BECKER Read online

  He had light-brown curls around his face. It was a baby sort of face, one that would never mature. His skin was sallow, dry, toneless. He was a real psycho, you could see. Cold-blooded, and crazy like a jumping jack.

  Becker jumped up.

  ‘Sit down, pal.’

  Becker refused. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘You don’t need to know.’

  The kid went to Alfredo.

  ‘How’re you doin’, Alfredo? It is Alfredo, ain’t it?’

  He pulled out a photograph and showed it to Becker. It was Alfredo in a hat and dark glasses, taken quite recently, a candid shot in a busy street—probably the main street of Griffith. Someone had ratted on him. The kid smiled at Becker and then at Alfredo, back and forth several times, as if waiting for approval.

  He waved the Browning at Alfredo.

  ‘Been givin’ people the run around, eh, pal? Tried to hide out? What’s that dumb place? Griffith? Not too many pals there, eh, Alfredo? Some wanta make a quick buck? Get on the phone, make a call. You never rilly know, do you? Who’s a friend and who ain’t.’

  He sounded like someone in a B-grade movie from the forties. Becker tried to keep him talking. Keep him talking and hope that Robyn did not reappear.

  ‘Why’re you doing this?’

  ‘Why am I doin’ this?’

  ‘Yeah, why?’

  ‘You’re askin’ me why I’m doin’ this? You? You’re the dickhead back in Canberra that was lyin’ on his back snorin’, weren’t you? Lying there, dead to the world and this dame is on her side beside you, eh?’ He giggled or snuffled or grunted. ‘Pity, wasn’t it?’

  Becker was tempted to say, What was a pity?

  He didn’t get a chance.

  ‘To see her lyin’ there, dead to world. Didn’t have a silencer then. All I had to do was pick up a pillow and wrap it around and pull the trigger. Popped her. Really popped her, didn’t I? Straight through the skull. With two cops sittin’ in a car outside. And one dead in the laundry. Great joke, eh? And you, missed the whole fuckin’ show, didn’t you?’

  He was laughing. He was real crazy, you could see.

  ‘Thought of poppin’ you too, but you can’t do that, can you? No-one said to do that. You’ve got to stick to the rules. Do what the customer wants. Never anyone else. That’d be murder, wouldn’t it? But a job is a job, eh? Just business, ain’t it, old man?’

  He pointed the gun at Alfredo, slumped on the sofa, resigned. The old man knew it was inevitable. Had probably seen it done himself, back home. Up in the hills overlooking Reggio. Overlooking the Strait of Messina. Overlooking Etna in the distance, smoking.

  ‘How d’you want it, old man?’

  No answer.

  ‘Not fussy, eh? So long, pal.’

  Three bullets, straight into the chest. No explosions, just a solid phttt, like someone sneezing. Or, suppressing a cough.

  Becker tried to jump him, but failed.

  ‘How much are they paying you?’ he said.

  ‘How much are they payin’ me? You’re askin’ how much?’

  ‘I’ll pay the same. You’ll get double the amount.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘For only one job.’

  The kid’s eyes brightened. ‘Double for one job?’

  ‘Yeah, you let me go and tell them there were no witnesses.’

  ‘Tell who?’

  ‘The people who sent you.’

  ‘What if they hear?’

  ‘They won’t hear. I’ll tell no-one, not the cops, no-one.’

  ‘What about Alfredo?’

  ‘I’ll bury him on the property. Or dump him in the river. No-one’ll know.’

  ‘Ah, I dunno. If they hear—’

  ‘I’ll pay you three times.’

  ‘Ah…’ He scratched his own head with the point of the barrel. He was that crazy.

  ‘We’ll clear out, disappear,’ Becker said.

  ‘Ah, shit, man—’

  ‘Whatever you want!’

  ‘Ah, I dunno. A job’s a job, ain’t it?’

  Becker glanced around. Hoping for a chance, make a break for it. Thought he saw something in the doorway. Or Someone. No time to check. The kid was raising the Browning. Negotiations had ended.

  ‘So long, pal.’

