ‘Thought you would have skipped town by now, José. Or holed up in a friendly consulate. Your job to take one for the team?’
‘My job to pass on a message.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘Let it drop and walk away.’
‘Just when it’s getting interesting?’
‘I mean it, mate. It’s high stakes. You, your friends. We don’t want anyone else getting hurt.’
‘Bit late for that. Anyway, who’s we?’
‘Got a fix on my location yet?’
Driscoll checked with Kwong. ‘James Street, Northbridge?’
‘Yeah, mate. Probably as busy as where you are right now. Look, must dash. Don’t waste your time with these numbers, they’re dead from now on. Just take heed. We’re done. It’s all over from our end.’
‘But Mira’s still alive.’
‘Say hello from me.’
Driscoll’s screen died. He looked at Kwong. ‘You got that?’
‘Final warning?’
‘Pretty much. He reckons they’re finished, mission accomplished. Time to move on.’
‘He stayed around long enough to bother saying that?’
‘Nah, I don’t believe him either.’
‘José’s wife and younger son flew out of Australia just over a week ago. She’s originally from Brazil and has no other rellies here. They have another son travelling on a gap year in South America, no doubt planning a family reunion.’ Thornton had cupped his hand over the phone to talk to whoever had come into the room. ‘Their house was rented, lease prepaid to the end of July. Furniture still in situ, fridge and pantry stocked, but all personal stuff gone save a few pics on the fridge, and some books and sporting gear.’
‘Brazil-bound?’ said Cato.
‘Yep, but who knows what his plans are.’
‘Thanks for coming in on the weekend, Chris.’
‘Got the boss, beside me. She’d like a word.’
Pavlou came on the line. ‘Who’s this Blasey woman from Canberra?’ she asked Cato.
‘That’d be Driscoll’s boss.’ Cato cast a glance at the man himself. They were still on the Strip, the crowds had thinned as the wind picked up and the evening wore on. The early diners had gone and the hardcore clubbers had arrived, spilling out of the Newport as they preloaded for a big night.
‘Got tickets on herself. Wants me to send her everything we’ve got with nothing on offer in return.’
‘That doesn’t sound fair,’ said Cato.
‘Leave her to me. So was this Carrascalao a sleeper agent or something? Waiting for the call?’
‘Not as Tinker Tailor as all that, boss. I’m guessing he was a well-placed freelancer and opportunist. I think he really was just paying the bills with his Bunbury cop job and probably just picked up the odd bit of moonlighting here and there.’
‘But somebody knew where to find him. And Guthrie. What the fuck is this, like some employment agency for former spies and assassins? A spooks Silver Chain?’
‘Nicely put. But yes, somebody knew where to look for him and Guthrie, and that suggests prior knowledge. Plus, something triggered all this activity over the last few months.’
Pavlou cleared her throat. ‘Which takes us back to our old codgers and the Reinados in Darwin.’
‘Thornton is on the case, boss.’
‘I’ll put him back on.’
Cato issued a fresh round of instructions and closed the call.
Driscoll looked up from his latte. ‘Australia Post?’
‘An old-fashioned method of communication and freight delivery quite popular in the last century.’ Cato ignored Driscoll’s blank stare. ‘Because we haven’t found the package, I’m assuming our killer has it.’
‘And our prime candidate for your old men killings would be José?’
‘He’s up there.’
‘Intercepting and disposing of some proof on behalf of his employer.’
Cato nodded. ‘In a way that pointed the finger at Ximenes. All tying in to the date things started going weird up in Darwin, early March.’
‘So while your bloke Thornton looks for, among other things, links between your old men and Darwin, I suggest we go after José. You never know, he might be able to tell us what was in that Australia Post parcel.’
‘And where do you suggest we start looking for him?’
‘Fuck knows.’
26
Sunday 13th May
Cato woke to the buzzing of his mobile. He checked the time: 4.55 a.m. Too early even for Ella. A message from a familiar number.