  He fired. Just one shot, bang. That’s all it took.

  Chapter 2

  At least, that’s what Becker thought. So did the kid. But he had not fired. He staggered, then caught his balance. Stood there puzzled, disbelief in his eyes. A little defective like him, wondering what had gone wrong. His eyes glazed over, then recovered, his knees sagged but did not recover. The helmet fell, then he fell. Lay there like a child, holding his chest. Stunned and frightened. His face fading to white like a big close up in a bad movie, in which the punk always gets it in the end.

  Chook was standing in the doorway, holding a Colt .38 in both hands. A flat automatic, ten shots, definitely not police issue. Not for Canberra cops at that time, anyway. They all had the Smith and Wesson police special. She was a Canberra cop.

  ‘Thought you’d need some help,’ she said.

  Neither spoke for a while. When you are a cop, the first killing is a not a shock. You’ve been expecting it for years, ever since you signed on. Now it was done. She looked relieved, even pleased. But tired. She walked in.

  ‘Is he dead?’ Becker asked.

  She kneeled down, put two fingers to his throat and waited maybe ten seconds. ‘He is now,’ she said and stood up. She was a tall blond with a ponytail. ‘Goodbye, shit,’ she said.

  He thought she was going to give him another bullet. Or at least kick him. Or, it. He wasn’t a him anymore—nothing more than a dead thing lying on a floor. A dead thing with a human shape, now worth no more than what you could get at a garage sale for a heap of trash.

  The kid was the one who’d killed Polly, when he’d come in over the back fence at night to avoid the patrol car out front. He’d rattled a broom or something, got her to investigate. Popped her there and then in the chest. A lovely girl like Polly. Anna Polites was her name. They called her Pollyanna, or Polly.

  They’d been pals and partners, Polly and Chook. They did shifts together. They’d been given the job of protecting Evelyn and Becker until the police could get them out of Canberra. Hopefully out of the country. Make them disappear. Off to see the world and to have a good time. Together.

  ‘Jesus, Chook—’

  She uncocked the Colt, put it away. Not in a holster on a hip or under an arm, but in a pocket of her leather jacket. She wasn’t carrying the usual police gear on her belt. Not on duty, obviously.

  ‘Where’d you spring from?’

  She was panting.

  ‘Yeah, well, I heard that—heard that the slug—the slug that hit Polly and the one Giancarlo took down in Melbourne came from the same weapon—’ She took a deep breath. ‘So, I took some leave, flew down there and asked around. Used to ride with bikies, as you know—’

  She sounded a bit nostalgic. Or fatalistic or regretful. It was hard to say.

  ‘Anyway, I looked up some of them and one or two knew about him, knew he’d done the hit on Giancarlo. Even where he lived, but he’d gone.’ She took another breath. To Griffith, I found out. On his big, red, dirt bike. So, I hired a car and drove up there. Heard Alfredo had been living there, but he’d gone too. Trying to get out of the country, someone said. Didn’t have the money. That’s when I thought of you. He was sure to touch you for a handout.’

  ‘How’d you know where to find me?’

  ‘Everyone knows where to find you, Harry.’ Already she’d pulled out a phone. ‘I’ve got to make a call.’

  He knew she had to. Soon the place would be crawling with police. State police first, then the Federal. This could go on for days. Robyn would be
horrified. The kids too. Everything was about to come tumbling down. Goodbye to his beautiful rural dream.

  He was starting to shake. ‘What am I going to tell them?’

  ‘Tell who?’ she said.

  He didn’t answer. He walked out, found himself in the kitchen, went to a window. Robyn was throwing a ball, the kids catching. The dog was barking, trying to intercept. Then, it did. Leaped in the air, ran off with the ball. The boy went after it, shouting. Everyone laughing—even the dog, which plunged into the creek. The stupid boy went in after him.

  Chook joined him at the window. She hadn’t made the call yet.

  ‘I had to shoot him, Harry.’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’

  ‘He was going to kill you.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I’m sorry, mate.’

  ‘If they see this—’

  ‘A lovely family,’ she said.

  ‘At least they didn’t hear,’ he said.

  He felt sick in the guts. He couldn’t keep them out of the house. Robyn was sure to walk up. Already she’d glanced at the house, seen him at the window. The kids would be following. She’d say, ‘Harry? What’s happened here? Who is this woman? Who are these men? Is that blood?’

  Robyn glanced again. A quick glance, trying not to be nosey.

  The shaking was bad now. His hands were shaking, his legs too. An icy sort of wobble had reached his guts. He was going to fall, he knew. Chook put a hand on him.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a car.’

  He didn’t understand.

  It was horrible. It shouldn’t be this way. They’d had it so good. Their own farm, set to carry black Angus. It was a good life, good kids. The birds singing, the dog chasing the ball. In and out of the water, splashing. Robyn laughing. Such a good-natured woman.

  ‘You go down there and hold ’em for five or ten,’ Chook said.

  He still didn’t understand. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Best you don’t know.’ She pushed him. ‘Go on, I’ll clean up here. You’ll have to take care of the bike. It’s by the gate.’

  He didn’t know what she was saying. What bike?

  For a moment he thought he was going to vomit. But he hung onto the kitchen bench. He was a cop, not a good one, but a cop all the same. Or, at least he had been a cop in Sydney. Before he’d been kicked out for corruption. Taking bribes at the Cross. Fled to Canberra. Met Evelyn Crowley. Now she was dead. Left him three million dollars. So, here he was, back home in Wagga. Or, not actually in Wagga Wagga, but on a farm and looking out of the kitchen window and seeing that it was all going to collapse.

  ‘Go on,’ Chook said, and nudged him. Then disappeared.

  Going down, he had to feel with his feet. He couldn’t get his lids open, not properly open. He was ashamed and afraid a felt like he’d wrecked everything. Because he knew or had known a man named Alfredo Scarafini. But, somehow he made it, fifty yards to the creek. The boy had come out, dripping wet, ball in hand, throwing it to his sister. She was the sensible one, all of eleven. He was nine and a real tearaway. Dripping wet and laughing.

  Robyn was watching him come down. ‘Are you okay, Harry?’

  ‘What? Ah, yeah.’

  ‘Who was the old man?’

  ‘Only some bloke. He—’ He had to think fast. ‘He wanted me to take him to Wagga. Seemed to think I was his brother.’

  ‘Poor man, he looked done in.’

  ‘Yeah, he was.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘Oh, he got a lift—with a woman.’

  She must have seen Chook.

  ‘The one at the kitchen window? Who was she?’

  ‘No idea. Said she knew him. Heard he’d wandered off.’

  Robyn watched him. He was not telling the truth, she knew.

  ‘So all’s well that ends well?’

  Becker did not answer. They might get away with it. If not, Chook could be in serious trouble—interfering with evidence, removing bodies. A good friend. At the funeral in Canberra she’d shaken his hand and said: Any time you feel like a drink, Harry—. But he’d not taken up the offer. He’d felt pretty rotten then. Wanted to kill himself. Was going to do it, but Evelyn’s lawyer had come up to him at the funeral and said she’d left him half her money, three million dollars. So he’d come back to Wagga, bought a farm. Met up again with a girl he’d met in Canberra. A Wagga girl herself. Asked her to marry him. And here they were, pretending that nothing had happened. But he never told her about Evelyn’s money. Simply said he’d taken a bullet in the line of duty and had received a fat payout from the police and had decided to spend it on a farm. Even so, he seemed to have a lot of money—much more than the three-hundred and ninety thousand dollars he’d paid for the farm. But she never asked him about that.

  ‘What do you think?’ Robyn said.

  ‘About what?’

  When she’d called, he’d been thinking of damming the creek to get enough depth for the kids to have a canoe. But she’d already warned him that the neighbours downstream might not like that. Taking their water.

  ‘The creek,’ she said. ‘It could be a weir, not a dam. The same volume of water would flow over it. No-one would be deprived.’

  She was a farmer’s daughter. Must know what she was talking about.

  ‘Yeah? Okay, let’s do that.’