Time to come clean
His mystery caller since day one. José. He fit the bill, knew who’d killed Doug Peters, knew Cato was on the investigation, knew how to contact him. Of course it was him. Now they were approaching endgame, and José would be looking to pry him away from Driscoll who he no doubt judged to be more dangerous. Cato texted back. Where and when?
Sharon stirred. ‘Who’s that?’
‘José.’
‘What does he want?’
The mobile buzzed again and Cato checked the screen. ‘A meeting. Alone.’
‘Great idea. Of course.’ Ella stood up in her foldaway cot and demanded milk and stories. ‘Turn your phone off and attend to your daughter.’
He did. All the while thinking it through. If José had wanted Cato dead he’d have done it earlier when he had the chance, shot both Mira and him and made sure of the job. What had been his motive in sending those early messages anyway? José didn’t strike him as a man who did things for the sheer hell of it. A simple hired gun would just strike his target, take the money and run. José wasn’t doing that. Was there another motive to his actions? Something driving him personally? Cato had thought from early on that his mystery caller was someone who knew the truth, would be damned for his involvement in it, and sought some kind of redemption through this contact. His job wasn’t finished until he’d achieved it. And the only way José could get redemption was by revealing the truth.
‘I need to do this,’ said Cato. He outlined his reasoning to Sharon.
‘No, you don’t need to do this at all. You want to, there’s a difference. Maybe he didn’t kill you then because the timing wasn’t right. And now it is.’ The toaster popped up. Sharon spread some marge and vegemite on a slice and quartered it for Ella. Ditto for the second slice which she saved for herself. ‘Want some?’ She dropped two more in at his nodding.
‘If I don’t keep this meeting he’ll probably disappear into diplomatic protection and we’ll never find out the truth of the matter.’
‘You and your bloody truth. You pick and choose when and how much it matters to you.’ Sharon licked some vegemite off the end of her finger and started a count. ‘If it was an official operation, you probably won’t get the truth of the matter anyway. If he was moonlighting, he won’t be getting any diplomatic immunity. If he wants redemption, tell him to write up his confession and name names, sign it, and hand it and himself into police HQ. You don’t need to be part of this.’
She was right. Still. ‘You said yourself, whoever he’s working for or protecting they possibly have enough influence to bury this, and that’s why you don’t entirely trust the cops, state or federal.’
Sharon shook her head. ‘Take Driscoll with you.’ She handed over a plate of toast. ‘Things have to fucking change around here. Really.’
Driscoll had slept well. No ghosts had visited him in the night. A longer lie-in would have been nice, but a shower, coffee, bacon-and-egg toastie from the local deli, and a loaded gun under his armpit, and he was ready to take on the world.
Aunty had booked him into a chain motel on Canning Highway near the river. She’d been grumpy that the state cops weren’t doing her bidding. ‘Some prissy little arriviste called Pavlou. Quid pro quo, she says. Like we’re equals or something.’
‘Sounds like you’ve met your match.’
‘That’ll be the day.’
‘How do you want me to handle Carrascalao?’
‘I’m tempted to have him put down. Dead men tell no tales.’
‘I’d like to hear his tale first.’
‘Redemption?’ she’d muttered. ‘Is your man Kwong on something?’
‘Antidepressants, I’m guessing. Makes him see the bright side.’
‘José is our only lead to who’s behind this, isn’t he?’
‘At the moment, yeah.’
‘Find out what you can and we’ll decide what to do with him later.’
‘It’s hard to imagine.’
‘What?’
‘That we don’t already know who it is, if Mr X does have a service background like Mason and Guthrie. We must have known who we had in Timor at that time.’
‘It is strange, isn’t it?’
‘And you won’t let me look at the files from then?’
‘You’re no longer on the official payroll, Rory, love. You haven’t got clearance.’
‘You have though.’
‘Not that level.’
It was then that Driscoll was convinced Aunty was lying to him. Maybe he’d suspected all along. Was she lying for a good reason and could he trust her not to sacrifice him to a higher cause? ‘So if I’m not on the team as far as information-sharing, then I’m free to go my own way.’
‘Always have been.’ A sigh. ‘Rory, I’m not your aunty. I’m a taxpayer-funded mandarin, and my job is to solve the government’s secret problems and keep them secret. I use people. Always have, always will. Folks live and die because of me. Trust me as much or as little as you like. I’m not in the business of reassurance.’
That was her way of saying she wouldn’t sacrifice him today. ‘Hope springs, eh?’ Rory said, terminating the call.
He and Kwong would rendezvous at Perth train station on the high concourse connecting Northbridge and the city, and looking down over the Armadale, Midland and Fremantle platforms. He checked the time: 9.40. Kwong was due in five minutes, José at ten. The latter was probably already here and had no doubt already spotted him. That didn’t matter. José couldn’t have realistically expected Kwong to run this alone. At least this way, José would know it was just going to be them and not a fifty-strong SWAT team. Still intimate enough for the sharing of secrets and the benediction of redemption. They were in a big public place in broad daylight with lots of witnesses and more CCTV cameras than you could point a stick at – what could possibly go wrong?
Driscoll ordered his third coffee of the day and took a spot at the bakery cafe. The table was near the entrance, and his seat faced out to the world. José would have his back to the crowd, a minor disadvantage. Kwong appeared at the top of the Fremantle platform escalator and made his approach. He ordered something on his way past the cafe counter, the young woman behind the cash till trying not to stare at his battered face. He flashed his cop ID and she got on with her job.
‘No sign of José?’ he said, scraping a chair out next to Driscoll.
‘Not yet, but he’ll be around. Making sure we haven’t brought reinforcements.’
‘Except for you.’
‘He’ll cope. Any updates from your mate Thornton?’
‘Australia Post tracking say it was definitely delivered to the address in Bunbury. It was a standard A-five padded envelope, weighed next to nothing.’
‘Thumb drive?’
‘Or camera chip. Something like that.’
‘Found any Darwin connections?’
‘Nothing on phone or email but there were communications with Melbourne. We’re filtering them, watch this space.’
‘Mira?’
Kwong shrugged. ‘Maybe. Also, Peters has a daughter in Melbourne. Shouldn’t get ahead of ourselves.’
‘Here he comes.’
José placed his order and took the remaining seat – blocked in hard against the wall with his back to the passing foot traffic. Strategically Driscoll couldn’t have asked for any more. Except that if the balloon really went up, then strategic seating would count for very little. Their coffee orders arrived plus a sausage roll for José.
‘Bon appétit,’ he said, taking a bite.
‘Time to come clean?’ prompted Kwong. ‘You sent me those text messages in the early days. Why, and why me?’
‘Checked into the system. Saw you were going to be running it. I’d heard you weren’t the kind of bloke to accept the bleeding obvious. Wanted to make sure you lived up to expectations.’
‘Again. Why?’
‘It suited me.’
‘You wanted to be caught? Why not just hand yourself in?’
‘Then you wouldn’t have been at the centre of it. All-knowing.’ He swiped some flakes of pastry from his chest. ‘These are good. You should try one.’
‘I’m not all-knowing yet,’ said Kwong. ‘Fill me in.’
José glanced at Driscoll. ‘Uncharacteristically shy today, Rory?’
‘I’m a gatecrasher. Here to observe, for the moment.’
A nod and another bite of sausage roll. ‘I’m not a natural-born killer. Before Peters and Drummond, there must have been a good ten years or so where I never hurt a fly.’
‘Congratulations,’ said Kwong.
‘You’ll have got a taste for it in the favelas though, eh?’ Driscoll tilted his head. ‘Bit of Death Squad slum clearance in Rio to test you in your early days with ABIN?’
‘Didn’t think you’d hold your tongue for long, mate.’