  When they went back to the house, he noticed blood on the carpet, only a few small spots. Nothing else. If anyone asked, he’d say the old man had had a nosebleed. He’d been worried about burnt propellant, the smell. But Chook had thought of that too. Several windows were open, the front door too.

  He looked out front. No sign of a car. Walked up, as casually as you like, to the gate to close it—and to check. Sure enough, a big red Honda bike was propped against a tree, the kind able to conquer a mountain without busting a spring. He’d have to do something about it, before a nosy cop in a cruiser came by, spotted it. Checked the registration. He’d wheel it down the highway and then ride it down a dirt track to the river, where he and the kids sometimes fished, trying to catch a cod. With a picnic hamper and a hot thermos. Dragonflies skimming the rippling surface. Yes, he’d push it in. But what if the key was not in it? It was too big to fit in the boot of his own car, Evelyn’s car. How was he going to get it there?

  Later, after lunch, he went to the gate again, nominally to check for mail. The bike had gone. He looked up and down; still no bike. Somebody had nicked it.

  Becker was surprised, then mildly indignant. This was rural Australia. You didn’t do that sort of thing in the bush. It was a matter of honour. As for Anastacia Babchuk, he hoped he’d never see her again.

  But he did. Eventually.

  Chapter 3

  It was a good property, with a lot of history. Back in 1838, John Kettle had built a two-roomed hut out of split yellow-box, split by axes or forced apart by hammers and wedges, trimmed with adzes, then roofed with bark sheets, the men sleeping in bunks in one room and eating and yarning in the other, which served as the kitchen and living room. Although, during shearing times, the extra men had to sleep on the verandah or in tents. It was rough in those days, very rough, a hard life, for most men a wanderer’s life, going from one squatter’s spread to the next, looking for jobs. Many men died on the tracks across the western plains. But many hung on, tried to settle down, get a bit of land for themselves and their wives and kids if they had any. Kettle made some money out of wool, soon replaced the hut with a house built out of pit-sawn logs, which lasted until 1910, when the present weatherboard was erected. By then Nil Desperandum was an established property, profitable and prospective. Until the government decided to cut up such pastoral spreads, give the veterans of the first world war a chance. The blocks were good for wheat and sheep, perhaps dairy farms, but not much else. At least they were somewhere to liv
e, while you waited for something else to turn up. Which it usually did, in one form or other.

  A few weeks later.

  Becker was standing back, looking at the rear of the house. It had verandahs on three sides. There was only a porch over the back door. He’d suggested they add a verandah along the back wall. It would make the house look complete, like a real homestead, traditional. But Robyn had objected that the back of the house faced south. It was in shade all year round. If they added a verandah, there would be even less light in the back rooms, particularly in winter.

  The back door opened.

  She came out, smiling, even happy for him. As if she had good news.

  ‘Ah,’ she said. ‘You have another visitor.’

  A man walked out, right behind her. He was in uniform and wore a blue cloth cap. About the same age as Becker, fair and fresh and friendly the way the police are when they want to talk to you. A quick smile too. A warm, businesslike handshake was sure to come. Suddenly everything had become concentrated, like the .38 Smith and Wesson pistol on his right hip.

  Already the stranger was stepping down, a hand out, beaming as if it were nothing but a social call. Nothing to worry about.

  ‘Harry, this is Barry.’

  Barry? he thought. Barry who? He did not know of any Barry. Not in Wagga Wagga or in Canberra or anywhere in his past, except his cousin, Barry Barnes, who had been a little bastard, always throwing stones. And starting fights at school. And driving his mother mad—Harry Becker’s mother, now in a place in Wagga, where they looked after her kind of case, the worrying kind and the forlorn and the widowed. Unable to distinguish the real from the unreal the way she was even at her age, just gone sixty.

  He reached out, accepted the handshake, not with relish but with a tingle of fear, which he hoped the stranger in blue wouldn’t sense. Although he knew he would. He’d see it in your eyes, in your frown and in the untrusting grasp of his hand, a rough hand certain of the law. This man might know all about you, or might not. But he’d like to know more.