‘So it’s just your job, and you don’t see yourself as a bad man.’ Kwong pushed his cup away; frothy dregs like a river after a chemical spill. ‘But you were very convincing with Peters and Drummond, the mutilations. Laid it on thick.’
‘Hey,’ she said. ‘I’m here. You’re visiting me, not the machines.’
The bullet had lodged high in her chest within the pectoral muscle. It had been extracted and the internal damage repaired. Driscoll wondered why José hadn’t gone for the more certain head shot to finish her. He’d have had time. Maybe he wasn’t as cool-headed as he pretended. Or he didn’t mean for Mira to die. Who knew? ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Great. Never better. Maybe we can hit the clubs tonight?’ Her face was grey and drawn, but the smile was genuine. She coughed and winced with the pain. ‘This would be a good time to give up smoking, you think?’
‘Good idea.’
Mira shifted in the bed, trying to find some comfort. The machines didn’t like it and beeped in protest. A nurse popped her head round the door briefly but didn’t stay. Mira squeezed Driscoll’s hand. ‘Why did José do this to me? What is all this about?’
‘I don’t know. I thought you might. He said nothing to you?’
‘I don’t remember anything between Darwin and waking up here.’
‘It has to be about either the past or your journalism. The oil stuff with Willie Mason maybe?’
‘Then why didn’t he make his move in Dili?’
Driscoll eased a kink in his neck. ‘Who knows? Clearly Ximenes was part of the equation.’ A pause. ‘What do you recall of that day of the massacre at the church?’
She lifted her hand away from his. ‘Nothing. Horror. Blood. Noise. I was terrified.’
‘Do you remember seeing any Westerners that day? Malae?’
‘No.’
‘Did you know Willie Mason was there that day?’
She shook her head. ‘You’re lying. He wouldn’t …’
‘He was.’ He hadn’t told her of Mason’s death yet. Decided against it for now.
‘No. He told me it wasn’t him. Some other malae, but not him, not that day.’
Could that be true? Whose word did they have? Ximenes? Mason himself must have seen some truth in the allegation, and he was trying to bargain his way out of it. Was that because he was guilty or because he could feel a noose tightening around him? The noose that found him at Christmas Island. ‘Did Filomena ever talk to you about the malae involved in Paul Reinado’s arrest and interrogation?’
‘His torture and rape, you mean? Yes, she did.’
‘She said she saw the man again at the market in Darwin.’
‘Yes.’
‘It wasn’t a story you wanted to write about as a journalist?’
‘I did some digging but there was nothing to go on. No photograph. No name. The description of a thousand nobodies.’
‘Where did you dig?’
‘I can’t remember.’
The nurse came back into the room. It was time for him to go. Mira was clearly tired and no longer up for this.
‘Try and think,’ he said. ‘Please.’
His mobile buzzed. Kwong. They had finally come to their senses.
All of the numbers were being monitored both by WA police and by Aunty’s spook contacts. Only one was active: B. Driscoll left the same message on the other two and then punched in the numbers for B.
‘G’day, mate.’ It was José. Of course it was. He was the only one of the three whose cover was already blown. ‘What took you so long?’
‘Let me guess. B for Bunbury?’
‘Nah, mate, nothing so deep.’
Kwong was seated close by, taking a direct feed from the techs at HQ if they traced any of the numbers. The old guy, Hutchens, had gone his merry way and Sharon was looking after the bub. That left the two of them and where more public, open, and teeming with witnesses than Fremantle’s Cappuccino Strip on a Saturday evening? It was already dark and a brisk wind shook the olive trees outside Gino’s. Driscoll and Kwong made a fine pair and were already attracting their fair share of attention. For all its claim to multicultural laissez faire, Freo still wasn’t ready for a bashed-up Chinaman in the company of a tall, and in this mood, dangerous-looking Aboriginal. Double takes, open staring, bouncers on alert. It all suited Driscoll just fine. If anything happened, it would be noticed. ‘Thought you would have skipped town by now, José. Or holed up in a friendly consulate. Your job to take one for the team?’
‘My job to pass on a message.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘Let it drop and walk away.’
‘Just when it’s getting interesting?’
‘I mean it, mate. It’s high stakes. You, your friends. We don’t want anyone else getting hurt.’
‘Bit late for that. Anyway, who’s we?’
‘Got a fix on my location yet?’
Driscoll checked with Kwong. ‘James Street, Northbridge?’
‘Yeah, mate. Probably as busy as where you are right now. Look, must dash. Don’t waste your time with these numbers, they’re dead from now on. Just take heed. We’re done. It’s all over from our end.’
‘But Mira’s still alive.’
‘Say hello from me.’
Driscoll’s screen died. He looked at Kwong. ‘You got that?’
‘Final warning?’
‘Pretty much. He reckons they’re finished, mission accomplished. Time to move on.’
‘He stayed around long enough to bother saying that?’
‘Nah, I don’t believe him either.’
‘José’s wife and younger son flew out of Australia just over a week ago. She’s originally from Brazil and has no other rellies here. They have another son travelling on a gap year in South America, no doubt planning a family reunion.’ Thornton had cupped his hand over the phone to talk to whoever had come into the room. ‘Their house was rented, lease prepaid to the end of July. Furniture still in situ, fridge and pantry stocked, but all personal stuff gone save a few pics on the fridge, and some books and sporting gear.’
‘Brazil-bound?’ said Cato.
‘Yep, but who knows what his plans are.’
‘Thanks for coming in on the weekend, Chris.’
‘Got the boss, beside me. She’d like a word.’
Pavlou came on the line. ‘Who’s this Blasey woman from Canberra?’ she asked Cato.
‘That’d be Driscoll’s boss.’ Cato cast a glance at the man himself. They were still on the Strip, the crowds had thinned as the wind picked up and the evening wore on. The early diners had gone and the hardcore clubbers had arrived, spilling out of the Newport as they preloaded for a big night.
‘Got tickets on herself. Wants me to send her everything we’ve got with nothing on offer in return.’
‘That doesn’t sound fair,’ said Cato.
‘Leave her to me. So was this Carrascalao a sleeper agent or something? Waiting for the call?’
‘Not as Tinker Tailor as all that, boss. I’m guessing he was a well-placed freelancer and opportunist. I think he really was just paying the bills with his Bunbury cop job and probably just picked up the odd bit of moonlighting here and there.’
‘But somebody knew where to find him. And Guthrie. What the fuck is this, like some employment agency for former spies and assassins? A spooks Silver Chain?’
‘Nicely put. But yes, somebody knew where to look for him and Guthrie, and that suggests prior knowledge. Plus, something triggered all this activity over the last few months.’
Pavlou cleared her throat. ‘Which takes us back to our old codgers and the Reinados in Darwin.’
‘Thornton is on the case, boss.’
‘I’ll put him back on.’
Cato issued a fresh round of instructions and closed the call.
Driscoll looked up from his latte. ‘Australia Post?’
‘An old-fashioned method of communication and freight delivery quite popular in the last century.’ Cato ignored Driscoll’s blank stare. ‘Because we haven’t found the package, I’m assuming our killer has it.’
‘And our prime candidate for your old men killings would be José?’
‘He’s up there.’
‘Intercepting and disposing of some proof on behalf of his employer.’
Cato nodded. ‘In a way that pointed the finger at Ximenes. All tying in to the date things started going weird up in Darwin, early March.’
‘So while your bloke Thornton looks for, among other things, links between your old men and Darwin, I suggest we go after José. You never know, he might be able to tell us what was in that Australia Post parcel.’
‘And where do you suggest we start looking for him?’
‘Fuck knows.’
26
Sunday 13th May
Cato woke to the buzzing of his mobile. He checked the time: 4.55 a.m. Too early even for Ella. A message from a familiar number.
Time to come clean
His mystery caller since day one. José. He fit the bill, knew who’d killed Doug Peters, knew Cato was on the investigation, knew how to contact him. Of course it was him. Now they were approaching endgame, and José would be looking to pry him away from Driscoll who he no doubt judged to be more dangerous. Cato texted back. Where and when?
Sharon stirred. ‘Who’s that?’
‘José.’
‘What does he want?’
The mobile buzzed again and Cato checked the screen. ‘A meeting. Alone.’
‘Great idea. Of course.’ Ella stood up in her foldaway cot and demanded milk and stories. ‘Turn your phone off and attend to your daughter.’
He did. All the while thinking it through. If José had wanted Cato dead he’d have done it earlier when he had the chance, shot both Mira and him and made sure of the job. What had been his motive in sending those early messages anyway? José didn’t strike him as a man who did things for the sheer hell of it. A simple hired gun would just strike his target, take the money and run. José wasn’t doing that. Was there another motive to his actions? Something driving him personally? Cato had thought from early on that his mystery caller was someone who knew the truth, would be damned for his involvement in it, and sought some kind of redemption through this contact. His job wasn’t finished until he’d achieved it. And the only way José could get redemption was by revealing the truth.
‘I need to do this,’ said Cato. He outlined his reasoning to Sharon.
‘No, you don’t need to do this at all. You want to, there’s a difference. Maybe he didn’t kill you then because the timing wasn’t right. And now it is.’ The toaster popped up. Sharon spread some marge and vegemite on a slice and quartered it for Ella. Ditto for the second slice which she saved for herself. ‘Want some?’ She dropped two more in at his nodding.
‘If I don’t keep this meeting he’ll probably disappear into diplomatic protection and we’ll never find out the truth of the matter.’
‘You and your bloody truth. You pick and choose when and how much it matters to you.’ Sharon licked some vegemite off the end of her finger and started a count. ‘If it was an official operation, you probably won’t get the truth of the matter anyway. If he was moonlighting, he won’t be getting any diplomatic immunity. If he wants redemption, tell him to write up his confession and name names, sign it, and hand it and himself into police HQ. You don’t need to be part of this.’
She was right. Still. ‘You said yourself, whoever he’s working for or protecting they possibly have enough influence to bury this, and that’s why you don’t entirely trust the cops, state or federal.’
Sharon shook her head. ‘Take Driscoll with you.’ She handed over a plate of toast. ‘Things have to fucking change around here. Really.’
Driscoll had slept well. No ghosts had visited him in the night. A longer lie-in would have been nice, but a shower, coffee, bacon-and-egg toastie from the local deli, and a loaded gun under his armpit, and he was ready to take on the world.
Aunty had booked him into a chain motel on Canning Highway near the river. She’d been grumpy that the state cops weren’t doing her bidding. ‘Some prissy little arriviste called Pavlou. Quid pro quo, she says. Like we’re equals or something.’
‘Sounds like you’ve met your match.’
‘That’ll be the day.’
‘How do you want me to handle Carrascalao?’
‘I’m tempted to have him put down. Dead men tell no tales.’
‘I’d like to hear his tale first.’
‘Redemption?’ she’d muttered. ‘Is your man Kwong on something?’
‘Antidepressants, I’m guessing. Makes him see the bright side.’
‘José is our only lead to who’s behind this, isn’t he?’
‘At the moment, yeah.’
‘Find out what you can and we’ll decide what to do with him later.’
‘It’s hard to imagine.’
‘What?’
‘That we don’t already know who it is, if Mr X does have a service background like Mason and Guthrie. We must have known who we had in Timor at that time.’
‘It is strange, isn’t it?’
‘And you won’t let me look at the files from then?’
‘You’re no longer on the official payroll, Rory, love. You haven’t got clearance.’
‘You have though.’
‘Not that level.’
It was then that Driscoll was convinced Aunty was lying to him. Maybe he’d suspected all along. Was she lying for a good reason and could he trust her not to sacrifice him to a higher cause? ‘So if I’m not on the team as far as information-sharing, then I’m free to go my own way.’
‘Always have been.’ A sigh. ‘Rory, I’m not your aunty. I’m a taxpayer-funded mandarin, and my job is to solve the government’s secret problems and keep them secret. I use people. Always have, always will. Folks live and die because of me. Trust me as much or as little as you like. I’m not in the business of reassurance.’
That was her way of saying she wouldn’t sacrifice him today. ‘Hope springs, eh?’ Rory said, terminating the call.
He and Kwong would rendezvous at Perth train station on the high concourse connecting Northbridge and the city, and looking down over the Armadale, Midland and Fremantle platforms. He checked the time: 9.40. Kwong was due in five minutes, José at ten. The latter was probably already here and had no doubt already spotted him. That didn’t matter. José couldn’t have realistically expected Kwong to run this alone. At least this way, José would know it was just going to be them and not a fifty-strong SWAT team. Still intimate enough for the sharing of secrets and the benediction of redemption. They were in a big public place in broad daylight with lots of witnesses and more CCTV cameras than you could point a stick at – what could possibly go wrong?
Driscoll ordered his third coffee of the day and took a spot at the bakery cafe. The table was near the entrance, and his seat faced out to the world. José would have his back to the crowd, a minor disadvantage. Kwong appeared at the top of the Fremantle platform escalator and made his approach. He ordered something on his way past the cafe counter, the young woman behind the cash till trying not to stare at his battered face. He flashed his cop ID and she got on with her job.
‘No sign of José?’ he said, scraping a chair out next to Driscoll.
‘Not yet, but he’ll be around. Making sure we haven’t brought reinforcements.’
‘Except for you.’
‘He’ll cope. Any updates from your mate Thornton?’
‘Australia Post tracking say it was definitely delivered to the address in Bunbury. It was a standard A-five padded envelope, weighed next to nothing.’
‘Thumb drive?’
‘Or camera chip. Something like that.’
‘Found any Darwin connections?’
‘Nothing on phone or email but there were communications with Melbourne. We’re filtering them, watch this space.’
‘Mira?’
Kwong shrugged. ‘Maybe. Also, Peters has a daughter in Melbourne. Shouldn’t get ahead of ourselves.’
‘Here he comes.’
José placed his order and took the remaining seat – blocked in hard against the wall with his back to the passing foot traffic. Strategically Driscoll couldn’t have asked for any more. Except that if the balloon really went up, then strategic seating would count for very little. Their coffee orders arrived plus a sausage roll for José.
‘Bon appétit,’ he said, taking a bite.
‘Time to come clean?’ prompted Kwong. ‘You sent me those text messages in the early days. Why, and why me?’
‘Checked into the system. Saw you were going to be running it. I’d heard you weren’t the kind of bloke to accept the bleeding obvious. Wanted to make sure you lived up to expectations.’
‘Again. Why?’
‘It suited me.’
‘You wanted to be caught? Why not just hand yourself in?’
‘Then you wouldn’t have been at the centre of it. All-knowing.’ He swiped some flakes of pastry from his chest. ‘These are good. You should try one.’
‘I’m not all-knowing yet,’ said Kwong. ‘Fill me in.’
José glanced at Driscoll. ‘Uncharacteristically shy today, Rory?’
‘I’m a gatecrasher. Here to observe, for the moment.’
A nod and another bite of sausage roll. ‘I’m not a natural-born killer. Before Peters and Drummond, there must have been a good ten years or so where I never hurt a fly.’
‘Congratulations,’ said Kwong.
‘You’ll have got a taste for it in the favelas though, eh?’ Driscoll tilted his head. ‘Bit of Death Squad slum clearance in Rio to test you in your early days with ABIN?’
‘Didn’t think you’d hold your tongue for long, mate.’
‘So it’s just your job, and you don’t see yourself as a bad man.’ Kwong pushed his cup away; frothy dregs like a river after a chemical spill. ‘But you were very convincing with Peters and Drummond, the mutilations. Laid it on thick.’
